Before I headed off to hospital Friday a week ago, I had the rare pleasure of hearing Martin Dyar, winner of the 2009 Patrick Kavanagh Award for an unpublished ms, reading to a select group of about 40 - 50 people.
The setting was magical: the drawing room of an old country house, Annaverna House, in the middle of a forest, on the slopes of Cuchulainn country - Ravensdale and the Cooley Peninsula. First, some readings by local writers; some who are getting started in the trade and some more established (yeah, I read too).
After drinkies and chat, Martin Dyar totally wooed the audience with his tales of characters from Mayo, his muscular language - I heard comparisons being made with Ted Hughes' work! Long poems, short poems, humorous and restrained, he brought something for everyone and had us all utterly spellbound. He even read the poem he read last year at the Irish Writers' Centre, Dublin for the Stinging Fly launch, which I think is called 'Death and the Post Office.'
That reading has sustained me over what became a very trying week. I ended up in hospital (again) from Sunday, with a partially collapsed lung, as a result of pneumonia - which I think I may have had for some time - fatigue and a persistant pain under my left ribs had been diagnosed as, well, something 'muscular' ... hmm.
It's going to be a long recovery, and you can help me: what I'm looking for are a list of books, easily obtainable, (think Easons for a start - possibly Amazon) that I might enjoy - come on guys, save my poetry & prose soul!
Showing posts with label stuff about books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuff about books. Show all posts
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Bookshops going Bust
I heard this morning in class, and it was later confirmed, that the newish kids on the block, Hughes and Hughes, the Irish booksellers have gone into receivership. Odd, I thought to myself, didn't they post a profit last year?
We're gutted here in Dundalk, as it was a great bookshop with a coffee-shop area, and a lovely children's section, and they were the sort of bookshop that would order it in for you, if they didn't have it. Hell, they'd even ring you to tell you it had arrived. They didn't mind you looking around and the sort of stock they held was definitely a cut above the Easons that we have here - you could buy decent poetry books in it for a start, or more obscure books that you mightn't find. Jeepers, I even found Claire Keegan's last book in it, Walk the Blue Fields.
It means now that for book-purchasing and browsing, I'm constrained to having to go to Dublin, or to rely more heavily on that internet book crowd, than I was before. I'll admit that doesn't help matters, as far as H&H were concerned - I had a tendency to go to the internet quicker than ask a bookshop to order; but that was down to the constraints in the past of juggling kids as well as the sort of books I wanted to get my hands on.
Here, on the outer rim of Europe, sometimes you have to try that little bit harder if you're looking for books that are better known in the UK, or US or beyond: last year I remember going to Waterstones in Dublin and asking for Mick Imlah's The Lost Leader, and them not knowing what I was on about.
So what's a girl to do? Books are moving in a similar direction that music moved in; online access, downloading onto these new fangled reader devices. But does that mean the death of books? And does that mean the death of bookshops? And where does the library fit in to all this, with their (surely by now) reduced budgets in the recession? Am I to become a weird oddity with all those feicin bookshelves I bought to hold all the card-bound paper sheets (that I bought) - with black typing on those sheets!
News reports are saying that high rents were partly to blame for H&H's sudden demise, and that landlords might need to get a little more real with their expectations in the CEC (current economic climate). But the fact that a big bookstore like Waterstones could say that their business was down by 10-15% over the Christmas period tells us a lot (as if we needed to be told) about what people are cutting back on. It can't be good in the long run for writers.
We're gutted here in Dundalk, as it was a great bookshop with a coffee-shop area, and a lovely children's section, and they were the sort of bookshop that would order it in for you, if they didn't have it. Hell, they'd even ring you to tell you it had arrived. They didn't mind you looking around and the sort of stock they held was definitely a cut above the Easons that we have here - you could buy decent poetry books in it for a start, or more obscure books that you mightn't find. Jeepers, I even found Claire Keegan's last book in it, Walk the Blue Fields.
