Suppose you’ve been following my little writing corner of the internet. In that case, you know that my life dances a peculiar tango between the wild, salt-kissed decks of fishing boats off the rugged coasts of Islay and Portrush, and the quieter sanctuary of my sitting room. When I’m not hauling lines or chasing the horizon’s gleam under a brooding Celtic sky, I surrender most of my daylight hours to the page. It’s a ritual as vital to me as the tide’s pull—a way to anchor myself given everything in this world of ours. (You can follow those adventures on TikTok.)
Today, I thought I’d pull back the curtain on that writing routine, sharing the manuscripts that keep me up at night, the influences that shape my prose, and those nagging whispers of doubt that, let’s be honest, make the whole endeavor feel achingly human.
I usually start early, around when the sun comes up, with tea nearby. That’s my time for new writing. Lately, I’ve been deep into The Scrying Glass, building out scenes and characters step by step. I just finished the fourth chapter, and while I am worried about it looking like another famous ocean voyage from an infamous Gothic horror novel, I have been careful to be different. About halfway through the morning, I switch over to The Viking and the Princess. I’m outlining Chapter 4, figuring out the plot beats and character arcs. I jot notes on my phone, even during breaks from boat work if an idea hits.
As the light slants golden through my window overlooking the hills of Donegal—late afternoon, when the most of the United States is awake—I shift to editing. This is the forge, where raw ore gets hammered into something enduring. For months now, that’s meant wrestling with The Red Thirst, my brooding love letter to the shadows of Irish folklore. The Dearg-Dú, that bloodthirsty siren of legend, has claimed my heart entirely. I want her voice to seep into readers’ veins, to haunt them long after the final page, telling her story not just as horror, but as a raw unraveling of desire, loss, and the eternal hunger for connection.
In a way, I am in love with this book, this character.
A few weeks back, I took a leap of faith and sent the first 50 pages to a professional developmental editor. What a revelation that was. She didn’t just dissect the structure; she illuminated it, helping me refine the synopsis into a compass that points true north. Her feedback on those opening chapters? Gold. “Your writing is so lyrical,” she wrote, “it reminds me of the classics.” That landed like a benediction. I’ve been steeped in those timeless tomes since childhood—the rolling cadences of literature of the English-speaking world. I was raised a fundamentalist, so cadence of King James Bible is forever etched into my literary view, even if that part of my life is long over.
As a side note, being raised in such a way, meant I was forever trying to uncover more meanings from Scripture. So maybe you can’t blame me if I want to bury secret meanings into my own works.
Add to that a career’s worth of academic (history, theology, and philosophy) books and papers under my belt, mostly read but some written, clinical notes etched in the precision of diagnosis, and you have the alchemy of my style: prose that’s densely packed, layered with metaphor and allusion, each sentence a cathedral window stained with hidden light.
I experiment, too—breaking the fourth wall here and there, letting the narrator wink at the reader like an old confidant sharing secrets over a pint. It’s risky, playful, a nod to the meta-threads in Gothic tales that first hooked me. But oh, the self-doubt that trails in its wake…
I like writing dense prose—sentences packed with details, metaphors, and references. It comes from my love of Gothic literature, especially Irish Gothic, where stories tackle big themes like colonial oppression, identity crisis, religious tensions, and spectral haunting through supernatural elements tied to real life. In The Red Thirst, that’s the approach: every part builds layers you can unpack. And yes, there are so many themes buried into the text.
That said, I worry it’s too much sometimes. There are days I just want a book for pure escape, without stopping to think about the symbolism. If that’s what I’m after, I doubt I’d pick up my own work. My other projects, like The Scrying Glass, The Viking and the Princess, and even A Year to Love, have lighter prose and I can escape there. They’re easier to read straight through, though they still have depth for anyone who wants to dig in. But, The Red Thirst, well, even as I work through the current draft, I find myself thinking about the themes I knew I intended and get lost in thought.
Part of my routine is this back-and-forth: Am I making the story accessible, or overwhelming it? It’s normal for writers, I think, and it helps me refine as I go.
That’s my routine in a nutshell—mornings for drafting, afternoons for edits, and plenty of time reflecting on what works. It’s not fancy, just consistent effort mixed with fishing when the weather’s right. If you’re a writer, what’s one thing you do to balance creating and doubting? Share in the comments.
Thanks for reading.
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