Back In The Saddle...

 

I came out to my she-shed for the first time in eleven months this morning - to write. There were Miss Havisham like cobwebs all around my desk and chair. I did battle with them and evicted the spiders before I cleared the desk of ten months of detritus and unread books. Yesterday a visit to my brother and his beautiful family brought me a character –Erica Gilhooley. She is fully formed with a great back story and she has a marvellous tale about An Extraordinary Thing that happened to her family during 2020’s Covidy Christmas. It’s a middle grade book and it is flying out of me.

This is why I write.

This feeling - the buzz you get when a character comes and takes you by the hand on a merry walk. There is NO feeling like it.  It’s better than driving. Better than sex. It’s even better than chocolate! I call this feeling freedom and I think most of us experience it when we do something we love. Something we know we’re good at.  

I laughed out loud twice at my narrator’s cheeky sense of fun in Chapter 1 and the love she shows for her family is second to none. I know no-one else might laugh but I'm having fun with her. This part of the writing process has nothing to do with me and I think many writers will agree. I just sit here and give my characters permission to arrive, to dance from my fingers to the screen. During my eleven-month drought of words I dabbled in picture books and crap poems. My adult prose had dried up completely. I was 35k into a novel and I hated ( understood but hated) one of my characters for his weakness. I’m writing  in various voices and writing his chapters really depresses me. I get so angry with him. I started this novel three years ago and I know it’s not as bad as I think it is. But neither is it as good as I want it to be! I loved writing picture books, they are very hard to write as they are for THE most discerning audience in the world – under 6s and their parents. I have three picture books out circling the globe looking for the right publisher and illustrators. If they ever get to print yiz are all invited to the book launchs!

I started to write around the time my husband took up golf. That is two decades ago. We both needed something to replace pints in our lives! Writing just ‘clicked’ with me – it was liking walking into a room and finding people who finally understood me. Jemser loves the camaraderie of the golf course and being out in the air but he gets totally disillusioned with his game.

 ‘It’s a whoor of a game’ he’ll claim after a bad back nine, tossing his golf clubs aside. This happens regularly. 

I pointed out that even Rory McElroy allowed himself to cry when interviewed about The Ryder Cup 2021. He had a bad day. I bet Ann Enright, John Boyne and other brilliant writers have torn her hair out at times with their characters, having bad days. I read Liz Nugent giving out to her character recently on Twitter when she had written several thousand words and the bitch was still alive!

Writing is a whoor of a hobby. I genuinely feel for published professional authors -each book they launch has to be as good as their previous book. Nothing else (barring kids) has given me so much pleasure and so much frustrated pain. Like The Jemser with his golfclubs I throw writing that isn’t working (I have four half written novels) along with my laptop, pencils, and blank creamy paper aside and wander off to pastures new. 

Mind you it would help if I finished things!

 Losing heart in a project and procrastination are as much a part of writing as rewriting is. It’s certainly true for me. I’m a bit like the Mayo GAA team. At my core I don’t believe in myself – and I HAVE to. If I don’t like what I write then neither could anyone else. The boredom will show on the page. The moments of inspiration and euphoria are brief (and exhausting) and do not replace hard work and application to the craft. I’m easily distracted too and the WorldWideWeb is a curse. I go to research something and end up down a rabbit hole with shag all on the page to show for my day.

 

So.  I’m setting myself targets on this middle grade novel – a minimum of 6000 words a week. If I can do that I will have a first draft in six weeks. Then it’ll go into a drawer. Then rewritten by me and sent to an editor. I use purplecrayonediting for my children’s work and Storyline Literary Agency for adult prose. Both editors are excellent and I highly recommend them.

To aspiring writers -it is worth paying to have your MS edited by a professional before you start submitting. There are millions of books already in the world and every story must earn its place. When I write Erica Gilhooley's world I will read mainly middle grade or YA fiction. It taps into the work. Close reading of the genre you are writing is essential as is reading widely. I have two middle-grade novels on the go at the moment – reading one and listening to another. Reading poetry helps me with the rhythm of sentences and paragraphs. Reading crime is great for plot. Reading other well-written fiction takes my mind off my own characters once I have my word count for the day done. Writers learn from other writers and most importantly from readers. Forget about the market. Write passionately in the voice of your characters. See 'Shuggy Bain', 'Iron Annie' and 'The Catcher in The Rye' for brilliant narrators.

Above all never ever give up. BELIEVE!!

The Incredible Tale of MeejahLittle...AGAIN

I wrote this is 2011 when as a nation we were bludgeoned to depression by the steady drip feed of negativity as one media outlet after another tried to outdo themselves in the blame game. The hoo-haw over the perceived spat between Nephet and the Government yesterday reminded me of it. All parties involved are adults. All parties involved are trying to do their jobs to the best of their abilities. I'm leaving all social media, news sites, radio and tv news and switching to books and music and one daily nesapaper for the rest of the winter. One feed of 'news' a day is enough for anyone. We are as a nation talked out. We need to hould our whisth and have a big coladh samh. This will pass. And in the meantime yiz can contemplate the Tale of Meejah Little.

Well, MeeJahLittle was running around in Mad Money's garden enjoying flowers and fruits not his when an apple dropped from a tree and fell on his head. The apple was overblown, scabby, filled with worms and such and had to fall. 

MeeJahLittle didn't wait around to work this out - off he ran shrieking to find MeeJahBig.

'Oh! MeejahBig' he said, 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'
'Why how do you know?' asked MeejahBig
'Didn't I hear it with my own ears and see it with my own eyes and part of it fell on my head!'shrieked MeejahLittle.
'Oh Lord! Come then, let us run as fast as we can,' said MeejahBig. And off they ran to find MeejahBigger .

'MeejahBigger! MeejahBigger! The sky is falling, the sky is falling,' screeched MeejahsLittleandBig
'How do you know?' asked MeejahBigger.
'Well, MeejahLittle told me!' squawked MeejahBig 
'And I saw it with my own eyes and heard it with my own ears and part of it fell on my head. Twice,' shrieked MeejahLittle
'Lord save us!' cried MeejahBigger, 'We must run as fast as we can.'. And off they ran 'til they found MeejahBiggerAgain.

'Oh! MeejahBiggerAgain,' they caterwauled 'the sky is falling, the sky is falling!'
'How do you know' gasped MeejahBiggerAgain.
'Why MeejahsBigAndLittle told me' cried MeejahBigger.
'MeejahLittle told me' squawked MeejahBig.
'And I saw it with my own eyes heard it with my own ears, part of it fell on my head twice and then rolled along my back.' shrieked MeejahLittle

'Lord between us and all harm!We must run, we must run!' harumphed MeeJahBiggerAgain. And they ran and they ran until they found MeeJahNormous

.
'MeeJahNormous!MeeJahNormous!The sky is falling, the sky is falling!' they all roared
'How do you know?'queried MeeJahNormous
'MeeJahsLittleToBigger told me!' harumphed MeejahBiggerAgain
'MeeJahsLittleToBig told me too' cried MeeJahBigger
'MeeJahLittle told me first' squawked MeejahBig
'And I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears, part of it crashed down TWICE on my head THEN rolled along my back and THEN fell on my toe.' shrieked MeeJahLittle.

'We better tell the people on the edge' decided MeeJahNormous. 'It's our duty.'

So they all ran as fast as they could to tell the people on the edge. And the people on the edge all ran over the edge screaming
 'The sky is falling, the sky is falling' and then fell down, down, down  into the abyss.

 And all this from the foolish shrieking of MeeJahLittle.

The End

Tara - Seat of The High Kings

In the deep gentle silence of Co. Meath lies Tara; a royal place, a sacred place, a special place for us Celts since roughly 4,000 years BC.

To my eternal shame I did not visit Tara until today, despite my stepdaughters and their children having such a huge reverence and regard for the place that some of their mother’s ashes were scattered from The King’s Seat (don’t tell the OPW!). One of those grandchildren is named Cormac, in honour of Cormac Mac Airt – High King of the legends. Cormac's Nana Muireann battled valiantly - as valiantly as Queen Mebd would have battled, to prevent a motorway destroying the landscape around this sacred ground. My maternal family lore has it that we are descendants of Gormflaith who was married briefly to Brian Boru (941 -1014), known as Emperor of The Gaels and one of the more recent High Kings. Gormflaith has gone down in history as being 'utterly wicked.' Maybe that's why we never talked about her!

