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 I was not disappointed when he started his session by reading from his as yet unpublished new novel Persephone.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.