When I Am Not Writing

People often think of writing as a distinct activity from everyday life, as if the writer steps into a room, shuts the door, and only reemerges once a chapter is complete.

Of course, there's some truth to that. Writers need solitude as sentences don't form while someone is talking behind your back. However, it isn't confined to the desk; much of it occurs quietly elsewhere, with no words written. When I'm not physically writing, I often find myself walking, which can inspire creativity.

In Yambol, this typically refers to the park or the trail along the River Tundzha. It isn't a dramatic landscape in the tourist sense, nor does it beg to be photographed from every angle. Its charm lies in its quieter nature. The river flows at its own steady pace, while people walk their dogs, older men sit chatting, and children run ahead of parents who are leisurely strolling. The town's everyday life is not a show.

Walking naturally loosens thoughts without forcing them, often turning problems that seem fixed at a desk into new insights by the river. A stubborn sentence might become clear after twenty minutes of walking. Sometimes nothing comes, and that’s OK. Not every walk needs to produce an answer.

I also ride my bike when the weather is good. Cycling changes the rhythm; walking fosters observation, while cycling provides movement and distance. It clears the mind differently since the body temporarily takes over, allowing thoughts to settle into the background, where they often do more effective work than when under pressure.

When the weather permits, which is often in Bulgaria, I enjoy sitting outside at a street café; it's a simple pleasure of living here. A single coffee often lasts longer than the drink itself, as I observe, listen, and watch the town go about its business. The café table becomes an unpaid theatre seat, hosting the daily scenes of greetings, arguments, gossip, shopping bags, cigarette smoke, impatience, kindness, and routine. Though nothing extraordinary usually happens, all patterns of life are present.

Local communal events are frequent, where I try to participate, not merely as an observer collecting material, but as someone who has lived here long enough to understand that a sense of belonging is built through attending regularly. These gatherings are often the backbone of both village and town life, where food is shared, help is on tap, traditions continue, and the boundary between private life and community remains more permeable than in other places. Such occasions remind us that life is influenced not just by personal choices but also by customs, neighbours, weather, habits, memories, obligations, and the quiet power of feeling connected to a place.

On weekends, I enjoy escaping to the Black Sea whenever I can. Only an hour away by car, it's close enough to feel like a gift on my doorstep. The atmosphere there is entirely different; the sea air feels freer with wide horizons, which serves as a tiny reset. The sea, for me, also has a way of putting worries into perspective. No matter what troubles there are, the unending waves remain indifferent, offering stability and relief.

At the end of each day, I read in bed before falling asleep. This is not disciplined, more like a handover from one writer's mind to another. Sometimes I manage only a few pages, but at other times a book can keep me awake longer than intended. Either way, it is one of the few habits I cannot see giving up.

So when I am not writing, ordinary things happen: walking, cycling, drinking coffee, reading, joining in local life, or going to the coast.

But perhaps that is the point.

Small details matter. What people say and do, how places influence behaviour, and the routines we follow are the true sources of writing material, demonstrating that everyday life has profound significance.

The coffee table in my living room is where the writing is done, but people and the ingredients of life are where it begins.