So, armed with these connections to Tara, it being a beautiful morning, and daylight saving gifting us a fictitious extra hour I felt it a good day to visit; particularly as we approach Samhain – the Gaelic festival that celebrates the end of harvest and the move into the darker half of the year. Samhain is a time for ghouls and ghosts, witches and wonders, it is a time when it was believed Aos Si (spirits or fairies) could move with greater ease from their world into ours (if you are a gaeilgeoir please excuse my lack of fadas). I met none of these beings on my gentle amble around the site, given Gormflaith's reputation I'd rather not meet her spirit!

 I did meet some imps from England, Dublin and Northern Ireland though - who gloried in running up and down the slopes of Tara.One little chap, Henry - aged about three, ambled about the top of The King's Seat and enjoyed himself in the muddiest puddle I’ve ever seen. His older siblings and cousins looked on in envy; Henry being the only one sensible enough to be shod in wellies. I’m sure the dead buried here were delighted; children’s laughter should ring out everywhere to remind us we are yet quick and that we should live, live, live while we can.

I stayed for about an hour, walking, contemplating the beauty and thinking of my own dead. The men and women buried in Tara are in my DNA – maybe in only the tiniest molecule, but still part of me. It is said we die twice – first when the physical body stops working and secondly the last time someone says our name. To that I’d pose a third possibility – perhaps we are actually immortal, as some tiny bit of us goes forward – in our brothers and sisters, cousins, sons and daughters, in family.

Enough philosophizing and talking pure shite!

Seriously, if you have a chance over the coming week take your children and loved ones to Tara, let them run and play, kick a ball or have a few pucks with hurl and sliotair. The interpretive centre is closed but there is a lovely coffee shop beside the site.

You’ll come away feeling thoughtful and rejuvenated.

 Promise.

 https://hilloftara.com/

Chapter Two - 'The Letters'...........(title credit to Barbara Hegarty!)

Right. So. 

I left here yesterday and posted a link on Facebook to the blog on Grandad’s letter to Mam for her 21^st. My lovely cousin, Lisa Connolly, daughter of Mam’s sister – Norah, read the blog and my comment on FB that I had nothing with my mother’s writing on it.

 Lisa informed me she had a letter Mammy wrote her when Lisa was living in San Francisco. The letter is dated March 14^th 1991. Six days before Mammy died.  When Lisa read the letter in San Francisco Mammy was dead, and Lisa read it in the company of Phyllis Glynn, a great friend of Mam’s, who had travelled to SF to spend time with her son.

Lisa couldn’t rest easy after she told me about the letter. My excitement was palpable on FB. And an excited Evelyn is an unstoppable force of Nature!  Up into the attic with my lovely, lovely Lisa and she retrieved the letter. Read it. Bawled for all that was lost. She told me to P.M. her my address. I told her not to post it, I was terrified anything would happen to it. I had to have it, to hold Mammy between my fingers again.

I couldn’t sleep, so pottered around the house – a little writing, a little reading, a lot of thinking. 

When the clock reached 7.30 a.m. I hopped into the car and drove the twenty odd miles to Lisa’s house, much of it down a winding country road (where bloody truckers don’t think the ‘dip your headlights’ rule applies to them). When I got near the house I realised it was probably a bit too early to have mad relatives dropping in for breakfast so I pulled into a service station and checked Facebook to see if there was anyone stirring in Lida’s house. Yes! She ‘liked’ a post of mine so she was up. I drove the last few miles and rang the doorbell. Lisa has three gorgeous children all early to mid teens and three magnificent LARGE dogs. I had them all as wound up as meself!

Lisa produced ‘the letter’ and let me hold it. She forbid me to open and read it until we both had a cup of tea in front of us.

Mammy’s sloping left-handed writing  on the envelope. I sniffed it. I could SMELL her! The unmistakeable smell of  talc. Of love. Of caring. Oh Sweet Jesus Tonight!

I could feel her energy between my fingers. Lisa’s daughters were going mad. The school bus was due and they weren’t going to get to see my reaction when I read 'the letter'. Just as I opened the envelope and unfolded  three A4 ruled, feint and margin, foolscap pages pages the bus arrived and the girls had to leg it. They wer raging – they didn’t get to take snaps. So I promised a detailed account. Here yiz are.

I started to read it aloud and my voice caught. 

   ‘Don’t read it aloud if you can’t’ said Lee.

    ‘No, I have to. I have to hear her in the room.’ I read on.

Here is the transcribed text of the letter plus the original document 

                                                                                                                   Bons Secours Hosp.

                                                                                                               (S.W.)Ballymun Glasnevin Hill

(Dad’s writing for Ballymun and Hill)

14^th March ‘91

Dear Lisa,

How are you chicks? I believe you are away on holidays but by the time Phyllis gets to you - you’ll be back.

            Well here I am back in hospital – but you’re not to worry ‘cause I’m fine and coming on – it has nothing to do with the tumours. My head is marvellous – not an ache or pain. But my breathing is desperate. My lungs and chest are all congested and I sound like a train with all the wheezing and whistling. Judy was sitting beside me the other night and she says (sic) “Jesus – name that tune in 3.” You know Judy’s sense of humour.

            Lisa wants to know if I’m in for an oiling.

            But all joking aside, I’m in great form and that’s the main thing and Lisa – I’m not depressed and I don’t care about anything physical, as long as I’m not suffering from depression. As long as I live I’ll never forget the ten weeks of hell at Christmas and before and after it. It was like being in a deep black pit, that I couldn't get out of. I know it was terrible for everyone – it was the worst Christmas we all ever must have had (sic) – however its all behind us now – T.G. and pray it will never come back.

            I discovered a lovely saint, his name is St. Peregrine – he’s the patron saint of cancer sufferers and he’s working miracles in my life. Say a little prayer each day  to him Lisa, and spread his devotion for me. Nobody here heard of him. I’m trying to get you his leaflet and believe me he was no saint in the beginning, he did terrible things – but in the latter part of his life became a cancer victim himself and there are wonderful miracles attributed to him.

            Phyllis will fill you in on all the family news. Judy and Bill hae bough a house out in Killbarrack(sic) – and the final signing is 30^th april. She’s delighted. It’s a grand house – I think it was £42,000, so another one for the high jump.

            Evelyn has moved in with Jim and they have rented a house out in Lucan.

            Aisling is home during the week and stays with Owen (sic) at weekends, so little by little they are finally making lives for themselves. T. G.

Me sons, well I just can’t get rid of them. They don’t know haow to boil any eggs. However they’ll learn bloody fast – can you ever see any of them starving.

Seamus is still ‘my hero’ the auld ‘boll---‘ is doing everything for me as I’ve got a lot weaker.

I’d say our Phyllis will have a ball. Her little new house is gorgeous. Ideal for herself and John. She ha had a few ding-dongs in it but unfortunately I haven’t been able to go as the night time I’m too shagged to go anywhere.

My bedtime is 9.30.

I’m not going to close this letter as I’ll jot down other little bits od info. As the days go on. I’m going to give Phyllis this note on Thursday.

_________________________________________________

By the way I saw ‘Beaches’ on Sunday, Louise myself and Lisa watched it on video, well the 3 of us laughed and cried our way through it. I thought it was one of the best films I’d ever seen. I just love Bette Midler.

(switches to Dad’s writing)

            Just came in to see ‘Big Mama.’ She asked me to add a P.S. So this is it +P.S.

Seamus

(overleaf)

Thursday

Lisa, have to close as Phyllis is collecting this. Love to Mary and baby abnd she is gorgeous and of course Noel. I’m mad about my chopping boards. Judy has her eye on one but she can F off.

Love Liz

I love you

So there you are. I got Mammy back today. That is the power of the written word. I could hear her, see her in my mind's eye arguing with Dad over whether the hospital was Glasnevin or Ballymun. yanking the letter back from him and saying 'Now, see what you made me do,' at the little tear on page three. I could smell her.

Write something tonight for someone you love. shove it in a drawer. In years to come they will unearth it and you will be back with them. It is said we die twice. Once when our physical body ceases breathing, and again when our name is uttered for the last time.

