A year of writing and sharing
a collection of some things that emerged from a year spent here: aptly, it's half reflection / half Snippet
“Too long for email” popped up before publishing - I think this happens when there’s lots of photos - so some parts might be cut off in email, I assume. Click ‘view in browser’ to see it in all its glory.
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I’ve been putting this together for a while. It’s a collection of everything that this place has come to be over the past year. Words, photos, music, poetry, stories, film, television. Food and nature, of course.
I think it’s well worth a peruse, if I do say so myself, even if the most realistic way to do that is a quick scroll for now, and dipping in and out over time.
But, if you do only have time or interest to read one small thing for now, I suggest to you the one piece on this website that’s still my favourite, the closest to my heart of all. It’s short, it’s sweet, it flowed out of me the quickest and easiest of anything, and so it’s not the most technically proficient thing you’ll ever read. But, still: it’s Le Rondini.
I started this experiment in November 2022.
Although I suppose that brings up questions of what it means to start - mostly, things start long before the timestamped, logged day of starting. So, I’ll say instead: 12 November, 2022 was the first time I published a post here.
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A year seems like a long time, and it is, but also it isn’t. A year of experimenting with actively and intentionally creating, publishing and engaging here at a pace and with a regularity unfamiliar to me, but with as much of both as I could muster, reminded me of that. What I shared here was a lot for me, because it was relative to my usual sum of zero.
For every idea, topic, thought or story: I barely scratched the surface. There was much more I could have done with all of it, expanded on, looked at differently. Everything was vignette-like. Nothing was explored to a degree of any real depth, pulled apart in the way great writing does, and there were ideas that I didn’t get around to pursuing at all, that I didn’t have the time, or energy, or capacity, or wherewithal to grapple with, to see if they were anything, to dive into trying to word and present nicely and properly.
As distinct from a repository of well-formed, deserving, polished essays, this was an experiment in process, in showing up and being visible regularly, in throwing down whatever came to me at the time. This was done in deliberate contrast to my preference (learned or innate?) of complete, proper, fully-formed; of bringing things to a conclusion, of lots of time and research and thought; of backstage squirrelling away, reserving comment, emerging with something only rarely, only if necessary.
I built a catalogue of a year, trying not to overthink too much, trying to just do it.
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The outcome of regularity, for me, was an experiment in brevity, in finding value in things done a different way. In trying to re-teach myself how to not be embarrassed - of myself, of my words, of the moment in life, and the level of understanding that I’m at. In getting back to trusting myself enough to just say stuff in the moment, that misspeaking or misrepresenting myself, or even unpalatable truthful representations, aren’t the end of the world, that decent people generally allow for and even expect that, allow for the chance to revisit, refine, reword. That this blurting, this resistance to think everything to death before speaking, this comfort with getting things wrong and making mistakes - once it is done in good faith, and in safety; once there isn’t a nebulous, ever-present threat of punishment hanging over this way of speaking - is, in fact, the only way to truly converse, to know each other, to understand, to learn, to rethink.
It was also a sacrifice of depth, of embodiment; it was a loss of the satisfaction of obsessive immersion in one subject; it was a time of fragmentation, of indulging flitting from one thing to the next, like a bumble bee flitting from flower to flower, never spending too long with one, just gathering some pollen here, some there. It was a sacrifice of time and quality and immersion in the ways I have traditionally felt I most valued and benefitted from them.
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Time is easy to play with, to distort.
A year of being still, with “nothing to show for it” at the end, lasts the same amount of time as a year of relentless engagement that results in a catalogue of things to show.
Generally, the reaction of others to these separate years goes as follows: the year deemed worthy, admirable, the celebrated year, is the year resulting in the catalogue. The silent year elicits initial patience and congratulation, devolving gradually, over time, into raised eyebrows, pursed lips, sidelong glances, veiled, indirect, increasingly comically transparent attempts at asking what’s going on without actually asking what’s going on.
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One imagines a year is a long time, and it is, because it is possible to fit a lot into a year, if one makes a mission of it, if one treats a year like a competition of fitting in as much as possible. A year is plenty long enough to build up a catalogue, to amass experiences, if that is one’s aim. Something does get lost in this approach. The quality of the catalogue, the experiences might suffer, in deference to the goal of quantity. Does this mean the value of such a year is lesser than the slower, silent, more absorbent year? How do we define value and quality? One gains much of value, of quality from the still year, but this gain is something invisible to anyone else, maybe even to oneself except for flashes in unexpected moments. There is no visible document.
