Between the Lines | Before words talk back

Ep 3. When the obvious line does the least work

Feb 08, 2026

Before this became anything else, it was just a note.
Shared a while back.
Then it slipped into that place where old notes go to rest.

It started as a few moments of fun —
just to see what would happen
if I didn’t rush it.

And, I’m going to start there for this piece.

I’m using my own work here simply because it’s the one place I can move things without guessing what was held back or why.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

     One drop, then none.
     The pavement hums undone.
     A child mouths the number for silence,
     gets it wrong —
     and the sky forgives her
     when the day is done.

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     A window breathes warm.
     Someone forgets why they came there.
     Shoes pause by the door, listening
     to the house settle
     into its evening shape,
     light loosening its grip on the walls.

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     Later, nothing happens —
     and that is the mercy.
     Hands find pockets.
     Time leans back.
     Even the dark agrees
     to stay close,
     just for a while.

When I read this back recently, I noticed something odd.
Nothing much happens.
But my body keeps settling.

The lines don’t explain. They wait.
Ordinary things hesitate.
Time leans back.
Slowly.

Reading it back now,
the first thing I notice is how little it asks of me.

“One drop, then none.”

The line doesn’t settle into meaning.
It vanishes.
My body registers the absence before my mind looks for what it was meant to say.

Then something miscounts.

A child mouths the number for silence,
gets it wrong —

That wrongness doesn’t want correcting.
It doesn’t create tension.
It softens me. Like being allowed not to be exact.

When the poem moves indoors —

A window breathes warm.

My shoulders drop without asking permission.
Warmth appears, but it isn’t claimed or explained.
It just sits there, doing its quiet work.

There’s a moment where movement almost happens:

Shoes pause by the door, listening

Nothing advances.
The body recognises the pause as enough.
I stop waiting for the next thing.

And later,

Later, nothing happens —
and that is the mercy.

That line doesn’t land as thought.
It lands as relief.
My body agrees before I do.

By the time I reach:

Time leans back.

I’ve already slowed to match it.

You don’t really need to understand any of this.
But if you felt yourself slowing down, even briefly,
that’s already the point.

⏳ How tone sneaks in before meaning

What’s happening here isn’t limited to poems.

I’ve seen the same effect show up in much plainer language — places where nothing “beautiful” is going on, but timing quietly changes how the body responds.

Now, you will see meaning shifts, as we go through some of these examples below.
But, what interests me more, is how the body responds before that meaning settle.

Where the body softens.
Where it tightens.
Where something lands — or doesn’t — long before you’ve decided what it means.

Here’s a simple one to start with.

We need to talk.

Nothing else.
No context.
No cushioning.

With “We need to talk.” the body doesn’t wait for meaning.
It responds to being summoned without orientation.

Before any interpretation forms, the body is already at work.
Breath shortens.
The chest tightens.
Attention jumps ahead, scanning for threat, repair, or damage control.

That reaction isn’t emotion yet.
It’s mobilisation — the body preparing to act without knowing what it’s being asked to face.

When a line comes before it —

“I’ve been thinking about us.”
“We need to talk.”

— the shift isn’t reassurance or comfort.

What changes is the load placed on the nervous system.

The body no longer has to invent context on the fly.
Breath still tightens.
Muscles stay alert, but not braced.

The second version doesn’t feel pleasant.
It feels handleable.

The meaning hasn’t softened.
The work the body has to do has.

You can feel it elsewhere too.

⤷ In emails that rush to reassurance.
⤷ In messages that explain themselves too early.
⤷ In drafts where the conclusion shows up before the tension has had time to register.

When language hurries to say the thing, the body doesn’t get a chance to catch up.
When it waits — even briefly — the body starts doing some of the work on its own.

If you’re curious, try this once:

↳ Take a line from something you’ve already written — an email, a paragraph, a note.
↳ Find the part that names the feeling.
↳ Move it later than feels comfortable.
↳ Then read it out loud.

Don’t ask if it’s better.
Notice what your body does while it waits.

That’s enough to carry us forward.ㅤ

You can see the same thing in an ordinary email below.

Hi Dave,

Great to see you last weekend at the party.

On its own, that’s fine.
Friendly. Polite. Complete.

Now add one line after it.

ㅤ

Hi Dave,

Great to see you last weekend at the party.
I’ve been thinking about what you said.

Nothing dramatic has been introduced.
But the body leans forward.

The second line doesn’t explain itself.
It creates a pause the reader has to sit in.

Now try moving that line up.

ㅤ

Hi Dave,

I’ve been thinking about what you said.
Great to see you last weekend at the party.