 Elizabeth Kennedy Walsh 1937 -1991 will live here until d'Internet explodes. And some night, somewher in our little planet an idlly surfing finger will click in and Liz will leap off the page - fully formed again - her laughing living lovely self.

We love you Mam. 

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Evelyns..........

I was supposed to have a perfect day. I had it all planned. I had stepgranddaughter#1&only this morning so decided to take her with me to the National Crafts & Design Fair in Dublin's RDS where I wanted to vist the stall of the wonderful http://siobhancoxcarlossilks.com/ . Siobhan is a fabulously talented artist and was selling her hand-painted silk scarves at the Fair.

I meticulosly planned my route and my timing. However the RDS was jammers, there were UCD exams on there and Funderland had started as well, so traffic was slow and parking hard to find.  I readjusted my schedule and knew I'd have a max of forty minutes at the fair. A lovely lady gave me a spare free pass she had, and myself and Cara took the lift to the balcony and found Siobhan. I couldn't believe how many beautiful stalls there were and the quality of the work on display was second to none. Prices were very reasonable and I only wish I'd had more time and money to spend.

Anyway I bought myself a Christmas present of one of Siohan's scarfs and of course got her to drape it properly around my neck - never got the hang of dressing myself properly. Another lovely artist friend Anne Wingfield was there too and it was great to see them both. Cara had been brilliant in the car and buggy but was getting restless at that stage, so I parked the buggy and took her out and gave her my fingers to balance herself as she paraded up and down the balcony, drawing smiles from everyone. We stopped to chat to a few people and she roared her 'Scary Cara' at them all, much to their feigned fright and her amusement. Cara charms all round her and is the light in our lives. I reinstalled her in the buggy and we took our leave of Siobhan and Anne.

On the way into the fair I had spotted a lovely 'Make your own...' kit and stopped to treat myself again. This is their website and their stuff is really lovely, great gift for anyone who loves crafty things www.hamiltonbear.ie. Cara and I chatted to the lovely ladies on the stall as they wrapped my purchase. One of them had an eleven month old daughter so we compared notes! Fair play to her for starting up her own business with a young family. Next year I am doing no Christmas shopping until i visit the fair. And I'm going to spend a whole day there.

Out to find the car again and I knew I was cutting it fine to get back to Swords for a school pick-up at 1.30pm. I rang my charges's mother to explain and to see if she could do the pick-up. As it happens she was going to his school play so was going to collect him and take him for a McDonalds as a reward so I wasn't needed until about 2.15. Great, I could relax - although Cara must be hungry as it was past her lunch time. Anyway...whatever move I made...I took a wrong turn and got totally, hopelessly lost. I kept trying to find signs for the airport or the M50 and went round and round in circles.

I ended up over at St James Hospital and pulled in on a street behind it to ring the Jemser. I hate ringing the Jemser if I'm lost, he invariably asks 'how did you end up there?' It is such a stupid effin' question. If I knew how I did it I wouldn't have done it!Although my track record for getting lost is second to none. I once went to Kerry via Gort (??!!) and on another occasion ended up in Claregalway on the way home from Knock to Dublin. Hopeless case.
'Howrya. Listen, took a wrong turn and am lost, need to get to Swords by two.'
'Where are ye?'
'I'm at the back of St James Hospital'
'How the hell did you end up there? Where at the back. St James is huge?'
Stepdaughter #2 overhears his end of conversation and almost had heart failure thinking her baby is in hospital.
'I can't see a street sign.'
'Move on and when you find a street sign ring again. Are you heading North or South?'
'Jesus Jim, how long are you living with me? How the hell do I know?'
'Where's the sun?'
I looked out
'Behind a shaggin' cloud. I'll move and ring again.'
'What about (names charge).'
'Salright, I've been in touch with his Mam.'
'Right'
'Right'

Pulled out again and found a street whose name I knew,  then started following a bus whose number I knew would lead me in right direction - I thought. Didn't think it was going North to South instead of vice versa. To make a very long story shorter I ended up in Terenure before I managed to find the M50. I fianlly got back to Swords two hours and forty minutes after I'd left the RDS. The journey, even with traffic, should take no more than 45 minutes.

I had been in contact with my charge's mother and she had taken him into the office with her. However I had to drive up to my house firsr, deliver Cara to her Mam, switch to my car because my family needed Jemser's car as it has the baby seat in it and Jemser had to bring Mam and Cara home. 'Cept my car wasn't there. The Jemser had gone off shopping in it. I dumped me baba with her mama and raced back down the town to collect me charge in his car.

Up to his house then and couldn't fine housekey. I swear I was ready to cry. So I stopped, took ten deep breaths and looked for key again - I found it. Rest of afternoon went smoothly and I was glad when the

A Grand Day.............(rather a long post - make coffee!)

