Review of the year

A postcard from Clonmel

I have nearly finished unpacking from our recent move to Clonmel. This is the second big move of the year and it is more than a little exhausting. We started 2010 in Shetland. The joy of Hogmanay, and celebrating with good friends was marred by the fact that we would be shortly leaving Shetland and moving to Ireland. Within a few weeks we had settled in Maynooth and had sorted out schools, writing groups, libraries, cricket clubs and all manner of life’s essentials. Maynooth is a great place to live and we would have been content to stay there, but my husband was offered a better and more secure job in Clonmel and so we opted to move again. Thankfully the second move was in many ways less stressful because we had not really put down roots in County Kildare.

My next task is to join the local writers’ group which meets at the Tipperary Arts Centre. I am already in awe of this group as they have published an anthology of their writing, so they are obviously serious writers. I am also going to join the ICA (Irish Countrywoman’s Association) as a way of networking with other people in the community. One of the things I miss most about Shetland was the group of women I got to know in the Scottish Women’s Rural Institute. Some people think it is a bit of a giggle that I got so involved in a Women’s Institute but it was one of the best things I ever did in terms of making friends. It also introduced me to the joys of whiskey, but that’s a whole other story.

This year has been dominated by my MA course. It is very enjoyable but takes up quite a lot of time. Considering it is supposed to be a part-time course, I am finding that it takes up more of my time than my full time degree course did. One of the down sides of the course is that I actually find I have less time to concentrate on finishing my second novel.

The highlights of this year include all the visitors to Ireland that we had. We never had that many visitors to Shetland as it was prohibitively expensive to visit for most people. I love having people to stay as it is a good excuse to put the books aside and get out and explore my new habitat.

The other highlight was getting to know my Irish relatives. I had grown up knowing that I had lots of Irish cousins, but I had never had the opportunity to meet them before now. It feels great to know that I have so many lovely relatives living nearby and I am looking forward to getting to know them better in the future.

This year will end almost as it started, in a state of chaos, surrounded by packing boxes. The weather is equally cold and icy. A strong sense of déjà vu prevails. Next week we will be heading off to the Beara Peninsula in West Cork and will be meeting up with some Shetlanders who we spent most of last Christmas with. Then it will be time to getting cracking on the resolutions for 2011 - get fit, get published, etc etc. So no change there then!

An interview with Melanie Welsh

Melanie Welsh is the author of Mistress of the Storm, published to great acclaim earlier this year. I asked Melanie about her life now that she has turned “professional.”

Getting started

Like so many writers, Melanie’s ambition was sparked off in her childhood. She was just eight years old and a keen reader when she decided on her dream job, however, it was not a career she was encouraged to take up after leaving college, and instead she concentrated on getting a “proper” job. Years later with fully fledged characters waiting to escape from her imagination and on to the page, she decided to devote some time to her ambition and she started work on her first book.

In the beginning she wrote whenever she could find the time in a busy life of working and starting a family. Now that she has been lucky enough to secure a two-book deal with David Fickling Books, she is able to devote more time to writing. However, she does still work part-time on a freelance basis, partly as a way of paying for full time childcare while she writes. Her fulltime job prior to getting published was a Director of Planning for an advertising agency.

Melanie’s working day

Melanie works in a disciplined and structured way. She starts work at 9.00am and finishes at 5.00pm, on her writing days. Each day she sets herself a target, either to write a set amount of words, or perhaps to edit a chapter she has already finished. Once she has achieved that target she allows herself a break. A self-confessed list maker, she keeps on top of the story structure by setting out a grid of paper and jotting down plotlines on post-its and arranging them on the grid until she is satisfied with the story arc. She also writes down bullet points for other details such as characters and descriptions.

She read quite a few books about the craft of writing; however, she did not have time to get involved in creative writing groups. Although she is only in her late 30s, Melanie feels like she is a bit of a late starter in her writing career and wonders what she might have achieved had she tried to pursue her ambition sooner. For now, she is working hard on “Heart of Stone”, the second book in the series of four she has planned. She is also busy promoting her first novel which involves, visiting schools and talking to children about the book, which she described as “great fun”. She is delighted at how well the book has been received by both boys and girls. She ignored the perceived wisdom that says that the central character of a child’s book should be a male because it is thought that girls would read books about boys but boys would not read books about girls. Melanie does not think that this old fashioned view of children’s taste holds true anymore and that children who enjoy reading are far more enlightened and open to different view points than some people believe.

On getting published

Melanie had her fair share of rejection before securing an agent and publisher, which she admits she found painful. Something that will strike a chord with many aspiring writers is that Melanie felt she had no option but to carry on regardless, despite the knocks to her confidence. She stayed focused on her goal and her hard work paid off when she was taken on by Catherine Pellegrino of Rogers, Coleridge and White. (www.rcwlitagency.com). Melanie believes that it is essential to get an agent, as so few publishers will accept manuscripts directly from writers. Although it is hard for authors to get started in the business, she does feel that agents are still looking for the next big publishing success, so it is worthwhile taking time to find one who will represent you.

Inspiration

One of the biggest inspirations for her writing was the Isle of Wight, where she grew up. Island life, with its great sense of community and dramatic scenery was perfect for her seafaring adventure novel. Melanie decided that she wanted to write the type of book she enjoyed as a child, and the resulting first novel is a timeless story, that avoids all the technological excesses of the 21st century but concentrates on great characterisation and plot. It is already tipped to become a classic, and doubtless there are children waiting eagerly for the next instalment.

More information about Melanie Welsh and her novel can be found on her website for the book. www.veritygallant.co.uk

Strange Times

I am a self confessed magazine addict, although I have been trying to cut down over the last year. But today I couldn’t resist buying the November issue of Irish Tatler. This magazine was celebrating 120 years and it was filled with lovely snippets of history and nostalgia about life in Ireland since the magazine was created. In amongst the photographs of fashion through the ages, there were articles about the long struggle for female equality in Ireland, which lagged quite a bit behind the UK, not least on issues such as contraception and divorce.

However, what was interesting were the contemporary articles and advertisements. As Christmas is fast approaching there were numerous suggestions for gifts including such extravagant items as scented candles for €195 euros or a Philippe Patek watch for just €120,000. The latter really caught my attention. It was advertised in an editorial style as a discreet luxury with its alligator skin strap and 32 baguette diamonds encircling the face. In these straightened times with the EU about to bail out the Irish banks I can’t help wondering what is so discreet about this watch, and who on earth would dream of spending such a large amount of money on such a trifling object. I would want at least four walls and a roof for this much cash.

The financial crisis is the most common topic of conversation here, and I know many people who have been made redundant and are facing quite a bleak future, let alone Christmas. But it is apparent that there are some ways of profiting from this situation. There is a new women’s magazine title that was launched last year, called Prudence. It is not, as one might expect, the cheapest magazine, even the Irish Tatler is around €2 cheaper, but it does aim to help the fashionable girl about town stay fashionable during the recession and presumably on a budget. But it is quite amusing to see what constitutes a tight budget, since the clothes and cosmetics that are advertised are not significantly cheaper. Instead the magazine seems to devote itself to encouraging its readers to negotiate for better deals for their spa weekend or where to buy their new Kelly bag for less than a grand.

I am not sure where my magazine addiction stems from since I am the least fashionable person I know. So although I know my Cath Kidston from Orla Kiely and can spot a fake Prada bag at 20 paces I do not care much for buying fancy schmancy clothes myself. But I love keeping on top of what is happening in the world of women’s magazines. I wonder what future readers will make of the coverage of the current financial crisis and how it is being “glossed over” so to speak.

Irish Tatler are obviously feeling confident enough in the spending powers of the population as they have just launch Men’s Tatler for the stylish man in your life.

A holiday to lift the spirits

Not your normal holiday snap!

Most people I know would prefer to spend their holiday in a hot sunny place, lazing around on the beach or exploring some historic or exotic city. And whilst I would agree that some element of sunshine is usually desirable I am not excessively fond of the normal sun and sea package holiday; which is why I chose to go to Shetland for my half-term holiday this year.

However, it didn’t seem quite so much of a holiday rather than a trip back home. Walking off the Northlink ferry early on Saturday morning into the bright but chilly sunshine I felt as if I had just returned from a long holiday. A holiday that I must have consumed far too much alcohol on as my memory seemed rather hazy. It was hard to shake off this feeling all week as I caught up with around 30 of my dearest friends and neighbours. It was great to be in Shetland again and I particularly loved the opportunity to gaze out to sea at the view I used to call my own.

