Over the past year, life has felt full but scattered. Too many things happening at once. Writing less. Reading in pockets of time. Feeling behind without knowing what I was behind on. And in the middle of that, I found myself drawn to books that weren’t loud or urgent, but steady.

Stories where nothing spectacular happens on the surface, but something important is always unfolding underneath. Characters who are ordinary, flawed, and restrained. People who keep routines, who love awkwardly, who show up even when they don’t know how to express themselves well.
These are some of the books I have read in the last few months:

A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
Stoner by John Williams
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

I’m starting to think that literature doesn’t always exist to push us forward. Sometimes it exists to sit beside us while we figure things out at our own pace.

I’m curious if others feel this way. Have you ever read a book that didn’t change you, but simply made you feel more at home in where you already were?

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