I should be boll**ed. I am boll**ed, but despite that and a few stiff brandies before I went to bed my mind wouldn't shut down so here I am typing shite to the world again. Isn't the Internet wonderful? 'Tis for the likes of me - most people I know are far too busy with their own lives to be bothered listening to me waffle on at the speed of light about things they have absolutely no interest in, and at a time when they would far rather be sleeping or reading or watching TV. They want to waffle on to me about things I have absolutely no interest in - albeit at a slower pace than my manic gabbling. So now us 'tell our life story to the bus conductor - if he'd listen' types can all sit up in the middle of the night and shoot the breeze with a screen, unburdening our souls without fear of getting three Hail Marys, an Our Father and possibly a lecture, or have to notice a glazed look coming into the eye of our reader. We bore nobody because nobody is obliged to read us and we can rest easy when we've said it all.
             I work a lot with children and you really see it in them, this need to be listened to, to be taken seriously, to be comforted and told it'll all be ok and you should never be afraid to talk to someone - someone somewhere will listen, will care, will help you. That feeling doesn't go away as we grow, we manage it better, become more self-sufficient and are able for the most part to deal with the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' but we all need a listening ear at various stages in life. That's why I am so glad I write. It is the medium in which I best express myself - without worrying about the reader's/listener's reaction. I'll never know many of those who read me (yes family, I do have the odd reader outside of you!)  and those who do know me know me well enough to understand where I'm coming from as I write.
            I digress. My Grand Day. On Thursday I spotted a piece online about open auditions in Galway for bit parts and extras in an upcoming movie starring Gabriel Byrne. I brought it to the Jemser's attention and suggested he should go for it. He decided he would and then I said
            'What the hell. I'll do it too. We'll have a big day out.' So we did. It was an eerie trip down early Saturday morning as there were patches of quite heavy fog about. I hadn't driven in fog before and must admit it was a bit of a strain. Anyway it had lifted before we got to Galway and we found the Connacht Hotel easily. Busy spot. Some Welsh rugby team, whose name escapes me but who were playing Connacht in the afternoon were staying at the hotel so between them and their entourage and supporters there was plenty of activity. That and the auditions, various other meetings and functions and the usual Saturday traffic to the swimming pool and gym meant there was plenty to look at and listen to. Gosh, I love people watching. Can you do a degree in it? I'd go all the way to PhD if there was!
                 We filled in the form for HoodUp Productions and gave them to the nice young man at the desk, then took a seat on a comfy couch nearby, well - the first one was too comfy for our aul' bones , Jemser remarked that getting out of it was like getting out of a bog-hole! So we settled for the second, firmer, sedate leather couch aimed at we elder lemons. We got chatting to two young actresses just starting out on their careers who availed of our vacated bog-hole sofa, they were really interesting women. Fair play, they are involved in a theatre comapny a few of them set up - the name escapes me but will plug it when I remember it and see one of their productions. They're also writing a play themsleves , about young gay love between two women in Poland after WW2 aimed at the Dublin Gay Theatre Festival 2016 - great concept and I wish them well with it.
                 I told them we had no idea what the movie we were auditioning for was about (we didn't prpare ourselves at all!) so they filled us in. It's a horror film about a man who returns to Connemara to teach in a rural school and doesn't realies the house he has taken was the scene of several unexplained deaths. Strange things happen and it looks like his daughter may be possessed. Oooooh! On hearing this I decided to change my audition piece. I had intended to perform the famous 'To be, or not to be' soliloquoy from Hamlet but given that the movie was scary decided that the piece where Hamlet talks to his father's ghost for the first time might be better. I'd have loved to record it on the voice changer on my phone and set the change to 'ghost' but...maybe not!
                    We only had to wait about an hour before we were called.I was nervous so asked the Jemser could I go first. He never gets nervous and was happy with the speech from 'The Rainmaker' that I had suggested he read as his audition piece. So - in I went. I've never done this type of audition before so wasn't sure of the protocol so - what the hell - I just was myself. I walked in and shook hands with the four people in the room. Apparently one doesn't do that. Two professional looking sophisticated people one male, one female and two other men who (sorry lads) were more the arty farty end of things, one was a cameraman anyway and the other chap - who did most of the talking, could be a director/writer or something. Of course my form was half arsed. I had mentioned amateur productions I did twenty years ago which they read as me being involved in amateur theatre for twenty years. I corrected him to their amusement and my mortification. I forgot to mention Her Majesty, The Story Queen until the last minute, so had scribbled a bit about her on the end of the form. I neglected to put down my only involvment in a professional piece - Internal Terrains in the Project Arts Centre with the wonderful Natash Davis. The chap who was asking most of the questions thought he knew her and when I mentioned Natasha's boyfriend, a wonderful American musician who I said looked like an exclamation mark they all roared laughing. So far so good. The man said I was lovely and bubbly. No one ever called me bubbly before. I thought bubbly was small and slim and had blondy curls, or small and luscious with good teeth and shiny wavy black hair. I am neither of those people so it's nice to know I have my own large and heavy glowering bubbliness!
              I read my piece to the camera, I tried to tone my dramatic delivery down as I've only ever played Hamlet on stage, but not sure how it went. It was a pity I didn't have the piece verbatim as one loses facial expression when one has to read. But I did give the camera a glance or two. I'm not photogenic but you never know I might have a face that fits some mad aul' bat they want for their movie! I don't think they clapped when I finished - there was a silence and I'm not sure if it was a good or a bad silence. Jemser thinks he heard a clap from his perch outside the door. But what odds . Out I came and in went his lordship. From the laughter I heard through the door and the clap at the end he did really well. They told him he had a great face - which he does and his voice and delivery are great.
             I'd really, really, really love to see him getting something in this  movie. I have my writing as  a creative outlet, his singing and playing guitar is his -he claims he's not creative, he's an interpreter;  but he should have been an actor, he is really good. Life got in the way however and we both opted for the security of public service jobs to rear children and pay the mortgage. We have no real regrets about this; things were different in the Eighties, I wouldn't have thought 'being an actor' was a career option and we had neither the connections nor the education to even attempt life as professionals. Although funny enough my dearest friend from my school days told me at my book launch two years ago that I always said I wanted to be a writer or an actor - imagine I just forgot that! Jim and I kept our love of drama fed with regular visits to theatre over the years and taking part in the odd amateur production when it suited family life. The actor Don Wycherly knows Jemser well and he agrees it would be lovely to see 'The General' on screen (long story - y'had to be there!).
              I was buzzing after our auditions, we wished our new found friends the young actresses well and hit the road for the big smoke. We had a grand aul' chat on the way home. Despite the fact we're both retired we rarely spend much time together - and if we're both home he tends to be in one room inventing YouTube while I'm pottering about, knitting, or quilt-making or reading or writing. When you're stuck in a car together you tend to chat. I often forget what an easy conversationalist Jemser is - mainly because, when at home in a routine, we all tend to say the same six things over and over (I have a list of his six things!)
            We collected stepgrandaughter#1andonly en route and brought her home for an overnight. the poor little mite is teething and has a cold so is a little clingy and fretful. She only wanted her Nanny's lap and couldn't sit still even there, so I was moithered trying to find things to amuse her. I pulled out a little box of nursery rhyme board books and she was fascinated by them. I read them ad nauseum until I got bored (no pun intended!) and tried to distract her with a toy. She was having none of it. She picked up 'Humpty Dumpty' and placed it very definitely in my hands. So I read it agian. I stopped and she did it again. Time after time she picked it or 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' up and did the same thing. The books are both predominantly yellow, a colour she favours but I don't care why she picked those particular books, Cara wanted me to read to her. She is one year old. So now I will select books for her to read, I'll read and read to her until she is old enough to pick her own reading material, then old enough to able to disappear into a book for hours at a time. By giving her the gift of words I give her the world. I envy her the joy of her journey - the slowly dawning realization that she need never be alone when she has a good book.
             After she went to bed I had two nice brandies - I thought they might help me sleep. Not a chance. After my grand day I had not a hope in hell of sleeping unless I was pissed and passed out, and I rarely do pissed and passing out anymore, thank the Universe. I heard the wonderful Anthony Cronin on the radio earlier talking about his latest poetry collection. He mentioned something about energy creating energy and I can so relate to that. When I'm writing or doing anything creative I am completely absorbed in I seem to make more energy for myself , but it is an energy that must be utilised when it is created. I should really only start to write in the early morning - that way I have some chance of winding down before bedtime. But I find it difficut to write during the day, there are constant interruptions, noise and stupid distractions like suddenly seeing some ridiculoushousehold chore that becomes stuidly important. At night, in the dead quiet of the house I can write freely, hypnotising myself with the sound of the clacking keyboard.

             Now! Look at all that blether what I wrote. If I was getting paid by the word I'd be minted! Head unburdened now - am off to the leaba with my lovely new book 'The Homesman' by Glendon Swarthout - a great read, movie very true to it so far. Brilliant movie BTW, if it doesn't pick up severla Oscars I'll give up going to the flicks. 'Night, 'night. x 

Blame the ManBooker and Blue M&Ms...............

Feck son#1 and the ManBooker 2014 shortlist. I was shattered, up since 6.30am and running around after kids all day long. I picked son#1 up from work at 7pm and he presented me with a big packet of peanut M&Ms. He never gives me little pressies so I was chuffed; but I’m cursing him now in the wee small hours of the morning. I’m a glutton y'see and I scoffed all those M&Ms – even the blue ones, despite remembering that people used to say that blue Smarties made kids hyper, but sure that was Smarties and my blue colouring was in M&Ms. Let me tell yiz now, blue colouring on ANY sweets can make you hyper!

So there I was, in the leaba since 10pm but me mind whizzing around with all those jumbled up thoughts that lie in wait until my body stops moving; then demand my undivided attention. Feck this, I thought, and switched on the light again. I discarded the dectectivey yoke I had been reading for the ManBoooker shortlisted Ali Smith 's- ‘How to be both’. I’ve tried to read the shortlist every year for the last few and don’t always succeed but I’m determined this year.

Anyway whatever chance I had of sleeping before I started to read I’d none after reading the first few pages. Jesus, I thought, this poor fella’s mind is like mine right now – and I bet there weren’t any blue M&Ms back in the late 15^th century. I’ve read that the book changes further in and can be read in two different ways so looking forward to more of it. I heard somewhere ‘some books you read for the story, others for the quality of the prose and sometimes, just sometimes, you can get both’. I think Ms Smith’s book may well be one of those books. Review to follow.

But then my eyes got tired and I can’t read when my eyes are tired so up I got – routed the Jemser from his snoring in front of the telly up to the bed and I changed the channel to ‘Alibi’. That and a couple of rows of knitting will lull my brain into a false sense of security and my body will take advantage and shut the grey cells down. Ye can’t beat  late night TV and the knitting for knocking you out. ‘Course I had to tell the world all about it first so I’ll maybe give my insomnia cure a half hour extra to work to counteracter this typing on a screen. If all else fails I’ll clean the house – now THAT is guaranteed to give me at least four hours kip!

On sunshine...actually no - it should be - 'On SunShine'...no, on SUN SHINE...............

What a week! The god-forsaken bog I live on has had four days of unbroken sunshine, blue skies and warmth. It's unprecedented - at least in short-term memory it's unprecedented; and we love it - we Irish becomes even more Irish when the sun shines - in Ireland only of course. I feel like I'm on holidays with all my neighbours. We're all rambling around in shorts and strappy tops and sandals - and that's only the men! Even the older lady who normally walks up the road wrapped up like Michelin Man has been spotted sitting outside her front door stripped down to cardigan, blouse and skirt and ...drumroll...NO TIGHTS!  

