Read the Code More Than You Write It

You think the job
is writing.

It isn't.

You write a line once.

You read it
a hundred times after,

and so does everyone
who comes after you.

The keyboard
is the small part.

The eyes
are the whole rest of the story.

So write for the reader,
because the reader
is mostly
future you,

tired,
in a hurry,
trying to remember
what past you meant.

Past you
was a genius, apparently.

Left no hints.

The clever line
that made you proud on Friday

is the riddle
that eats your Tuesday.

Clarity is not
the boring choice.

It is the kind one.

A stranger will open this file
at 2 a.m.
during an outage,

and the code you wrote
is the only voice
in the room.

Let it speak plainly.

Before you add,
read what is already there.

Half the code
you were about to write
already exists,

wearing a different name,
waiting one folder over.

The best patch
is often
the one you don't send,

because you finally understood
the thing
you were about to duplicate.

Reading is not
the tax you pay
before the real work.

Reading is the work.

The senior in the room
is not the fastest typist.

She is the one
who read the system
until it stopped surprising her.

Slow down
at the entrance to a file
the way you slow down
entering a room
where people are sleeping.

Move quietly.
Change little.
Leave it kinder
than you found it.

Write less.