When curiosity becomes intrusion, wisdom remains silent.
By Chukwudi George Ozalla
“Your conversation is your advertisement. When you open your mouth, you let me look into your mind.” — Bruce Barton
Every writer owes readers insight, not intimacy — message, not biography.
In writing and storytelling, not everything must be explained, and not every line serves as an invitation for interrogation. A true writer often blends imagination with lived reality — observing, listening more, and weaving experiences from the world around them into narratives that provoke thought. Yet, some readers, instead of engaging the depth of the message, become fixated on trivial details, exposing either their ignorance or their appetite for gossip. I didn’t just start writing today, whether formally or informally. I like to do in-depth research; I still learn, relearn, and unlearn, and I do not claim to be an authority.
For instance, if I wrote that I hugged and pecked my wife affectionately, a mischievous reader might eventually ask whether I had sex with her, and then, down the line, how many times. Such questions turn a simple, innocent example into a playground for speculation and mischief. This is the peril of prying: it transforms ordinary, illustrative examples into scandalous conjecture.
A mature reader understands that every writer has the right to discretion. Mentioning, for example, that one has worked before without disclosing where is not an act of concealment but of artistic or personal choice. It might not even be relevant to the central theme of the piece. But to the idle mind, such omission becomes a point of unhealthy curiosity, leading to needless assumptions and chatter.
In recent times, it has become common to see people reading between lines, not to find meaning, but to dig for scandal. They pick a harmless phrase, twist it, and begin to construct stories around it, as if their imagination were a detective’s tool rather than a reader’s aid. This is the point where intellect gives way to mischief. Instead of asking, “What is the writer trying to say?” they ask, “Who is the writer talking about?” or “Why didn’t he mention this or that?” — questions that only expose their shallow engagement with the work.
A good writer must never explain everything. Art thrives on restraint — the power to let the reader think, reflect, and even question. To tell all is to rob the story of its mystery. The finest writers in history, from Achebe to Orwell, mastered this subtle art of leaving room for interpretation. They didn’t owe their readers a full biography in every sentence. What mattered was the message, not the minutiae of their personal lives.
Unfortunately, the culture of gossip has invaded even the sacred space of literature and commentary. Many no longer read to learn; they read to pry. They search for names, hints, and fragments that could feed their appetite for personal talk. Such people reveal more about themselves than about the writer they try to dissect. Their curiosity is not born of admiration but of idle speculation — the type that thrives on social media, where everything, even wisdom, is reduced to whispers and side comments.
Writers, on the other hand, are observers of life. They see the world in fragments and stories, drawing from their experiences and the experiences of others. Their responsibility is to communicate ideas, emotions, and truths — not to satisfy the hunger of gossipmongers. When a writer chooses silence on a personal matter, it is not avoidance but maturity. It is often a conscious act of discipline and self-respect.
Every serious reader must therefore learn to separate art from autobiography. Writers owe their readers depth, not disclosure; sincerity, not self-exposure. The measure of a good reader is not in how much personal detail they extract from a text, but in how deeply they engage with its meaning.
Curiosity is healthy when it fuels understanding, but destructive when it crosses into intrusion. A good mind inquires to know more; a petty one snoops to talk more. The writer’s silence, then, should not be mistaken for secrecy. Sometimes, silence is simply the punctuation of wisdom.
In the end, those who constantly seek what was intentionally left out only reveal themselves, not the writer. For as the saying goes, “Small minds discuss people, average minds discuss events, but great minds discuss ideas.” — Eleanor Roosevelt
And now, I wait to see what I will be asked next in this piece, childishly. Who knows — such an act might just elicit another write-up from me again. Laughs.
Publisher & Editor-in-Chief, NEWSCOUNT.
Synopsis:
“When Reading Becomes Snooping: Respecting a Writer’s Silence” explores the boundary between curiosity and intrusion in reading. Using a hypothetical example of a simple affectionate gesture and insights from Bruce Barton, the essay reflects on the responsibility of readers to engage with ideas rather than pry into personal details. It highlights the value of restraint, dignity, and the wisdom of silence while emphasizing that excessive curiosity often reveals more about the observer than the writer.
