On waiting, words, and the quiet courage of being read
There is a chair in my house that has developed a strange habit.
It listens.
Not in a creepy, haunted-furniture way. More in the patient, indulgent way elders listen to children explaining something obvious as if it were a revelation.
The chair sits opposite my writing desk. Wooden. Unremarkable. The one guests usually choose. It has a faint creak in its left leg and a quiet opinion about posture. I ignore both. When not in use, it serves as a temporary wardrobe—because apparently chairs, like writers, are expected to multitask without complaint.
But ever since the book arrived, the chair has been… attentive.
The first printed copy of You Told Me To Be Brave arrived without ceremony. No drumroll. No angels. Just a simple package with more tape than confidence. I placed it on the desk, slit it open, and there it was—my words, bound together, pretending they had always belonged that way.
I didn’t say anything.
I just looked at the chair.
The chair, naturally, said nothing back.
Earlier that day, I had shared a small update. Nothing elaborate. Just a note to say that the paperback was now available, quietly and globally, the way books often prefer to be.
Later that evening, messages began arriving.
Warm ones.
Kind ones.
Generous ones.
“Congratulations!”
“So proud of you!”
“Can’t wait to read this.”
“This must feel surreal.”
I smiled. I replied. I thanked. I used emojis with restraint and sincerity. And every time my phone buzzed, the chair leaned in a little… as if counting footsteps that never reached the door.
Days passed.
The chair stayed empty.
Not empty in the physical sense. Empty in the expectation sense. The kind of empty that still keeps a plate ready, just in case.
Writers don’t really wait for applause. That’s a myth. What we wait for is company.
Someone to sit down and say, Tell me. I’m listening.
The blogging community is wonderfully vocal. It claps loudly. It celebrates courage generously. But courage is a strange thing.
Everyone loves it when it’s announced.
Fewer people walk home with it.
The chair noticed this before I did.
One afternoon, while dusting around the desk—an activity I perform only when procrastination feels productive—I caught myself speaking out loud.
“Maybe they’ll get to it later.”
The chair did not argue.
That evening, I flipped through the book again. Not to edit. Not to judge. Just to remember why it exists.
The pages didn’t shout. They never have. They simply sat there, doing what stories do best. Waiting without insisting.
We often confuse support with engagement.
Support is easy. It costs nothing but a sentence. Engagement asks for time, attention, and presence. Also occasionally, a small, honest transaction.
The chair, bless its wooden spine, seemed to understand this perfectly. It has seen friends drop by with excitement and leave without staying for dinner. It has watched conversations end at We should catch up sometime.
And yet, it remains.
Because stories don’t sulk. They don’t chase. They don’t guilt-trip. They sit. Quietly. Available.
Some nights, I imagine the chair whispering to the book,
“Don’t worry. The right backs will find me.”
And I believe it.
Not because disappointment isn’t real. But because this book was never written for charts or counts.
It was written for that one evening when someone sits down, exhales, and realises they are not alone in remembering, hurting, or being told… softly, firmly… to be brave.
That person may not be loud.
They may not comment.
They may not announce their arrival.
But when they come, the chair will know.
Until then, the chair listens.
The book waits.
And I keep setting the place. Not out of expectation, but out of faith.
Because stories, like courage, have their own timing.
And they always arrive.
Even if the chair has to stay empty a little longer.
If this story stayed with you for a moment longer than you expected, perhaps it is pointing gently toward something else as well.
You Told Me To Be Brave is a collection of such moments—small, reflective, and unhurried.
It doesn’t ask to be read immediately, or even now. Only when the time feels right.
The book will be there.
WORDSOUPS 