Reading Trask (Penguin Guide to Puctuation) on a flight today, I found myself disagreeing with him. Substantially.

Not because he's careless with it. Quite the opposite. His punctuation is disciplined, systematic, almost instructional. He treats it as a framework through which thought is organised and communicated.

I realised that I approach it differently. For me, punctuation has never felt like a set of rules imposed upon language. It feels more like part of the act of expression itself. A comma is not a traffic sign. A dash is not a regulation. A full stop is not an instruction.

They are closer to the traces left by a thought in motion.

When I write, punctuation feels less like the Highway Code and more like the controls of a motorcycle. Not because it governs the journey, but because it becomes part of the journey. Rider and machine gradually disappear into a single act of movement. The controls cease to be separate things. They become extensions of perception.

The same is true of a painter's brush. The brushstroke is not there to organize the painting. It is evidence of the painting being made. And then, because I have spent so much time recently thinking about my next series of articles on music, it occurred to me that the distinction might be even clearer there.

A score is not music.

A score is an extraordinary achievement. It captures relationships, structures, timings, possibilities. But it does not contain music any more than a map contains a landscape.

Music happens when a performer inhabits those symbols.

Two musicians can play identical notes from the same score and produce entirely different experiences. What changes is not the notation but the performance. Perhaps writing contains a similar tension. Grammar, punctuation, and style guides are forms of notation. They help us record, preserve, and share expression. But they are not the expression itself.

The mistake comes when we confuse one for the other.

The score matters: The performance matters more.

[Trask, I suspect, would disapproved of the colon there, and most defitely of my use of this:– ] (square bracket).

Perhaps that is why I sometimes find myself resisting systems that seek to make writing simpler by turning it into rules. Simplicity can emerge in another way through practice. Not the practise of grammar rules, but the practise of the expression of ones own thought. Not through codification, but through feel.

A motorcyclist does not become graceful by memorising the Highway Code. A musician does not become expressive by memorising notation. A writer does not become eloquent by memorising punctuation rules. Those things matter. But they belong to a different realm.

They are the score: The living thing begins when someone starts to play.

David Marshall Montory

Afterthought: Punctuation, at a minimum, is guidance on cadence.

While reflecting on voice recently, I found myself arriving at an unexpected conclusion. The question was not where my voice came from, but where it should go. Over the years my writing has gradually organised itself into distinct territories. Marshall on Policy deals with policy. The Marshall Review provides a home for commentary and reflection. Marshall on Essays explores essaying itself. My music sites have their own purposes and audiences.

These boundaries are useful. They help readers find what interests them and avoid what doesn't. We do not read newspapers from cover to cover; we navigate them by habit and interest. Websites are no different.

Yet life continually presents things that sit beyond such categories. A queue. A speed bump. A campervan parked outside the house. An overheard remark. An assumption nobody seems to question. A small irritation that turns out to reveal something larger.

These things rarely justify an essay. They are often too slight for policy and too personal for review. Yet they are frequently where thought begins. That realisation has led to the creation of INQ. Unlike my other sites, INQ is not organised around a subject. It is organised around attention. The working strapline is:

INQ.ie Marshall on Things.

It is a place for observations, questions, curiosities, irritations and occasional convictions. A place where the subject need not justify itself before it is allowed onto the page. Perhaps the simplest way of putting it is this: INQ is where I intend to write in my own voice, unboxed.

Not recklessly. Not carelessly. But without feeling obliged to fit every thought into a pre-existing category or publication. If Marshall on Policy asks what should be done, and The Marshall Review asks what should be made of something, INQ asks a simpler question:

What's going on here?

The answer may sometimes turn into an essay. It may occasionally become a policy piece. More often it will remain simply an observation. And that is enough. As a reminder to myself, should I ever become too polite, too cautious, or too eager to self-censor: Speak up, man.

And, oh yeah, it's pronounced ink.

view

Voice

Looking back, I realise I spent decades trying to acquire something for which I had no name. Beginning in my teens, I found myself drawn not to answers but to relationships, not to conclusions but to unfolding processes.

Only much later did I understand that what I had been cultivating was a mode of attention. My writing voice was not something I invented. It was something that emerged from that attention. What emerges from my thinking here is a distinction that feels both simple and significant:

Voice is what readers hear. Attention is what produces it.

Perhaps, too: Style can be learned. Voice can be developed. But a mode of attention is cultivated over a lifetime.

I suspect that my development as a writer owed much to skills learned elsewhere. As a motorcyclist, and later as a volunteer RAC examiner, I was trained to observe systematically. Good riders do not merely look. They follow a disciplined process of observation, anticipation and continuous reassessment. Over time I seem to have applied similar disciplines to perception itself. The road became the world. Hazards became questions. Observation became inquiry.

University lecturing taught me another form of attention. I learned to observe not only what students said, but how understanding emerged within them. Often one could sense comprehension taking shape before a student had the words to express it. Teaching required attentiveness to thought in motion, to the subtle interaction between explanation, confusion, recognition and insight.

