Daniel MacKillican's Blog: Dark Scribbles & Daylight Doubt

After much trial and error, I’ve decided to stop posting updates here on Goodreads.

The formatting here doesn’t do justice to the content I want to share, and I’ve found a better home for my writing over on my new WordPress site.

👉 Visit the blog here

You’ll find behind-the-scenes glimpses of my books, eerie quotes, honest indie author insights—and the occasional haunting whisper.

Thanks for following along. I’ll see you on the other side.

Daniel MacKillican

This is a brief piece of folkloric horror, told from the perspective of something… else.
Something watching. Something waiting.

The Wriggler
The crowd is moving away now. I don’t like it when they all gather like that. They make such a noise. I’ll just watch and wait. Soon it will be quiet again. Apart from the wriggler, that is.

Why do they hang them from the trees like that? Oh, I’m not complaining, but it makes no sense to me. I can understand hanging the old ones, and maybe some of the rotten ones too, but this one looks quite young and healthy. He’ll taste good, I’m sure of that. The last one they hung was young as well. I enjoyed picking at that one for weeks, feeding until the bones fell with the leaves.

One of the small ones is poking it with a stick, making the wriggler wriggle. I like watching the little ones do that. But I’m getting hungry, so I hope it joins the others soon. I’ll get a little closer. Sometimes it scares the little ones when they see me watching them—it sometimes scares the big ones too.

I’ll sit here, just out of reach, and then… a little tilt of my head, a flash from my obsidian eyes, and a sudden burst of my ear-piercing call should do the trick. I’ve heard word that my call chills the soul. That’s it, little one, off you go. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you soon.

Okay. Back to the wriggler.

My friends are starting to gather, so I’ll have to get to work soon. I don’t mind sharing, but I do like to have first pickings. The wriggler’s eyes are always the appetiser. The way they pop makes my feathers tingle, and the juice that follows… well, that is simply a rare nectar.

It’s such a shame when they burn them. It’s usually the female ones they call witches that get set alight and go up in flames. It’s such a waste. Cooked meat doesn’t have the flavour of flesh that’s naturally warm. This one is called a thief, so thankfully it just gets hung by the neck from the branch of a tree. Like so many of the ones they hang, it’s not dead yet—hence my name for them.

It won’t be too much longer, though, before this one wriggles no more.

Some memories stay with you not because they make sense—but because they don’t.
This poem recalls a strange moment from my childhood.

One photo. One absence. One chill that still lingers.

It was a simple country house—a peaceful, secluded home.
A family nest of brick and stone.

The age of that old domicile I’m sure was high,
for it had stood long enough to see horse and cart pass by.

Centuries had passed with the tick-tock of life,
without a moment of noteworthy strife.

But this house had a secret, of that I am sure.
Stick with me, dear reader, and I shall tell you more.

This home had a ghost that watched the children at play.
I know this to be true—because I remember the day.

Myself and two girls is what I recall,
on a bright, hot day in mid-September’s fall.

The beautiful garden was our world for the day—
a realm of wonder with no reason to stray.

We three played by an old rope swing,
smiling and happy for the fun it did bring.

At some point, unnoticed, a picture was taken.
When I think back now, I am somewhat shaken.

This was a time before instant gratification.
Photography took days before revealing its foundation.

But in time the pictures did arrive,
and with them, a question that sparked something alive:

“There should be three? You must be mistaken.”
For two is all that the camera had taken.

A child’s ruminations are no more than innocent fun.
To think of anything else would cause a shudder to come.

My memory has grown vague to that peculiarity,
and reminiscing brings no further clarity.

The years have rolled by since that strange to-do—
when three little children became two.

Recently, I saw someone online claim that the em dash is a sign of AI-generated writing. Not just one person either—this ridiculous idea is spreading. I’ve seen it repeated in threads, blogs, and even by writers who’ve started second-guessing their own punctuation. Some have said they’ve stopped using em dashes altogether, just to avoid being burned at the algorithmic stake.

Let that sink in: writers giving up a perfectly valid tool—not because it’s bad, not because it weakens their work—but because some corner of the internet decided punctuation now has a moral alignment system.

As a writer, that’s not just irritating. It’s absurd.

Let me say it plainly:
The em dash. That beautiful, versatile line—used by writers for centuries—is now apparently suspicious.

Which is… ridiculous.
The em dash isn’t a sign of AI. It’s a sign of Jedi-level grammar.