It is true that something is both gained and lost in both approaches, and it is true that it is difficult to have a year of ideal balance between the two.
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One imagines a year is a long time, because some days, weeks, months drag on and on and on, so in the thick of it a year feels long.
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If we consider, in amongst all the pressing considerations that life demands one prioritise and keep up with, the time and space and reading and thinking and percolating and practice needed to take a kernel of a thought or idea and get it to an end product of a piece of writing to be proud of, of words that have been written and formed and considered and rewritten onto a blank page, from nowhere - a year isn't long.
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There is this impulse to note lessons/realisations when coming to ‘the end’ of something - a time when a natural urge towards reflection tugs at one’s attention - whether it be at the end of the calendar year, or at a noteworthy point in the journey of a project.
In the direct aftermath of a thing, or still in the midst of it, lessons and realisations are impossible, raw, still unformed. I'm interested in noting the things I think, the ways I feel in the immediate moment of a thing, but I know they are likely to morph, to continue to float around and shape-shift, naturally and authentically, over time, mine to jot in my notebook or phone as they come to me. They might be worthwhile, or they might not require that importance be attached to them. They do require that I engage with them in good faith, that I see them for what they really are, rather than trying to impose what I want them to be. This honesty and clear-eyed view takes time, months, often years.
For me, searching for lessons, or at least fixating on them, particularly in direct aftermaths, is an impulse best avoided. Selective picking and choosing, deciding what lessons ought to have been learned, what lessons suit what I’d maybe already decided, and then smugly settling on them, is a pitfall. Giving into the mind’s desire for conclusions, answers, certainty, self-preservation, linearity. Focussing intently in one direction, thinking I know best, thinking I know what I need, when there’s something more, or equally, worthy or relevant, something unexpected, in the other direction, or this one, or that one.
I’ll try to be open to what might float up, but I’ll try and not cling too tightly, to create foregone conclusions out of things, to give in to that alluring niggle that all I need is a neatly packaged lesson from a prior step to decide my next one for me.
I’ll try.
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I don’t think lessons and realisations are something to force myself to think of, in an attempt to neatly tie up loose ends, for the sake of a handy narrative, to provide a conclusion for that insidious three act structure mindset, to satisfyingly close a circle, to clap my hands together and proclaim: well, that’s that now, onwards and upwards!
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It can be nourishing and helpful to read other people’s reflections, to share my own, and I often behave as if it is my life’s project to do so.
But, I find that there’s a line beyond which it can become overwhelming. Part of me is not sure that humans are equipped to hear or read so many thoughts and opinions, realisations and reflections, offered immediately and relentlessly, strewn around the place to the extent that it’s possible to these days; a saturation point surely must be inevitably reached (note: this could be the cranky, over-exposed part of me talking and, in time, maybe I’ll again remember the value in strewn realisations and reflections - those of others’ to consider, and my own to impart).
For me at least, there’s a necessary caution to employ, a restraint needed: imbibing other people’s words regularly, and sharing my own, has given me so much - it contains the beautiful power to clarify, to teach, to inform, to remind, to soothe, to challenge, to reflect, to inspire - but it also has the power to exhaust, to overwhelm, to drain, to muddle, to confuse, to usurp if time away isn’t taken to let my brain just be who it is when I’m on my own, thinking my own thoughts.
I am coloured by all that which I have taken in, that which I have offered; and, although I still struggle to do this until it’s already gone past the point of being necessary, it’s important for me to grant myself periods to be strict with what I’m allowing in, handing out, and at what volumes; to periodically take time and space to absorb and to sift, to feel what sits right, what can be discarded; to put a conscious stop to the momentum that I know will be happy to keep me moving moving moving forever unless I step in and am forceful with it.
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I’m trying to say: I tried to refrain from indulging the compulsion to wax too poetic with premature reflections here (I did not manage that).
I’m trying to say: I wanted, instead, to place the focus on the visible outcome, a collection of a year of posting and sharing - and, more importantly, on a small snapshot of some of those things that fed and bolstered me through it all, the way that a writer, a human, needs to be fed and bolstered.
