Most writers know what a notebook is. Fewer know what a commonplace book is.

Traditionally, a commonplace book was a personal repository of quotations, observations, anecdotes, reflections, and fragments gathered from reading and experience. It was not a diary and not a finished work. It was a place where ideas could be stored until their relationships became apparent.

Essayists have always been drawn to commonplace books because the essay itself rarely begins with an argument. More often it begins with an observation, a curiosity, a quotation, an encounter, or a question. The commonplace book preserves these beginnings.

In practice, a commonplace book is less concerned with subjects than with connections. A naturalist's observation, a line from a poet, a newspaper clipping, a memory from a walk, and a philosophical question may appear unrelated when recorded. Years later, they may reveal themselves as parts of the same inquiry.

The commonplace book can therefore be understood as the workshop of essayistic thought. Essays emerge from it, but it is not organized around completed essays. Instead, it preserves possibilities. It is a reservoir of unfinished thinking.

Digital tools have not diminished the value of the commonplace book. They have merely changed its form. Applications such as OneNote, Obsidian, Notion, and others allow modern writers to collect and connect fragments with a speed that earlier generations could scarcely imagine. Yet the underlying purpose remains the same: to preserve observations long enough for unexpected relationships to emerge. I have been using Onenote, stored on the cloud and accessible through multiple surfaces, for 23 years now.

A record of attention

The essayist's commonplace book is not a scrapbook of facts. It is a record of attention. It documents what repeatedly catches the eye, returns to the mind, and refuses to be forgotten. Over time, patterns form. Recurring questions appear. Themes announce themselves. The writer gradually discovers not only what they think, but what they are interested in thinking about. But I cannot give you a structure, that will arise from you own foci and patterns of attention, and will doubtless develop over time

Perhaps the most important distinction is this: an ordinary notebook records information. A commonplace book records potential. It is not merely an archive of what has been learned. It is an archive of what might one day be understood.

David Marshall Skerries

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I want to note an essay that has been crystallising in my head for over a month now. I simply want to record how these things happen. I will probably write and publish the essay in about three weeks, in early November, but for now I want to note its emergence.

It began over a month ago while I was sorting wood in my barn; selecting, grading and organising oak beams and planks. Some of them are incredibly ancient. Others were felled locally about twenty years ago and have been steadily maturing, waiting for use.

It made sense to shift a few boxes. They contained old notebooks and old writing, some dating from the days of the National Council of Labour Colleges, others my own work from the 1970s through into the 1990s. I picked up a small sheaf of loose-leaf pages and there, on the top, was Mayfleece. I remembered working on its cadence, trying to capture the correct tidal rhythm. The poem took me back to Chaucer and the practice, in my Lower Sixth year, of speaking Middle English. From there I found myself thinking about my encounters with Fingallian in Skerries. Half-formed notions about language and expression drifted into thoughts of Arthur Young and his extraordinary skill for observation and reporting, qualities the poem itself had required.

Then, suddenly, I was interrupted.

“Thinking about that second word? You could do better.” Surprisingly, it was not any of the characters just mentioned, but Montaigne himself, perhaps emboldened by the walls of the barn, walls older even than he.

I have taken copious notes since then, even to the point of recording myself thinking about my own thinking. As I write this note, I have a vague notion that I might create a conversation between myself and Montaigne, using it to illustrate the progression of the thought while simultaneously narrating the process of its emergence. That would leave three voices speaking at once: Montaigne, the self being remembered, and the self doing the remembering. We shall see.

This is already promising to be a complex essay. Not for the reader, but for me as the writer. Integrity demands that I remain faithful to the evolution of the thought and to the trail upon which it has led me. In those early reflections, Montaigne was already questioning my bon foi over the choice of that second word.

Through the barn door, only metres away, can be seen the architecture of conflict and the blazon of Eleanor of Aquitaine.

“There's a woman who knew the value of a word,” says Montaigne. We banter. Bacon and Locke enter my head. Henri IV appears when I rebuke Montaigne. Arthur Young returns, bringing multiple threads with him. Young observed this land: the triangle stretching from Henri's Pau, across to Eleanor's influence in Bayonne and north to Montaigne's Bordeaux. Four different perspectives, and my own, upon the same political, cultural, agricultural and governance landscape.