It means now that for book-purchasing and browsing, I'm constrained to having to go to Dublin, or to rely more heavily on that internet book crowd, than I was before. I'll admit that doesn't help matters, as far as H&H were concerned - I had a tendency to go to the internet quicker than ask a bookshop to order; but that was down to the constraints in the past of juggling kids as well as the sort of books I wanted to get my hands on.
Here, on the outer rim of Europe, sometimes you have to try that little bit harder if you're looking for books that are better known in the UK, or US or beyond: last year I remember going to Waterstones in Dublin and asking for Mick Imlah's The Lost Leader, and them not knowing what I was on about.
So what's a girl to do? Books are moving in a similar direction that music moved in; online access, downloading onto these new fangled reader devices. But does that mean the death of books? And does that mean the death of bookshops? And where does the library fit in to all this, with their (surely by now) reduced budgets in the recession? Am I to become a weird oddity with all those feicin bookshelves I bought to hold all the card-bound paper sheets (that I bought) - with black typing on those sheets!
News reports are saying that high rents were partly to blame for H&H's sudden demise, and that landlords might need to get a little more real with their expectations in the CEC (current economic climate). But the fact that a big bookstore like Waterstones could say that their business was down by 10-15% over the Christmas period tells us a lot (as if we needed to be told) about what people are cutting back on. It can't be good in the long run for writers.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nude Makes Landfall in Dundalk
Got your attention, haven't I?
Today, I am delighted to welcome Nuala Ní Chonchúir and her wonderful new collection of short stories, 'Nude' from Salt Publishing to my humble blog. I have to say, I've read them very quickly, because I was pulled into them very easily. Always a good sign, when you can't tear yourself away from a book.
Born in Dublin in 1970, Nuala Ní Chonchúir lives in County Galway. Her third short fiction collection Nude was published by Salt in September 2009. She is one of four winners of the 2009 Templar Poetry Pamphlet and Collection competition. Her pamphlet Portrait of the Artist with a Red Car will be published in November. Nuala's website is: www.nualanichonchuir.com
Pull up a comfy armchair there Nuala, here's a very large mug of strong writer's tea and some homemade scones & blackberry jam (freshly picked from the Cooley Peninsula on Sunday!). Tuck in!
Hi Barbara and big thanks for having me here at your blog. I know and admire your own work, so I’m honoured to be here.
Thank you Nuala, now down to questions: firstly, how and where do characters come from, for you? Do you find characters re-visiting you or is it the other way around, do you like to tease out other nuances of them in related stories?
Gosh, that’s hard to answer because, in a sense, there’s no one way that characters ‘arrive’ to me. Sometimes I have a sense of someone or a relationship between two people and I want to write about them. Take Magda and Jackson in the story ‘Jackson & Jerusalem’. She’s an older woman artist and he’s a teenager who models for her; I liked the idea of that dynamic – a friendship across generations/sexes. I based the physical descriptions on my own son when he was a bit younger. Magda isn’t based on anyone but she’s very real to me. She’s also featured in the story ‘Madonna Irlanda’ as a younger woman; if I like a character, it’s irresistible to write more about them.
Other times characters arrive like a voice in my ear – I hear their voices and I work from there.
How do you delineate so well between older and younger characters, such as Jackson and Magda in 'Jackson and Jerusalem'? Do you find it hard to switch between the headspace needed to make each character live and breathe in the rounded manner that they do?
I’m glad you think I do it well...I was one of those children who preferred the company of adults; I loved listening to their conversation. I had my poor neighbours plagued as a child, always in their houses talking to them. I find younger people harder to relate to but having kids myself has given me some understanding of what makes them tick. All of that knowledge gets ploughed into fiction, I guess – into my characters.
My stories are generally from one POV so there isn’t really a problem switching headspace. I’m not sure that I find it problematic anyway. It’s fun to get inside the heads of people who are nothing like you; I enjoy that escape thoroughly.
