A Morning, Two Rabbits, and the Shape of Time
It’s been a while since my last blog update, and I apologize to any one—or possibly two—readers out there.
Most of my time lately has been consumed by the less romantic side of being an author: trying (and often failing) to promote and market my book. It’s taken up more hours than I’d care to admit—sometimes even more than the more important task of actually writing the next one.
But this morning, something small interrupted that cycle.
I was outside, taking the garbage out—nothing glamorous about it—when I paused. The sun was just cresting the trees, that soft early light spilling across the yard. Two rabbits sat quietly in the grass I’d cut just a day or two before, completely at ease, enjoying the morning in a way that felt… deliberate.
Peace.
It made me wonder—what happened to that kind of peace?
The kind we had when we were younger, when time itself felt abundant. Back then, days stretched endlessly. Hours moved slowly enough that we could settle into them. Now, you wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and before you know it, the afternoon is gone. Entire days vanish in what feels like a blink.
So how do we get that time back?
I think, in part, reading helps.
When you lose yourself in a story, you step outside of time for a while. You can live an entirely different life, experience things you never would otherwise, and then look up at the clock and realize only a couple of hours have passed. There’s something almost magical about that. It’s not just escape—it’s expansion.
That’s one of the ideas I touched on in Beyond That Starry Sky. Sakura poses a question to Morgan about memory—about whether something needs to happen in the physical world to be considered real.
“When we read a story, we live another life.”
And if that life lingers with us, shapes us, stays in our memory—was it any less real?
Instead of losing ourselves in the daily noise—or watching our children disappear into endless doomscrolling—what if we nudged ourselves (and them) toward something richer? Something quieter, but deeper?
A book.
I know the immediate response some people have: “I hate reading. It’s not fun.”
And honestly, I get it.
If my earliest experiences with books had been limited to what was assigned in school—dense, slow-moving “classics” that felt more like endurance tests than stories—I might feel the same way. (I’m making eye contact with you, The Scarlet Letter. And yes, Moby-Dick, you too.)
But reading itself isn’t the problem. The wrong book is.
If you think you hate reading, I’d argue you just haven’t found the right story yet. The one that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go. The one that makes time disappear again.
That feeling still exists. I promise it does.
You just have to give it another chance.
Until next time…
Most of my time lately has been consumed by the less romantic side of being an author: trying (and often failing) to promote and market my book. It’s taken up more hours than I’d care to admit—sometimes even more than the more important task of actually writing the next one.
But this morning, something small interrupted that cycle.
I was outside, taking the garbage out—nothing glamorous about it—when I paused. The sun was just cresting the trees, that soft early light spilling across the yard. Two rabbits sat quietly in the grass I’d cut just a day or two before, completely at ease, enjoying the morning in a way that felt… deliberate.
Peace.
It made me wonder—what happened to that kind of peace?
The kind we had when we were younger, when time itself felt abundant. Back then, days stretched endlessly. Hours moved slowly enough that we could settle into them. Now, you wake up, pour a cup of coffee, and before you know it, the afternoon is gone. Entire days vanish in what feels like a blink.
So how do we get that time back?
I think, in part, reading helps.
When you lose yourself in a story, you step outside of time for a while. You can live an entirely different life, experience things you never would otherwise, and then look up at the clock and realize only a couple of hours have passed. There’s something almost magical about that. It’s not just escape—it’s expansion.
That’s one of the ideas I touched on in Beyond That Starry Sky. Sakura poses a question to Morgan about memory—about whether something needs to happen in the physical world to be considered real.
“When we read a story, we live another life.”
And if that life lingers with us, shapes us, stays in our memory—was it any less real?
Instead of losing ourselves in the daily noise—or watching our children disappear into endless doomscrolling—what if we nudged ourselves (and them) toward something richer? Something quieter, but deeper?
A book.
I know the immediate response some people have: “I hate reading. It’s not fun.”
And honestly, I get it.
If my earliest experiences with books had been limited to what was assigned in school—dense, slow-moving “classics” that felt more like endurance tests than stories—I might feel the same way. (I’m making eye contact with you, The Scarlet Letter. And yes, Moby-Dick, you too.)
But reading itself isn’t the problem. The wrong book is.
If you think you hate reading, I’d argue you just haven’t found the right story yet. The one that grabs hold of you and doesn’t let go. The one that makes time disappear again.
That feeling still exists. I promise it does.
You just have to give it another chance.
Until next time…
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