All of them, somehow, bring me back to my choice of that second word in the poem.

It began because I thought I could use this possible revision of Mayfleece to illustrate yet another aspect of why, as writers, we write. I had already sown the seeds in A Fragment Of History, in a post for writing.ie. Yet somewhere along the way the essay seems to have acquired purposes of its own. I am genuinely unsure where it is taking me. I suspect I will not know until I click Publish in November.

David Marshall Skerries

By this I do not mean an unanswered question. That is simply a question in waiting. There is the possibility it carries no movement, no relation. An unanswered question may simply lack an answer.

An unfinished question possesses something more valuable: room for another person to enter. We often imagine teaching as the transfer of knowledge. A student asks a question. The teacher provides an answer. The transaction is complete. The question has served its purpose and may now be discarded. Yet I have discovered that some of the most important moments in learning occur when the question remains alive. Sometimes uncomfortably so. A student asks whether the water in a lake is drinkable. The teacher might answer, “Yes.” Or “No.” Or provide a detailed explanation of salinity, contamination, and water quality. But there is another possibility: “Suppose it is brackish...” The statement does not answer the question. It does not evade it either. And it it not deploying the deflective technique, of asking an adjacent question. Instead, it enters the question and gently alters its shape.

The student must now continue. How would we know? Could it still be used What alternatives are there The question moves forward, but ownership of it remains shared. The value lies not in uncertainty but in relationship. This manner of proceeding; I will not call it a technique; for it falls as part of the essayist's third honesty. For the invitatation must allow that the student may respond with a question that the teacher has not imagined.

We have become accustomed to treating thought as a race towards completion. The answer is assumed to be the goal. Yet completion carries a risk. A question answered too completely ceases to belong to the person who asked it. And excludes the contribution of others, or closes down the desire for further inquury. “What if” becomes actively discouraged. Even to the point of “Wait and see”.

The unfinished question preserves participation. It is an act of restraint. The teacher, writer, or friend contributes enough to advance the enquiry, but not so much as to monopolise it. This is not ignorance. It is not hesitation. It is a deliberate decision to leave room for another mind. In this sense, the unfinished question, as I have already expressed, is closely related to the Third Honesty. The first honesty concerns facts. The second honesty concerns interpretation. The third honesty concerns relationship. It acknowledges that some meanings should not be delivered complete. They should be approached and, perhaps aquired, together.

A reader encounters this experience in good essays. A writer points towards something, makes a connection, suggests a possibility, but stops short of exhausting the subject. The reader supplies the next step. The essay becomes not a container of conclusions but an invitation to participate. The unfinished question therefore has social value. It creates a small space in which thought may become shared rather than transferred. Perhaps this is why it remains difficult for artificial intelligence to reproduce. AI excels at completing patterns. The unfinished question requires a different discipline: knowing how to continue an enquiry without bringing it prematurely to an end.

The point is not to avoid answers. The point is to contribute in a way that preserves the possibility of further contribution. To extend the miment and diversity of inquiry. An unfinished question is not an absence. It is a gift. It is the place where another person may continue or begin.

The idea of the unfinished question resembles several established traditions, yet differs from each of them in a crucial respect. Dewey understood education as inquiry and the reconstruction of experience; Freire saw learning as the co-creation of knowledge through dialogue. Rilke, I think I recall, urged us to “live the questions” rather than rush towards answers.

Yet the unfinished question described here is neither primarily educational, nor political, nor existential. It is relational. The issue is not that the answer is unknown, nor that knowledge must be jointly constructed, nor that one must patiently inhabit uncertainty. Rather, one person intentionally contributes to another's question without completing it. The contribution advances the enquiry while preserving the other's capacity to continue it. In this sense, the unfinished question is not a gap in knowledge but a gesture of intellectual restraint. One does not leave a question open because one cannot close it, but because closing it would diminish another person's participation in its development. Where Dewey emphasises inquiry, Freire dialogue, and Rilke the lived question, the unfinished question concerns something slightly different: the ethics of continuation. It is the art of contributing enough, but not too much.