Have you ever experienced great difficulty with a story - say for example, getting the ending right, or losing your way through the story? I ask this, because I find your stories are so absorbingly complete and well-imagined, that I can't imagine difficulties!
Yes, lots of difficulties! I don’t plot so I never have a clue what’s going to happen next. I used to almost fear endings but I’m more relaxed about them now.
And I suppose only the stories that work get into the book. I start, and then abandon, lots of stories – some just don’t lift off the page. I’ve written plenty of what Richard Ford calls ‘minor aesthetic nullities’. I’m rarely happy with anything. There are a handful of stories in Nude that I really love – the rest I just like, in whole or in part. But it doesn’t matter what I think – it’s impossible to be objective about your own work – I just hope that readers enjoy them.
Writing is a compulsion for some people and I’m one of them; I’m always in writing mode. Henry James said, ‘Be one of those people on whom nothing is lost’. I think I am one of them – I seem to notice a lot and, as I notice things, I’m writing a narrative in my head. I presume all writers are the same.
Lately though, with my new baby and with promoting Nude, I’m too tired and busy to write anything more than the bones of a few poems. I want to be writing above all else, but the headspace is just not there. So, instead, I take notes!
Thanks so much for having me here, Barbara, and for your great questions. Next week my virtual tour takes me to Petina Gappah’s blog in Geneva, via Zimbabwe, which is where Petina is from. Do join us!
Thank you for coming by, Nuala, it's been a pleasure and I hope that Nude garners the attention it deserves.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
So, how did poetry get into my life..?
Beware the throw-away remark about poetry, because it will always pique someone's curiosity. Recently Rachel asked on the memish blogpost about blasts from the past, just how I did get into poetry, because I had remarked that at the time of first-born's birth I wasn't much of a writer, nor a poet.
Oookaaaay. So, where do I start? I'd love,of course, to be able to say that my parents were mad into poetry and instilled a great love of it in me. The truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.
Do I start with the scribbles I used to leave behind on my blotting sheet in the Draughting course I took, circa 1989?
Do I start with the play I wrote about St. Augustine, after a story I heard in Primary 6, circa 1979?
Although I'm sure you'd love to hear those stories, sometime, the real one is about how I found my way into poetry and got really, really hooked.
It all began with a chap who became known to me as Dermo Pegleg (back in 1994). At the time, I had recently joined the Open University, completing a foundation year in IT. I was in the second year, studying Computer Programming and not enjoying it one bit. In fact, I hated it. The only thing I had done with any success was to write code for a programme to pick Lotto numbers. I was looking for excuses not to study. And so, one night I went out, to what would now be called an open mic session in a pub, hosted by DP.
There were acoustic guitar players, interspersed with short, quickfire bursts of poetry from various contributors. Most of it was, well, shite. But there was one poem that I reacted to: it was written and delivered as a sort of rebuff to a girl (and women in general) for refusing to be interested enough to continue beyond a first date. This poem annoyed me so much that I went home ranting about it, and encouraged by my then-boyfriend, I wrote a riposte, which led on into writing other poems.
I didn't write that much in those first tentative years: maybe about fifteen poems or so. I'm really grateful that most of them have disappeared or got lost, because they were utter rubbish. Really awful rubbish. As well as writing, I was getting involved my community arts scene: I got a part time job in 1997 as a Newsletter Editor for the local arts centre where I lived, which meant I got to meet those involved in writing locally and foster friendships that have endured.
I remember sending some of those early poems to The, then recently launched, Stinging Fly (circa 1997?), and receiving a rejection that said though they weren't good enough, to keep at it: keep on writing and try sending again. Alas, I wasn't confident or savvy enough to appreciate what encouragement this actually was.
In the meantime, I read things that were recommended to me. Books about poetry. Books of poetry. Books about anything but poetry. Books like novels and books of non-fiction. I was a starved garden of weeds: books were my fertiliser, pens and paper my digging tools, language my seedbed.