Social action taught me yet another form of attention. If advanced motorcycling trained me to observe situations and lecturing trained me to observe understanding, social action trained me to observe underlying conditions. It encouraged me to look beyond individual events towards the forces that made them possible. Repeatedly I found that what was visible was only the surface expression of deeper relationships and structures. This habit of looking beneath appearances became part of my writing. It reinforced a tendency to ask not merely what is happening, but what conditions are giving rise to what is happening.

Taken together, these experiences seem less like separate chapters in a life than different expressions of the same discipline. They cultivated habits of watching carefully, tracing relationships, recognising patterns and resisting premature conclusions. If I were to sketch the progression, it might look something like this:

Observation → Systematic Observation → Disciplined Attention → Insight → Voice

The voice comes last. What comes first is the trained capacity to see what others overlook. That capacity was not developed primarily through writing. Writing became the place where the results of that lifelong training found expression.

I was reminded of this some years ago while trying a guitar amplifier in a music shop. Another customer, a landscape gardener in his fifties, recognised my name and struck up a conversation about writing. He told me he wanted to start a blog but had been attending a creative writing course and had come away with the belief that he first needed to acquire a voice.

This took me aback.

Within minutes it was obvious to me that he already had one. He had spent half a century working, observing, thinking, solving problems and making sense of the world. He had a perspective. He had a way of seeing. In short, he had a voice.

What he lacked was not a voice but confidence in it.

He began talking about grammar. I told him to forget grammar for the moment. Write about what you know. Readers will come for your perspective, not your punctuation. Grammar and style can be learned. What mattered was that he had already spent decades cultivating a way of seeing the world. The writing would develop in time.

The encounter stayed with me because it revealed a common misunderstanding. Voice is often treated as though it were a literary technique that must be acquired before one can begin writing. Yet my experience suggests the reverse. Most people acquire a voice through living. They acquire writing through writing.

I do not suggest that every essayist arrives at a voice in this way. This is simply an attempt to understand how my own voice emerged. What continues to deepen it is a subject for another note. Yet the reflection does raise a further question. If my voice emerged from a lifelong mode of attention, what lies behind the voices of other essayists?

I suspect the answer is rarely a matter of style alone. Behind every distinctive voice there may be some equally deep disposition, habit of mind, preoccupation or way of attending to experience. Long before the pen touches paper or the fingers strike the keys, the writer has already spent years, perhaps decades, learning what to notice and what questions cannot be left alone.

Perhaps a mature voice is not something a writer acquires. Perhaps it is what becomes audible when a lifelong way of paying attention finally finds its form.

David Marshall Sna Sceirí

This is an ambition for three websites.

Together they publish essays, explore the craft of essay writing, and encourage others to engage in the practice. Each serves a different purpose...

esy.ie · The Essayist's Notebook. A personal notebook with public access. A place to record thoughts, notions and realisations as they arrive. Fragments, observations and questions. Nothing more. The notebook is already underway, with several new posts appearing each week.

essayist.ie · Learning the Craft. A record of what I have learned about essay writing. Part reflection, part practical guide, it explores the craft of constructing and delivering essays, and the lessons discovered along the way. Planned launch: before the end of 2026.

essays.ie · Essays. A home for essays that do not naturally belong elsewhere. The more reflective pieces. The longer explorations. The essays that sit outside Marshall on Policy, The Marshall Review, and An Activist's Notebook. The foundation essays are already in place. The next essay, The Espadrilles, is currently emerging through the process that gives essays their value: following a question wherever intellectual honesty leads.

Progress

esy.ie: active and growing. essays.ie: foundation collection established, new essays in development. essayist.ie: planned and expected to emerge before 2027.

Together, the three sites explore not simply essays as a form of writing, but the essay as a way of thinking. David Marshall Sna Sceirí

The best policy writing does not corner politicians with gotcha questions.

It changes the terms of the conversation so that simplistic answers become harder to give.

David Marshall Sna Sceirí

The Israel bonds debate offers a window into one of the central challenges of modern democracy: reconciling legal constraints, moral imperatives and democratic choice.

When I began exploring the efficacy of Amnesty International's petition concerning the sale of Israel Government bonds, I quickly found myself sinking into a quagmire of imperatives, standards, legislation and statutory orders.

Even during the initial research, fact-checking and drafting, the piece expanded from a planned 1,500 words to more than 5,000. Then it became two essays. I split it again, allowing breakout boxes to carry some of the technical detail. Yet it still felt like wading through a bog. And that's something I used to enjoy. So I stopped and let the sediment settle.

Three days later, I sat down at my desk with a blank page and asked myself a simple question: What actually matters here? The answer turned out to be surprisingly short.

1: Ireland's Constitution commits the State to peace, international justice and respect for international law.

2; The Central Bank is legally structured to apply financial law and regulation, not to make independent foreign-policy or moral judgments about states.

3; The Irish Government may believe stronger action is justified, but argues that EU treaty arrangements limit how far a single member state can act alone.

4: EU sanctions policy generally depends on unanimity, meaning one state's position can be blocked by disagreement among the others.