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There is more... but I have not yet clarified...

What I've been discussing so far, is largely about making room for another person's participation. But my intuition suggests something additional. Perhaps the unfinished question contains a tacit signal: “I know there is more here, but I do not yet know exactly what that more is.” Or, perhaps “This enquiry has not reached its natural boundary.” In other words, the contribution does not merely stop. It points beyond itself. “Suppose it is brackish...” does not simply invite a response. It carries an implicit sense that the field has expanded. More has become visible than can presently be said.

That feels different from Rilke's “living the questions,” which concerns remaining with uncertainty over time. Here the gesture is much smaller and more conversational. It is the moment when one senses that the enquiry has become larger than the current exchange. An essayist often writes this way: not “therefore...” but “and this suggests...” “one wonders whether...” “perhaps the question is not...” The writer does not merely leave a gap. The writer indicates the presence of further territory. You might call it a surplus of meaning or a gesture beyond completion. The most honest contribution is not one that ends where the speaker's knowledge ends. It ends where further participation becomes more valuable than further exposition. I suspect that's what I'm really saying: There is a difference between: “I have nothing more to add.” and “There is more to add.” The unfinished question lives in the second of those.

And perhaps that is why it feels connected to the Third Honesty. The writer is honest not only about what is known, but about the fact that the enquiry now exceeds any single participant. The question has become larger than its current expression. The proper response is not closure but invitation.

One other obaervation. The unanswered question is a lack. The unfinished question is a structure.

Finally, there may be value in mentioning Sigi – he is, of course, *The Ambassador Extraordinary for Unfinished Questions. I think the third story in the chain discloses his appoinment to the post. There are others if you care to scroll through. https://sigi.ie David Marshall Flic en Flac, Mauritius

While revising one of the essays on method, a question emerged that felt larger than the editing itself.

Which sentence is the defining sentence?

Literary criticism often looks for one. The sentence that unlocks the piece. The sentence from which everything else follows. The sentence that resolves the argument and allows the essay to close neatly upon itself.

There is elegance in that approach. But I find myself increasingly resistant to it.

It's a question of focus – here are a few words I scribbled in the margin: I think at this point I don't want the piece to have a clarity of focus – I want a vagueness to it – that encourages the reader to explore, perhaps to define for themselves – I don't want to close the circle in that way – I know that literary critics would see that as elegant, but a pedestrican crossing is more than stripes on the tarmac.

Yes the image that came to mind was a pedestrian crossing.

A critic might look at a pedestrian crossing and see a successful arrangement of white stripes on tarmac. They might admire the geometry, the symmetry, or the way each stripe contributes to the overall design.

Yet a pedestrian crossing is more than stripes on the road. It may even have lights. It is an invitation to cross. A convention shared by drivers and pedestrians. A piece of civic infrastructure. A relationship between risk and trust. The visible part is not one thing, and it's not the whole thing.

I am trying to construct my essays to work in a similar way. Readers rarely leave carrying away an entire argument. More often they carry fragments. A phrase. An image. A question. A way of looking; perhaps even an adjusted disposition.

One reader may remember: Dig where you stand. Another may remember: The contradiction remains interesting. Someone else may carry away: The argument can wait.

I am not convinced that any one of these must become the master key to the others. Readers bring themselves to the page. They are not all some idealized type.

The temptation to identify a single defining sentence is really a temptation to close the circle. To say: this is what the essay is about. Yet some essays are less concerned with bringing a reader to a destination than equipping them for a journey. Perhaps essays do not always need a centre. Perhaps they need landmarks.

A landmark is not the destination. Nor does it prescribe a route. It helps someone orient themselves within a larger landscape. That thought seems increasingly important to my own practice. I am less interested in delivering conclusions than in offering navigation tools.

A useful essay may not tell a reader where to go next. It may simply help them recognise where they are standing. And from there, they can decide the direction for themselves. David Marshall Flic en Flac, Mauritius

Rebellion against a false premis

There is no single route into the work. Style must be capable of meeting readers in different terrains without sacrificing coherence.