Thanks to the wonders of Facebook, I feel as if I hadn’t missed out on too much of the gossip, but it was so much better to hear it all again at first hand. And Facebook might be good for seeing photographs, but it doesn’t take the place of getting to cuddle lovely new babies.

I have missed Shetland so much during the last eight months in Ireland. There is something really quite extraordinary about the community where I lived. So friendly, so welcoming, so funny. I have missed my book club and the SWRI (Scottish Women’s Rural Institute) and my friends and neighbours. I missed hearing the unique language and dialect, and it was hilarious to hear my son speaking the dialect again, as if he had never been away.

At the end of my short holiday I felt revived and refreshed and all the more determined to get on with my writing. I have people waiting for a sequel to my first Shetland novel, so I had better get back to work. And as much as I like living in Ireland, it made me realise that my first love is Shetland. I shall be back there next summer for another holiday and hope to see all the people that I didn’t manage to fit in this time. Can’t wait!



An exhilarating walk to Eshaness to explore an old broch site

Kick Racism out of Football - A success story

Sporting heroes - the best campaigners for equality

Last week my son came home from school and said that some FAI footballers had visited the school. He didn’t seem as excited about the event as I thought he would have been and he went on to say that they hadn’t come to talk about football, but simply about racism. My son couldn’t understand why footballers needed to talk about this as an issue. Earlier that day I had opened up the notebook that I use for jotting down ideas for essays and found a few pages of my son’s handwriting. He has a typically boyish habit of creating imaginary fantasy football line-ups. His teams included names such as Robinho, Fabregas, Torres, Cole, Boateng and Podolski amongst countless others. All spelt correctly and including accents and umlauts as appropriate. It was a reminder of how much football has done for multi-culturalism.

My son has grown up in a world where sporting heroes come from all over the world, and are idolised and respected without prejudice; hence his failure to comprehend why footballers today still need to campaign on issues of racism. My son innocently assumes that racism does not really exist any more.

I explained how football was back in the 1970s when I used to go to football matches on a regular basis. Black players were only just starting to appear in the teams, and they were not universally welcomed, even by the supporters of the teams they played for. The seventies weren’t really that long ago, but it felt like we were discussing the dark ages, and I guess we were. My husband played semi-professional football during this time, and he added his own memories of horror stories of fans throwing bananas onto the pitch and chanting like apes whenever a black player got near a ball.

We are still a long way from total equality, but I think it is a measure of how successful the campaign to kick racism out of football has been that some of today’s children question why it is needed.

Economically speaking

Fear not, I won't be starring in a tragic opera anytime soon

There is a traditional and romantic image of writers being poor, malnourished creatures living in a draughty garret, in Paris or some other place of cultural renown. They spend their time huddled around the dying embers of a coal fire, scratching out a living, leaving their writing only to drink cheap red wine with other artistic types. They will die cold and alone, probably as a result of alcoholism, or tuberculosis exacerbated from smoking too many Gauloises.

My life is not that shabby, although I do share a predilection for wine (or Guinness) and socialising. But having given up my job in the NHS to follow my husband to Ireland to further his career, we are now living off one salary, and my three million job applications have not been successful – yet. It is great to have the time to devote to my MA and to my writing, but it is a little tiresome to have to be so mindful of a much reduced income. Whilst we are far from poor, we are not in the position to be extravagant; and there really isn’t anything romantic about that.

At least we are not alone in this situation. Ireland is going through some serious economic difficulties and the news is depressing to watch most of the time. In amongst the increased violent activities of the dissident IRA, there are numerous stories of companies going out of business, people losing their homes, threatened hospital closures, and droves of young Irish graduates leaving the country to try their luck elsewhere.

To cope with the reduced spending of consumers there are frequent sales and bargains galore in the shops, so I don’t think that clothes and food are very expensive. Public transport is also far cheaper here than in the UK, so there are some bonuses. But considering people have less money to spend there are some strange pricing tactics for some leisure activities which I find seriously annoying.

The new Aviva stadium opened this year, to replace Lansdowne Road, as the home of Irish rugby. I love rugby and was lucky enough to procure tickets for the Ireland v Scotland match in the six nations this year. It was one of the last matches to be played at Croke Park, a far bigger stadium that was packed for this event. I doubt we will ever get a chance to see an International rugby match again as the prices for the new stadium are extortionate. It would cost a minimum of 240 euros for two adults and a child to see a match and with a smaller capacity, fewer seats are available. So I fear I will never get to see Brian O’Driscoll in the flesh again.

The Irish Rugby Union are stressing out about the possibility of important matches being aired for free on national television, instead of the pay-per-view situation we have now. They are naturally concerned about the loss of revenue. However, I think that the general public will respond quite favourably to this vote-winning tactic, as at least ordinary people will get to see the match. Sport should not just be for the wealthy.

But even to do something far more mundane like go to the cinema is also a tad expensive. Two adults and a child costs over 30 euros. It would have cost around £15 when we lived in Shetland. One game of ten pin bowling also costs around 30 euros, which for 30 minutes of entertainment is just a bit too much. It is perhaps not surprising that any time you visit the cinema or the bowling alley they are virtually deserted. The Aviva Stadium was also half empty when it staged some international friendly soccer matches a few weeks ago. Proving the point that when you charge too much, people will vote with their feet.

Ireland still has one of the highest birth rates in Europe and a proportionately young population, a fact that it celebrates. But these young families must find it such a struggle to afford fairly ordinary treats. A trip to the cinema was quite a big deal when I was a child, but surely in this era when numerous films are released each week and most cinemas have a choice of around 10 films to watch, we should be able to take more advantage of the situation. Surely it makes sense to charge less and attract more people.

It feels very elitist. I know that libraries, museums, parks and the countryside are still free to visit, but it is very sad that many young people cannot access the full range of cultural activities that are available.

As I write I am sitting on the bed with the laptop on my knees, with the Ireland v Slovakia match on the portable TV in the background. Downstairs, hogging the sofa and the other TV is my son who is watching the England game, and running up and down to keep tabs on the Ireland score. It is not Paris, but it is perfect enough for me. I could do with a glass of wine though.

The confidence of youth

Irish teenagers

Sunday morning is devoted to Under 12s football and this weekend we travelled to an away game at Donabate, North Dublin. We gave a lift to two other players, and so there were three 12 year old boys sat in the back of the car, and since my son is new to the team and does not know the other boys well, I imagined the journey would be rather quiet.

But instead my husband and I were subjected to an interrogation and banter about everything from favourite musicians to where we came from, taking in along the way, favourite holiday destinations and best jokes. The opening gambit to my husband went along the lines of “so, my Dad’s big into Elvis; what’s your “thing?” When he admitted his “thing” was training for a 2011 Iron Man challenge, this was met with much hilarity and general teasing, mixed with admiration and curiosity.

It was an entertaining journey, to and from the match, and it made me realise how much more confident children are these days, to when I was the same age. At the risk of sounding ancient, kids just did not behave like that in my day. They (we) were shyer, quieter and less inclined to take an equal, much less a dominant, role in a conversation with unfamiliar adults.

I remember reading a recent article in an Irish newspaper about the phenomenon of Jedward, and how these two exuberantly confident young men were fairly representative of Irish youth, brought up to believe in themselves. Jedward aside, it is lovely to witness such confidence, especially when it is combined with good manners and kindness. The article compared Irish teenagers with those raised in Britain, and the assertion was that Irish teenagers are given a better deal. In Britain there seems to be more of a feeling that teenagers are not to be trusted. They certainly don’t normally get much of a good press.

I have often wondered how different my life could have been if I had had even a fraction of the confidence that today’s young ones have. Self-belief is key to the success of so many things; careers, creativity and relationships. But one thing I can be grateful for; I have two confident and brilliant sons, who don’t need to waste valuable years playing catch up with their self-esteem.

Self-publish and be damned

A couple of weeks ago I got chatting to a writer in Eason’s bookshop in Dun Laoghaire. He was doing a book signing session for his book Gurriers. Seeing that he looked a trifle lonely I got chatting to him and he told me about his book which had taken 10 years to write and was a novel based on his experiences as a motorcycle courier in Dublin. This sounded like an intriguing idea for a book, so I purchased a copy and he duly signed it for me. It turns out that he had paid for the book to be published and he explained how he had done this and why.