That was it. Everything else seemed to arise from the interaction between those four statements. At that point I realised I was no longer writing about Israel bonds. I was looking at a recurring tension within modern democratic governance: the relationship between legal frameworks, moral imperatives and democratic authority.

Once that became clear, a new essay almost wrote itself.

The insight gained from that detour will now inform my return to the original question: not whether the tension exists, but whether campaigns such as Amnesty International's can play a meaningful role in testing it.

Read the essay https://rvw.ie/the-useful-tension>

David Marshall Sna Sceirí

Starting with a tension and staying with it long enough for something previously invisible to become visible has increasingly become the centre of my writing practice.

The essay linked below is an example of that approach. It begins with work that shaped my belief in the possibilities of dialogue, participation and persuasion, then follows a line of enquiry towards a conclusion I had resisted for many years.

Rather than resolving the tension, the piece attempts to remain with it long enough for its underlying structure to reveal itself.

Published in The Marshall Review: rvw.ie

Read the essay

David Marshall Sna Sceirí

I learned the word decimate in a school history lesson. I remember it well. Later, in an inter-school debating competition, I remember the pleasure of using it myself.

I was arguing that the proposal advanced by the opposing team was not merely damaging to society. It was asking people to participate in their own ruin. Rather like removing stones from the building's foundations in order to strengthen its walls.

Decimate seemed the perfect word.

The practice from which it emerged belonged to the Roman legions. A military unit judged guilty of an offence could be ordered to decimate itself. The punishment was horrifying precisely because it was collective and self-inflicted. One man in every ten was selected and killed by his comrades. The unit itself carried out the sentence.

That is what gave the word its extraordinary power. It did not simply describe destruction. It described a group compelled to become an instrument of its own punishment. Self-harm elevated to public policy.

Few English speakers hear that meaning today.

Ask someone what decimate means and they will probably say “destroy”, “devastate”, or “wipe out”. Dictionaries now largely accept those broader definitions because common usage has long since moved on. Language, after all, follows speakers rather than historians.

Yet something has been lost.

The older meaning carried a flavour that the modern one lacks. It contained ideas of complicity, discipline, participation and sacrifice. A forest may be devastated by fire. A city may be destroyed by war. But a legion decimated itself.

That distinction mattered.

So what should writers do with words like this? If you are writing for specialists, the historical meaning may still survive. But what if your audience hears only the modern sense? Do you continue to defend the older usage in the hope of preserving a fragment of linguistic history? Or do you accept that language changes, surrender gracefully, and move on?

I have chosen the latter.

This is probably the last time I will use the word decimate. Not because I have stopped admiring it, but because the meaning I admire is no longer the meaning most people hear.

So farewell, old friend.

May some future generation rediscover you, and understand why you once seemed such a remarkable word. David Marshall Sna Sceirí

I have just published a piece called “To Dig Where I Stand” on Marshall on Policy. It is not an essay on housing, infrastructure, energy, governance or any other policy topic, in away it's about all of them. It attempts to answer a question that I had not realised readers were asking:

“What exactly are these essays trying to do?”

The answer eventually led me to identify three principles that seem to have emerged from the writing itself:

• Understanding comes before prescription. • Sequencing is substance. • Relationships create outcomes.

They seem to have been present, sometimes only as undercurrents, in my essays about music, infrastructure, landscape and governance, long before I recognised them explicitly. Some assumptions run deep. Discovering them requires a degree of intellectual honesty, and perhaps a little perseverance.

That raises an intriguing possibility. Perhaps an essayist does not invent a method so much as discover one, much as a river discovers its course.

A description often arrives as if it were direct.

It says: c = a.

But very often something has happened in between. There is a missing term, a mediating frame, a typology through which the description has become possible. What has been presented as direct recognition may in fact be recognition through b. The danger is not only that b may be forgotten. It is that b may become so familiar that it disappears into the description itself.

This is where consensus has value. Consensus is not merely agreement about the final description. It is a shared knowledge of the character and necessity of the mediating term. We know, together, why c can be described as a, because we share some understanding of b. Consensus, then, is a kind of social memory. It remembers the typology that the description has hidden. It preserves the route by which the fact became legible.

But this also explains the danger. Consensus can keep b alive, or it can bury it more deeply. What everyone knows may become what no one thinks to examine. So perhaps the question is not only whether we agree. It is whether our agreement still remembers what made agreement possible.

For Example A spirit level offers a simple illustration. When the bubble settles between the two lines, we say the shelf is level. The description arrives as if it were direct. Yet the claim rests on a mediating term: the behaviour of liquid under gravity, the calibration of the vial, the shared convention that this particular bubble’s position encodes “horizontal.” Consensus makes the reading feel immediate because everyone already remembers, or once remembered, how the tool works. But that same consensus can also bury the mediating term. The bubble becomes authoritative even when the vial is warped or the temperature is wrong. What looks like direct recognition is really recognition through a frame that has been naturalised into the act of seeing.

David Marshall Skerries