Writers want to be left alone. Kind of.
It has been the wettest of winters. Right now it’s pouring outside. The house I’m living in on the west of Ireland is built on old bog land. The water lies immediately under the grass of the scrappy lawn. Where I’ve planted trees, it comes right to the surface, making little ponds. Giving in to the wetness, I’ve scavenged some flag irises and planted them at the wettest parts.
The best thing I did before coming to Ireland was buy decent wet weather gear. I’ve become used to walking with the sound of rain on the hood of my waterproof.
In terms of writing the book, it’s been great. Solitude has concentrated the mind. I know barely anyone here and winter is not the time to connect. A lot of the time it’s really just been myself here – so much so that when I do strike up a conversation I sometimes find my voice is barely there. My vocal cords have forgotten how to work properly.
But I don’t think it’s healthy for a writer to spend too much time on their own. In the end, we need to see people doing the ordinary stuff people do. I remember during covid, worrying that ideas would dry up if we sat inside all the time. At the weekend I drove 45 minutes to Anascaul to have a conversation with a writer I know a little who had been visiting Dingle. It was great. We spent an hour bitching about the vicissitudes of the publishing industry, which is always a writer’s happy place. Thanks Sinéad.
It’s always a bit of a dilemma for writers. We want time on our own, stories come from company. Spring is on its way, however late. The house is about to fill with house guests. I’m simultaneously excited the prospect of seeing everyone and grumpy that my solitude is about to vanish.