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It is a small town in a big valley, and she’d sworn never to return. Still, a lot could change in twenty years.

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Except we can’t put anything in the fridge. Why not? You may ask. Cause it smells and there’s THINGS in it. Fine. I get the old fairy and fish the least nasty cause they haven’t been washed in 3 months cloth out of the plastic bowl by the sink and open the fridge.

My fucking god the smell. It’s like something had a mud bath in a sewer then sat in the sun to let it cake in, then sweat it out of unwashed for 10 years pores. PLUS, things had literally melted. I found a cucumber in its unopened plastic wrap that had an intact skin but the insides had leaky gutted all over the bottom of the fridge. Putrified meat, melting biology experiment red peppers, Milk…should I throw it out? It’s not Ronan’s, let me open it and sme VOOOOOOOOOMIT.

So I drip dropped the leaky guts over to the bin and shit, now I’ll have to wash the floor. Pull the bin over to the fridge, dump ¾ of the shit and I don’t care if it’s his roommates or his, if it’s leaking, sprouting or smelling, adios. Then I have to clean the lake of who know what from the veg draw and all the shelves and okay, I don’t want to talk about it anymore

We won’t talk about his room or the toilet that hasn’t been cleaned in 2.5 months or the crusty towels and the mouldy sheet I pulled out of a mound. Nevermind, the mildew river on his window ledge or the 3 big black bin bags worth of laundry. And I’m missing the Late Late Toy Show with himself and Liam for this….Moving on….

So, it’s nearly 10:30 by the time we get out of there and I drop him to his friends’ cause Mom, of course I want too see you but not for HOURS. And I’m lost in the hills of Cork city cause son gave me WALKING directions, and I’m driving in one-way road land. Finally make it back on the national road, zim-zooming along, reach Macroom and head out the other end when I spy blue whippa flash Garda lights and slow down.

Drunk driver check, I think but as I roll down the window, she says, ”Where you headed?”

“Tralee.”

“Road’s closed.” She motions. “Take the R582 out to Millstreet and follow the signs for Killarney.”

Sounds straight-forward enough. “Accident?” I say.

“Yep.” And that’s all I get.

Up a mountain and the moon shines opaque on the hillsides as I climb. Near the top, Lyric is playing boomp boomp boomp, fairy-prancing music and it’s all tingly-spooky and I’m wondering if locking the car doors is a good idea but what good are locks against beasts and spooks anyway? None. None at all.

Climbing, climbing, twist-a-turning and my ears start popping. Trees low over the road, gnarled bare branches near scratching the skin of the roof with their witch-woman boney bark. A cell mast springs like a Wicker Man in the moon shadows. Then nothing, nothing, nothing, then MASSIVE FACTORY BELCHING MORDOR.

Approaching blinding lights, look to the curb. Fuck, there is no curb.

Lucky to be alive but not counting my chickens, Chemical brothers throb - you never know what you’ll hear on late-night Irish radio - as I swerve loop down the mountain all twists and turns and yellow reflective arrows pointing this way, then that, then back and back again and outta nowhere there’s someone on my tail and it’s a video game in night mode with only one life left until GAME OVER MAN.

Make it to Millstreet where there’s no sign of a Killarney sign. Nowhere no how. Pull up to a couple of lads in a car, no older than my own lad I’ve just left, and they’re looking at me like do I want to party or something but when they roll their window down I say, “Is this the road to Killarney and they say, yep.

Yes, it’s the road to Killarney, and it’s the N72 road which is the lost highway of Ireland, and I only ever seem to be on it in the dead of night, tired and half-lost. Either going to Kilkenny and stuck in a tailback with a gas tanker in front of me and in front of it, a log truck, or coming home and nearly dying in a flash flood one winter night a few years back, and I hate the N72 cause it pretends to be a National Road what with its 100kph speed limit but really it’s a trek through no man’s land and that’s where the magic happens, but I don’t want to stop and look at the stars I know are gleaming above, nor bask in the near-full moon glow cause that’s when they get you, out there in the back of beyond, top of the hills with the nearest yellow house light far-off on a distant hillside and sure, it’s probably just a trap, a lure to bring a tired traveler to your doorstep so you can wrap them in a sack and tie them to a broken tree stump off on the steps of Cork’s backbone and wait for the howling to begin cause begin it will.
But no one will hear. No one you’d ever see in daylight.