I have heard many people say that self-publishing is not the sensible option for a serious writer as it gives the impression that you were not good enough to be taken on by a “proper” publisher. I have no strong feelings on this, but self publishing is quite expensive and I am not confident that I would have the energy for all that self promotion and marketing. However, while speaking to Kevin Brennan, I was struck by the amount of joy he had received from seeing all his hard work in print. And it seems that his book was going down well in his network of friends and fellow couriers. He had enjoyed the publishing process so much he was now embarking on a selection of short stories.

We chatted a little longer and I told him about the Masters course I was doing and my ambitions to be published one day, and shared with him some ideas about raising his online profile, which he appreciated. I left the shop with a rather large novel to read and a smile on my face.

The book itself is a weighty tome, think “A Suitable Boy” and you’re nearly there. And there is no doubt that some might think that it could have done with some judicious editing for length and pace. However, it is not without a certain charm. The characters are great, the plot is crazy, funny and realistic in turn, and the language is pure Dublin. It has definite commercial appeal, so it is a shame that Kevin had to resort to self-publishing.

But it definitely gave me something to think about. And I have decided that if I fail to get my novels published through the normal channels, then one day I will give serious consideration to whether or not to self-publish. It is not call vanity publishing for nothing, but I don’t want to live with the idea of giving up on my ambition to see my work in print. And I would like to leave something of me behind for my family. I wonder what my great great great grandchildren would make of Dancing with the Ferryman or Peace Lily in years to come.

Meeting literary superstars

One of Jennifer Johnston's many books - and one for my reading list

There are numerous literary festivals around the world, and they are great places for writer wannabes to hang out. Dun Laoghaire was the setting for a new book festival that started last year, and is likely to continue in years to come, judging by the attendance. The “Mountains to Sea” title of the festival sums up the fact that the ferry port of Dun Laoghaire has the backdrop of the Wicklow Mountains on one side and the sea on the other. It is a lovely town to visit these days, despite being in the shadow of Dublin. I have quite an affinity with the place as my father was born here, and on the way to the festival I drove past the house where he was born, which I had never visited before. Anyway, I digress.

The main reason I bought tickets for the book festival was to hear John Banville. He is quite a hero of mine. I had to write an essay on his Booker prize winning novel The Sea. His writing is beautiful; perfect pace and exquisite language. I was not disappointed when he started his session by reading from his as yet unpublished new novel Persephone. It was really good to hear a writer read in his own voice, and it added something to the books I have already read of his.

However, I was a little disappointed when he answered questions from the audience. He seemed bored, irritable and very condescending to the idea of anyone else attempting to write a novel. His responses ran along the lines of writing should be left to the professionals and even creative writing students would be better off doing something else. I could not really tell whether he was being facetious or not, but somehow I doubt it. He has something of a reputation for being a little bit arrogant. And that’s fine – each to their own, as they say. But it is a little sad that published writers could not share something of what compels them to write, and understand that that same compulsion exists in others. We might not all have the same prodigious talent, but a desire to write is not something that can be brushed aside easily. And anyone who has ever tried to write understands how difficult, lonely and financially unrewarding it can be.

Contrast Mr Banville with another writer, Jennifer Johnston. I sat in on a session with her and I was amazed by how warm, funny and brilliant she was. Ms Johnston is another Irish writer who writes literary and historical fiction, dealing with tough issues such as Ireland’s involvement in the World Wars and the "Troubles". She was encouraging to other fledgling writers and seemed to really enjoy the reception from her legion of fans in the theatre. I have to admit to not having read any of her books before the festival, but they are now on my autumn reading list. What a difference a sunny personality can make to book sales.

Fiction can be more real than reality

My son has started reading John Boyne’s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas for the third time. The first time he read it was at home, and subsequently, much to his distress he has had to read it for school a few weeks later, and having changed schools recently he was even more distressed to find it back on the reading list this term. When he finished reading it the first time, he handed me the book and said quietly, “I don’t think you should read this Mummy, it doesn’t end well.” With that he went upstairs to bed, in a mood that could only really be described as deflated. I read the book myself, and by the time I finished it the next day, I understood why he was upset. Although when I questioned him about the ending, it became clear that he hadn’t really understood what had happened.

The novel, for anyone who hasn’t read it, is narrated by a nine year old boy, Bruno. He lives on the edge of Auschwitz where his father is the Commandant. He befriends a Jewish boy who is a prisoner on the other side of the fence. It is written with the childish innocence of someone who has no idea what is going on at the camp. However, as a adult reader, we know exactly what went on, so when Bruno sneaks into the camp and follows his friend into a gas chamber it is horrifying to read. And no, it doesn’t end well.

The book is really powerful because of the narration, which is not overly explicit and horrifying for the child reader, but does bring to life some of the awful history which they are now learning about in school. I had to explain the ending to my son, because, like Bruno and Schmuel, he had not realised that the room the boys had been herded into was a gas chamber. I can honestly say that I have never seen such a mixture of disbelief and revulsion on a child’s face. It is almost impossible to explain the holocaust. Facts and figures in the history books explain it in terms that are just too black and white. It is hard to grasp the fact that six million Jewish people perished during the war. The number is too large to comprehend, and the manner in which people died was so barbaric and inhumane that it feels as if we are talking about something that happened in the Dark Ages, and not something within the living memories of our grandparents.

However, through the medium of fiction we get into a relationship with the characters and care about what happens to them. And to care about what happens to two fictional little boys is part way to understanding and caring about what happened to the six million real people. It is a truly inspired choice of book for primary school children. The last book my son had to read for school dealt with the Irish Famine. And again, through the fictional family created by Marita Conlon-McKenna in Under the Hawthorn Tree he learned what it was like to live during such a harsh environment. I read a little of the book myself. It went something along the lines of Chapter 1 Dad leaves home to try and find a job elsewhere. Chapter 2 Baby dies. Chapter 3 Mum leaves home to find Dad/Food/Help. Chapter 4 the other kids cope with hunger, illness and predatory neighbours who are also starving. I didn’t get to finish it, but apparently it didn’t get much more cheerful, although it did have a marginally better ending. But the Famine was a truly dreadful era, and to deal with it in any other way would not have been honest.

I love studying history and it is one of the most important subjects on the curriculum, but I think that literature plays an equally important place in explaining past events in a way that draws out compassion and understanding. John Boyne’s novel has raised some controversy because of its inaccurate portrayal of events, however, this work of fiction is more likely to generate an emotional response to the atrocities, than a history book written for the same age group could. Simply learning facts and figures is not enough.

Maybe it is time to put Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner or A Thousand Splendid Suns, on the curriculum as a way of attempting to explain what is going on in Afghanistan.

In defence of Chick-Lit

This Booker prize winning book is definitely not chick-lit, but only because the author is a man.

There has been a flurry of activity in the media and the social networking sites with regard to criticism about the ratio of book reviews for male and female authors in the New York Times, a fact that is doubtless replicated in the UK broadsheets. Despite the apparent fact that more women than men buy novels, there are far more reviews of books written by men than women, and that is compounded by the fact that there are far more male reviewers than female. I guess that even though we are ten years into the 21st century there is still a lot of catching up to do in terms of literary equality. Whilst this situation might be annoying to some people, there are others who will think – so what? There are also others that would wholeheartedly approve. There are a surprising number of people who despise women’s literature, and more shockingly some of these people are women.

I will never forget the moment, a few years ago, when I met a woman at a party, who was roughly my age, had a similar job and seemed, superficially at least, a perfectly pleasant and normal person, and she liked reading so I thought she would be an interesting person to strike up a conversation with. Until she said with some venom,“I never read books written by women; they’re all rubbish.” I tackled her on this rather bizarre statement (after I had regained the power of speech) and wondered whether she was referring to just romantic literature. But no, she meant what she had said; she despised all literature by women, regardless of the genre. I think that pretty much ended the conversation.

I have heard this kind of comment depressingly frequently, more often by men, but sometimes other women have expressed similar sentiments. I find this kind of literary snobbishness and sexism rather bizarre. It’s not as if someone can be a better writer on the basis of their gender alone, and it is probably safe to say that anyone who has such a narrow minded view of literature cannot have genuinely read very much, so it is best just to feel sorry for them.

But even within fairly intellectual circles there is often a low regard for the genre of women’s literature that is often called chick-lit. Even some women writers are insulted when their novels are put into this category by reviewers. It is seen as demeaning, but I fail to see what the problem is with being assigned to this category of writers. They are amongst the most commercially successful writers, and have huge appeal to the types of people that buy the most books. So where is the problem? Oh yes, it might be the word commercial. That appears to be another slander upon the writer who wants to get serious. As if the idea of selling many of your books is seen as some kind of artistic sell-out and that the writer must give up any hope of credibility if they become popular. It reminds me of the conversations I had in my youth, with earnest young men (usually) who would complain about some band they used to love, back in the day before they sold their souls to a record label and hit the big time.

