For some time now I have often been told, “You are a good listener.”
The remark surprises me every time.
I have always listened, of course, but for many years I doubt I truly deserved the adjective “good”.
And I do not think this new reputation comes from age, which sometimes leads people to mistake the “elderly” for the “wise”.
The real reason, perhaps, is another: I began to write and to publish.
Since I took up the habit of writing regularly, almost three years ago, I find myself dwelling more on other people’s thoughts. To rework a conversation, one must first absorb it and let it settle.
Writing has pushed me to make other people’s analyses my own, rather than letting them slip past.
And so I discovered that genuine listening requires time: the time to understand, not just to hear.
We often fail to listen well because we feel the urge to respond immediately, to be clever and reactive. It is a professional reflex.
When I write, instead, I reply in a second movement.
Not after weeks, but after a day or two — just enough for the thought to mature.
This short distance turns an impulsive reaction into a considered response.
And if someone cannot wait even a day for a thoughtful answer, they probably did not need one to begin with — they were seeking noise, not insight.
Listening well, today, is almost countercultural.
Yet it is in the pause between listening and responding that the true value of a conversation is born.
Writing has taught me to grant myself that pause — and, without my noticing it, it has also taught me to listen with attention, and with pleasure.