‘Who is your ideal reader?’ It was the question posed by one of The Saturdays. – the given name of the five of us who zoom-write at the weekend. Hard to say, was my answer, easier to say who my ideal writer is. After all, I’ve thought about that, I’ve even acted upon it: told … Continue reading Dear Reader
Who else is organising the contents of neglected boxes and cavernous cupboards, putting order on disregarded bookshelves and dusty sheds? I’m sure I’m not the only one, it is what people do when they have time on their hands. We call it ‘sorting out’ or ‘tidying up’. We give it a simple label that belies … Continue reading Those Are The Pearls That Were His Eyes
Today, June 16th, is Bloomsday. It has become aday for Dublin to commemorate and celebrate the life of Irish writer, James Joyce - because this is the very date, in 1904, when the events of Joyce’s novel, Ulysses, unfold. From 8am on the 16thof June, through to the wee small hours of the next day, … Continue reading Meeting Ourselves
Donal Ryan is an author from Tipperary with an accent like a beautifully played reel on the fiddle and an engaging smile that suggests he is not entirely sure of anything, but that he’s content not knowing. I heard him speak in County Carlow this weekend. His candour was endearing. He told us that every act … Continue reading I Made You Up
I was out on Sunday evening with J. and P., to listen a band. They have quite a following, so the pub was hopping. Everyone was cheerful, spilling with friendliness, more alive because of what music does to us: administers a shot of adrenalin. August night, under a red moon, 2001: U2 playing to an … Continue reading Please, Mrs. Avery
An apologetic shade of blue. Yes, I can remember what I was wearing quite vividly, even though it was 2003. It’s not that long ago for remembering details, is it? A cheap polyester suit in a tired, non-descript hue; a colour that doesn't make you stand out, one that’s rather sorry for itself, that looks washed … Continue reading Sign From Above
I’m better. Pretty much. The fire in my head has been doused. T. told me to drink hot whiskey. I didn’t. Not because it wasn’t a good idea, I just forgot to uncork the bottle of Bush each evening. Y. suggested I gently tap below my eyes, from the bridge of my nose to my temples, tracing the … Continue reading Dream Angus
What archetype are you living out? You will be embodying one, whacky as it might sound. Probably more than one, and you’ll outgrow it and grow into a new one, like a snake shedding its skin. We all do. We recognise archetypes in other people, but it’s harder to recognise our own. When we use phrases like: … Continue reading If The Shoe Fits
In both the religious and the secular world, November is the month of remembering the dead: the ordinary dead, the glorious dead, the forgotten dead. Remembrance Sunday fell this month and people are still wearing their poppies (a smattering of white now joining the red). They are probably worn for different reasons: to respectfully call … Continue reading Past Glories
Attached to my fridge is a black and white photograph from Hallowe’en 1978. It’s of me and my two sisters standing in the back garden wearing cobbled together costumes. M. is draped in a white sheet with two holes the size of 50p pieces roughly cut out at eye level; the cloth gathered at her waist … Continue reading Samhain