Writers love the em dash for good reason. It cuts in like a sharp breath. It interrupts. It pivots. It adds emphasis, surprise, rhythm—or just a little space to think. It’s less formal than a colon, more assertive than a comma, and nowhere near as smug as a semicolon.

George Orwell used it. Emily Dickinson used it obsessively. Cormac McCarthy used it sparingly—he avoided most punctuation, including quotation marks and semicolons—but that’s the point: every writer develops their own style. That’s the art of it.

One of my favourite uses of the em dash comes from 1984:

“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”

That’s not an AI hallucination. That’s Orwell twisting the knife. You can hear the pause—the finality of it. That em dash earns its keep.

Look, I get it. AI is everywhere, and it’s hard to tell what’s real sometimes. But punctuation? That’s not the line in the sand. If I write a sentence that sounds like me and feels like me, but it has an em dash in it—that’s still me.

I use em dashes regularly—in my writing, in my social posts, even in my handwritten scrawls—and I have absolutely no fear in doing so.
(That’s a choice, by the way—not a warning sign.)

Quick sidetrack before we wrap this up—let's clear up the dash situation. The hyphen is the little one you see in words like well-written or six-year-old. Then there’s the en dash—a bit longer—and it pops up when you’re writing things like pages 10–15 or Scotland–England rivalry. And finally, the em dash—the star of this rant. It’s the long one, the dramatic one, the interrupter of thoughts and the emphasiser of moments. They each have their job. And just to be clear: using an em dash properly doesn’t mean a bot wrote your book.

So here’s the takeaway: trust the voice, not the punctuation. And if anyone tells you there’s a “correct” way to write dialogue, or horror, or grammar—run. Run like a character in a foggy forest with something following just out of frame.

Write how you write.
Let your commas breathe.
And for goodness’ sake, let the em dash live.

Yeah, I know—I’ve used an excessive amount of em dashes in this ranty post.

If you’ve been following my ramblings, you’ll know I’m currently deep into the second round of editing on my new novel. The plan is simple (on paper): three rounds. Just three. Then I let someone else read it.

Round three is supposed to be the final polish. The tightening. The smoothing out. The quiet whisper of “this is as good as I can make it.” But here’s the thing: Every time I go back over what I’ve written, I find something else I want to improve. A sentence that could hit harder. A moment that could breathe more. A small detail that suddenly feels essential.

So when do you stop?

At what point do you say, “That’s it. That’s enough. Time to let someone else in”?

This book means more to me than the first one did. It’s personal. Not in a confessional way, but because I’ve drawn on some of my own life experiences. Even though those things happened years ago, they still feel raw—and they still hit hard. As the saying goes: It’s emotional.

That’s why I want it to be the best I can possibly write. Not perfect (because perfection is a ghost), but true. And clean. And honest.

So yes, three rounds of editing. That’s the plan.

…Probably.

Okay, I might give it a final-final polish. Just to make sure.

I’ve never been one for deadlines. Or word counts. Or, truth be told, any system that feels like it’s trying to turn writing into a race. For me, the creative process is more of a wandering path through fog than a sprint to a finish line, and I’m finally learning to accept that’s not a flaw. It’s my rhythm.

Lately, I’ve been getting better at organising my time. Not in a rigid, colour-coded-calendar way. Just enough to keep things moving without stealing the joy. I’ve realised I don’t write well under pressure. I don’t enjoy it, and worse, I don’t trust what I produce when I force it. I’d rather spend a week sculpting a single paragraph than churn out 2,000 words of something that doesn’t feel right, only to delete it later.

My current focus is deep editing—honing my new book, chapter by chapter. When I’m in the mood, I dip back into my third novel and continue the careful conversion from first to third person. It’s not fast, but it’s honest. And that matters to me more than speed.

Of course, being an indie author means wearing more than one hat. Writing is just one part of the job. There’s also self-promotion, marketing, and the ongoing dance with social media. I’ll admit, I still find it a bit awkward. I’m not naturally drawn to public platforms. I’m private by nature, reclusive even. But I’m learning to use social media in a way that feels right for me.

I’m not here to shout, “Look at me! Buy my book!” That’s never been my style. Instead, I try to make each post a little slice of something interesting—something worth sharing, from my side of the screen and hopefully from yours too. Whether it’s a moody quote, a peek behind the scenes, or a darkly humorous cartoon about the writing life, I want the content to feel alive, not automated.

So no, I don’t write every day. I write when the atmosphere is right and the words feel true. It might not be the most conventional approach, but it’s mine. And that’s enough.