I like chick-lit. I don’t read it all the time, but it does add some light relief to a busy life. I think I enjoyed it most of all when I was studying for my degree. Sometimes, when you are studying gory subjects like funerary and burial archaeology, you need to turn to something just a little bit sweeter.

Anyway, just for the record I can think of quite a few male writers that could be confused with chick-lit authors, if the names were withheld - Nick Hornby, Tony Parsons, Mike Gayle or Roddy Doyle to name but a few. The usual defining ingredient in a chick-lit novel is the exploration of a relationship between a man and a woman.

On Chesil Beach anyone?

Going home to Shetland

The view from my house looking West to the mainland

I have just booked a holiday to Shetland and I am now feeling like a child in the run up to Christmas. The October holiday cannot come soon enough. It will be no surprise to anybody who knows me that I miss Shetland terribly, for many reasons, and my friends are top of that list. However, there are some things that I miss, that might be unexpected. My daily commute to Lerwick from Whalsay was something that not many people envied. I was always surprised at how many Shetlanders hated travelling on the inter isle ferry. For the residents of Whalsay (a small island with a population of just over 1000) life was rather dominated by the ferries; their capacity; constrictions of the timetable; the cost, and of course, the vagaries of the weather.

I soon memorised the timetable; got to grips with the need to book ferries at peak times; timed the drive to the ferry terminal so that I wouldn’t miss the boat; and learned to accept that I couldn’t stay out late without booking the last ferry. Not that the last ferry ran very late, unless it was a very special occasion such as a wedding. Cinderella got a better deal in fact. However, despite the restrictions, I loved catching the ferry. It was the highlight of my day, and was undoubtedly better than travelling by train, underground or any other commute I have experienced before.

Even after nearly seven years I would still get the same buzz as if I was a tourist experiencing the journey for the first time. It was thirty minutes of heaven, twice a day, whatever the weather. Luckily I am a good sailor and never experienced seasickness, despite the Force 8 gales that would often strike terror into the hearts of some of my fellow travellers. Anything stronger than Force 8 and we would be temporarily marooned, with a day or so off work for the duration. One particularly bad spell of weather meant I had a week off work, but luckily the freezer was always well-stocked, and so were my bookshelves.

But on the bonny days, of which there were countless, I would go outside to the tiny deck and sit on the steps that led up to the wheelhouse and admire the view. I never tired of the scenery, which changed daily depending on the weather. There are not enough superlatives to describe the beauty of the Shetland Islands as viewed from either land or sea. You have to see it for yourself. Even photographs are a flattened, duller version of the real thing, whatever the skill of the photographer.

During one of my creative writing classes I was asked to produce some poetry, which is not something I have any natural talent for. But I thought I would be able to find inspiration in the view, and planned to use my time on the ferry for this purpose. I would stare out to sea, taking in the wondrous scenery, waiting for the creative juices to flow. Only they didn’t. It seemed that the more I admired the vivid textures of the landscape, the peat and heather covered hills, and the glittering sea, the more I felt that I could not capture it properly. It was too immense. Everything I started seemed immature, contrived, clichéd or worse and I became more and more miserable at my failure to compose something adequate.

But then one day, during a storm, when the ferry was diverted to the safer haven of the alternative ferry terminal at Vidlin, I sat and looked back at Whalsay and saw my house in the distance, a view I didn’t often see from this perspective. My house was situated on top of a hill, close to a small settlement of other houses, all belonging to people that I had come to know and love. I had a moment of revelation. I had come so far in life and I was finally home, safe and well. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t write a poem about the beauty of Shetland. I had other stories to tell. Over the next twenty minutes of the journey I jotted down the notes of the first poem I had written in over 30 years. The next day I wrote another; the day after that another. I cannot say with any conviction that they were any good, but I had got over that initial stumbling block. Poetry will never be my forte, but my daily journey on the sea inspired my first novel, Dancing with the Ferryman. (More about that another time).

In the meantime, if you are interested, the poems I wrote on the ferry are published on my website.



The view looking North West towards Fetlar, Yell and Unst

Get yourself to a writers' group

The truly inspirational venue for the Maynooth Writers' Group

For anyone with aspirations to write I recommend you find where your nearest writers' group is and join it now. If one doesn't exist, then try and set one up yourself. There is nothing more useful to a fledging writer than to discuss your work with other writers. Friends and family might enjoy reading your works-in-progress, and may indeed give you some good feedback and praise. However, they will probably not be as critical and thorough in their feedback as someone else who has been spending all their own free time slaving away over a hot laptop.

And because a writers' group will be made up of people that you don't know very well, they will be less concerned about the impact of their comments on your feelings. To really improve your writing skills, and to create something that is commercially viable, you need criticism that is open and brutally honest. At first, this might be slightly painful, but believe me, before too long you will develop the perfectly formed thick skin, which is the essential requirement for this job.

It is also brilliant to find out what other people are writing about in your area. You never know who you might meet at the group. You could be sitting next to a future Man Booker prize winner. I am fortunate to have joined the Maynooth Writers' Group that meets once a month at the fabulous Carton House Hotel. For the price of a pot of tea (or a pint of Guinness in my case) we get to sit in one of the lovely bars or sitting rooms and discuss our current projects. There is a great mix of novelists, poets and historical researchers, so it is always a great night out. I have received so much helpful critiquing on my novel. I am almost ready for round two of submitting it to agents/publishers again.

Room to write - Seomra a scríobh

Would this view be an inspiration or a distraction?

I love to read about how other writers work. One writer (I forget who, but she was American) redecorates her study for each new book she writes. She is obviously successful and can afford such luxuries. She collects items such as books, music, pictures, articles, ornaments, fabric, flowers or jewellery – anything in fact that she considers a source of inspiration to create the right mood for writing. I found that idea to be fascinating, although I don’t think it is something I would ever do for myself.

To date, I have never had the ideal place in which to write, and yet somehow I manage. I have created makeshift offices in a spare bedroom, an attic room, the kitchen or the sitting room – wherever my laptop can be close to a power source is fine with me. I have also managed to knock out a few cheeky pages of text during a quiet moment in the office, or when I used to commute by ferry to work. I sometimes find that my most creative moments happen when they really shouldn’t; like being at work, or writing while the TV is on in the background and the males of the household are yelling at the football/cricket/rugby or indeed anything with a ball. When I am lost in a book, either reading one or trying to write one, I am oblivious to the external world.

However, the external world still remains a constant source of inspiration when I do venture outside. Today, for example, was a day of blue sky perfection and I sat outside in the late afternoon sun, while my son sprawled on the lawn, finishing his homework, and the farmer in the neighbouring field was harvesting hay. It was an idyllic scene, both relaxing and energising at the same time. A beautiful view does recharge the creative batteries, even if the said view has nothing whatsoever to do with the writing project of the day. I am now working on a screenplay, based on a novel I wrote, that is set in Shetland, so a view of the Wicklow Mountains is not particularly useful in terms of inspiration, but fresh air and a big blue sky definitely are.

When I set up this blog, I imagined that I would be “the girl from Maynooth” for the foreseeable future – at least a few years. However, a few days ago my husband received a job offer that was too good to turn down, and it potentially involves a move further south within Ireland. At first I was horrified, as I am only just starting to get settled here, and a move to Tipperary seemed too outlandish to take seriously. Not helped by my son breaking out into song with “It’s a long way to Tipperary” every few minutes.

However, some research into the area has actually made me feel quite excited about the prospect of moving. Kildare and the Dublin area are very attractive places to live, but it is horrifyingly expensive to buy a house here. Tipperary on the other hand is relatively cheap and has some really quite delightful countryside. We are giving serious consideration to the areas around Clonmel, Cashel or Carrick on Suir and will be visiting the area this weekend to get a better feel for the place.

Estate agents websites are notorious for inflating the merits of a property, but one place I looked at had the most jaw droppingly gorgeous and uninterrupted view of the Slievenamon Mountains, with a ruined castle on the skyline, just as a little extra icing. Reader, I fell deeply in love. And I also got the first germ of an idea for a new career option.

