Mš Letters from a Seaside Desk - March 2026
My dear reader, March is truly behind us, and still I feel as though it has already told me a story. Not a grand, sweeping tale - nothing of dramatic turns or extraordinary events - but rather one made of small moments, quiet discoveries, and the sort of thoughts that arrive unannounced when one is simply going about oneās days. It has been a busy month. Some mornings began too quickly, evenings that ended too late, and many hours in between that passed in a blur. And yet, woven through it all, there was something softer - something almost luminous. Perhaps it began with the light. After what felt like an endless succession of grey skies and rain (the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what brightness looks like), the sun returned - tentatively at first, then with a little more confidence. I found myself pausing more often and lingering by the window. Walking a little slower. Letting the warmth settle on my skin as though it were something rare and precious. It felt, in the gentlest way, like stepping into a different version of myself. A spring version. A quieter one. The sort of self who reads in the afternoon and believes, quite sincerely, that life may be arranged around books. And books - how they have accompanied me this month. After my birthday in February, I received the remaining novels of Jane Austen, and there was something deeply comforting in knowing they were waiting for me. I began with Sense and Sensibility, which I have now finished. It felt different from her later works - perhaps a little more earnest, a little less polished - but no less observant of the quiet intricacies of the heart. I am now somewhere within Mansfield Park, not rushing it, but rather letting it unfold slowly, in those in-between hours when the world is still. There is a particular pleasure in reading Austen during this time of year. It lends itself to reflection. To notice things. And perhaps that is what March has been teaching me most: to notice. Not only what I read, but what I reach for. Because somewhere along the way, I realised my reading tastes have shifted. Not abruptly, not with any great declaration, but gently - like the turning of a tide. Where once I was entirely absorbed in fantasy and romance, I now find myself drawn toward the classics. Toward stories that feel rooted, enduring, quietly profound. This realisation, of course, led to what I can only describe as a āmoment of literary weaknessā. Or perhaps honesty. I ordered books - many of them. The kind of order that feels both indulgent and entirely justified. Among them are Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert and The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, both in French. There is something deeply intimate about returning to my mother tongue for reading - something slower, richer. And yet, I also brought them into my English library, because I find myself curious about translation - about what shifts, what softens, what is lost or perhaps even found anew. My shelves are beginning to lookā¦ intentional. Curated, perhaps. Not perfectly, but in a way that reflects who I am becoming as a reader. Outside of reading, my writing has been waiting for me. Not impatiently - never that - but with a quiet persistence. I have not touched my manuscript as often as I would have liked this past month, though I know exactly where I left it: somewhere between chapters six and seven, in the midst of edits that require more thought than speed. It is a strange thing, editing oneās own work. You see both too much and not enough. Still, with a few days set aside around Saint Patrick's Day, I find myself returning to it. Not with urgency, but with intention. I imagine mornings spent writing, afternoons reserved for reading, and evenings left open for whatever quiet pleasures might arise. It feelsā¦ possible. And then there is something I had not quite expected to bring me so much joy: I built my website. Entirely on my own. Line by line, piece by piece - something that once felt entirely out of reach became, slowly, something I could understand. Something I could shape. It now exists as a small corner of the world that is mine - a place for my writing, my reading, my thoughts. I find myself returning to it, not because I must, but because I want to. Which, I think, is how one knows they are on the right path. There have been other small moments, too. Finishing a puzzle. Planning a quiet evening painting with a friend. Walking the dog under a sky that, for once, feels kind. Nothing extraordinary. And yet - everything feels just a little more *alive*. So perhaps March is not a month of grand transformation. Perhaps it is simply a month of gentle becoming. And I find, as I sit here writing to you, that I do not wish to rush it. Yours, from a desk not far from the sea! Manon
April 2026 - Coming Soon