In writing The Campervan, my intent was to expose the invisible friction that exists between static belonging and dynamic mobility. A tension that is quietly defining modern Irish life. Mary and her unnamed visitor represent two entirely contrasting responses to the same foundational crisis: the sudden, altering reality of loss. Mary chooses the architecture of stasis. Her “exit road” from bereavement is built on preservation, strict domestic routines, and an aggressive defense of her physical boundaries – her view, her sea, her husband’s old preferences. To Mary, the encroaching campervans are not merely an aesthetic nuisance; they are mobile symbols of a fluid, modern world that threatens to overwrite her memories.

Conversely, the traveller’s exit road is one of motion and confrontation. He drives the very object of his grief back to the place of its making, using mobility as a mechanism for closure and eventual release. When these two perspectives collide over a simple kettle of water, the narrative shifts from a dispute about spatial intrusion to a shared recognition of human vulnerability. It is a reminder that the modern forces we often perceive as disruptions to our traditional heritage are frequently piloted by individuals carrying the exact same timeless griefs, histories, and traditions as our own.

If we are to successfully transform Ireland's communities, our policy frameworks must become as flexible and hospitable as Mary's kitchen table – capable of holding space for both those who need to stand fast, and those who need to move through.

The Campervan can be found at https://rvw.ie/the-campervan

Addendum

Temporal Friction and the Lived Experience of Governance

Transforming Ireland is the title I have chosen for a forthcoming series of the opportunities and the impact of the circular economy. And the Campervan is an experiment on how I might use fiction to illustrate those impacts.

In The Campervan, my aim was to look past the technical vocabulary of spatial planning and examine the human impact of what policy analysts call “temporal friction.” This friction occurs when macro-level regional development frameworks move at one speed, while the socio-emotional landscape of an established community moves at another.

Mary’s sudden exasperation – captured in her plea that “The Council should do something about it, it's not fair” – is a classic manifestation of this disconnect. To an administrator looking at a map or an infrastructure portfolio, the influx of mobile domestic tourism along our coastline represents a successful activation of public assets or a metric of regional economic diversification. However, to the resident on the ground, it can feel like a sudden, unmediated disruption of local spatial heritage and personal stasis.

References:

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/press-releases/report-on-national-coastal-change-management-strategy-sets-out-long-term-blueprint-to-deal-with-future-coastal-change/

https://irishgeography.ie/index.php/irishgeography/article/download/1484/1194/6030)

This tension underscores a core finding in recent spatial analyses, such as the OECD Rural Policy Review of Ireland. The report notes that Ireland's highly centralized administrative structures often lack the “spatial differentiation” required to fully account for how local people actually experience change. When national planning goals; whether under the National Planning Framework or coastal management strategies; are handed down to local authorities, the system often defaults to regulating spaces rather than facilitating the community transitions within them.

References:

https://assets.gov.ie/static/documents/1f40d206-report-of-the-inter-departmental-group-on-national-coastal-change-management-.pdf

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/publications/overview-of-planning-in-ireland/

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

The story does not seek to arbitrate whether Mary’s desire for preservation or the traveller’s right to mobility is the “correct” use of the strand. Rather, it serves as an observation of a structural dilemma. If our evolving governance systems are to navigate the transformation of rural and coastal Ireland successfully, they must find a way to reconcile the swift, fluid movement of modern policy and tourism with the slower, deeply human timelines of the people who call those places home.

References:

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

David Marshall Skerries

A week ago, esx.ie was quietly configured as the short-link domain for the Essayism family: essayism.org, essayism.ie, essay.ie, esy.ie, essayist.ie and so forth.

The logic seemed perfectly obvious. They all begin with es; x is an agreeable little code-letter for everything that follows. Neat, compact, almost self-explanatory.

Then, without announcement, promotion, or meaningful use – apart from a default error page and one modest footer appearance – esx.ie received 177 clicks.