And I make it down. Make it to the next village and sure, doesn’t Barraduff have the loveliest Christmas tree and where the fuck is Killarney already and when the exhaust pulls the mist in just as the road narrows and the trees join hands overhead, everything starts to get really creepy and even David Bowie singing Heroes is no comfort, it only gets me thinking, now that your time is up, what the fuck have you done lately? Done EVER that’s gonna make someone write a song about you that will make the world cry? Then I remember I’ve had songs written about me, beautiful songs, even a famous one and sure, why the fuck is someone ELSE writing famous songs about ME when I should be writing that shit?

And here’s Killarney, thank fuck and I’m on the by-pass and some boy racer comes out of nowhere and speeds past me all grunt and testosterone and fuck you you little twat.

And now I’m getting tired and that last sip of cold coffee I’ve been holding onto for just this moment tastes like shit and all I really want is water, but I’m not stopping now, and I hit the last stretch, moon beaming like lightning and I’m almost home.

Home…

Home.

Like most people, I see household items without really noticing them until they break. But sometimes, I pause in my busy life and in these moments, see not a framed photo but the memory of a happy day with my boys; not a food-splattered ceiling I’ve yet to paint but an violent argument; not a mirror, but a marriage.

This mirror is all that remains of my first marriage. I kept it mostly because I loved it, it was expensive, and it was flat enough to fit in one of my four suitcases when I moved to Ireland. It’s nearly 40 years old now and has seen cross-country and cross-continent moves and most of a life. I don’t know if mirrors hold memory and truth or are portals or just glass, but I believe all three are probable depending on belief, will and the angle of the sun or moon when they brush the surface.

Today, it’s a memory. A memory of a wedding ceremony held in Mill Valley, CA at my in-laws house. I wore a Guinne Sax wedding dress. My husband was a jeweler and had made our rings, including a beautiful sapphire and diamond engagement ring I still have although it no longer fits. We were young and in love but not ready to get married, not really, but I was pregnant and it’s what you did (mostly), ready or not.

I can’t remember who gave us this mirror, I won’t even hazard a guess, but they were loaded, I remember that. So were my husband’s parents, multiple houses, a ranch up in Guerneville, but that’s another story, and it’s not my story so I won’t tell it here. I’ve been poor most of my life and like to joke that having a bit of money would solve most of my problems in life, but there’s one problem it couldn’t fix.

I lost my baby to a fatal abnormality. I didn’t take it well (who would), in fact, I took it really, really hard. So hard, it ended up driving my husband away. I don’t blame him, I was demented with grief and took it out on him. I couldn’t find my way out of it until I was alone, truly alone with no one to punish except myself. It still haunts me from time-to-time. Occasionally, I wonder how old my first would be now, but it’s mostly a reflection, not reality.

This week, I looked in the mirror as I headed out the door and saw not my reflection but the past. So clear and crisp, And I realized that of all my marriages, he was probably the only one who truly loved me. I couldn’t see it then, but I see it now, captured in the glass, just waiting for me to finally discover it.

I have a photo of me strewn in the bathtub, trying to say cool. It’s black and white and grainy. I won’t share it here but it’s a favorite of mine, mostly because it’s a reminder that I was once young and beautiful though I didn’t know it at the time.

There was a small library with one well-worn arm chair and a black and white terrestrial TV. No air conditioning, and the only relief was an occasional breeze through gauze curtains. The heat was immense, and I was terribly bored. So I picked up the phone book (this was back in the day) and randomly searched for famous people to see if they were listed and found one.

So I called him and surprisingly, he answered. Even more surprisingly, he agreed to meet up for a couple of beers. While I had obviously seen him or pictures of him before, he had never seen me. Brave of him, even though we met in a public place, but I can be charming.

We shot pool and drank beer and went back to his place which was a great and groovy, albeit post-heartbreak messy pad. I listened to his tormented heart and all about the woman who had broken it. Left the next day and that was that.

I reached out to him a few years back but his memory of the day was sketchy at best. It’s funny what extreme heat does to your sense of decorum and reserve. That coupled with being young, beautiful and single. Sometimes, I wonder why I didn’t die ages ago, all the stupid risks I took, usually in the heat. Perhaps, in youth we want to believe in the great adventure of life and trust the world will watch out for us, that everything that’s meant to be, will be.

