A slow retrospective on a season of writing, and the quiet transition now opening between fatigue, clarity, and the return to earth.
Some life c...
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Hi Pascal,
Thank you for your posts and for the thoughtful discussions we’ve shared - they’ve been genuinely inspiring to read. It makes complete sense that after such an intense creative period, there comes a moment to pause and recharge. The end of the year is naturally a time for reflection and slowing down.
I’ll be following along and looking forward - patiently - to whatever you decide to write next when the time is right.
Wishing you a restful season ahead!
To Sylwia
Thank you for these words — and for the subtle repetition that reminds me even the best texts sometimes carry a duplicate in the buffer.
You’ve understood exactly what this pause is about: not so much a stop as a recentering, a return to the rhythm of the body and of code. Our exchanges have been a compass during these months of writing. Your way of reading — slow, deep, attentive to the cracks — has changed the way I write.
I’m turning back toward the concrete, toward functions that return what they promise, toward the legaltech project that’s been waiting its turn. Words will return, but only when they’re ready, and light.
Until then, I’ll carry your patience like a companion.
Wishing you a gentle winter.
You describe writing and coding as separate refuges that tides move between. Are you sure they aren't just two expressions of the same underlying need for clarity?
That’s a beautifully sharp question — and I think you’ve touched the heart of something I’ve felt but haven’t fully named.
You’re right: both writing and coding are, in essence, acts of making sense.
They’re two different grammars for the same deep need: to structure thought, to bring order to chaos, to translate the mess of experience into something that holds.
But if I try to distinguish them — and maybe this is where the “tide” metaphor holds — I’d say:
Writing feels like mapping.
It’s exploratory, open-ended. It allows ambiguity, rhythm, silence.
It’s how I understand what I don’t yet know.
Coding feels like building.
It’s declarative, logical, constrained by syntax and runtime.
It’s how I make what I’ve understood usable.
In that sense, they’re not separate refuges — they’re different rooms in the same house.
Sometimes I need the window view (writing).
Sometimes I need the foundation (code).
But you’re right: underneath both lies the same search for clarity.
What shifts, perhaps, is not the need, but the mode that meets it — and the body’s way of saying, “Enough mapping. Time to build.”
Thank you for asking this.
It makes the transition feel less like a departure, and more like a change of tools.
Your writing is poetic. Amazing!
I comment here because I happened to have similar thought two days ago after reading a post: dev.to/juliecodestack/comment/349bb.
Before writing, we don't know the answer of the question. We're thinking and finding the answer in the process. As you say, writing is understanding something.
Before coding, we usually have a solution in mind. As you say, coding is building something.
Thank you, Julie — that’s a beautiful way to put it.
I think writing and coding don’t start from the same place.
When I write, I’m often exploring something I don’t fully understand yet. The text becomes a way to think, to clarify, sometimes even to discover what the real question was.
Coding feels different. There’s usually an intention first — a structure in mind — and the act of coding is about giving that structure a form in the world.
But maybe the interesting moment is when the two meet: when writing helps us understand what we’re building, and coding forces us to be precise about what we think.
Very insightful perspective! Thank you, Pascal!
When I read your comment, two images suddenly flashed in my mind. Writing is like weaving a net, while coding is like a tree growing. Writing is to find structure, while coding is to build from structure.
"writing helps us understand what we’re building, and coding forces us to be precise about what we think." Yes, writing and coding can help us be clear and precise. What's more, they can help us do the other thing better.
That’s a beautiful pair of images — the net and the tree.
I like how they suggest movement in two directions: writing gathers and connects, while coding grows and solidifies.
What I’ve been discovering lately is that the boundary between the two keeps dissolving. The more I write about what I build, the more the architecture clarifies itself. And when I code, it often reshapes how I think and write about the problem.
Maybe that’s where things are heading for many of us: not choosing between writing and coding, but letting them evolve together as two ways of structuring thought — and making it real.
I like your saying of "evolve together"! Writing and coding are not two distinct things. Many times we find that we're doing both of them: write to clarify thinking; code to verify thoughts or build things.
I'm happy that we've discussed much about writing and coding, which gives me a new perspective about these "two ways of structuring thought".
I’m glad this resonated with you.
What I find encouraging is that more and more people seem to move fluidly between the two — not as separate skills, but as complementary ways of thinking. Writing helps us see; coding helps us test what we’ve seen.
Maybe this is becoming a kind of new literacy for builders: the ability to move back and forth between language and structure, reflection and implementation.
Ah, I know you’re already in your well-deserved break mode, but this comment of yours is just too fascinating to ignore 😄 It’s incredible how differently our minds work. For me, coding and writing feel like two versions of the same creative act — almost indistinguishable. And whenever I get the chance to write about what I’m building or explain the ideas behind the code, I get a turbo-boost of energy and suddenly my motivation jumps by +1000%
What surprises me the most is that I only discovered this after nearly ten years in the industry.
You’re right—even in a pause, some threads remain alive, and yours is one I’m glad to pick up.
What you describe resonates deeply, even if my own rhythm feels different.
That “turbo-boost” you feel when writing about what you build—I recognize it, too.
It’s that moment when explanation becomes an extension of creation, when words don’t just describe the code, but complete it.
And yet—how strange and beautiful that we can walk similar paths and still experience them so differently.
For you, writing and coding blur into one motion.
For me, they’re distinct breaths: one in, one out.
But maybe that’s precisely what makes a conversation like ours worthwhile: we meet not in sameness, but in recognition.
You said it took ten years to notice this about yourself.
It makes me wonder what else we’re still learning, quietly, even after years in the same field.
Perhaps the most honest creative process is the one we’re still figuring out.
Thank you—once again—for looking so closely, and for sharing what you see.
Your words carried a peaceful weight, and I felt every part of that transition you described. It’s rare to see someone write about fatigue and renewal with such grace. I’ll be following your journey whenever you choose to share again.
Thank you for these words — and for staying through the manifesto and now through the pause. That you followed from one text to the other says something about the kind of reader I was hoping to reach: someone who recognizes honesty when they see it, even when it says "I'm stopping for now."
The manifesto was about refusing to perform productivity. This pause is the same principle, lived. Sometimes the most honest thing you can do is admit the work is done — for now.
I'm glad the transition felt peaceful to you. That was the hardest part to get right: how to close a chapter without drama, without bitterness, just with clarity.
Your patience means more than you know. See you when the words are light again.
Thank you for sharing this — your honesty really stands out.
arrived here from your dev.stats post. Well, certainly i felt the fatigue this caused you. I suppose, in general, the joy of doing something, doing it good, feeling good (good critics, feeling of doing something good etc), making it custom and then like- a-must and being not-able-to undo it- cycle causes fatigue.
The things that started as a/like a hobby and then turned into a part of the body, a way of living...
I can relate that.
Thanks. I suppose you are already back, but whether not, have a nice break
Thanks for reading both. You nailed the cycle: joy → must → fatigue. I'm back now, and that break taught me the best work comes from curiosity, not obligation. The tool came from curiosity. "Respiration" came from exhaustion. Both resonated precisely because they weren't forced.