It started on bank holiday Monday - it was a gorgeous day after a disappointing Saturday and Sunday which were dry but dull and still a little chilly. So when I woke to the sun I plonked myself out the back garden with books and newpapers and read and dozed my way through the day. Well, that's what bank holidays are for. Then came Tuesday and whaddya know - the sun was still shining. Y'can't do any housework on a sunny day (Housewives Commandments No 5) so out to the garden again with me - this time I did actually take a break from sunbathing to walk the dog and cook a dinner (not at same time natch!). Wednesday - S.L.O.D.G -still sunny! I started to feel guilty over spending another day in the garden so bought a few plants and did a little weeding to ease my Irish Catholic guilty conscience over actually enjoying myself doing Sweet Fanny Adams.

Today is Thursday and I had an appointment to meet an illustrator in Malahide for a series of books I have planned for HRH The Story Queen. I couldn't believe it - the sun was still shining; I've decided it's shining because I decided not to go to the Continent on hols this year . God must've looked down and said 'That poor woman - I better send a few rays her way.'

I walked to Malahide; it was a beautiful morning to walk along the Estuary - drinking in the beauty of Nature on my doorstep. I got on like a house on fire with the illustrator - she's brilliant and on my wave-length so I think we may be poised for WORLD DOMINATION. Or at least 26 county saturation! I walked back to Swords after the meeting marveling to myself that this is now what I call work. Work! Hah!

Tomorrow I'm into Fighting Words in the a.m. and have a Story Queen date with a five year old in the p.m. Oh and yeah - the sun is supposed to shine all weekend as well........I may never leave Ireland again.

No more rushin' around.......

The beauty of early retirement is that for the first time in your life you have lots of time to do all the things you always said you wanted to do but never had either the time or the money. It can also be the worst thing. The cold gray short days in the six weeks after Christmas nearly drove me insane. I wasn't able to write and the course I wanted to do was delayed in starting up so I had a lot of time on my hands. I cleaned everything that stood still, then started on the things that move occasionally (the men in my life!). I read until my eyes were sore and found there is never anything but rubbish on the blasted screen in the corner. My hands started cramping from knitting and it was too wet and cold for me to garden - anyway there isn't much to do in that period. I even resorted to going to the gym.

Just when I thought I could stand it no more and was considering buying paint to paint walls that didn't particularly need painting Ireland did what Ireland always does; she threw me several days together of hard bright winter sunshine. O Joy! I got out of bed early every day and walked the feet off myself in all the lovely coastal villages that you find in Fingal, my favourite being the coastal path that runs from Malahide to Portmarnock. People were smiling at each other and I heard greetings of 'isn't it a grand day' and 'great day thank God' over and over again. I even managed to get some washing almost dried out in the fresh air! In February! They say a lot of medics take vitamin D pills all winter or use those seasonally affected disorder lamps to reduce the mental health problems that a shortage of daylight seems to cause. I think I'll follow that regime myself next year.

Anyway today I was walking in Rush, a lovely little seaside village that sits on the coastline. It was absolutely Baltic and as the library wasn't open when I finished my walk I stopped into a little restaurant and coffee shop called The Thatch on the main street. I was their only customer at that hour and I settled myself and my paper into a table by the fire. A friendly young man brought me a latte and a scone to die for. The scone was just out of the oven and of course I ladled on the butter, the jam and the double cream - thus negating the benefits (fat wise) of my brisk walk. I noticed that they had a good lunch and evening meal menu and I will certainly go back at some stage to sample those menus.

And so to the library to work. I'm working on a new ghost-writing project just now and a few short stories as I'm struggling with my second novel. I've put it to one side for the moment and may or may not go back to it - the beauty of being your own boss! The library closes for lunch which is a bit of a nuisance but I sat in my car and had a sandwich then went for another walk, calling into the charity shop where I picked up some more than serviceable garments, a cushion (don't tell Jemser - cushions do his head in) and a little giraffe ornament for my collection. The things people throw away! Lots of the clothes looked as if they had only been worn once or twice. This will be remembered as the throw-away period of history. Back for another few hours writing and a bit of a chat with a nice young man who, like me. had to leave his house in order to ensure he did some work. Didn't work though - we both ended up wasting time talking. Chats are lovely though and, yes, I know I'm not supposed to talk in the library!  

Diary of Liam (12 'n a 1/3) and Oscar (12 'n a 1/4) from Campo Sol in Torrevieja, Spain blog#1

We're back! Almost a year older and twice as brainy ( Evelyn says cheeky - but this is our blog, so....)

We decided as we're almost teenagers that a sun holiday should really be the thing this year. Not. We had no say in it. Shewhomustbeobeyed just tells us what the story is and that's that. She usually does an ok job on arrangements etc so we kinda trust her.

Anyway we left a VERY GREY Dublin this morning and arrived into a VERY GREY Alicante. Evelyn was not amused. And it even rained a little on the journey from the airport to the apartment complex. But it was really really warm so at least that sort of cheered her up. Actually how the hell can she be cheered up when she spent the whole plane ride reading a book called 'The Gravedigger's Daughter'? We asked her what it was about ( barring the obvious daughter of the gravedigger ) and she told us it was too depressing. After page 180 everyone belonging to the gravedigger's daughter was gone/dead and she was all alone in the world. PULLEESE! This woman is supposed to be on her holidays and she is reading about death, murder, violence, hatred insanity and the cruelty of human beings towards each other. And not even a drink in her hand to make it all easier to read about. She decided to abandon that book as not suitable to her frame of mind and instead tonight she is curled up reading ...wait for it... 'The Virgin Suicides'. We'd worry about her if we weren't already a little concerned for our own welbeing. We may have to pretend we are not with her at the pool.

Speaking of pools - the one in the complex is gorgeous. It's small but quite deep so we had great fun. We're in one apartment for tonight and tomorrow night and will be moving to our proper place on Wednesday SOMEONE MESSED UP THE ARRANGEMENTS. And it wasn't Liam. Or Oscar. But at least we're not in the hostel in downtown Alicante which is where the person who is supposed to be protecting us was trying to incarcerate us first. Jeez. We never would have slept.  The nice woman across the lane from us here ( with two lovely little dogs - a bichon and a maltese) was horrified that we even contemplated it. The apartment is nice - not as nice as our mobile last year but it is clean so the Mammy with us is reasonably satisfied.

Only drawback is it is about a fifteen minute walk across some waste ground to get to a supermarket and then we had to carry LOADS of shopping back with herself. Our arms were longer when we came home than they were when we went out and Oscar reckons he has blisters. Liam moaned for Ireland and Spain and HE HAD THE EASIEST JOB!! Evelyn wouldn't let us stay on our own in the apartment while she shopped - we won't be caught out on that one again!!

We expect our blogposts to have a certain adult tone this year. We are a year older you know and not as amused by childish things - like bodily functions (tee hee hee). We're sophisticated consumers now of course (like we weren't already). Liam bought a hat and Oscar a pair of sunglasses in Dublin airport. One must keep up appearances - even if it's only Evelyn we are with.

That poor bewildered woman hasn't a clue. Before dinner she landed down to the pool for a swim; she was in her togs but we had to point out to her that she still had her bra on under them. AND THEN she whipped the bloody thing off in FULL VIEW of the one other person that was there..and it was a maggoty old sweaty one.

JEEEEEEEEEEEZ! It's going to be a long week.

Let's get rid of people........

I’m quite sure that that’s what the banks, globalised industry and The Markets have decided. Or maybe it's just 'let’s get rid of the little people'. People who save money in jars. People who won’t use an automated coin counter because of the high commission rate. People who like to interact with other people. Me.

I saved over €300 in coins since Christmas – it is spending money for a week in the sun with son#2 and nephew supreme. A week away from Irish weather. We opened the stash and counted it, bagged it carefully and I set off to turn it into notes.

But.

My bank doesn’t ‘do’ cash. Not even as a lodgement. They have contracted all cash dealings to the Post Office. An Post can look after those plebs who sully their hands with coins and notes. Banks seem to operate for people who have so much money they don't need actual cash.   So I toddled off to my local Post Office where I was met by a machine with an automated menu from which one should choose a service. But changing coins into notes wasn’t on the list and it didn’t fit into any other category so I pressed Other Services. I got my ticket. I waited.