Then we get older and presumably wiser, and know we were just lucky.

Please add your craft tips in the comments and acknowledge source(s) (if any other than your own person experience and/or education(self or formal)).

1. Prose, particularly short form, should always have movement. No meandering. No side quests (unless relevant to the story). No contemplating the meaning of life, though your prose should prompt such introspection in the reader. Have your readers NEED to know what happens next. Impossible if you’ve gone off on a tangent which is neither relevant nor enlightening.

2. PICK YOUR DETAILS. You’ve a limited amount of words. Do not be ultra-specific about something irrelevant. Does the reader really need to know the ten shades of brown in the hair of someone a character passes on the street and never sees again? Does the character even need to be on that street? Continuously ask yourself: IS THIS NECESSARY? What does it ADD?

3. If you are in a character’s point of view, BE in that point of view. (thanks to Kit de Waal for this one which was instrumental in the development of my craft)

4. The more powerful the scene, the tighter the prose should be (exaggerated for effect).

5. Proper punctuation is more important than you think. (Yes, I know all about the big prize winners who write long novels without a single punctuation mark. I can’t think of anything more tedious to read)

6. DON’T RUSH THE ENDING. If you take your reader on an engaging journey, don’t suddenly drop them off a cliff. Especially, if you haven’t 1. made a point 2. wrapped up your narrative in a satisfactory manner.

7. Narrative Flow

   If a reader must stop and think about what you’ve written, you’ve lost them! Your story should be like a movie in the reader’s head – seamless, clear and engaging. Read your work aloud or ask others to read it for you and give feedback to ensure it flows.

8. If you think you’ve finished editing, think again. Put it aside for a minimum of 24 hours during which you’ve done anything other than think about your story. Come back to it with a fresh pair of eyes. Better yet, give it to a trusted reader for honest feedback, not mindless praise —you’ll find out quick enough if a story keeps getting rejected. Criticism stings IF you are writing for praise instead of craft.

9. Trust the reader but not too much

   You do not need to write step-by-step instructions and draw diagrams to get a reader from point A to point B.

10. Don’t THINK for the reader.

    Don’t overexplain. Your reader isn’t stupid if they know how to read. They can follow leaps in thought, time and logic.

    BUT

    At the same time, be clear. if you are writing a story that involves expertise: police procedural, scientific information, legalese, etc., give a draft to a lay person and ask them if it makes sense.

11. Don’t TELL the reader how to FEEL. Let your story do that.

    

12. Pages of Introspection and contemplative reflections on life are for memoirs.

13. Long blocks of dialogue without any exposition can be difficult to follow, especially if there are more than 2 people talking.

    Thanks for reading! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

The Roll Top Desk

A Conversation with Barbara Byar

A short bio, to start. Barbara Byar is an American writer who’s been living in Ireland for over twenty-five years. Her short story collection, Some Days Are Better Than Ours (Reflex Press) was short-listed for the Saboteur Awards. She was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Irish Short Story of the Year in 2023 and longlisted in 2021…

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3 months ago · 5 likes · 1 comment · M.E. Proctor

While, I have you. It’s been 3 months since IN THE DESERT was published. Thanks so much to everyone who has bought and read my book! If you haven’t read it yet, why not consider buying a copy today? And if you have, please leave a review on GoodReads or Amazon or just spread the word in general. It’s tough going when you publish with a small press with limited marketing and reach. All i can rely on is word-of-mouth and your kindness and support.

As I lay in bed (still under my winter duvet because I’m not so grand as to have a summer one), soft warm breeze blowing in through gauzey curtains, it took a minute or two before I remembered it was my birthday. But once I remembered I thought about what I might do today as I took the day off work and it’s stunning out and sure, I came up with all sorts of grand plans, including finishing up that bursary application, my GP appointment and doing my hair for my book launch on Friday. My sons asked me what I wanted, what I wanted to do, but I could think of nothing except not going to work and relaxing. How different and removed from the birthdays of my youth (clubbing all night, dancing, dancing, dancing, dinners at fancy restaurants with long tables packed with friends). But then I remembered the sweet 16 picnic my family had for me in our backyard and not one kid from school showed up and it really really devastated me at the time which is probably why I have put so much importance on birthdays ever since.

