It’s been a stretch of long days and quieter nights here along the coast. The fishing has slowed a bit with the change in weather, but the rhythm of the work remains steady—checking parlors, mending pots, watching the sea shift moods faster than a man can name them. There’s peace in the routine, even when the wind cuts sharp and the hours run long. The crew keeps me grounded, the ocean keeps me honest. There’s something good in that kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes from work that asks everything of you and gives you silence in return.
When I’m not on the water, I’m at the desk, deep into revisions of The Red Thirst and The Body Forfeit. The latter—what began as a half-wild idea about identity and Jung’s metaconsciousness—has started to take shape into something I’m proud of. During a recent pitch event, an agent said they liked the premise, and I’ll admit it stirred a quiet hope in me. Not because I expect instant success, but because it reminded me that maybe, just maybe, the stories I’m writing are reaching beyond these shores. Sometimes, all a writer needs is that one spark of belief to keep the fire alive.
Most evenings, I walk the lanes around Malin Head, watching the last light fade over the sea. The air smells of peat smoke and salt, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a kind of stillness I used to chase but never catch. The blog has become part of that rhythm—these daily reflections, these small confessions. They’ve helped me remember that writing doesn’t always need to be loud to be heard.
So that’s where I’ve been lately: between the tides and the page, chasing stories and sunlight, learning to let the work—on sea and in words—carry me forward. Maybe that’s all any of us can ask for: to keep moving, to keep making, and to trust that the next tide will bring something worth holding onto.
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