This raises several possibilities. Perhaps people are intuitively drawn to concise domains. Perhaps the internet has developed a taste for unexplained initials. Or perhaps 177 accidental visitors were simply looking for somewhere called “Essex” and took a poetic wrong turn.

Whatever the reason, esx.ie has made its first small, mysterious entrance. It appears that even a link can have a life before it has a purpose.

For a micro-second I pondered

Ah. Of course. :–)

The 177 clicks may not have been a spontaneous celebration of elegant URL architecture after all. They were probably seekers of sex.ie whose fingers, morals, or browser autocomplete took a slight turn toward Essayism.

Which is rather wonderful: a short-link domain devised as an efficient code for a family of essays, accidentally masquerading as Ireland’s most optimistic typo.

“Essayism begins where expectation ends.”

David Marshall Skerries

This is the material I cut from Quietly Subversive. I'm preserving it here rather than throwing it away. It contains some of the thinking that didn't belong in the finished piece.

https://rvw.ie/quietly-subversive

Move one thing

Perhaps this explains some of the things I've been doing for years. Take the familiar priority matrix. Important and urgent. Useful, certainly. But what happens if we change the question?

Decision for now. Decision for the next generation.

The matrix is still there. But it has become a different instrument.

Or take the briefing. We normally think of a briefing as something produced at a particular moment: written, circulated, read and eventually superseded. What happens if we take the accumulated material and organise it differently? The briefing becomes not an event in time but an object of knowledge. That is part of what I'm trying to do with Brief Me.

Or take opinion itself. What happens when an opinion isn't treated as the starting point? What happens when it becomes something that can be examined? That is why I rather like the phrase: Where opinions come to be examined. And then there is another phrase I've used for a long time: Sequence is substance. We tend to think of sequence as presentation.

First this. Then that.

But the order in which we encounter things changes what we see. Change the sequence and sometimes you change the substance. Again, move one thing. Look again.

The quiet part

Perhaps that is what quietly subversive means. Not rebellion. Not confrontation. Not telling people that everything they believe is wrong. Something quieter. Take the established arrangement. Move one piece. And wait to see what becomes visible. I don't think that makes the writer neutral. Quite the contrary.

Someone has to choose what to examine.nSomeone has to notice the crack in the floorboards. Someone has to say: Look here.

But after that, I think there is an important line not to cross. The writer shouldn't occupy the reader's judgement. The job is to make the terrain visible. To expose the possibility. To put the question somewhere it can actually be examined. And then to leave the decision where it belongs. With the reader.

Perhaps that is why I am increasingly interested in the difference between persuasion and possibility. Persuasion asks: How can I get you to agree with me? Possibility asks: Have you seen this?

Those are very different acts. And perhaps the second can sometimes be more consequential than the first. Because once you have seen that there is another way of looking at something, you cannot quite return to the certainty that there wasn't.

Dig where you stand

So I don't think I have recently discovered a new way of writing. The pattern was there a long time ago. Often deliberately. What I am beginning to recognise is how much of my work it has quietly occupied. Essays. Teaching. Policy. Briefings.

The way information is organised. Even the little diagrams I've been drawing for years. Take something familiar. Move one thing. Look again. And perhaps that is what someone meant by quietly subversive.

Not changing people's minds. Not telling them where to go. Just making sure they can see that there is somewhere else to go.

Dig where you stand. Then look carefully at what you find.

David Marshall Skerries

“In good faith”

or “Of good faith”?

I'm working in my barn; midway between a church founded by Eleanor of Aquitaine, Huguenot at the time Michel de Montaigne was writing, and the home I now occupy, formerly the sixteenth-century home of the choirmaster appointed by a Catholic hierarchy to win the local protestant congregation back to the Catholic Church.

One wall of my barn is likely the remains of the tourelle of the château of the Abbé Laïque, the lay-abbot of this village, and my potager (vegetable garden) is outside, the former tithe yard of the enclosure. And the seigneur to whom they would all have owed fealty was none other than Henri of Navarre – first a Protestant, then the Catholic King of France, and the man who eventually brought an end to the Wars of Religion; exemplified in this small village landscape in which I am currently toiling.