Which was all very depressing but the warm breeze said, HOW DARE YOU BE DEPRESSED ON SUCH A GLORIOUS DAY I HAVE BROUGHT YOU? And sure, the breeze is right and my mood immediately shifted. How lucky I am to have a roof over my head and be able to provide a home for my two wonderful sons, 2 dogs (though they wake me early every morning with their arguing) and rabbit. How great I’m doing this month actually having money in my account at pay day even though I had to buy new tires this week.

How, after DECADES of writing and working hard at my craft, I wrote an incredible novel (In the Desert) that was published in March by Cowboy Jamboree Press and will be launched this Friday (NOON, 29th May, Listowel Library) at the oldest Irish literary festival - Listowel Writers Week.

And even though sales are not what I was hoping for (aren’t we all hoping for a lucky break and going viral and selling bazillions of copies and getting a film deal - cause, Desert would make the most AMAZING film) people are buying, reading and enjoying it and loving it (except for the fundamentalist christian who gave it 2 stars but I’m going to call that a win) and I’m so grateful that after all these years I have a novel published and am working hard on my new novel (set in Ireland, something completely different) and have ideas for at least 2 more after that.

Time is a funny thing and the older I get, the more I realize how precious it is. I’ve started thinking about how many books I can write before I either die or become senile and that’s sobering for sure, but on my birthday, I’m going to celebrate the fact that I wrote something even the most facile of mind would have struggled to concoct and I pulled it off. And just continue to hope that I’ll touch lucky.

I’m off to walk the dogs before it gets too hot, work on my bursary, go to the GP and then the gym (cause time is not kind to our bodies and we do what we can to fight its ravages). I hope you have a lovely day as well and if you’re looking for a great book to read this summer please buy my novel, In the Desert.

Get your copy today!
Usa: a.co/d/049brzh7 or https://bookshop.org/p/books/in-the-desert-barbara-byar/50fb4b286b500edf?ean=9798902717003&next=t or https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/in-the-desert-barbara-byar/1149614069?ean=9798902717003
Uk: amzn.eu/d/01xKTlSW
Irl: amzn.eu/d/002o8GHz Or: https://www.buythebook.ie/product/in-the-desert/
Or your local amazon

This is the first goodreads review I’ve received from someone I don’t know in real life or from online. I was very nervous to read it as a result as I’ve been told friends and family are always kind in reviews (and they are), others, not so much.

Thanks to Sharon for this wonderful review. Thanks to everyone who has so kindly bought, read and even reviewed IN THE DESERT. It makes all the hard work and all the years struggling worth it.

Why not get your copy of IN THE DESERT today?

Usa: amazon.com or Bookshop.org or Barnes and Noble
Ireland Amazon.ie, or BuytheBook.ie or O’Mahonys Tralee

Uk: Amazon.co.uk
Or your local amazon

My debut novel, IN THE DESERT is OUT NOW!

My son and I looked at each other in stunned silence. Surely, there was some explanation? None that we could think of. We cleaned it up.

A week or so later, I was in the kitchen when a heavy glass fruit bowl on the kitchen table EXPLODED. Again, same scenario.

It was at this point, I suspended my disbelief and accepted the fact some spirit shenanigans were at play. This suspicion was confirmed by random brushes of something against my ankle from time to time while I was in the kitchen, along with other random unexplainable phenomenom.

Naturally, I assumed, my house which I moved into new was built on some graveyard or a murder site or something but it was a greenfield site that used to have a pitch and putt, nothing more.

The situation was getting out of hand so I decided to have a chat with whatever or whoever was unhappy in my household and said, look, I’m not leaving, so let’s chill and get along, I followed that with smudging the entire house. You have to be reasonable to spirits but you also have to give them a little nudge as well.

A year or so later, I saw that the county archeologist was doing a site excavation just up the road a bit. Apparently, there was some 5000 year old hill fort up there and an ancient civilization. So, I explained the carry on in my house to the county archeologist, prefacing it by saying, I know this sounds strange and you’ll think I’m mad… but he didn’t. He told me he’s seen and heard stranger things in this county in his time.

It might have looked something like this back in the day.

I asked him if I was close enough to possibly be part of the settlement and he said, oh yes, absolutely.

