During this time of year — around Christmas — something in people changes.

Maybe it’s the long-awaited break. The moment when we finally turn computers off, stop the machinery, kill the engine, slow the train, park the bus, guide the last passenger onto the ramp, and watch as turbines whirr down to silence.

It’s a pause.
A collective breath.
A chance to stop the madness before the reset button is pressed and the cycle begins again.

For people like me — writers — it is not an ending, but a beginning. Still, something shifts. My inboxes and messenger apps begin to swell with messages of gratitude. And it’s only during moments like these that I realise how much words matter. How small acts of kindness — often forgotten by the one who gave them — linger in the lives of others.

People like to say that no good deed goes unpunished.
Bullshit.

Write. Say thank you. Show kindness.
You will notice the difference.

It becomes clear, too, how closely people pay attention. Some messages even include greetings for my wife and my dog — gestures tied to moments I barely remember myself. I am grateful, deeply so, but gratitude also carries responsibility. It means the work has only just begun. The beginning of one season is often the quiet end of another.

This time of year also ushers in reflection. A careful review of what was done, what failed, and what remains unfinished. Deadlines loom, fuelled by the desire to complete something — anything — before the calendar turns. But as a wise friend once reminded me: the finish line is an illusion. A temporary marker. The race continues, often demanding an even greater sprint.

The inbox may quiet. The phone may stop ringing.
But the ideas do not stop.

Gratitude stokes the fire, while pressure sharpens its edge. It’s a double-edged thing.

As I look back, the shape of my life becomes clearer. A book nears completion. Readers wait for the next chapter of the McTavish family — their ghosts, their journeys, their restless pursuits across the Scottish Highlands. Alongside that: podcasts, posts, emails, replies, reviews, website updates, blog entries, messages of thanks, and the endless sorting of signal from noise.

Layered on top of this is family. Friends. Shared meals. Signed books.
It is a delicate balance.

And always, hovering nearby, is the word everyone knows too well: burnout.

Less than a month ago, I was discharged from a mental health clinic. I have to be careful not to return. If I do, the work doesn’t pause — it multiplies. Doubles. Triples. The cycle resets.

And yet — I will do this again.
Because this is where meaning lives.

In sharing words. In offering stories. In reaching out, quietly, and discovering that someone reached back.

The reward outweighs the risk. Connection is a powerful thing. A reader recognising themselves in a passage. A comment appearing at just the right moment. These are the beacons that guide me when the shadows press close.

The McTavishes, their ghosts, and the stories we build together are my shield and my sword. Each chapter finished is a small victory — hard-won, and fiercely cherished.

We often speak of the why, the what, and the when. But it is the who and the if that matter most.

The who is the heartbeat: the readers and the writer, bound together in this quiet exchange. The unseen chorus that encourages, challenges, and sharpens the work.

And then there is the if.

If I can maintain balance.
If I can stay.
If I can keep my footing on this narrow line.

If I falter, the stories fade.
If I disappear, the ghosts win.

The stakes are simple, and they are human: wellbeing, connection, continuation.

That knowledge is heavy — but it is also what keeps me here.
It is why I write.
It is why I stay.

Happy Christmas. Happy holidays.
And gentle wishes for the year ahead.

I’ll keep going — carefully, honestly — with gratitude for those who are still here, reading along.