The Rule of 3 Books: Fiction, Facts, Forever

My Simple Reading System

A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies…The man who never reads lives only one.

—George R.R. Martin

Above: My future library.

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One maxim has been an intellectual compass of mine for years: “If you’re underthinking, read. If you’re overthinking, write.”

Whenever the gears upstairs grind to a halt or no grist can be found in my mental mill, I reach for one of two tools: the page I’m turning or the page I’m filling.

Reading loads the magazine; writing pulls the trigger.

For a long time now, I have both exhorted the need to read:

And bemoaned its demise in our world of dopaminergic distraction:

And so, always one eager to practice what I preach, I read.

And read.

And read.

And read some more.

In fact, I am likely reading as you finish this very sentence.

But even an unquenchable appetite needs a menu. To keep curiosity from curdling into chaos, I follow a three-course loop I call The Cycle.

The Cycle

My reading system is simple, intentionally loose, yet quietly structured: I read what I want, but not necessarily when I want.

My approach follows a steady, gentle rhythm:

1. I start with a work of fiction (e.g. A Confederacy of Dunces)

2. Then, I dive into nonfiction (e.g. The Brain That Changes Itself)

3. Next, I pick up a classic (e.g. Crime and Punishment)

4. Then, I repeat the cycle

It’s that simple.

This method keeps my mind alert and curious, protecting me from the monotony and malaise that can come from reading only one kind of book.

It’s about intentional balance—fiction helps me imagine what could be, nonfiction grounds me in what is, and classics connect me to eternal, timeless truths.

My mantra: always move forward, though not always in the same direction. The cycle forces both lateral and diagonal steps; side quests into genres I’d otherwise skip. That sidelong drift keeps my brain fresh and fertile.

Skip any one of fiction, nonfiction, or classics and life turns grayscale. You’ll still see outlines and silhouettes, but the hues vanish. To avoid certain types of books is to deliberately view a vibrant, colorful world in black and white. You lose the depth, dimension, and richness life offers.

Sure, dogs live pleasant lives, but they can’t see color. Why would you resign yourself to the same fate?

Page Turning > Phone Tapping

In our digital age, we’re bombarded by endless scrolling, swiping, and tapping; superficial pings and bings and bongs that leave us craving something unvarnished and real and true.

When everyone else is skimming headlines, the deep reader gains an edge: attention, patience, nuance. In a world of noise, immersion is a superpower.

After all, there’s nothing that satisfies the mind or nourishes the soul quite like turning physical pages.

Books distill entire lifetimes of insight into hours. That’s nothing, if not the best exchange rate on Earth.

I recently wrote about the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis:

The idea behind the hypothesis—Linguistic Relativity—suggests that one's available vocabulary determines the ways one's mind makes sense of the world. Put simply, our reality is defined—literally and figuratively—by the words we have at our disposal. After all, to a hammer everything is a nail.

In this way, a rich lexicon constructs a vivid world.

The easiest way to make your reality more colorful and vibrant is to learn new words.

To learn new words, read more books.

I leave you with the running, often-updated tab of books that have changed my life for the better.

I hope they do yours as well.

Those titles are only breadcrumbs. Follow them and you’ll loop back to why any of this matters.

Afterword

I read, therefore I write; I write, therefore I think; I think, therefore I live more fully.

Books are the hinge on which that door swings. They are my antidote to underthinking and to overthinking (sometimes on the very same day).

If you’ve been feeling monochrome, try the cycle. Then wash, rinse, repeat.

Stock your magazine full of semantic ammunition then fire away with both pen and tongue.

And remember: the only bad book is the one collecting dust unopened.

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Per my about page, White Noise is a work of experimentation. I view it as a sort of thinking aloud, a stress testing of my nascent ideas. Through it, I hope to sharpen my opinions against the whetstone of other people’s feedback, commentary, and input.

If you want to discuss any of the ideas or musings mentioned above or have any books, papers, or links that you think would be interesting to share on a future edition of White Noise, please reach out to me by replying to this email or following me on Twitter X.

With sincere gratitude,

Tom