Same words.
Different arrival.

In the first version, the warmth lands and settles.
In the second, the body is already working before the warmth has time to do anything.

ㅤ

Often, the problem isn’t the sentence.
It’s that it shows up before the body is ready for it.

Once you start listening at this level,
it stops being about messages.
The body notices these shifts
before the mind decides what to call them.

ㅤ

🪟 Familiar words don’t stop working — they change jobs

There’s another place this shows up —
where the words are so familiar we stop hearing them.

Phrases we’ve said a hundred times.
Read a thousand times.
Language that’s meant to pass straight through.

Take this one:

Let me know.

It usually does one of two things.
It closes something down.
Or it hands responsibility back politely.

But watch what happens when it’s placed differently.

Thanks for sending this through.
Let me know what you think.

Nothing wrong with that.
It lands. It ends.

Now move it.

Let me know
what you think.
Thanks for sending this through.

The phrase hasn’t changed.
But the body has.

In the first version, the sentence finishes the exchange.
In the second, it opens a small space the reader has to step into.

The words are doing less work.
The timing is doing more.

You can feel the same thing with phrases like:

⤷ I’ll circle back.
⤷ Whenever you have a moment.
⤷ No rush.

On their own, they’re neutral.
Background noise.

But when they arrive too early, they create pressure.
When they arrive later, they release it.

It’s not the phrase that carries weight.
It’s where it’s allowed to land.

For me, I notice this most in my drafts —
places where I reach for a familiar line too quickly,
before anything underneath has had time to show itself.

When I move it later, the sentence doesn’t get smarter.
It stops doing the work too early.

Once you notice that shift,
it’s hard not to see it elsewhere.

⚖️ A few small things to try (this is the play)

When something keeps landing flat, I don’t rewrite it straight away.
I look in three places first.

Not to fix it —
just to see where the weight is sitting.

1. Where the feeling is named

If a sentence tells the reader how to feel, try moving it later.

Before

I was disappointed.
A few things didn’t land.

After

A few things didn’t land.
I was disappointed.

Nothing has been softened.
But the body gets to see before it’s told what to feel.

Often, that’s enough.

2. Where reassurance arrives

If a sentence moves to reassure too quickly, try delaying that part.

Before

This isn’t a criticism.
I wanted to ask about something.

After

I wanted to ask about something.
This isn’t a criticism.

Same words.
Different order.

In the first version, the body braces early,
because it’s preparing for something it hasn’t seen yet.

In the second, it stays present long enough to hear the question.

3. Where things are closed too quickly

If a line rushes to finish the moment, try moving the ending later.

Before

Let me know if you have any questions — happy to help.

After

Let me know if you have any questions.
Happy to help.

The first version finishes the exchange.

The second leaves a small opening the body can step into.

That’s usually all I touch.

I don’t change the words.
I don’t make things smarter.

I just move one thing later
and see if the body responds differently.

If it does, I stop there.

🌊 Where This Might Go Next

Earlier, this started as just a note.
A few lines left alone long enough to see what would happen.

That same posture keeps showing up.

When something lands before you’ve decided what it means.
When repetition builds pressure without adding anything new.
When structure moves you faster than explanation ever could.

Sometimes that carries you somewhere obvious.
Sometimes it only changes the pace.

And sometimes it leaves the sense that something has already shifted
before you’ve worked out what to call it.

That isn’t something to resolve.
It’s the same cue as before: don’t rush it.

There’s more here —
in what familiarity does to attention,
in how intensity rises and falls on its own,
in how meaning arrives earlier, or later, than we expect.

For now, this is just a place to stop again.
Not to conclude —
but to notice what’s already begun to move.

If you catch similar moments —
in reading, in writing, or elsewhere —
that’s usually how the next pieces start forming.

☕ Staying With the Work

If the breakdown in the opening section held you longer than you expected,
that’s the edge this work keeps moving along.

What you read here is the compressed version.

From the end of February, paid subscribers get the longer form of this practice — taking the same techniques further, slower.

That includes:

a monthly essay where I work through my own drafts in full
what I tried, what I cut, what didn’t work, and why certain decisions stayed
Guided Noticing during this window — attentive, unhurried readings that show how pressure, timing, and meaning are shaped on the page
paid-only pieces, plus early access to some posts before they’re released publicly

Everything published publicly stays public.

This is for readers who want more than finished pieces —
who want to see how they’re made, and stay with the thinking as it unfolds.

If that sounds like where you already are,
you’re welcome to step in.

— Mark

If you’ve just found yourself in this journey, you can find the start below.

And, a few more pieces from me…