I spent last week in the Highlands, in retreat, writing. It misted, it rained, it blew, and on the last night, the elements fell still, the sky cleared, and we adjourned to the straw bale studio to read our work aloud, to uncork wine and stay up late. On the short walk back to the … Continue reading The Old Lady Who Put the Stars in the Sky
He seemed to be from a bygone era. The Connemara accent might have unfairly tipped me towards thinking that way, but his unflashy practicality added further to the impression. He had cycled from Dublin’s north side, locked his bike to some railings, rang the doorbell, then ceremoniously walked me into Harcourt Street. He supervised my … Continue reading Goodnight, John-Boy
“Tell Eimear what you did today.” There begins a slow review of the morning’s events interrupted by anything that distracts him (which is everything). There is Lala nose-diving off the chair, a quick play with new the train set, a run to the window to see if any birds are pecking at the fat-ball they … Continue reading How to Live Twice
‘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
My Edinburgh Press 