New Year (ish) R word

I never make New Year resolutions. I know myself too well. Every morning I make the same resolutions, to eat less, exercise more, be nicer to my family, be nicer to myself, to write a minimum of 500 words, not to moan about whatever minor ache or pain I might have (real or imagined), not to get depressed about things over which I have no control. Every night I realize I have failed, again, to keep any of these resolutions. I occasionally make the 500 word mark - if I include blogs. I'm rarely overnice to my family and y'know they're really rather a nice family - for a group of men that is. I am horrendously hard on myself. I ALWAYS overeat, never exercise enough and am on constant alert for that tiny twinge which will signify that I am about to shuffle off this mortal coil within a time-frame that will not permit me to apologize to everyone for being such a pain in the neck for the last fifty years.

FIFTY! There it is. 50. This year I will hit the half-century and although I finally discovered a few years ago what I wanted to be when I grew up I'm really not that much further along the road to achieving it. In fact, like Robert Frost's traveler, I have reached a fork in the road and know the financial and familial reasons why I should take one path but in my heart, my soul I know I want to take the other.

So what do I do? If I'm serious about writing - and I am - I will of course continue to write, albeit in reduced pockets of time. I think my bouts of depression have eased up since I started writing and I certainly find it the best way I can express myself, letting the poison out so to speak. In ways I think I'm using the financial downturn and reduction in household income as an excuse to go back to my boring office job full-time. For if I have to work full-time I have an excuse for not writing as much and so cannot challenge myself with that horrible self-doubt and procrastination that appears to be my constant companion.

Since my ghost-writing project ended I have found it extraordinarily hard to get back into my own fiction writing. Nothing is ...satisfactory. I don't know that I have anything to offer the grand canon of Irish literature, even in the commercial fiction genre, although I know that it is only the marketing departments in publishing houses and booksellers who insist on 'genres', for most writers a piece of work is either well-written or not. My writing ( on the basis of the comments in the rejection slips to my novel) apparently straddles commercial and literary fiction.

But it is the only way I know how to write. I write the stuff I like to read. Stories, stories about people, about how they feel in certain situations about them getting through each day no matter what, about the high days and holidays, the days of mourning and weeping. About life with a very little 'l'. Like most of our lives. Am I depressing you? Well I am me, so I'm off for a walk in the cold winter's night and maybe I'll come up a solution to my dilemma - although I doubt it because it's like everyone else's dilemma, Life with the big ell.

'Twas a big night

I love that phrase and it is the correct one to use about the launch of Rebecca De Havalland’s book ‘His Name Is Rebecca’. It was my privilege to work with Rebecca on her book and we have become firm friends, friends for life.

The book launch was in the lovely Bellini Bar in the Burlington and Rebecca’s family and friends, my family, neighbours and friends and the odd aul’ celeb stuck their heads in over the night. The extraordinary Maria Tecce sang ‘Amazing Grace’ and brought the house down. What a voice! Then Rebecca took to the stage and although she didn’t ‘do the norm’-she never does- and read from the book, she gave a beautiful speech and touched the hearts and quite probably souls of every person in that room. I felt incredibly proud of her, she has come so far and in such an intense cathartic way over the last year and I was honoured to be part of that process. It was like witnessing a birth – a moment of magic after all the hard grind.

Later in the night some of the gang were heading to Lillie’s Bordello to continue the celebrations. It’s not my scene and was way past my leaba time but Jemser decided he would like to have a look at it. He arrived home at two a.m. and I was drinking tay and writing to beat the band.
‘Well’ sez I. ‘D’ye enjoy your night?’
‘I did’ sez he , falling onto the bed, ‘Jesus, Bolly in Guinness is lovely’
‘What’s Bolly?’
‘Bollinger, woman!! Champagne .’

Champagne in Guinness! Well Holy God - what is the country coming to, he used to kill me for putting a drop of blackcurrant in a glass of Guinness many moons ago.
‘Tis no wonder the country’s in the state it’s in – aul’ fellas in nightclubs drinking quare drinks and ogling young wans. It’ll draw the rain on us so ‘twill.

Now, onto my next project…..

Two more sleeps.........................!!

Only TWO!! more sleeps to the launch of ‘His Name Is Rebecca.’! Really looking forward to it, Rebecca is a very, very special human being – actually I think she might be an angel in disguise - and I hope the book does well for her. She thinks I’m the Virgin Mary in drag so together we make a formidable team!

This will be a guna nua event and much to the horror of my female relatives and friends I have it down to a choice between two outfits, one from Dunnes for 20 euro or one from Littlewoods for 49 euro. It would be against my personal religion to spend cash on a fancy guna I’ll only wear once. They’re both cheaper than my wedding dress was (59 euro – TK Maxx). And if they all don’t stop nagging me about it I’ll turn up in me velour tracksuit – so CIUNAS!!(I can't do fadas on this keyboard)

Now I went a bit mad on the shoes and have it down to three pairs all under 40 euro cheapest pair were 4 euro in Dunnes – but too high I think - very very sexy though. What is it about shoes, why do we love them so much?

