Reader,
This is my year of the three R’s. Reading. Rereading. Reflecting.
Since January, I’ve read more books in three months than I have in some full years—and it’s been a gorgeous experience.
Reading something for the first time feels like holding a handful of puzzle pieces. The beginning. A quiet invitation to examine each one slowly, curiously.
But rereading? That’s when the pieces begin to click into place. That’s when the outline of something bigger emerges—when lived experience brings the story to life.
There’s a lost art in rereading. In going back, changed. In holding the same words in new hands—hands that have been out in the world, held grief, formed new relationships, moved through new phases of life, said no a few more times.
Last week, I returned to The Book of Negroes by Lawrence Hill (published in the U.S. as Someone Knows My Name). It’s a powerful novel following 3,000 Black Loyalists—enslaved Africans who escaped to the British lines during the American Revolution and were evacuated to Nova Scotia as free people of colour. But for me, this second read wasn’t just about the story. It was about the proximity. The poetic proximity. One line, one breath, one moment took me from West Africa to South Carolina, from Manhattan to Nova Scotia.
The first time I read it, I felt the weight of history.
This time, I felt the heartbeat of it. Something I probably wasn’t equipped to experience many years ago when I first read it.
The rhythm of the ship. The inhale of those on board. I was beside them.
Maybe it’s because I slowed down. Maybe it’s because I’ve changed and grown as a person.
Probably a bit of both.
And it’s changed everything—not just how I see the world, but how I move through it.
Another book I’ve picked back up this season is Blood Dazzler by Patricia Smith. A collection of poetry I return to at least twice a year. That small choice—reaching for a familiar spine on my bookshelf—reconnects me to something deeper. A feeling, a memory, a fire I forgot I had. Some lines embed themselves so deeply in my mind, I find them popping up days later. And sometimes? That echo leads me to say yes to something that just feels right. Because now I can hear what I couldn’t before.
Here’s one of those things I said yes to:
Last week, I had the joy of recording an episode with the brilliant Tasha Schumann and Jeff Warren, hosts of the Mind Bod Adventure Pod. We talked about the art of slowing down. About all the ways we can hear poetry. About rereading as a radical act. I can’t wait for you to listen when it goes live in June, but for now, I just want to share how that conversation and my post-event reflection mapped out a super cool series of events. Ps the photo below is my post-event reflection journal. Oh to be a fly on THAT wall eh? haha
→ My post-event reflection led me to a big realization about my writing process, something to tinker with this season. ↓
→ Brought me back to a conversation I had where rereading was briefly mentioned (my CBC interview with Antonio Michael Downing where he said there is no reading, only rereading). ↓
→ Which led me to share something deeply personal inside my Forever Writers Club about reevaluating my role as a mother.↓
→ Which led to a completely new insight for my novel.
↓
This is the writing life. A series of linked moments.
Not just sitting down to draft—but walking around in curiosity. Listening. Feeling. Saying no. Saying yes. Returning to the page changed.
So when someone says writing is separate from who we are—just a little extra on the side, or something to squeeze in between everything else—I gently push back.
Because what are we missing out on when we don’t pause to ask questions?
When we don’t slow down to notice what’s already there, waiting?
I’ve spent a good chunk of my creative life saying a big ol’ yes to the wrong things. Showing up in spaces that drained more from me than they gave. But now, I’m giving back to myself. Even when life wants to whip oranges at my head or kick that soft spot behind my knee, I try not to take it personal. I see it as part of the process. I absolutely must.
And drafting? That can’t happen—not in a meaningful, heart-led way—without this kind of deep work. Without living.
Sure, you can still write without it. But it won’t feel the same.
And you deserve the kind of writing that feels.
Reflective Question: What have you returned to lately that’s revealed something new about who you are today?
Until next week,
Chelene
xo
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