Back in Medieval Ireland

Home again

Every weekday morning this week, I’ve found myself back in early medieval Ireland.

The morning mist still hangs over the valley as monks make their way across the monastery grounds. The bell has just called the community to prayer. In the scriptorium, novices bend over their desks, learning to shape letters and illuminate manuscripts. Outside the walls, old legends are stirring, and somewhere in the distance a young novice is about to stumble into a story much bigger than he could ever imagine.

Then I look up from my laptop.

For the first time in months, I’m genuinely looking forward to sitting down every morning to rewrite my first fantasy novel.

Not because I’m making spectacular progress. Quite the opposite. Some mornings I rewrite a single page. Others I don’t write anything at all. Instead, I listen back to old voice notes, rethink the history of a monastery or spend an hour trying to understand one of my characters a little better.

And I’m having the time of my life.

Exploring instead of producing

Only a few weeks ago, this felt completely different.

Rewriting the novel had become a mountain I kept avoiding to climb. Every new story idea seemed more exciting than returning to the manuscript I’d already written. I felt guilty about that, convinced I simply needed more discipline.

Now I think something else was going on…

Last week I wrote about letting go of the imaginary version of myself who always had enough time to do everything. Once I stopped measuring myself against that impossible person, something unexpected happened. The pressure disappeared.