Moving to Tipperary will make it easier for me to concentrate on writing, since a second income is not so necessary to maintain an adequate standard of living. So, should I fail to make a cent out of my writing it will not mean we will be fighting off the bailiffs. However, I do like to keep a certain amount of independence, so I had an idea for a business venture that would put together all of the available resources of skill and location.

At this stage it is just a daydream, but I am considering setting up a Writers’ Retreat. It is not a wholly original idea; however, there does not seem to be anything in the way of personalised one-to-one workshops that can devote time to working on a particular project. So I am wondering if there is a market for this. I doubt it would be highly profitable, but I suspect it would be enjoyable, and stop me from becoming a total hermit, because my other plan B is to think about doing a PhD in Chick Lit. Surprisingly this idea was well received by a professor at the local university when I made a tentative enquiry, but I kind of feel that deep down I was not cut out for a life of serious academia.

So, back to plan A - would a holiday in a gorgeous part of Ireland, with full board, great food and wine, excellent research facilities, time to think and write, and the services of a friendly writing counsellor be of any appeal?

Your comments on my daydream would be welcomed.

Do you judge a book by its cover?

With thousands of books being released into the bookshops every week it is hard for the reader to make a decision about what to read. Of course we read the reviews in newspapers and magazines and accept recommendations from friends and Amazon, but when you have run out of inspiration it is the only thing you can do when faced with the wonderful selection on offer in your local bookshop. My favourite shop in the whole world is Waterstones. I get the same giddy rush of excitement that most girls seem to get from shoe shops and jewellers, and I will spend ages wandering around the shelves stocking up on my 3 for 2 deals and usually end up with at least 6 books.

When looking at an unfamiliar author and a new title it seems to me that I probably give each book roughly 10 seconds of my time. I know without any shadow of doubt that I judge books by their cover. The marketing and art departments of the publishers play a huge role in making a book attractive and also in targeting the right readers for the genre. I am probably one of their target customers, in that I don’t spend too much time deciding what to buy, but I am drawn towards their books by their design and colour schemes.

Bookshops like Waterstones tend to divide up the titles into genre and I imagine most people can spot, from far across the room, the section with the books they like just from the colours of the spines. Spy novels, crime, fantasy and science fiction tend to have dark covers and strong images on the cover of guns, knives, barbed wire, vampires and aliens as appropriate. I tend to avoid this kind of fiction and head straight to the candy coloured chick-lit titles and the primary or subtle arty colours of the literary fiction. Chick-lit titles are easily recognised by their predilection for pretty colours, and to the untrained eye they probably all look the same. However, there are subtle clues to the type of book it is as indicated by the illustrations. The more hearts and flowers, the sappier the plot, but if there is a picture of shoes the plot gets a little racier.

As a whole I am less inclined to pick up the most obvious chick-litty kind of book. I am not fond of the overly sugary types of novel s on offer, but I am still drawn to at least look at some of the more feminine artwork on some books. If I have lots of time on my hands I will spend much more time choosing books and will read the blurbs and perhaps the first chapter before making a purchase. But quite often I don’t have that much time to spare so I hit the shop in a frenzy of purchasing adrenaline and pick up the first few titles that have instant appeal.

I also have a tendency to buy books by authors that I have liked in the past and will look out for my favourites. But quite often I hit the shops, or the library, completely clueless about what to read next and I feel like a drug addict seeking my next indiscriminate fix. For example, I had run out of reading material earlier this week and made a beeline for my local library in Maynooth. I did not have long to browse before getting back to my car before I would be in danger of getting clamped so I rushed in to the library like a one-woman SAS hit squad and picked out five titles almost at random. Maynooth library has a brilliant section devoted to new titles so I usually head straight for that rack. I chose two titles by authors I had already read, but another three just by the prettiness of the book cover. How shallow is that? But I am sure that I won’t be disappointed by my choices.

But wouldn’t it be nice to have some kind of book review system for libraries? I would love to be able to look up a review of books, organised by genre, and not just writing about the brand new titles. I would recommend buying a copy of 1000 books to read before you die. I forget the name of the editor but it is easy to find on Amazon. I must remember to take it with me next time I go to the library or bookshop.

Taking it on the chin

I do hope that is not my career going up in flames!

Throughout the UK and Ireland, young people have been getting the exam results that will determine whether or not they have got a place at the university of their choice. Tough times for some, but for the most, it is a time of celebration as they set off on the next exciting stage of their life.

In the Irish Times (17/08/10) there was a well-timed article about how to deal with the disappointment of failure, including some examples of well known and successful people who perhaps didn’t get off to the best start with their careers. Two of these examples were the Irish writers, Maeve Binchy and John Connolly, who received 35 and 70 rejection letters respectively, before going on to become the writing superstars that they are now.

That is an incredible amount of rejection to deal with and I am filled with renewed respect for both these writers. I have only had two rejection letters so far, with regard to my novel “Dancing with the Ferryman,” and that was enough to make me stop and think about whether or not I was good enough. The upshot of my re-think was I signed up to study for a Masters in Professional Writing. I hoped that this period of study would allow me to gain more skills and to add some more credibility to my CV. It has also given me the chance to step back from my writing and to view it in a more critical way.

At some stage, perhaps, when I have finished my degree, and edited my manuscript again to remove all the amateurish flaws, I will start the process of trying to get it published again. I fully expect to get numerous rejection letters; because that’s the way it seems to work. I wonder, though, how I would deal with rejection, if it amounted to 70 letters from publishers, all saying no.

This week I got the news that I hadn’t got a job that I interviewed for last week. I had made the mistake of setting my hopes upon success, and the interview had gone very well so I had allowed optimism to surface in my imagination. But the job went to someone who had previously been a CEO someplace, so that was pretty stiff competition. It is a little depressing to think that the level of competition for fairly ordinary jobs is so hard, but I guess unemployment being the way it is in Ireland, it should be expected. Nevertheless I was a little bit down for a few hours.

I have applied for countless jobs since I arrived, and despite many years of valuable experience and numerous skills, I have only had the one interview. I am sure that I will probably have to learn to deal with rejection over the next few months before landing a good job. And maybe that experience will stand me in good stead for when I pursue my dreams of publication again.

A sense of self-belief and optimism is essential for any writer, whether they have been published or not. We all experience moments of doubt to some degree or other. Sometimes that doubt can be crippling, and many budding, and no doubt talented, writers have given up. I wonder whether I would continue to have the strength of conviction in my own ability if I received as many rejection letters as John Connolly. I would love to know what drove him on to get past this. I hope whatever it was, that I possess at least some of that characteristic in my own soul, because all I know is, there simply isn’t any other career I would rather have.

In the meantime, there is always a plus side to every disappointment. My failure to get a job means that I have more time to write and study. If only I could get to grips with my bizarre sense of guilt at not working I would be in heaven.

Familiarity breeds contentment

An Ireland rugby shirt and a pint of Guinness - sure signs of being in Dublin.

When you have lived in a place for a while you grow used to your surroundings, and novelty soon merges seamlessly into the ordinary. I have been in Ireland six months, and I am now driving around with more confidence, and less reliance on my trusty map book. I have grown used to the trees and the vivid shades of green that contrasted with what I was used to seeing in Shetland. I am used to seeing race horses grazing in the fields, but still miss the sight of Shetland ponies and moorit sheep wandering around the hills. I have a gorgeous view of the Wicklow Mountains from my bedroom window, which is starting to make up for the unrestricted view of the sea that I used to enjoy.

Ireland is not so very different in appearance to Britain. The similar landscape is dotted with familiar looking architecture and experiences the same, often dreary weather. The same high street shops fill the shopping centres over here and McDonalds and Tesco seem to have set up camp on every street corner. But there are enough subtle changes to be a constant reminder that I am in a different country. I am still getting used to working with kilometres instead of miles. I re-set the speedometer in my little Citroen to make sure I never inadvertently go over the limit, but from time to time I still experience a split second of fear when I look down and see that I am travelling at 120 on the motorway (which is the speed limit in kph). I still recalculate distances into miles in order to get a better feel for how much further my destination is.

The other evening I was driving to Clondalkin, a suburb of Dublin, and I experienced that warm sense of familiarity that you get when you are driving somewhere you know. I realised that I was not paying quite so much intense attention to the road signs, because I already knew what they said, and I had stopped seeing the countryside as something different and to be observed much like you do when you are on holiday. The fact that I was going to see a friend I have known for over 20 years also created that feeling that I was not abroad any longer.