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This sentiment - that of the importance to one’s writing and overall wellbeing of immersing in other art, others pursuits; of the immeasurable value of the consumption and distraction that feeds one’s mind and soul and creativity - reminds me of something I noted in my introductory post. This note was made in the context of mentioning the struggle I have with titling things, with wanting to be sure to name something in a way that feels as true and as close to the reality of the thing as possible:
I landed on: ‘On Food, Nature & Writing’ for a long time, because I know it needs to be at least a little bit obvious from the title what to expect.
‘Writing’ has since changed to ‘Creativity’ as I realised it isn’t just the opportunity for writing that helps me to express what I'm trying to express here: as in life, it’s the combination of that with photos, music, film, conversation, other glimpses of artistry, other ways in which creativity sneaks its way out, burrows its way in.
The writing is built upon, flows from all those others things, without which I would be a bone-dry well of nothingness.
The below snapshot is a testament to that.
It includes some of the things I immersed myself in; some things I hoped to get around to writing more in-depth about, but didn’t manage to. It doesn’t include a restatement of all the many bolsters that are already strewn throughout each piece I published here during the year, as those pieces are all collected and linked below.
(and consider: even this snapshot is just a selection of some of the things I managed to jot down - the unjotted have evaporated into nothingness for now, maybe to float back when I least expect it).
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Behold! A selection of some things I’ve consumed, enjoyed, written about, meant to write about
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Naturefile
curlew (this one is The Lyric Feature, rather than Naturefile - it’s a beautiful way to spend an hour learning all about the way the curlew, its sad current situation, but also how it weaves its way throughout so many aspects of Irish history and mythology).
corncrake (have a look at Corncrake Life for more up to date info on conservation efforts currently underway in Ireland).
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a selection of some bits of reading that stood out in my mind as I sat to write this
Donal Ryan (who happens to be one of the most enjoyable, and funniest, people to listen to):
on spending years working on something that became clear, with only a few months left until the manuscript’s due date, wasn’t ever going to be publishable;
and with a reflection on writing fiction.
Rebecca Tamás:
‘The Power of a Name’: on the power of language, the importance of correct naming (I have been Giradi, Gerardi, Giraldi, Geraldi, to name a few. Also a jarring experience: to be in a waiting room, and to have your surname roared out. The preface to ‘follow me through’ sounding instead like the chastisement stemming from having angered a tempestuous teacher in a 1930s Italian classroom. The assumption being - I assume - being Ireland, that Kelly could only be the surname).
A Paris Review interview with Kevin Barry, unsurprisingly hilarious and insightful and moving.
this is by Andrew Solomon on the death of a friend, so please do be conscious that it’s heavy and could be too upsetting to read in the wrong moment, but it was one of things I’ve read this year that stands out in my memory the most.
reading around Alicia Kennedy’s and Rebecca May Johnson’s debuts which demonstrate an exciting, form-bending, new type of food writing.
Gwendoline Riley’s My Phantoms, from which this is an excerpt.
‘Qualities of Earth’ ; ‘Not Cooking in Rome’ - essays by Rebecca May Johnson.
Waking Light, and Weave of the Solstice Stories series from Skein Press - the covers and artwork within are so beautiful that they take my breath away just looking at them, never mind when the reading starts. The story about an spideog (Irish for robin) in Weave brings tears to my eyes each time.
always dipping in and out of work by Sara Baume, Doireann ní Ghríofa and Kerri ní Dochartaigh when in need of nourishment, a reminder of a different way to look at things, and moments of pause.
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some listening
short stories
Tessa Hadley reading her short story ‘Funny Little Snake’.
A.M Homes reading Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’.
Claire-Louise Bennett reading Maeve Brennan’s ‘Family Walls’.
Kevin Barry reading his short story ‘The Pub With No Beer’.
Kevin Barry reading his short story ‘Who’s-Dead McCarthy’.
Lauren Groff reading Alice Munro’s ‘Axis’.
Lauren Groff reading her short story ‘The Wind’.
Clare Sestanovich reading Alice Munro’s ‘The Moons of Jupiter’.