Anyway, there you are. I still get the odd feeling once in a while - pictures randomly falling off the wall for no reason, that sort of thing. I’m sure we don’t speak the same language but I don’t get the sense I’m in danger, maybe just a nuisance or they’re frustrated at not being heard. Or seen. Or alive anymore.

I’ve never been one to believe in this sort of thing but it’s hard to deny personal experience and evidence. I wonder if my house ever caught fire would they warn me. I feel that they would.

Here again with the link!!

Pedal Steel Review of IN THE DESERT

One gets the sense that she’s spent years behind the keyboard biding her time, honing her craft, keeping it close to the chest until it’s ready. Writers, take note. Readers? Take pleasure. This one’s for you, because the author made sure of that.

Want to share this review of IN THE DESERT with you. Many thanks to Brett Puryear.

If you haven't bought a copy yet, now's the time!

And if you have, thanks so much for your support and I'd be so grateful for your review on goodreads, amazon or any other platform. Being with a small publisher really limits my book's visibility but you can help! Thank you!!❤️

Want to share this review of IN THE DESERT with you. Many thanks to Brett Puryear.

If you haven't bought a copy yet, now's the time!

And if you have, thanks so much for your support and I'd be so grateful for your review on goodreads, amazon or any other platform. Being with a small publisher really limits my book's visibility but you can help! Thank you ❤️

https://open.substack.com/pub/brettpuryear/p/review-barbara-byars-in-the-desert?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=bj8i6

Apologies for any confusion but I had to change the time of my online book launch livestream to 8pm GMT and 4pm EST as I didn’t realize some time zones had already gone to daylight savings!

Here’s new link. Hope to see you there!

Substack - IN THE DESERT book launch

B

The day has finally arrived. My debut novel, In the Desert is published, today, March 3rd, 2026 and I couldn’t be happier or more excited or nervous. I’ve been writing since I was a young child and while I have written other novels, this is the first to be published. This has been a very long journey for me but I’ve never given up and now, the day has come!

I would like to thank my publisher, Cowboy Jamboree Press for believing in this book and me. And also, the brilliant photographer, Keith Bernstein for use of the stunning cover image. And all my friends and family who have helped me along the way. Thank you so much.

Please buy a copy, read it and tell all your friends! I’ve been told it’s a great book, and I hope you think so too.

You can buy at the following links:

USA: https://a.co/d/08FAeqgv

Ireland: https://amzn.eu/d/00TGIoD5

or if you don’t want to use Amazon: https://www.buythebook.ie/product/in-the-desert/

and it’s available in O’Mahony’s bookstore, Tralee

UK: https://amzn.eu/d/04Q1rxpE

or at your local amazon.

Thank you everyone. Love to all!

B

Here’s a video I did to share with you my actual physical book! Many thanks to my brilliant and infinitely patient publisher, Cowboy Jamboree Press and everyone who has helped me along the way. I love you all.

Book is available on March 3rd. Please buy a copy! You can preorder the ebook now, if ebooks are you thing at one of the following links:

UK/Ireland

US

So, I did it. I wrote out my 13 intentions for the year and burned one each night. Most of the intentions were about health and my kids and writing and my book.

And the last one? The one that was left for me for the year?

Now, let’s see if it happens!

In the Desert will be published March 3rd by Cowboy Jamboree Press. Please buy a copy from your local amazon or, if you’re in Ireland, it will be available from O’Mahony’s bookstore in Tralee or your local library.

Help make the magic happen!

I took the day off to catch up on some writing stuff but sometimes a good walk through town is just what you need to clear your head.

I had no intention of walking from one side of town to the other this morning, but luckily that’s how it worked out. The day started, as it normally does, trying to convince my youngest to get out of bed which he is perpetually unwilling to do. My mechanic friend rang me wondering where I was because he needed to get my car to the lift within a certain window of time and that time was quickly running out.

Finally get son in the car, drop him in town and up to the other side of town to meet mechanic and drive him to the car lift. We pass the cemetery and there’s a Traveller carriage like the one below outside the cemetery and my mechanic friend tells me a young Traveller lad of 14 had committed suicide and they found him hanging at the top of the stairs.

I don’t know this lad or his family but my heart broke for all of them. As a mother, I can’t image anything more terrible than losing a child at all, let alone in this way.

