Karly

Here’s something I didn’t think I’d ever admit so plainly. I run a literature (and language) blog, and I haven’t read a novel in months. Now, I know that in this blog I’m more in charge of the nonsense than the lit aspect, but still.

Not because I’ve stopped loving stories. Not because I’m too busy. And not because I’m suddenly uninterested in books. I simply can’t. My brain, the one that used to slip so easily into fictional worlds, that once devoured entire books in a few hours, now struggles to finish a paragraph. My attention flits away before it lands. Sometimes, even the thought of opening a book feels heavy. So I don’t. And strangely, I’ve learned to be okay with that.

After finishing my postgrad, I was not just tired. I was emptied. Something about that kind of academic intensity leaves a mark. It asks so much of your focus and your stamina and your capacity to retain and respond to ideas that when it’s over, you’re not quite sure what’s left. And even though my degree was in language, and obviously I had to read for it, the fatigue that followed had very little to do with reading itself. It wasn’t that fiction reminded me of deadlines or assignments. It’s just that my mind was done.

The tiredness I’m talking about isn’t visible. It doesn’t announce itself. It just quietly builds until even the things you love feel like too much. For a while, I tried to push through. I’d start a novel, get a few chapters in, and then feel that familiar fog creep in. That strange disconnection. I’d reread pages and still not remember what happened. And I started to feel embarrassed by it. I run a blog about books, about words and language and literature. Shouldn’t I be reading more than ever?

But embarrassment is not a good companion for healing. I had to learn to give myself grace.

My reading life now looks very different than it used to. It’s smaller, quieter, less structured. My to-be-read pile is not stacked with new releases or long-awaited novels. It’s mostly poetry collections, issues of magazines, essays, and books I’ve already read. Sometimes I open a book just to revisit one paragraph I loved. Sometimes I copy out a line into my notes app and call that reading for the day. And some days, I don’t read at all. Not even a sentence. I let language rest.

And still, I run a literature blog. I write about language. I believe in the value of slow reading and quiet thought. This space has never been about keeping up with trends (we have more of a thing for questioning them) or finishing a certain number of books a month. It was always meant to be a celebration of words. And that celebration can take many forms.

What I’ve realised is that reading does not always have to be ambitious. It can be soft. It can be brief. It can be revisiting a poem I know by heart. It can be a few pages read before bed with no expectation of finishing. It can even be standing in a bookshop, reading the first paragraph of a novel I don’t buy but still think about later (this happened with Piglet, but I bought the book and have not finished it). That too is an encounter with literature.

And it counts.

We live in a world that values productivity in every form. Even reading has been swept into that current. How many books did you finish this month? What’s your Goodreads goal? Are you caught up with the latest releases? For a long time, I measured my reading life in numbers and lists. But lately I’ve been measuring it in moments. In a single sentence that stays with me. In a line of poetry that makes me stop and think. In the comfort of an old book I’ve carried through too many moves.

There is a different kind of richness in this slow return to language. I do still miss novels. I miss being lost in a fictional world, of turning the page without thinking, of feeling pulled along by a voice I trust. But I know those feelings will come back when I’m ready. I don’t have to force them. I don’t need to prove anything.

In the meantime, I’m still here. I’m still reading, just not in the way I used to. I’m still writing, still sharing thoughts, still building a space for people who love language in all its forms. And if you’re here too, if you’ve found yourself burned out and unable to read in the way you once did, I want you to know it’s okay. You are still a reader. You are still part of this world. Your love for books doesn’t disappear just because your capacity has shifted.

There’s space for all kinds of reading. There’s space for all kinds of rest.

One day, I’ll come back to fiction with my full attention. But until then, I’ll be here with a poem, a magazine, a worn-out copy of a novel I already know. I’ll be listening to language instead of chasing it. I’ll be learning to love reading again on new terms.