And then just as I was getting comfortable I had to stop at the traffic lights, and I sat for a while watching a group of young men running around the playing fields beside the road. They were playing a game of hurling, which is a totally mad game, kind of like hockey on steroids. This short glimpse of the game, before the lights went green reminded me once again that I was in a foreign land.

It also reminded me of some time I spent at Shetland College studying a module on Visual Sociology, as part of my Cultural Studies degree. This module looked at the semiotics of photographs and basically involved looking at lots of interesting pictures to see what they said about people’s lives. I found this module very interesting, although quite challenging, as I am not a visual person. I prefer words to pictures anytime. However, I enjoyed looking at the stunning pictures taken by Dorothea Lange that depicted life during the American Depression.

Semiotics is just a fancy word for signs, and during the lectures we would look at photographs and learn how to read and analyse the signs. A seemingly ordinary family photo could reveal an extraordinary amount of sociological information when you paid sufficient attention to the detail. But for the most part we don’t pay much attention to those details because they are familiar to us. When we look at a picture of friends or family, we don’t normally try to analyse class, race, age, occupation or status of the people in the picture, or from the setting in which it was taken. We look at how old Auntie Mary is now, or how much little Michael has grown or how much weight your sister has lost or gained.

I realised when I continued my drive through Dublin that I am still noticing all the semiotics of my new landscape. Although I might know my way around quite well now, I still notice the novelty of green post boxes and the dual language signage, the different style of car number plates and the Garda cars sitting watch over the motorways, instead of the police.

I wonder how long it will take before I cease to notice these details as something different.

From the girl who can't even kill a spider

Am I the only person to think that there are far too many memorials for those that died in conflict? I wish there were more places devoted to considering peace.

I have spent most of the week thinking, reading and talking about violence and terrorism. It started with Stephen King. I finished reading his new novel – Under the Dome, and whilst it was an action packed page-turner, as promised by the blurb on the cover, I was a trifle bored with it by the end. Mr King, as I’m sure most of his fans already know, has rather an intense interest in the blood, guts and bodily fluids of violence and death. He is also not afraid to kill innocent victims in his books, including children and dogs, that most authors tend to arrange to be conveniently rescued in some heroic action scene. By the end of his book I felt kind of exhausted by the huge body count, it ran to over 1000 at least; which rather blighted the so called “happy ending.”

I could not in a million years, ever imagine writing anything like this, even if there is a healthy commercial market for it. But each to his own, as they say. I did enjoy reading his autobiography though – On Writing and would recommend that to any aspiring novelist.

During the last few weeks of the school holidays I have spent some time with my two stepsons, and my own son, visiting places in Dublin, mostly related to sport and shopping, but with the occasional trip to somewhere historic. All three boys are now a little wiser about some of Ireland’s history and to some degree, how it impacts on daily life today. They have also heard the recent stories on the news about attempts to blow up cars in Northern Ireland and a thwarted attempt to blow up a house with a hand grenade, a little closer to home, and they are understandably nervous about these events. It is very hard to explain why people feel so much sustained hatred for each other that they wish to kill each other.

We have also seen some rather scary and threatening graffiti, the purpose of which is to scare off the Queen, who is visiting Ireland soon. I am fully aware of the brutal and disgusting things that the British did to the Irish in the past, but even armed with this knowledge, I still cannot find a satisfactory explanation for why a group of angry young men would want to harm, what is in effect, an old granny. I am not a big fan of the Royal Family, but that is a step too far.

The conversation then turned to Al Qaida, and the complex reasons behind the conflict that has led to other acts of terrorism. The boys are flying home on Saturday and voiced their concerns about something happening to the plane. I think I have persuaded them that Al Qaida terrorists have probably not heard of Doncaster Airport and that they will definitely arrive home safely. But it is a little sad to have such conversations with children. For all that they love action films and video games where animated soldiers are blown to smithereens (they are banned in this household but I know full well they have played them), it is impossible to explain the full and awful horror of sustained pure hatred.

I am sure that at some time or other, even if it was just during our childhood, we have all wanted to reach out and slap someone, push the school bully over in the playground, punch the witch who ran off with our husband, or curse at someone who nearly caused a motorway pile up. But that kind of anger is short-lived. I can also imagine beating the crap out of anyone who threatened my family or friends, but even then, it would be in the heat of the moment. I cannot imagine waging a vendetta against them, their family, their entire race or country, for the rest of my life, and for generations after me. This kind of hatred and bitterness is hard to imagine in anyone, and yet it exists, and worse still, it is often carefully nurtured and given the dishonest approval of religion.

I am not a religious person in any sense, in fact I am an atheist, but I have read both the Bible and the Koran, and I seem to recall that murder was clearly and expressly forbidden in both texts. Apparently God will be the judge of who was right or wrong, and will deal out the punishments accordingly. As far as I can tell hell is not going to be anywhere near big enough to hold everyone, and no doubt that explains why the Second Coming predicted in Revelations is taking a while longer than expected. No doubt Lucifer is struggling with getting planning permission for the extension to his place.

There are many people who think that violent in films, TV, books and video games can fuel a tendency towards violence. This may be so for some vulnerable people, but it appears to be human nature to imagine this kind of horror, in order to be able to write the books, screenplays and design the games in the first place.

Terrorists, war-mongers, mass murderers and petty criminals alike, all possess an imagination that allows them to dream up their hideous plans to kill and maim their victims. Human beings created the vast array of weaponry that exists on the planet, and will even use items not originally designed for such stunts, like planes or cars. Politically correct parents who refuse to let their children play with toy guns, or watch anything more violent than Tom and Jerry, are often astounded when their child fashions a toy gun out of Lego bricks, a squash racquet or even a fish finger, or lobs an "armed" Satsuma into the war zone. Children are inventive too!

It is the saddest thing to think that the wonderful imaginations that we are blessed with that allows us to create wonderful architecture, life saving medical procedures, works of art or great literature, and travel to other planets, is also the same imagination that allows us to dream up ever more wicked ways of hurting each other.

Anyway, I hope that Al Qaida has indeed never heard of any destination in Yorkshire, and that the IRA, (real and imagined) and the Ulster Defence bods finally learn to get along and let Ireland live up to its deserved reputation as a friendly nation. But I’m not holding my breath.

In the meantime I am hoping Monica Ali's In the Kitchen will be slightly less gory.

Food for thought

There's always room for cake!

Food is right up there with oxygen and water as part of life’s essential requirements, and human beings are understandably somewhat obsessed with it. I spend the best part of my day thinking about food: what to buy, what to cook, who in the household doesn’t like avocados or cheese, and has everyone had their “five a day”, preparing food, cooking it, and cleaning up afterwards. It's a wonder I ever have time to write.

My household has grown temporarily larger over the last few weeks, with the welcome addition of my step-sons. This also means the dynamics of dinner time are vastly different as there are two extra sets of likes and dislikes to contend with. I am always amazed at the variation in tastes that a family will produce. The three boys are all attending soccer and cricket camps over the holidays and I am already exhausted at the things I need to remember about who likes what sandwich filling, what colour bread is acceptable, who needs the crusts cut off, who hates butter, who loves Marmite and who needs persuading to eat fruit. But what I find most difficult is trying to describe the taste of something to someone else. Two out of the three boys are reluctant to try anything new, and particularly if it is green, and I have had some interesting conversations in the supermarket whilst trying to buy food that everyone will eat.

Do courgettes taste like cucumbers?

Why not, they look just the same? What do courgettes taste like then?

What do marrows taste like?

What do plantains taste like?

Are avocados sweet, because they look disgusting?

Etc etc etc...

I have failed, for the most part, in coming up with satisfactory answers to some of these questions, because I can’t seem to find the words to explain to a twelve year old that an avocado is more than just a squishy sludgy-green vegetable that’s nice in a salad. The screwed up faces on my audience were enough to convince me that I am terrible at describing food.

I am always amused and intrigued by descriptions given to wines. I think wine tasters are brilliant at finding the words to describe something that we cannot concur with until we have tried it for ourselves. Although when I was younger and less experienced I was always disappointed that a red wine that boasted of warm blackcurrants did not taste of Ribena. Joanne Harris is also brilliant at describing the taste and smell of chocolate in her novel Chocolat. I should, perhaps, revisit this book if I want to get a handle on describing food.