As the labour proceeds I am reflecting on the English-language Wikipedia article I have just read on Michel de Montaigne and his Essays. Montaigne's famous Avis au lecteur opens with a declaration that he presents himself to the reader de bonne foi. English translations almost invariably render this as “in good faith”. The translation is perfectly defensible.

But as I put away my tools there is a tiny nag, and it will not go away. In modern English, in my experience, in good faith usually refers to the manner of an action. If I act in good faith, I act honestly, sincerely, without intent to deceive. The emphasis falls on conduct: “I may be mistaken, but my intentions are honourable”.

Yet I find myself hearing the French de bonne foi slightly differently.

Perhaps this is partly because of where I am standing now. Tá cúpla focal agam (I have a few words – As Gaeilge) and both Basque and Breton friends. And perhaps living amongst people whose languages have developed in such different relationships to French and English has made me more attentive to the nominal structures of language – to the way prepositions and nouns can carry meaning together rather than simply marking grammatical relationships that modern English would treat as incidental.

It has also made me wary of assuming that the grammars of modern English, and of modern French, present transparent windows onto an older language. We have compressed some things that earlier languages allowed to remain more spacious.

The old association between preposition and noun can carry something that a modern grammatical analysis is inclined to tidy away. And de seems to me to be one of those small words whose apparent simplicity becomes less certain the longer one looks at it. I am not suggesting that de simply means from here. In fact, of is perhaps what interests me first.

Un livre de bonne foi. – A book of good faith.

Even as I write this, that reads a little differently to the Wikipedia article. That sentence seems to me to ask a different question from a book written in good faith. In good faith asks something about the manner in which Montaigne writes. But of good faith seems to ask something about the constitution of the work itself: What kind of book is this? And if I allow myself to take the thought one step further, another question appears: From where does Montaigne speak?

I don't mean that de bonne foi should therefore be translated from good faith. That would be to make the speculation do more work than the language warrants. Rather, the awkwardness of the thought has made me stop.

And now I look through the opening in the barn wall towards the old church. The architecture reveals its history without needing to explain it. Catholic, Huguenot, Catholic again. The old structures of land and authority remain in the landscape, even though the people who inhabited them and the allegiances they carried have long since changed.

And suddenly the word foi begins to trouble me more than de. Because, here in this spot, foi isn't an abstract word. Faith has been lived here. It has been believed and imposed, defended and abandoned, inherited and converted, even woo'd by music. It has been bound up with allegiance, authority and trust. And perhaps that is why Montaigne's little phrase catches me.

The Avis au lecteur is unusual. Montaigne tells me, the reader, that his book has no grand public purpose beyond presenting himself honestly to his family and friends. He has not written to seek fame, instruction or public approval. Instead, he offers a plain and unadorned portrait of his character, habits and thoughts, preserving a record of himself as he is.

The book's subject is not simply the world. It is Montaigne himself encountering the world. And so he asks the reader not to expect anything more than a sincere self-portrait written de bonne foi.

I grasp his intention. Only now do I realize this. And now the nag is becoming hesitation. Past hesitation now, reluctance itself. I cannot quite accept the conventional translation without qualification.

In good faith can make Montaigne sound like a conscientious reporter of facts. Yet the Essays are not reports. They are attempts to establish a position from which a human being may speak truthfully about their own experience despite uncertainty. The essay is not founded on certainty but on a fidelity (foi) to experience.

I pick up a carpenter's pencil lying on my bench, take a rag and wipe away an area of decaying seventeenth-century plaster. And adopt the old habit I and Montaigne both share: writing to clarify:

In good faith asks: How is Montaigne speaking? Of good faith asks: What kind of work is this? From good faith asks: From where does Montaigne speak?

I wonder if the final question might be the most significant. But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Because I began by worrying about de, and now I find myself worrying about foi. And foi seems to open onto a much larger territory than I had intended to enter...

Faith. – Fidelity. – Trust. – Allegiance. The keeping of one's word. – Perhaps even the conditions under which one person can speak to another and ask to be believed without pretending to possess certainty.