We drove on and as time was running short, I told my friend I’d walk home. He’s like, that’s a long walk and I said, I don’t mind. I’ll go through town.

My first stop was O’Mahony’s bookstore because I wanted to enquire about them stocking my debut novel, IN THE DESERT when it’s published March 3rd. There was a fella at the counter chatting away with the sales clerk so I took a look around this great bookstore and picked up THE BEE STING. Talked to the girl at the counter who handed me a leaflet on the process for getting my book in their shop and off I go.

Popped into SVP charity shop cause you never know what you might find but found nothing. I’ve been trying to find a nice wool overcoat for my youngest for some time. I had a gorgeous cashmere men’s overcoat a friend in Boston had given me which would have been perfect but my asshole ex took it with him when he moved out. Worth the price. But have been having no luck with the charity shops. Surely, this is exactly the sort of thing men leave behind when they pass on from this life? When I lived in America, the charity shops were full of them. Alas, not so here, it seems.

Off to Costa for a coffee, mostly because it was on the way and I had leftover points. Then over to the EverythingEverywhereStore gift shop back around Pennys. It’s down an alley and run by a lovely Polish woman. It’s a fair bit witchy so I knew it was the perfect place to pick up a gift for friends I’ll be visiting soon.

Back down to the Mall (not an american style mall but the main drag through town) and got myself a lovely scone from the bakery/cafe/pub. Check my email and there’s one from Holland and Barrett saying you best be using your 3.50 euro voucher before it expires in 10 days so off to buy some soap. As I’m walking I pass a fella on the ground rocking back and forth with a sign, HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP and my first instint is: how is anyone homeless in this town, there’s services, he probably wants it for drink or is one of those begging syndicates so I walk on.

I get about 10 feet away before I see what I have in my pocket and walk back and give him a few quid in change. He looks like hell and who am I to wonder or judge? If I have it spare, why not give it to someone who obviously needs it more than I do at that point in time?

By now, I’m halfway through the town and dithering which way to walk home and decide to hit the SVP and Downs Syndrome charity shops on my side of the town. Nothing in SVP but then I go into the Downs Syndrome shop

I rarely go into charity shops mostly because I’m at work when they’re open but I always try to pop in when I can and I usually find something interesting at the DS shop. First, the facade is so cool looking, isn’t it? How could you not pop your head in the door?

I look at the books first because they usually have a good selection but the shelves are picked relatively bare. Then through the bric a brac and there, on a display shelf is this platter. Now, I’m not one for yellow (or pink for that matter or even orange) but I genuinely liked the looks of this platter and it looked handmade. Pick it up and not only is it handmade but it’s signed. Have a quick google for Portmadog Pottery, Wales, signed by A. Williams and apparently they can fetch up to 50 sterling depending on if there’s any chips or cracks. Well, there’s not a chip to be seen but PLENTY of cracks - as if it was used as a plate for house and car keys - so I reckon it’s worth is probably about the 5 euro they’re looking for. So, I’m hemming and hawing, turning it over and this way and that, putting it down, picking it up, repeat until this voice in my head shouts: YOU LIKE IT, IT’S A FIVER FFS, BUY IT

So I do.

The rest of the walk is residential and I resist my native urge to window peep and instead, watch the crows trying to muscle up some worms or anything that’s crawling in the dirt and decide to feed them AGAIN once I get home.

It’s all uphill from there, gradual but by now I’m feeling it. Plus, I’ve packages that are heavy enough and I’m starting to sweat so I’m glad when I finally reach home, and display my morning on the kitchen table!

Anyway, if you’ve read this far, my debut novel is out VERY SOON! March 3rd! Please buy a copy. You won’t regret it!

Have a great day and don’t forget to walk through town from time to time and see what you will see.

Edited to add this horrifically tragic update. I hope these evil bullies are held to account

Many thanks to Frazzled Lit and brilliant editors Jennifer McMahon and Laura Cooney for publishing my first piece of creative nonfiction today.

Please have a read and check out all the other wonderful pieces in this bumper issue over your Sunday morning coffee. If you’d rather listen, I’ve recorded my narration of the story and that is also available in the link.

Frazzled Lit

Shooting Stars

Listen to the author reading this piece…

Read more

8 months ago · 2 likes · 1 comment