Joshua Ferris reading his short story ‘The Boy Upstairs’.
André Alexis reading his short story ‘Houyhnhnm’.
(if those links don’t work over time, these are all available as podcast episodes, either in: The New Yorker Fiction podcast, or The Writers’ Voice podcast).
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conversations from ‘Changes’
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conversations from ‘On Being’ - philosophy, poetry, spirituality
a poem: For One Who is Exhausted, a blessing
a poem: In Blackwater Woods
see also: Pádraig Ó Tuama reading and reflecting on Whyte’s poem ‘Leaving the Island’ - it’s poignant for any Irish person who has left, but also for anyone who has ever left anywhere, or anyone; and for anyone who has ever been left.
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watched and rewatched:
Aftersun.
An Cailín Ciúin.
Past Lives.
One Fine Morning.
Detectorists, Normal People, My Brilliant Friend, Être et avoir.
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some poems
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White Hawthorn in the West of Ireland by Eavan Boland:
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Like A Small Café, That’s Love by Mahmoud Darwish:
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Red Brocade by Naomi Shihab Nye:
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Pea Risotto on Tuesday, Lemony Salmon with Couscous on Wednesday by Mícheál McCann:
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At Least by Raymond Carver:
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Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden:
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Eden Rock by Charles Causley:
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music
A collection of songs that were scattered here and there throughout published pieces.
And, I considered sharing my 80s playlist here, too - going through mum’s vinyls from her younger days had me back on my 80s shit all summer - but maybe that one might be for my ears only.
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some people whose words have helped me manage to remain glad that I started sharing and engaging on this website even when I’ve struggled with it
And, over the course of a year, I published on this website:
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Introductions
the first ever post I published on here, and it felt absolutely terrifying, and I remember editing myself really heavily on this one because I felt scared to share too much of myself, and also because I was trying to suss out the tone/voice I was happy with (chatty/serious/bloggy/essay-y?? etc etc).
a note about the Irish Writers’ Centre climate writing group.
the intro to my series highlighting food writing I’m enjoying and admiring.
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Diving deeper
a list of podcasts about food and nature (she says, reductively).
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Food
an unfinished, scattered, thoughts not properly formulated piece about the food writing of Jane Grigson with origins in an earlier piece I’d written elsewhere, and that I needed to work on a hell of a lot more before being happy that it got across what I intended/meant by it, but that I posted in the hopes it would spur me to further edit after it was published (this is yet to happen).
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Nature
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Snippets
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Something Different
a translation of, and reflection on, the song Le Rondini by Lucio Dalla.
a piece I often think about unpublishing because it feels a bit too raw and exposing - on nonni’s birthday.
photos spanning years of time spent in Kinvara, and at Siar (I plan to add words at some stage).
where I was on a high after seeing an orchestra and probably didn’t need to publish this.
in which I shared parts of myself through sharing some music.
Detectorists (that this is the one and only longer read that I managed to work on to some sort of fruition that I was satisfied with just speaks to the fact that I need a lot of time of reading and immersing and silence and percolating and focus and mental space before publishing something proper, and I didn’t manage a lot of that sort of time this year).
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Some books
I started these book lists a year ago on Bookshop simply because I couldn’t figure out a way I was happy with to post book lists here. In the end, I realise I literally could have just done it like this. But, I do think the bookshelves are more aesthetically-pleasing than just throwing names into a list like this.
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Also this year, I shared some pics and words elsewhere about:
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Food
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Reading & Writing
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Nature
A last word
As always, thank you for reading. Whether you’ve read other bits here during the year, or whether you’ve somehow trawled through this sprawling post to get to this point, it’s magic to me that you’re reading these words. I think you’re in a minority, but that’s sort of how I prefer it.
I’m proud of myself that I set this up, and that I stayed with it. I’m also exhausted!
Rather than try to think too much more about it for now - it’s time for some distance, and a rest.
I love it so much and will be dipping into the links over the next few weeks with huge enjoyment. Such a lovely thing to look forward to and peruse, especially when not in the mood for a book.
Brava, brava e brava!
Sara Baume forever ❤️ I bought Handiwork and Seven Steeples on a whim, having never heard of her, a year ago in a bookstore in Wexford, and I’m so glad I did. Her writing is so inventive and magical and warm!