The other strange thing about food is the way a certain taste can bring back memories. The other day I took the boys to MacDonalds for lunch and had, for the first time in many years, a Filet of Fish meal. For those of you who have not experienced this delight, it is an odd combination of fish, tartare sauce and cheese, in a very soft bap. With the very first bite of this delicacy I was transported away from the Liffey Valley shopping centre back in time to 1989, to a MacDonalds in the West End of London. It was 2.00am and I had just left a nightclub with some friends and we had had such a good time we had wanted to eek out the fun a little longer and so we bundled in to the restaurant and sat for ages, giggling and gossiping and wishing we didn’t have work the next morning. Oh happy days they were – in the British Library!

Olives marinated in garlic, lemon juice and coriander remind me of Casablanca. I eat them whenever I want to remember the feel of hot sun on my face. Reestit mutton soup, or salt beef bannocks will always conjure up Shetland.

But as well as conjuring up the past, we also use food as a language in its own right. A box of Belgian chocolates bought at the airport on a business trip, says “I thought of you while I was away – at least once!” The delicious aroma of a home made curry, cooked from scratch, says “I appreciate all the hard work you do,” and a lopsided chocolate birthday cake, decorated with jellytots, marshmallows and magic candles means “you are the best child in the whole world!”

I may not be so good at describing how something tastes, but I have definitely mastered the language of food in other ways.

A heady concoction of beautiful adjectives

A couple of years ago I listened to a creative writing lecture given by the brilliant Scottish writer and broadcaster, Carl MacDougall, while he discussed all the rookie mistakes that amateur writers make. He gave us two essential pieces of advice that day, which I have kept uppermost in my mind since then; although at the time, my fellow students and I thought he must be barking mad.

Carl insisted that we should use adverbs and adjectives sparingly; NO MORE THAN THREE PER PAGE! Really, seriously? But what about all the gorgeous words I have been storing up inside my head, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed upon a page of pristine prose. He went on to explain the reasoning behind it thankfully, and used some examples of how glaringly awful it is to read something stuffed full of colourful adjectives. I was forced to acknowledge his wisdom and went home to delete 97% of superfluous descriptions in my, as yet unpublished, novel and cut the word count significantly as a result.

His other piece of advice was equally bizarre, upon first hearing it. He implored us to KILL OUR BABIES! Jenny and I sat up straight and looked at each other in alarm and kept our eyes on the classroom door, and felt grateful that this obvious psychopath was lecturing us via a videoconference link from Glasgow.

He went on to explain that we should look out for any puffed-up and pretentious nonsense that we might have written. He said we would recognise it for what it was, because in all likelihood it would be the sentence or paragraph that we were most proud of. Now really, why on earth would we want to delete something we were particularly proud of? It made no sense at all. However, I have since learned to appreciate the wisdom of these words. There are times when I have read a novel and been struck by a piece of prose that sticks out like a plate of sausage rolls at a Bar Mitzvah buffet, and one can tell that the author has gone to some length to impress us with their intellect. As a reader, we want to get drawn in to the story so deeply that we don’t wish to be reminded of the author’s presence, and it is usually when we read something too utterly perfect that we are distracted by this fact.

As a writer, it can be difficult trying to describe something in a way that is clear, precise and not too clichéd. There are some clichés that I can’t stand, and sadly, they are normally the sort that are littering up chick-lit and women’s magazines.

I have never met, nor would I wish to, anyone who possesses a “peaches and cream complexion”. What the hell does that mean anyway? Has any writer ever looked at a bowl of peaches and cream and been reminded of anyone’s skin? A peach is practically orange on the inside and a mottled mixture of red, yellow and orange on the outside.

Likewise, I have never met anyone who’s complexion could accurately be described as cafe au lait or the newer trendy version of that, cafe latte. This hideous description is usually used as a way of describing someone of mixed race, or Asian. It is intended to be flattering, but I think that if anyone did actually have skin colour resembling a mug of milky coffee then they would probably be seriously ill.

Rosebud lips anyone? The only time any potential heroine of a romantic novel could possibly have anything resembling rosebud lips, is when they are pursed in disapproval or anger, and that is not a good look. Or does the writer wish to imply that the lips are rose coloured, which would be fine if roses only came in shades of pink, red or nude. Yellow and white roses need not apply to become the latest shade in Chanel lipstick.

“Butter-soft” is another favourite adjective, used to describe the exquisite softness of a leather jacket or handbag. Whenever I read that expression a slab of greasy butter is brought to mind, along with that slightly rancid odour that soft butter has. Maybe that is why I remain largely unmoved by handbags, shoes and leather jackets, despite my dreadful magazine habit.

It seems to me that some writers can be incredibly lazy and resort to these clichéd expressions, because after all, we all know what is meant by them. But I certainly will not be employing any of these words and urge anyone else to avoid them too.

Alternative careers

I read an article in the Irish Times today, about the alternative career choices that some of their readers might have made. It made me think about all the different ideas I had during my youth, for my perfect job. Between the ages of about 8 and 11 I wanted to join the Royal Navy, just like my dad. I used to write to the Royal Naval Careers Office at least once a year and pore over the brochures they sent me. It seemed such an exciting career choice, although it was slightly disappointing to read that I would not be allowed on board a ship. My father, strangely enough, was not impressed with my ambition. ‘Women have no place in the navy; the only ones who join up are lesbians!’ he would say whenever I raised the subject. I had no idea what a lesbian was in those days, but he made them sound rather threatening. No doubt he was threatened by the idea of them, being an old-fashioned Irish man.

When I was at a convent boarding school run by the Sisters of Absolutely No Mercy I worried about whether I should become a nun. The nuns would often talk about their “calling” and how they could not ignore it; and neither should we, they would add menacingly. I must have had a thing about uniforms, because I was fascinated by their long black habits, and the cherry wood rosary beads they used to hang from their leather belts. However, I thought there was something rather sinister about these brides of Christ and I did not want to join them. I was already an insomniac at this stage, and the idea that I might hear some heavenly voice telling me to become a nun, was almost too much to bear. Thankfully I never heard any such voices, which is just as well; I am not the perfect nun material – being an atheist an all.

The school careers advisor suggested that because I was good at maths (I so am not!) that I should perhaps become a bookkeeper or maybe get a job in Woolworths. What was it about careers advisors during the 1970’s? Seriously, what a waste of money they were giving out useless advice based on their five minute assessment of a child’s ability. I don’t know a single person who was inspired to take up an interesting career based on the suggestion of a career advisor.

Anyway, a year or so later I decided that perhaps I should join the police force instead. However, by the age of 18 I still had not grown tall enough, and this was in the days before they changed the rules. Furious with my parents for not passing on the tall genes to me, my brothers are all over 6ft, I briefly considered nursing. By now I was working in the local hospital and the nurses seemed to live far more glamorous lives than I did. Part of my job involved printing up all the training notes for the School of Nursing, so I would stand by the Gestetner offset printer (how I hated that machine) and read all the instructions for giving lumbar punctures and inserting IV drips. When my knees went weak and I thought I might pass out after looking at the black and white images of various bodily organs, I realised I did not have the stomach for such a career.

I carried on working in an office for the next three decades, although not once had I made a conscious effort to do so. It just kind of happened, and all during those years I would continue to think about what my dream job would be. I hardly ever gave serious thought to being a writer even though my head was permanently full of stories and ideas. I think it was because I always thought that you had to be very clever and seriously well educated to become a writer. If I ever made a mistake with my grammar when writing a business report or letter (and who doesn’t sometimes?) it would reinforce my idea that I wasn’t good enough.

It has taken many years to realise that I am actually quite clever, and now I have the education to match. My head is still full of stories and fictional characters that one day I hope to see on the printed page. Writing is the only occupation I currently have, and perhaps I will never earn a penny from it, but I will always have other skills to fall back on if that is the case. My only disappointment is that I don’t have a uniform.

Still feeling slightly guilty for not making a financial contribution to the household I discussed with the husband the possibility of retraining for a career in social care. I had pondered this idea after reading an article on recession proof careers, and sure isn't the world already full of secretaries, project managers and internal auditors already, which is why my current CV seems to be unappreciated. However, the husband said that was a ridiculous idea, I would make a dreadful carer (Cheers, thanks Honey!)and that I should concentrate on doing what I enjoyed and what I am best at. I should make more effort to get my novel published and work on my new projects and finish my MA.

Still smarting at the idea that I would make a dreadful carer (although it's probably true) I missed out on the fact that he was paying me a compliment, and possibly the best compliment I have ever had. For the truth is, he actually believes in me, and that is something I have never had before.

Now for something funny

I have been suffering from a chest infection for the last few days which left me feeling exhausted and unable to read or write, as well as coughing like someone with a serious Woodbine habit. This is very annoying for someone who has never smoked.

