1. Consistency and burn out.

It’s pretty well known that, in order to do something well, you have to do it often. It’s true; I got better at climbing when I climbed regularly and Japanese became easier when I encountered it every day. You’re not born a good writer, you become one by doing it consistently.

What tends to get missed is the dangers of overdoing it.

I got obsessed with climbing. I climbed too much, I trained too often, and I ended up injured. Then I did the same with studying. I gave myself a list of things to do weekly and, when I fell behind, I became stressed. In both cases I burned out, had to take a break, and consistency, which is the most important bit, was lost.

I am now a stay-at-home Dad with a new baby. I find dividing my day into chunks of time (around when she is asleep) useful, but I have to make sure these chunks include rest time too. When I set time for writing, I set limits on when I will stop. I also make sure my rest is high quality, which brings me to my next point.

2. Proper rest.

Scrolling on the phone, going for a run, doing others sports, shopping, drinking alcohol*: none of these things is proper rest. I used to think I was like a shark and I needed to keep moving. What did this cause? More burn out.

For me now, proper rest is going for a stroll, letting my mind wander, reading a book, sitting in a cafe or laying my back with my eyes closed. When I do this regularly, I find myself getting bolts of inspiration. I also have a clearer head when I finally sit down to write.

I recently read about the concept of a French Sunday, a day where the goal is to achieve nothing. When I was young I had lots of days like this but now, not so much. I have forgotten how to be bored, how to clear my mind and how to live in the moment. I need to start having more French Sundays.

(https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2026/aug/23/is-a-french-sunday-the-secret-to-a-healthier-happier-life)

* Sometimes a ‘let go off all inhibitions and wake up hungover’ sort of night out is good for letting off steam.

3. Embarrassment

I didn’t improve at climbing for a long time because I was embarrassed to be seen struggling, so I only climbed things that were easy. I learned my lesson so, when I started Japanese, I forced myself to talk with native speakers from the start. This was painful, but I gained confidence and learned a lot faster than I would have just using a textbook.

Even though it is scary to share things, especially creative things before you feel ready, it is important to do so, in order to improve. It gives you inspiration AND feedback. That’s why I started this substack and it is why I go to writers groups.

4. Learning from experts

Working with other people has been essential for learning to climb and speaking Japanese. More experienced people can teach, peers can give advice and being in a group can push you to improve.

Suggesting people take creative writing courses is controversial but I am finding them helpful. I have been using the Irish Writers Centre. Not only do I get feedback from experts on my writing (probably the most useful bit) but I also get to make new friends to write with.

5. Having fun

What is the point of a hobby or creative endeavour if you don’t enjoy it? There will always be difficult times but it has to be fun as well. I give myself easy climbing days, where I can have fun with movement, and I read easy Japanese books to enjoy the language.

For writing, I make sure I read every day to remember what I love about stories. If I get writers block, I edit, if I get editing fatigue, I make up characters and see what happens. I move from my desk, to the cafe, to the pub, from the laptop to the notepad, anything to keep it fresh and enjoyable.

I hope this has been helpful for you! If there is anything you learned from other hobbies that has helped with your writing, let me know in the comments below.

I was searching inside of a litter bin when a council van pulled up. The driver, who had a face like torn pitta bread, followed me down the road until I legged it. He sped up but, although I was carrying two bin liners filled with bottles, I managed to dodge him down a narrow one way street.

At the Londis there was already a person there, with the familiar shake of an addict, feeding bottles into the Return machine. He told me that I was lucky to escape and that people were disappearing. The council had already pushed locals out of houses and closed down their pubs. Dublin would soon be nothing but hotels and tourists.

The van was always patrolling and faces I knew disappeared. A lanky fella told me that he’d been picked up and taken to the mountains, where he was given crack and left to sink into a bog. He said he hitched his way back but, the state of him, I doubt anyone would have picked him up. My mate reckoned there was a dog food factory and if there was, he was taken there, because he disappeared soon after.

It wasn’t long before the ghosts came. I sensed them huddled by the canal, under the Spire and on the steps of the Custom House. I saw the moist outline of people, long gone, formed on their abandoned cardboard beds. It brought me little comfort to sleep beside them.

The tourists must have sensed it too, the warmth being sucked out of the air, because they stopped coming. The bins no longer overflowed and I had to walk further every day to collect enough to eat. Shops became boarded up and even the Londis closed down.

I was left alone in a city that had abandoned me long before I had considered abandoning it. Where I was born, where I had seen my parents die, where I had held my brother’s hand as he shrank to nothing on a faded couch. Where I had lived whatever life I had. I abandoned it to the dead.

He doesn’t have much money. He nurses pints and lives off of pork scratchings. When he orders a pickled egg, he calls it “posh” and says it his “healthy day”. There are no tongs at the bar, so I have to stick my hand in the jar, and I smell like vinegar afterwards.

He seems to like me, sometimes he stares at my tits. Maybe he is just trying to figure me out, the way I am figuring him out. There isn’t much to him, really, he just sits at the bar, every morning, waiting for the horses to run.

I no longer want to tell him that he is my father and my mum is relieved. I have to say something, though, before I go, so I call him disgusting. I want to have a row, I want him to show me that he still has some pride, before I walk away. He says nothing. I start to cry, and then try again, but all he does is slowly nod.

I woke up and felt something tucked behind my knees. I’d staggered in from a long day, kicked off my clothes and collapsed, without switching the light on. So, it was probably a bundle of washing, or maybe I’d dragged my bag onto the bed. I reached to push it off and felt something warm and furry.

It started to purr, digging its claws into my thighs and kneading the flesh. I sometimes left the windows open but never had a cat before. Scratching behind its ears, I was glad to have someone to hold. It climbed onto my chest and I could smell its fishy breath and wondered if it had fleas.

In the morning, there was no cat. There was a gift for me; a dead rat that had been split open. There were tiny pink babies, like melted fruit gums, scattered amongst the entrails. I grabbed a tissue, held it to my mouth, tiptoeing, barefoot, over the carnage to grab a dustpan.

In the rat’s eyes I saw, reflected, the single bare lightbulb above my bed. It rolled onto its back, as I scooped it up, and its yellow incisors were bloody from where it had fought for its life. It was horrible. I wanted it gone. I moved, to throw it into the alley outside, but then I realised. The window was closed.