As I waited a cry of frustration came from an elderly gentleman standing in front of another machine that dispenses stamps for letters and parcels – it has an automated weighing service etc. An Post must be heading away from people too. Another customer - a dreadlocked nose-ringed young man - went and helped the older man to use the machine.

‘I pressed every button,’ the old man said, ‘every bloody button – and nothing happened. It kept sending me back to that bloody Main Menu. I've no stamps or money now.’ His voice quavered and one could see the bewilderment in his eyes. He is lost in a world of machines – machines that chew up his money and won't explain why.Nahnahnehnehneh. It must surely feel as if Big Brother has truly arrived . (Yes I know I’m exaggerating – bear with me, it was a frustrating day).

‘I only wanted a bloody stamp.’ The old man said as his dreadlocked noseringed saviour smiled and handed him his stamps and his change.

‘It’s not easy,’ said the younger man.

‘You said it son you said it.’

My number was called and I plopped my coins on the desk ( all correctly bagged I might add). The very-nice-young-man told me he couldn’t change them for me.

’But you handle cash for my bank!’ I said.

‘Ah well, in that case you have to lodge it,’ he said.

‘And probably pay a fee,’ I said. He shrugged. I sighed and rooted for my chequebook to get a credit slip. 

No cheque book.

 ‘Sorry’ I said, defeated by rules I didn’t know.

I put all my coins back into my bag and marched home again. I would take the coins on hols with me if I could but we’re flying Ryanair and they’d probably surcharge me.

In the greater scheme of things this is only a minor irritation. But then I had to contact our Internet/tv provider about an error in the bill and spent an hour and a half trying to navigate my way through an automated greeting menu in order to speak to a real live person.  Once I talked to the person all was well but sweet lamb of divine god I was totally frustrated at the end of it and when I got off the phone I had to rant about bloody companies squeezing every last penny out of you. Hence this post.

I'm convinced all these institutions are trying to force all us ordinary Joes and Joesephines to stay in our homes and only communicate with each other via the net. We'll be like bees in a hive, ants in their hills. If banks can make a simple procedure like lodging coin as complicated as possible then everyone will eventually be forced to sit in front of a computer screen to do basic tasks. Then, slowly slowly catchee monkey the little tentacles of The Markets will sucker their way into our lives, targeting us for marketing and managing the herd, keeping us in our boxes. Deffo Big Brother.

  

But - be warned all you people (are they people? Maybe they're aliens) behind desks in soaring skyscrapers with profit margins as your driving force. Greed kills. One day someone, somewhere will snap - like Michael Douglas in Falling Down - and run amok. Maybe a whole bunch of us frustrated little people will break out of the coraal into which you are shoving us. And woe betide you when we do.  

Flirtin' in the sunshine.........

The sun is shining in Dublin since yesterday and it has caused major chaos. You see the sun makes us Irish happy because it is a rare visitor and when it deigns to shine on this godforsaken bog we all go slightly baloobas. We start smiling at each other, and of course smiling at each other ramps up the game and we start flirting with each other and absolutely no work gets. We should all be given the day off when the sun shines in Ireland. Will we have a referendum on it? I betcha it would be passed with a resounding YES!!

 Yiz know my theory on flirtin' don't you? No? Well, I reckon flirtin' makes the world go round, keeps humanity sane and above all hopeful. Without hope all is hopeless, (amn't I fierce profound!). I learned to flirt at my mother's knee. Mam was the best flirt I ever met and she couldn't resist it and nobody could resist her. And d'y'know what - it works. When we flirt with someone it cheers us up, a little pep in our step. Well, it does me anyway. I give the poor barista in Starbucks in the Pavilions a terrible time. He is a deadly flirt and he makes me laugh every time I go in. He should be bottled and distributed to all instead of Prozac. Thank you Mr Barista (the Italian (I think) fella) for making my days!

I told him my flirtin' makes the world go round theory - not sex, not power, not money.
 'Are you sure it's not the other thing?' he asked.
'Positive.' sez I firmly, 'All them other things cause trouble. A bit of flirtin' never hurt anyone.'
'Y'know. You are right' sez he.

'Course I'm right. Mammy is always right.

The story that never wins anything....

I love this story but it's never been successful for me (I'd say it's too sentimental - my old fault) and I now regretfully have to consign it to the rubbish bin. But I thought I'd give it a last little chance of life - so over to you dear reader.

In These Shoes

            She sat for a while. Looked. Listened. It was thirty years since she had been to the city and it had changed - utterly. So many people. Busy, confident, attractive looking people.

 It did not look like Dublin anymore.

 She manoeuvred her wheelchair into the heaving shopping centre and with the instinct of a bassett hound trundled towards the shoe shop she wanted. As the shop window came into focus her heart started doing the Siege Of Ennis. She stopped, gasped in admiration.

A single suspended shoe was on display. A floating shoe. Shiny patent ruby red with a winklepicker toe and a treacherously spiked heel.

Shoes to do damage in.

Sexy shoes.

Racy shoes.

In these shoes she thought she might once again dance a tango. She could close her eyes and a straight-backed young man in a pristine white shirt and well pressed black trousers would hold her, lead her tease her; glide her across a highly polished wooden floor in time to music that filled her completely.

She watched her reflection in the plate glass window and superimposed on the elderly overweight solitary figure fumbling beneath the chair for her purse she saw a pretty girl. A pretty girl with laughing eyes and wavy dark hair. She sighed for the 4711 smell of the spirited girl; thought of her wavy dark hair,  that tight-bodiced full-skirted rose printed dress and longed for just one more day on those shapely legs in the sheerest of nylon stockings. Her arthritic knuckles found the much handled ad from a magazine. Unfolding it she laughed aloud. Yes! These shoes, the one in the window, the ones in the magazine.

Jimmy Choo shoes.

Soon to be her shoes.

Her heart was pounding - harder than it should, and she fleetingly wondered was she having a heart attack.

No matter. If she were to die they’d know – they’d all know - to bury her with her shoes on.

Why I write.......

Back to the blog after a short hiatus. I was involved in an amateur production of the female version of ‘The Odd Couple’ by Neil Simon and life was hectic for a few weeks. Anyway, curtain pulled for the last time on Friday last so back to the ordinary madness of my life.

I’ve written very little for the last few months – I have been collaborating on a project with a songwriter friend, the very talented Karen Coleman. Remember where you heard her name first folks – it will be extremely well known soon. Between that, the play, working and vaguely trying to run a home is it any wonder I’m shattered.

I lay awake the other night wondering why in the name of the Universe did I do it to myself? I’m exhausted to the point of bringing on insomnia. I mean I could easily stop writing – it’s not as if the world was holding its breath waiting to see what I’ll write next. I could go back to work full-time thus throwing an extra couple of hundred into the family purse every month. I could chill in the evenings in my garden from Spring to Autumn. In winter I could curl up (guiltfree) with a book by the fire. I might even (heaven forbid) start talking to Jemser again; out on long boozy nights in some hostelry where we sort out all the conundrums of the universe – at least I do, all he has to do is pretend to listen, secretly wondering what happened to him at that last hole in Corballis.

Last year at Listowel Writers’ Week I took part in a workshop facilitated by the lovely Marina Carr, playwright extraordinaire. At one stage Marina said

‘Why do we do it? I mean nobody really gives a s**t.’ I came out with the stock answer,
 ‘Because we have to.

 ‘No. We think we have to.’ Marina replied, Marina is an intellectual – someone who thinks deeply on all matters and then puts her thoughts into the speech and movements of her characters thus producing some of the finest plays this country has seen. I respect her opinions and I've pondered over what she said for almost a year. BTW Listowel Writers Week 2012 starts Wednesday May 30th and if you haven't paid them a visit yet make it a 'must' on your calendar. A fantastic week with like minded people in the welcoming atmosphere of Listowel - the drink flows too! I can't go this year and I think I'll probably go into a decline! Dublin Writers Weeek is on and I'll probably attend some of those events. Listowel however beats them all for atmosphere.  

