When Reading Threatens the Spark
Protecting the Sacred Spark of Story
Author’s Note
Not long ago, I read a reflection by Heironymous Hawkes, where they asked, "Has writing ruined reading for me?"
I felt the inverse rise in me like a flare:
“I worry that reading will ruin writing for me.”
That spark led me to this reflection—a kind of self-investigation into why I sometimes rebel against reading fiction, even when I love story.
This isn’t about fear of words or long books or some clever phobia. It’s about protecting the sacred space where story begins. My story. Maybe yours too.
There’s a peculiar grief that strikes when I read something eerily close to the thing I’m just beginning to write. It’s not jealousy—it’s the ache of discovery interrupted. Someone else has mapped the wonder I hoped to uncover for myself.
Before we proceed, let's eliminate bibliophobia.
I'm not a bibliophobe, or so I believe. I'd never even heard of it! My dictionary lacked the entry (though "bibliophile" was thankfully included). However, the Cleveland Clinic confirms bibliophobia's existence, citing variations like logophobia (fear of words), metrophobia (fear of poetry), and hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (fear of long words). I definitely don't have those, but could I have fictophobia—a fear of reading fiction? (I just invented that one, by the way.)
Based on my opening statement above, it may seem like I’m a fictophobe, but clinically, I’m relatively certain my reluctance to read works of fiction is not bibliophobic. Let’s investigate.
This essay explores my reluctance to read fiction, fearing its impact on my writing.
I suspect I'm not alone in this struggle.
I'll examine potential causes: voice interference, creative overload, disillusionment or discouragement, altered perspectives on writing, and impatience with conventional forms—all possible reasons writers become reluctant readers.
The Myth of Originality or “Help, My Voice is Drowning”
I've noticed this more while watching television series than while reading; nothing disrupts my immersion in good fiction quite like seeing my own idea already used.
Yes, logically I understand that originality in ideas and stories is rare these days; still, it's jarring to be beaten to the punch. (The tardigrade/micro-wormhole concept, for instance—I thought I'd invented the latter, but alas, I didn't.)
However, I've gotten over it; I accept that you, I, and everyone else could be assigned to write about tardigrades and micro-wormholes, and we'd all produce unique stories—truly.
Therefore, the jarring feeling of being beaten to the punch stems from a deeper issue: voice.
Although new to fiction writing, I possess a strong inner voice, like many writers. However, reading others—even the best—can overwhelm my unique rhythm, tone, and phrasing, much like a radio tuned to static from another station.
A well-crafted sentence might linger in my mind, leading me to unintentionally mimic it, and leaving me wondering what happened to my own voice.
Many writers share that fear. Isn’t it one of the reasons we’re wary of AI—that we will lose our writer’s voice?
So, for me, this might explain my reluctance to read fiction—even the best fiction. I don’t want to lose my own writerly voice.
But, as with most complexities in life—and this is a big one for me—there’s certainly more to it.
The Role of Mystery—Why I Sometimes Can’t Read When I’m Writing
Let’s call this creative saturation.
While writing, I can only focus on writing-related material. My mind's fully engaged in crafting ideas, characters, and plot. Reading other fiction feels overwhelming; I need the mental space to focus inward, not be distracted by external narratives.
For neurodivergent or highly intuitive writers, even beautiful prose can be too stimulating.
For example, I recently attempted to read a fiction piece about Stonehenge—a subject I adore—but its opening description, while brimming with lovely imagery, proved overwhelming. My mind became flooded, and before I reached the second paragraph, I felt suffocated by the richness of the language; the beautiful words felt like they would drown me.
That was unpleasant. Luckily, my body gave me an early warning, letting me get away safely. It felt like sensory overload, maybe something similar to what people with autism or aphantasia experience.
But a diagnosis isn't important; what matters is knowing my limits and respecting them. Understanding that, I no longer get defensive about the common, overused idea that you can't write fiction well unless you read tons of it. I can be a good writer. I can! (PMI - Positive Mental Imaging)
Where was I?
Ah, yes …
Disillusionment or Discouragement
The rhetorical cage: "How can I ever write like that?"
Ever felt that way after reading something amazing? I do, every day on Substack!
It's a thought, but not a crippling one; it's not, honestly, why I don't read more fiction. I admire powerful writing and find it inspiring, but I also understand how discouraging it can be.
Similarly, the power of great poetry initially intimidates me, though only briefly. In contrast, my own poetry is intensely personal, representing me in a raw, unfiltered way I neither can nor wish to control.
While I don't compare myself to literary giants, I understand why others do. I admire Hemingway, despite his detractors, but I don't aspire to emulate him. However, achieving an impact on par with his remains a compelling goal.
Before we move on, to anyone feeling disillusioned or discouraged—I know it's tough. I hope you find your unique voice, a voice the world needs to hear.
Reading brilliant work when you're creatively vulnerable can be disheartening.
It's not envy, but the stark contrast between your draft and their polished masterpiece that breeds self-doubt. I understand completely; I've been there.
“Be your own giant,” I say!
Now, shall we move on?
A Different Creative Wiring
This feels like the birthplace of my writing soul.
I am a ‘maker’—something very different than a traditional ‘reader’.
You may be one, too.
Makers learn by doing, observing life, and shaping ideas from science, philosophy, visual art, and more. Narrative fiction doesn't fuel me; observation and discovery do.
My stories live within me—not within someone else’s book.
I love reading others' work, especially pieces that invite observation, analysis, and discovery. This isn't unusual; many read to discover or escape, and I respect that.
But a maker's mind might differ. I read to observe and explore—less about the destination, more about the journey. It's a "what if I went this way?" or "why did they choose that?" kind of exploration.
This same inquisitive spirit drives my writing: I write to answer questions, propose solutions, and ponder possibilities. Ultimately, I read for the same reasons I write.
Finding Newness in Depth, Not Surface
I think deeply, write deeply, and love to read deeply. Perhaps that's why I'm more of a fiction writer than a reader.
I have been a rebel since I was a child and I crave originality. I tire quickly of tropes, predictable arcs, or prose that doesn't push the boundary of meaning. If fiction is too safe or too derivative, it’s probably not on my to-be-read list.
My reasoning is simple: why read something if I already know the ending?
I abandon TV series for the same reason, usually after only two or three episodes.
Many find comfort in knowing how things will end, or how they hope they'll end. Predictability is satisfying. I'm different. I thrive on challenges; give me an impossible problem and watch me try to solve it.
For example, I once solved a puzzle my 8th-grade teacher declared unsolvable. The recognition didn't matter; the mystery itself was the reward. This approach defines how I read and how I write.
What about you?
Have you ever felt reluctant to read fiction while writing your own?
Have you ever needed to protect the spark—your voice—from the static of someone else’s story?
I’d love to hear how you navigate it.
Do you read a lot of fiction because you’ve been told it will make you a better writer? It might. But does it depend on what you read? It might. Or does it just matter that you have a story to tell?
If a story has to be told, you might be the only person to tell it.
Can someone else tell your story? It wouldn’t be the same … it wouldn’t be yours, would it?
I’m just pondering … I’m just saying there is some incredible writerly wisdom among us. But I also believe that just like no single writing prompt will generate the same story among thousands of writers, no single shred of writerly wisdom applies to all writers across the board.
We are all wired differently. And that’s the beautiful thing about story.
Wrap Up
This reflection helped me accept my own creative wiring. I don’t need to read like Stephen King says I should. I’m not trying to be Hemingway—I have my own voice. And I like my voice.
Reading other fiction can enrich us. But sometimes, it muddies our clarity—especially during the fragile, sacred act of creation.