Lately, I've been working on my third novel.

Not editing the second, mind you—the one that’s actually due next—but rewriting the one that comes after it. Because apparently that’s how my brain wants to do things now: backwards.

This particular story began life as a first-person experiment. I wanted that sense of intimacy and immediacy, the feeling that you’re right there inside the character’s skin. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling right. Not broken, exactly. Just… off. Like trying to watch a film through someone else's glasses.

So now I’m converting the whole thing to third person. And weirdly? It’s been brilliant.

Third person gives me more room to move, more angles to explore. Descriptions feel richer, moments feel broader, and somehow the story has started breathing differently; deeper, clearer, sharper. It’s like I opened a window and let the whole thing exhale.

But here’s the strange part.

I haven’t touched this draft in a long time. Long enough that I’d forgotten half of what happens. So with every new chapter I revisit, it’s like reading a book written by someone else. The structure, the characters, even the twists catch me off guard. Then I remember—I wrote this.

Past-me. That eccentric, scribbling version of myself who apparently had no concept of restraint and a worrying fondness for cliffhangers.

It's disorienting and delightful in equal measure. Like being haunted by your own ghost, but in a way that sometimes hands you brilliant dialogue and sometimes makes you mutter, “What the hell were you thinking?”

So that’s where I’m at: rewriting a book I wrote, rediscovering a plot I plotted, and muttering at a version of myself who no longer exists.

And weirdly, I’m loving every minute of it.

I haven’t done a single word of editing today on my forthcoming novel—the one that’s supposed to be next in line.
Instead, I’ve been neck-deep in converting the novel after that from first person to third.

Clear as mud?
Yeah, I’m confused too.

You see, the third novel began life as a bit of an experiment. I wanted to explore the intimacy and immediacy of first-person storytelling. It was fun for a while—like trying on a new coat—but the longer I wore it, the more it started to itch.

Some stories want to be close-up. This one didn’t.

So now I’m elbow-deep in rewrites. "I did this" becomes "he did that". Internal monologue becomes distant implication. And somewhere in the margins, the whole thing is mutating into something sharper, more cinematic. Better? I think so. But it’s a strange feeling, working on what’s next-next, while next patiently waits in the wings, tapping its foot.

This is the creative process, isn’t it? Tangled. Nonlinear. A strange dance between projects, drafts, moods, and midges (I live in the Highlands, so there’s always at least one midge involved).

Anyway, just thought I’d share the state of play. One book being polished, another being reshaped, and me somewhere in the middle, trying to keep up.

Wish me luck. And maybe send coffee.

Being an indie author in 2025 means more than writing books. It means becoming your own marketing team, publicist, and digital cartographer. Trying to map out which social media platforms still matter, and which are just digital graveyards echoing with silence.

Some days, it feels like progress. A well-timed post lands. A reader messages to say something in your story moved them. A review appears out of nowhere and reminds you that your words are actually reaching people. Other days? You spend more time crafting hashtags and formatting posts than writing anything meaningful. You try out a new platform—like Threads, for instance—only to discover it’s a ghost town. You cross-post something, hoping it’ll spark engagement, and… nothing. Not even a flicker.

And yet, we keep going.

We try X because it still has reach, even if it feels like everyone’s screaming into the wind. We try Bluesky, hoping for quieter, more thoughtful conversations. We post images to Instagram, battling algorithms and aesthetic trends. And sometimes we just log off altogether and write in peace, remembering that the story is the thing.

I don’t have the answers yet. Still figuring it all out. But if you’re a fellow writer feeling the same fatigue, you’re not alone. The void may be silent, but it’s full of us, all trying to make our stories heard.

Thanks for reading.

Cut the fluff, kill a line,
Murder darlings one at a time.
Tame the adverbs, gut the prose,
Sharpen every sentence’s nose.

Commas shuffle, clauses groan,
Plot holes whisper, all alone.
Characters plead, “We’re not to blame!”
But edits purge them just the same.

Each scene's a corpse I recompose,
With cleaner guts and fewer throes.
A chapter’s bones, now rearranged,
Feel oddly calm, disturbingly changed.

The pace must pulse, the voice must bite,
No passive verbs to dim the night.
I stitch, I slash, I shift, I flay.
Then bleed it all again next day.

No sentence sacred, no phrase immune,
Beneath the cold red editor’s moon.
It’s art, they say, this thing we’ve bred.
But art, my friend, must first be bled.