If ye are about Dublin on Thursday evening stick your head into the Bellini Bar in the Burlington and say hi. Alternately buy the book and let me know what you think. In shops from Wednescday 1st or from poolbeg.com or Amazon. I’ll blog about the night when it is all settled down.

I am inordinately proud of both Rebecca and myself. Pat on the back to us both. We rock!!!!!!!

It's all go...........

Life has become a little frenetic and will be over the next fortnight or so. I'm helping out in Fighting Words this week , running around getting school books, uniforms (free education me eye!) and then getting all pepped up for the launch of 'His Name Is Rebecca' next week. The launch is in the Bellini Bar of the Burlington at 6.30pm, Sept 2nd - pop in if you're in town, it should be a good night - lots of little surprises lined up. I really hope this book goes well for Rebecca - she deserves huge credit for being brave enough to tell her story and then coping with all the publicity and media stuff that will go with it. Rebecca rocks!

Then I was longlisted for two comps for two of my stories - that's always nice, that little boost telling you you're on the right path.`I spent a delightful hour or two in Charlie Byrnes bookshop in Galway when we drove down to read the longlist for one competition. What a find! I could happily spend hours in it - except I'd bankrupt the family!

I had to go shopping for a guna and girly shoes for the launch - I dread shopping because I'm such a big heap and I refuse to spend what my female friends call 'real money' on something I will only wear once. So I got two outfits from which I will choose on the night plus the shoes for the grand total of €89 - low maintenance woman, me!The Late Late show has been confirmed so I can wear the second guna to that. Hope they have good prizes for the audience that night!

A book with words in it by me!!!!!!!!

Just got word that 'His Name Is Rebecca' will hit the shops August 27th-28th. I almost cried when I got the news. I feel like my 'labour' is nearly over, my baby is on the way and it'll all be over soon. All my anxieties, fears etcetera over and it wasn't half as painful as I thought it would be. Or maybe I've already forgotten the tearing my hair out, throwing the laptop at the window phase - as I forgot labour No. 1 until labour No. 2 started. I reckon we would all be only children only Nature does us a favour and blocks out the memory of the pain until it starts all over again!

Like pregnancy the book started with excitement, enthusiasm and pleasure and like labour it comes to an end with a wearier pleasure that becomes a great joy.

My job is done. Now all I have to do is rear the baby/flog the book!

Thumb twiddlin'

I don’t know what to be doin’ with meself (Hiberno-English for time on one’s hands).

The ghost-written project, on which I have spent the last three months of my life, finally toddled off to the editor over the week-end. I heaved a sigh of relief, hit send on my e-mail and then looked around at the rubbish-heap my home had become.

I heard Anne Enright speak once at a writers festival and someone asked her where she had found the time to write before she became well-established enough to go at it full-time.

‘I didn’t clean my oven,'she said.

I thought this admirable advice and took it to heart when I agreed to take on ‘His Name Is Rebecca’. I had to keep at the paid employment going – as my children refuse to stop eating- and felt obliged to do certain things like washing clothes, cooking meals and communicating with my offspring beyond a Neanderthal grunt.

And do ye know what?

The house didn’t fall down, the male personages with whom I share my living quarters didn’t notice the chaos and I got quite used to stepping over piles of discarded clothing, newspapers, books, musical instruments, misplaced trainers and sports equipment, coats etcetera etcetera.

Then when I finally lifted my eyes from the laptop on Saturday last I shrieked in dismay and felt like hibernating until June. Because now I had to do it all, three months worth of cleaning, hoovering, polishing, washing.

And do y'know what again?

I did it all in a couple of hours.

Now I’m wondering what in the name of all that’s unholy have I spent the last forty odd years of my life doing? From the recesses of memory I have dragged a poem about an old woman who spent her life moaning about all the work keeping a house entailed, about how she valiantly battled against all dirt dust and assorted detritus that living brings. Then ‘she lay down and died, and was buried in dirt’. I thought it was a Padraic O Conaire poem but can’t verify that. A prize to the person who can tell me who penned the poem.

And I won’t even be buried in dirt. I have left strict instructions to be burned in a grass coffin, ashes into a jamjar and then the ashes scattered from said jamjar from the One Man’s Pass on Sliabh Liag (panoramic view of same above). If all instructions are not followed I will come back to haunt them – and I always keep my word.

But then I got a great idea for a YA novel – well, I think it’s great. So I can happily stop doing housework and scribble away. I ain’t ready for the crematorium yet!