Montaigne lived through the French Wars of Religion. Henri of Navarre, whose name is written into the history of this landscape, was first Protestant and then Catholic King of France. The very distinction between faith and allegiance was not as clean as we might now imagine. I am reminded of this almost daily, dwelling among my Gascon neighbours.

But I don't want to resolve that here. The historical landscape has already done what it needs to do. It has made the word feel heavier. I began with de. I thought I was wondering whether in good faith was quite the right way to hear de bonne foi.

Now I find myself wondering what Montaigne's foi actually asks of the reader. That is probably another note. For now, I will leave the thread where I found it. – De bonne foi.

And go back to the work- the land demands attention.

David Marshall Montory, south-west France

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I have been thinking again about pronouns. Not because the subject is new, but because it has accompanied much of my adult life as a writer.

It has long seemed to me that pronouns matter because they support assumptions, and assumptions often support prejudice. In writing, neutrality is difficult. One either accepts inherited patterns of expression, with all the assumptions they carry, or participates in the continuing challenge to them.

My own journey began in the latter half of the 1970s.

I grew up in a family with strong left leanings and surrounded by strong women. The lesson I absorbed was simple: different therefore equal. When, as a young man working for a UK government quango, I was invited to attend a residential course at Laurieston Hall near the Scottish border on sexism and male attitudes, I approached it with confidence. I already regarded myself as broadly committed to equality.

The experience was intense and unsettling in the best possible sense. I discovered that not every radical woman stood on the political left. Not everyone on the left fully understood or acknowledged the realities of inequality. Most importantly, I discovered that I was not free of assumptions myself. I too could display prejudice through habits of speech, thought and conduct that I had scarcely noticed.

That realisation has stayed with me.

Only a year or two before, in 1976, the title Ms had begun to gain official recognition within the UK's House of Commons. Forms of address were live topics. Language itself was becoming part of the discussion.

After Laurieston, I resolved to write s/he. It was never an elegant solution, but it seemed preferable to the supposedly universal he that dominated much published writing at the time. During my freelance years I often alternated she and he throughout a piece. Editors were rarely enthusiastic and many restored the familiar masculine form. Some, however, would tolerate an article that consistently used she.

Eventually I migrated to they. For two or three decades that seemed a satisfactory answer. It allowed me to refer to a person occupying a role without implying that the role naturally belonged to a man or a woman. One also made occasional appearances, though its formality sometimes sat uneasily with my preference for a more conversational style.

But language does not stand still.

Over the past two decades, they has acquired an additional significance through its adoption by many people who prefer it as their personal pronoun. What began in particular communities has become increasingly visible throughout society. As a result, I find myself reflecting once again on my own use of language.

I briefly returned to s/he, but found it awkward. It interrupts both reading and writing. The solution I am currently considering is simpler: to alternate she, he and they within a piece, allowing each to stand naturally and unapologetically.

The intention is not linguistic innovation for its own sake. Nor is it a claim that I have found the perfect answer. It is merely a small reminder to myself and perhaps to my readers that any role, occupation, responsibility or task may be undertaken by a person of any gender.

If, in one sentence, she must undertake the task, in the next perhaps he must undertake it, and in the next they must undertake it.

The point is not the pronoun.

The point is the assumption that lies behind it.

Addendum

To Write Around The Pronoun

I began by asking which pronoun should I use? I end by asking what assumption made me think I needed to make that choice?

I'm realizing that is much more interesting than a style-guide answer.

And it gives me back to a technique I have always used, and a possible fourth position beyond s/he, alternating pronouns and singular they: sometimes the elegant solution is to write around the pronoun altogether.

There is a nice essayistic irony in that. My original ethical intervention was to make the hidden assumption visible. The more successful contemporary solution may be to make the assumption disappear without having to announce that it has disappeared.

That, I think is a genuinely elegant development of the problem I have been carrying since Laurieston.

And I rather like that the note remains unresolved. I will not rush to decide that alternating she, he and they is the answer. It may be more interesting if the notebook records the experiment; because the experiment itself is part of the history of my thinking about language.

David Marshall Skerries