I know I don’t have to write– on one level – yet something drives me. I don’t know. My mother would have called it God given – any talent is innate I suppose, but unless you practise, use that talent; it will fade. If I lost the ability to tell stories in the way I choose through any fault of my own  e.g. not writing or by procrastinating for too long then I think it would be the nearest thing to a sin against God, Nature, The Universe – what ever.

When I was nominated for the Hennessy Award for first fiction some years ago a friend of Jemser’s (and my friend too I hope!) – Galway poet Gerard Hanberry - sent me a text telling me of a writer son who came proudly to his writing father with his first small success – Dad congratulated son then said ‘Welcome to Hell’. I laughed when I read it  but believe me five years later I know exactly what he meant! Ger is a poet and author of ‘More Lives than One’ a beautiful book about the family of the great Oscar Wilde, a book that is truly a labour of love. He also told me that having won the Hennessy I could never turn my back on writing. He is right, and I never will.

When I found ‘my voice’ something miraculous happened for me. Finally I fitted into the world around me. Up to that I always ached for something – not knowing what it was I ached for. I tried to fill the void with myriad things – alcohol, cigarettes, friends, family. But there was always something missing. I always wanted just one more ‘thing’ Someone very wise once asked me, in an unusual temper,just what it was that would make me happy?

I opened my mouth to retort at the time – then promptly shut it again. I had a bing moment. I was responsible for my own happiness. Nothing anyone did for me would work. I had to find it myself– that key, the key to my happiness. And find it I did and thank Heaven for it. Writing may well be thankless but it fulfils me. The world doesn’t care about it, but I do. I love it and it loves me (except when it needs a rest from me!). Best of all I’m not annoying anyone by rabbitting on all the time at a pace that no-one can keep up with, jumping from one subject to another. There are sections of Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ that remind me of my restless brain (I’m not claiming talent here!). On and on and on and on – to what end?

If technology ever advances to the point where they can scan your brain in to see what’s going on in all the thinking areas I’d love to see a printout of mine! I’d say it would be like one of  those abstract paintings – mad mad mad swirling colours. I write because it puts order on me. The black marks on the white of the page make me focus on the task at hand not meander down the many many byroads that pop up on my path to distract me from the job at hand.

Marina Carr may well be right about writers– I bow to her incredible intellect - but I, for one, KNOW that I write because I have to. It is the only medium through which I can express myself fully.

Now  - off to write………..

  

Mental weekends

This is a delayed posting because my back went out after the gardening and I ended up in the leaba for 48 hours - slowly crawling about now grumping and giving out and wondering where the jollity of this unpublished post is gone. Away with the absence of alcohol I suppose. Still. 'Twas worth it. A lovely loved up night out with the sisters followed by swimming with the boys (next morning!) and HRH Fingal's story Queen foolacting with kids then my beloved gardening to bring me gently down from HRH's insanity. Written  three days ago. Read on.
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SLoDG - I'm knackered. My life has been mental for the last 24 hours and I am quite sure I will be asleep before my only personally essential viewing - 'Casualty' on the Beeb at nine bells. Thank technology for the ability to auto record a whole series. I can watch back-to-back episodes on whatever insomnia night I have every week.

I was out with 'de sisters' last night. We were supposed to go into town (for town read Dublin city) to celebrate Sister#2 (I'm #1) significant birthday. But we started with pints in sister #4's local hostelry the Beachcomber in Killester - one led to another and we ended up just popping next door to the 'NutHouse' (no wisecracks please - we've heard them all) for a really lovely meal. It's a trattoria type restaurant and really really good. Recommended.

Sister#2 - our reason for celebrating - and myself were the sensible elder lemons and headed home after the meal - of course our bolder young siblings, sisters#3&#4 returned to the hostelry and I have NO IDEA WHAT TIME THEY WENT HOME.  Plus ca change, plus ca meme chose!

So to bed, and an early start today (this was Saturday) - I went for a swim with son#1 and pretend son Oscie. Then a quick dash home to Swords for a change of persona ( btw check out http://www.irishtimes.com/blogs/best-place/2012/04/10/swords-fingal-in-north-co-dublin/  my pitch for Swords as the best place to live in in Ireland).

HRH the Story Queen was running about the North County all morning Saturday, a fabulous session in the the library in Malahide - where the fashion on show was superb by my young friends and I was presented with a beautiful picture of 'Hello Kitty' especially coloured in for me by one young lady who must be magic! She didn't know as she coloured her picture that I had a very stylish pair of size 8 pink Hello Kitty crocs in my bag - HRH needed advice you see as to whether they were suitable summer footwear. It was agreed a queen could get away with them - especially when she is 437 with bunions.

After Malahide The Story Queen dashed to Easons in the Pavilions in Swords - lovely new children's section, check it out. Then a quick jaunt over to Imaginarium - a heavenly place for anyone who never grew up! The lovely staff there presented HRH with Butlers chocs (fit for a Queen) despite her causing havoc - pretend duelling, trying out a red trike and touching EVERY beautiful toy/puzzle/book in the store

Pretty tired by that stage - but one must soldier on. The other me (I'm afraid to say real - because I wonder. I really do wonder!) had trees and shrubs to plant - staking of happily growing summer perennials etc etc - and it was too nice an evening to waste in sleep. I planted a 'wedding cake' tree in our front garden - in a perfectly proportioned hole dug by son#1 - he's finally becoming useful about the place, love you son#1! If my tree grows ( as son#1 said in disbelief - 'that big hole for a stick?') it will -eventually- be stunning.

I didn't cook - I thought it was safer not to at that stage  and the juniors were really quite pleased by the takeout from our local chipper.  Now sitting here, eyelids closing and perfectly aware I'm about to have the lovliest doze.

A good day - a great weekend - and I've still got tomorrow to look forward to!!
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I woke up five hours later completley and utterly crippled - had to crawl up the stairs and suffered ( not silently) for almost two days.

But it was still a great weekend. 

Our Judy, Jemser and the Art of Zen

Our Judy hits a significant birthday this month. My inner ‘don’t say that’ alarm has finally started to work – after donkeys’ years of embarrassing people by innocently revealing things which are - to some – private. Now I just stick all those things in my stories/novels and they have to be read to discover what page said revelation is on!

Our Judy is much quieter than me. She is also very beautiful. I was insanely jealous of her when we were growing up. When we were small, people in the neighbourhood would actually stop my mother in the street as we toddled after her and the pram which contained whoeverhappenedtobethebaby that year. They would smile at us all but their glances lingered longer on Judy. ’She’s so cute – you have to enter her into the bonny baby competition!’

So Mam did – she got someone who possessed a camera to come and take our photos and she sent one of Judy off to the ‘Pond’s Cold Cream’ sponsored competition. And our Judy won a prize! Whatever it was or where she was placed in the competition is long lost in the annals of family history but it was official - Judy was (still is) beautiful.

So my jealousy melted away or rather I accepted facts – she was officially beautiful. When we started school I became officially ‘the bright one’; although Judy’s no eejit – in fact academically she always scored higher than me – but I bullshit better! We killed each other until our late teens; hands on hair-pulling, scabbing, kicking physical fights and the incredible bitchiness of teenage girls resulting from the sheer frustration at having to live with each other’s entirely different personalities.

I’m the oldest and bossy with it and Judy baulked at the notion of being told what to do by a sibling who had been left in charge of a household teeming with kids while parents worked. I would get frustrated at having to do ‘everything’ myself because I wanted things to be nice for Mam when she came home. Judy did her chores, but in her own time and her own way. I remember saying to Mam at one stage ‘I envy Judy. She does things becsuse she wants to. I do them because I think I have to.’ So Judy got the Art of Zen long before me – she lived it.

I have been thinking a lot lately about mindfulness, of being aware of living every moment, of simply being in any particular moment, of breathing and being aware that in order to live breathing is all I have to do. Of realising that I am part of something that is infinite and that my role for now in that infinity is breathing in and out of the body that has been assigned to me. Judy lives this – always has. Jemser epitomises it - he’s been telling me it for years but I had to find out for myself and label it in my own way – when I said this to him the other night he laughed and said in his case it could be called ‘mindlessness’.