Feeling ill is not good for someone with an overactive imagination. I have a tendency to be a bit of a hyperchondriac. Every headache is a brain tumour, and when I woke up the other day with a really heavy feeling on my chest, and finding it hard to breathe, I thought I was having a heart attack. It was just Tiger, our Siamese cat, who was sleeping on top of me.

One day last summer, while I was spending far too long at the computer, working on my novel, I realised that my eyesight had gone all blurry. I switched off the PC and went for a walk around the loch at the back of the house, to give my eyes a rest from the screen and to get some much needed exercise. A few hours later, I still could not see properly and vowed not to spend quite so much time at the computer. The next morning I still had trouble focusing and although I could still drive to work I couldn’t see details like number plates or recognise peoples faces on the ferry. In addition to this I had pins and needles running up my arms and legs which was rather disturbing. But all the same I still thought my mammoth session at the computer the previous day was to blame.

However, as soon as I switched on the computer at work my eyes went all blurry again, I had pain shooting through my left arm and then I started getting palpitations. At that point I got kind of nervous and rang the husband, who used to be a nurse and is more of an expert on medical issues than me. When I listed all my symptons, instead of just saying “it’s nothing, stop being so neurotic” like he would normally do, he said he would leave his very important meeting at the police station to pick me up and take me to casualty.

At the hospital, I was ushered through Triage much quicker than expected and within a minute I was being hooked up to an ECG. My life started flashing before my eyes and I started thinking of something impressive, witty or endearing to say as my final words. I implored the husband to get my novel published posthumously, and reminded him of the whereabouts of my life assurance policy.

So imagine my surprise when the Doctor announced that the only thing wrong with me was a migraine. “But I don’t have a headache!” I argued. “That is not necessarily a symptom of migraine,” she replied, “but you might get one later.” She was right; I got the mother of all headaches later on that day. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day.

Don’t spend so much time huddled over a computer screen.



This graffiti on the M1 always makes me smile.

If I could turn back time – I probably wouldn’t.

I have just been to Britain to catch up with friends and relatives. The trip involved a substantial amount of driving around , and inevitably took me back to my past, when I lived in England and Wales. I grew up in West Sussex and although I spent less than half my life there, it is the place where I have spent the most time. Sussex is beautiful, with its coastal towns, quaint villages, and the Southdown hills sheltering the county from the wild excesses of London and its sprawling suburbia. What’s not to love about it?

But in a literary sense, I find myself strangely unmoved by the landscape. As I drove around the other day, I passed several places of significant personal history; my first flat, the Church where I got married (far too young), the riding school where my friend Sarah taught me to ride, and a mile further down the road, the cemetery where she is buried, having died far too young from MS.

The memories I have of my youth are many and varied. It includes moments of passion and high drama, loss and sadness. The writer in me, however, has never seriously considered using Sussex as the setting in any of my writing. I left West Sussex at the age of 23 to move up to London, and that is where I feel my life really began. I loved living there. Every day when I strode down Oxford Street to get to my office in Soho I felt glad to be alive, and delighted to be in such an exciting place. I hardly ever looked back at my past and failed to appreciate what I had experienced.

My life has been one of constant upheaval and frequent heartbreak. But in between that I have had moments of absolute joy, and have made many great friends. During an evening spent catching up with someone close, I was asked the question – would I undo a significant event, if I could?

I thought about it for a while before replying. If I could have made an alternative decision many years ago, how different would my life be now? Doubtless I would have experienced less turmoil and stress, and probably saved myself from at least two divorces. I would probably be wealthier and still living somewhere in the South East of England. But would I be happier than I am now? I don’t think so.

I think my life was meant to be the way it was. For all of the ups and downs, there have been far more ups, especially over the last ten years. I think that is why my writing tends to focus on Shetland and Orkney. This is where my life turned around, and this is where I have been the happiest.

Despite my Irish heritage I don’t yet feel the same passion for Ireland that I have for the Northern Isles. When I drove off the ferry in Dublin I felt like I was embarking on another holiday, rather than returning home. I expect it will take more time to settle. I think I will know when this has happened – when I start daydreaming about a novel set in Ireland.

But it was interesting to think about all the what-ifs and just-supposing, and made me realise that I am very lucky that fate has brought me to where I am. I don’t think I would be embarking on this career if I had led a more ordinary life.

An addict; me? No way!

Over the last few days I have been having a crisis of confidence about my new career choice, but not in the way that you might imagine. All writers wonder whether they are good enough, but that is not the issue that is festering away in my mind at the moment (although it usually is, in case you get the impression that I am extraordinarily self-confident). I am starting to wonder what I am potentially missing out on in life because of my predilection for books, either reading or writing.

On Monday morning I boarded the fast ferry to Holyhead for a trip to the UK to catch up with my friends and relatives. I grabbed a table by the window and proceeded to get out my novel, because to travel by public transport without something to read would be unthinkable. Incidentally I have passed this habit on to my son and he was disappointed that there was nothing sufficiently interesting to read in the onboard shop, and had to make do with The Irish Times. The sight of an eleven year old trying to manhandle a broadsheet newspaper was quite amusing, but I digress.

The school holliers have already started in Ireland so the boat was filled with noisy excitable children who jostled around our table and made reading rather difficult. It was also a gorgeous calm day and the sea was glassy smooth and I put down my book and joined the little kids in gazing out of the window at the seabirds and boats. I spent the next two hours daydreaming out of the window and was rewarded with the sight of three porpoises and two whales. I have quite an obsession with whales and dolphins and so seeing a pilot whale breaking through the water just a few yards away from the boat was thrilling and something I would have missed had I persevered with my book. It got me thinking about what else I may have missed. I don’t think I missed anything on the London Underground, or on any plane journeys, so that can’t be considered a wasted experience, but I do wonder whether I have spent too much holiday time with my nose in a book and missed something more tangible.

I do recall an unfortunate honeymoon experience when my husband de jour made the misguided decision to buy me the latest John Grisham novel, and then whined, probably with good reason, that I would not put it down in order to pay sufficient attention to him. I don’t recall the book now so it couldn’t have been that brilliant, and now the husband has run off to someone else, presumable someone less addicted to reading and more addicted to him. I don’t think that particular incident was responsible for our downfall, however, I do think that my priorities in life are a little skewed. When I am engrossed in a book I become completely deaf to the world, and time has a habit of slipping away so before I know it a day and most of the night has gone by and I haven’t done all things I intended to do, which include things like pay attention to my nearest and dearest, fight my way through the ironing mountain or stick to my resolution of walking an hour a day.

Thankfully the current husband de jour has been blessed with infinite patience for my addiction and he is similarly addicted to sport, and therefore I have ample time to hide away in a book whilst he plays or watches cricket, football, rugby, formula 1 etc etc. But even so, I have a feeling that I should cut back on my reading habit. It is rather strange to think about this when fledgling writers are encouraged to read as much as possible, but all things in moderation as they say.

When we drove off the ferry we had the choice of whether to take the fastest route, via as much motorway as possible or to take the slower more scenic route through North Wales. We chose the scenic route and although it added an hour or more to the exceedingly long journey it was worth it. We drove through the Cambrian mountains and gorgeous little towns like Llangollen and Bettws y Coed. As I drove I continued to reflect on the type of life experiences that have meant the most to me and the kind of memories that will be treasured at the end of my life. None of them involve reading or writing and I started to worry about what I was doing in embarking on a career that will mean hours spent huddled over a laptop. I might never achieve fame and fortune, although that is not my driving ambition thankfully. But what am I sacrificing for my passion?

Many hours later when I reached my destination I felt rather more cheerful after I had thought about the kind of books that have made a significant difference to my life. There are too many to mention but through literature I have travelled the world from the comfort of my armchair and been introduced to millions of people I would never have met in real life. Books have enlarged my vocabulary, altered my politics, informed my beliefs (or lack of them) and broadened my view of the world. They have, in effect, made me the person I am. They have also amused, entertained, enlightened and made me feel like I am not the only person in the world with my particular blend of personal disasters.

And as for my own ambition to add yet more publications to an overburdened market I think that this is still preferable to spending the rest of my working life in a office. I have spent 32 years of my life working in various offices, and in all honesty I don’t think I have added achieved anything remarkable and long-lasting. However, if I can amuse or entertain someone just for a few hours during a quiet moment in their life, then I think it will all have been worthwhile.

But I am going to have a new mid-year resolution. I will be more discriminate about my reading material and will make a conscious effort to spend less time reading and more time living life.