When Judy and I started getting drunk together in our late teens/early twenties we told each other how much we loved each other despite our differences and things settled down. We found partners, had children around the same time and drift in and out of each other’s lives a few times every year. Judy is still extraordinarily beautiful, she always looked after her skin, she has a calmness about her - but also a fiery streak that can be roused and woe betide the arouser! She is wonderful and I feel very privileged to be her big sister – even though I know I’m ‘not the boss’ of her! Love you Juders!

Tyrone Guthrie Centre blog#3

Another glorious day in Co. Monaghan. The drumlins are ablaze with furze bushes and the countryside resplendent with goat willow and rowan flower. It was a little cooler today but still sunny enough to ramble about in a tee-shirt. I ‘discovered’ the conservatory which I didn’t know existed and was delighted to see a passionflower trained up a gorgeous stone wall and some variegated perlagonium full bloom – I sat there reading and writing for a good while – did some good work on Daisy Killer plus fleshed out a short story; to be shaved back brutally at some later stage.

Lavinia continues to encourage me to be fatter – divine potato cakes for breakfast with (I think) shavings of scallions in them. N’yum. Lots of lovely cold meats, salad; including ‘real’ lettuce (as per Jemser) – home grown butterhead. Both meals shared with lovely interesting company. I know ye all think I’m mad and talk too much and stuff. But a lot of these lovely ‘artistes’ are the same. So we all speak the same language albeit in slightly different accents and disciplines. I have never met a person in this house that I was uneasy with. It is home.

After lunch the Story Queen appeared on the lawn in front of the house (singing ‘Nellie the Elephant’ off-key) as she approached and talked and read stories to Lavinia’s wee boys – two dotes. Luke was well enthralled – loved ‘Owl Babies’ and took ‘The Gruffalo' away with him. Lavinia’s heart will be scalded reading it to him for the next few years!!

Then HRH waved goodbye and wandered away singing ‘the wonderful thing about Tiggers’ and decided she would like to have her picture taken riding the lovely girly 1930’s style bike in the conservatory. Esther obliged as camerawoman and Lavinia’s boys were delighted when HRH almost crashed into a garden bed. Much hilarity ensued.

Back to work then and the treatment for the animated feature I’m collaborating on with the lovely Karen was polished up to our satisfaction – well, near enough. So off it will go with a kiss and a wish into the big bad world to see can we get a bite from some nice big fish in the world of animation. I shed emotional tears over a few scenes and laughed at others – but then I am ridiculously emotional and sentimental. Here’s hoping. We had great fun doing it anyway.

A walk around the grounds and back in for one of Lavinia’s legendary dinners where serendipity and crazy crazy co-incidences were discussed – with much laughter . Another successful night. Some have drifted off now to work, others to read or watch a movie. There appears to be some wine-supping going on in the kitchen, but I’m just too tired. Me! Too tired to drink!

There was some suggestion of Scrabble earlier – but these are seriously brainy people and I’m just not competitive enough. I’ll sit here in my lovely room, listen to John Prine, check Facebbok and Twitter, ring my babies and after a nice long bath will head to the leaba with a good book – there is a houseful to choose from.

‘Night x

Another beautiful day in rural Ireland........

Another glorious day in Newbliss. I knew the weather forecast was good and that Jemser and son#2 were coming up for a visit to celebrate his ‘not making my confirmation’ day. So I got up a 6am and the view of the mist over the estate was breathtaking. Then a cuppa tae and some fruit and down to work. Got the treatment for the animated feature I’m collaborating on completed to my relative satisfaction and tidied it up and sent it off.

Down to the kitchen around 9am and a lovely healthy breakfast before a quick stroll around the grounds. Back to the laptop and I did a few hours work on Daisy Killer my new novel. I rambled the few kilometres into Newbliss where I met my lovely men and a deliriously excited Molly – she almost licked the face off me. We bought the makings of a picnic and drove back to the house. The place bowled the lads over as I knew it would and I introduced them to those we met. We sat in the sun in the grounds and had our picnic; then strolled down to the lake. There was no debate as to swimming – no way was son#2 getting in – he decided there were definitely fish in it and quite possibly some sort of Loch Annamakerrig Nessie. Mind you he threw poor Molly in – and she had a grand little swim for herself. Then we walked back through the wood and the gents took their leave of me. Son#2 was really delighted to see me and where I was staying – he only has four more days now to wait until I’m home.

I set him a series of tasks to do for me, he’s a great P.A. – he’s booked Ryanair flights for myself himself and his cousin Oscar for a few days in the sun in Spain in late June. As soon as I get my website up and running he’s going to maintain it for me, reply to mails, post books etcetera. Handy having a twelve year old genius in the house!

When they left I came back to my room to work – but honestly it was too nice a day to be indoors – so I took some of my research books and a notebook and worked for an hour or two in the sun – actually I fell asleep for the last half hour of that! So refreshed after my nap I came back to the house and did some really good work – although that opinion might be reviewed when I re-read it in a month’s time. Time for dinner then – which was of course divine. Lavinia thinks she hasn’t done her job properly unless we leave the house weighing half a stone more than we did when we landed. And all in the company of lovely warm quirky people. Now for some strong keep me awake coffee and I intend doing another few hours work.

It’s all going really well – but then this place is magical. If you ever, ever get the chance to visit grab it with both hands.

Where to start.....Life is Beautiful

Right – where do I start? Last weekend was the perfick weekend – in that I had pints with Jemser of the Friday, after swimmin’ with son#2 for (I think) ten lengths.

Then of the Saturday I did Story Queen in Blanch Library to a most appreciative audience.

Then Sunday and Oor Lizzie was christened over in Sandymount – fandabbydouble dozy church, Star of the Sea. Lovely priest and lots of friendly people doing biccies and tea in the now disused old NS beside the Church - lots of lovely chats with lovely Sandymount people. Don Liam Walsheone – the godfather got the pressie so-o-o-o- right – a reconditioned MAGNIFICENT Silver Cross pram. I always said the proudest days of my life were my pram pushing days - I was a Mammy - somebody's favourite person. I miss my pram pushing days. Anyway, I am going to kidnap both pram and baby some day this summer. She will be pushed all around Swords/Malahide/Finglas anywhere I can push her - not very bus friendly the aul' Silver Cross - but deadly suspension. Plus if it's good enough for HRH in Great Britain it's good enough for oor Lizzie. Then off to Roly's Bistro for the christening lunch - feckin' gorgeous. How did the Walshies end up dining in such a gaff? Plus very very reasonable per head. Mind you I wasn't paying, lovely to be with so many family on such a lovely summer's day - and it only March.

Then on Monday I was tortured into coming to the most peaceful place on any planet – the Tyrone Guthrie in Annamakerrig, Newbliss Co Monaghan. God,t'was hard leaving work and housework for a week to come to the most beautiful place on earth (after Port, Co Donegal of course), miss the lads and Jemser and Molly but as I drove up the avenue I felt like I was coming home…I love it. And then to be spoiled rotten by the lovely Lavinia, Robbie, Esther et all - I might have to kill Lavinia though, or at least disable her cooking skills - her desserts are just too scrumptious. I think she might be a devilish imp in disguise tempting me with glorious food. Kidding - how could anyone be cross with Lavinia!

But I did a 6k walk (or ramble) into Newbliss today - the weather was quite simply too beautiful not to go out, I don't care about word count - good days don't come often in this aul' bog we live on. There are Donegal connected Yanks home and they are claiming credit for the weather. I'm glad Anne Behringer and her daughter Debbie's lads got to see Donegal in the sun - they might just keep coming with their own kids in the future. Cherish our 'diaspora' folks - it'll be what saves us financially.

Now - tomorrow Weds is the Confirmation day in son#2's school. He decided last summer he didn't want to make it so I supported him in his decision, but I think he might be feeling a little lonely tomorrow, he misses me (yes - still!) - all of his classmates are having days being spoiled by their families and neighbours (not to mention the cash!) so Jemser and I hatched a plan and they're driving up to meet me in Newbliss for lunch and we might chance a swim in the lake - if son#2 doesn't wimp out!

The work is getting done - just at slightly unusual hours - almost finished treatment for collaborative exercise with Karen Coleman - songwriter supreme, novel #2 taking shape and hatching a lovely plot for novel#3 - a ghost lover in an artist's retreat........h'mm plus polishing a couple of stories and a children's book. And then there's sleep, reading and eating.

Night night.