In time (after producing two more children) I met my current partner (and produced three more, bringing my troop to six), I thought I should start into learning more about some of these poets and writers I had read about. I re-joined the Open University (2003) and decided to do a BA in Literature. I wrote more poems, fed by all the newly-acquired knowledge and old knowledge I had. I But I grew, and I learned to see the faults in all the stuff I had written, as well as what was salvagable. I still wanted to write poems and write them well as well as I could.
So, now I wrote and honed poems for real. I tried out forms, like sonnets or quatrains. I played with rhythm and enjoyed playing with words, just for the sake of it. I started sending out some of these later efforts. I got lucky in a journal in the States, after sending a good many submissions. One strike led to a few more, which in turn led to applying for Poetry Ireland 'Introductions' series. I got in second time around, in 2005. A whole pile of credits accumulated and I thought about submitting to a publisher. I sent out query letters to the four corners of Ireland, and one replying positively. I sent them a MS and I can still remember getting a phone call six months later, saying 'Yes, we'd love to publish it next year.'
After completing a BA in Literature, in September 2007, I started straight into an MA in Creative Writing in Queen's University, Belfast. I literally posted the last End of Course Assessment for my OU degree on the Friday and began the MA course on the following Monday in Belfast. I remember meeting the poets and writers on the first day of term and feeling like a fraud - so many there with awards and publication credits under their belt. Surely they would see through me, despite the fact that my first collection had just been published.
Across that wonderful year (07-08) I learned to trust what I knew. I learned to trust myself and to trust my work. My first collection sold very well. I learned to trust the truth of the people at readings across Ireland, in Scotland and in the UK buying the book and enthusing about it. I learned that I was also a good teacher: people trusted what I had to say about writing and poetry and I learned the thrill of seeing talent walk into my creative writing classes and watching them develop their confidence and skills.
All of this happened, because I mitched off studying computer programming and got angry with a man who wrote something I disagreed with! So now you know part of the story.
Oookaaaay. So, where do I start? I'd love,of course, to be able to say that my parents were mad into poetry and instilled a great love of it in me. The truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.
Do I start with the scribbles I used to leave behind on my blotting sheet in the Draughting course I took, circa 1989?
Do I start with the play I wrote about St. Augustine, after a story I heard in Primary 6, circa 1979?
Although I'm sure you'd love to hear those stories, sometime, the real one is about how I found my way into poetry and got really, really hooked.
It all began with a chap who became known to me as Dermo Pegleg (back in 1994). At the time, I had recently joined the Open University, completing a foundation year in IT. I was in the second year, studying Computer Programming and not enjoying it one bit. In fact, I hated it. The only thing I had done with any success was to write code for a programme to pick Lotto numbers. I was looking for excuses not to study. And so, one night I went out, to what would now be called an open mic session in a pub, hosted by DP.
There were acoustic guitar players, interspersed with short, quickfire bursts of poetry from various contributors. Most of it was, well, shite. But there was one poem that I reacted to: it was written and delivered as a sort of rebuff to a girl (and women in general) for refusing to be interested enough to continue beyond a first date. This poem annoyed me so much that I went home ranting about it, and encouraged by my then-boyfriend, I wrote a riposte, which led on into writing other poems.
I didn't write that much in those first tentative years: maybe about fifteen poems or so. I'm really grateful that most of them have disappeared or got lost, because they were utter rubbish. Really awful rubbish. As well as writing, I was getting involved my community arts scene: I got a part time job in 1997 as a Newsletter Editor for the local arts centre where I lived, which meant I got to meet those involved in writing locally and foster friendships that have endured.
I remember sending some of those early poems to The, then recently launched, Stinging Fly (circa 1997?), and receiving a rejection that said though they weren't good enough, to keep at it: keep on writing and try sending again. Alas, I wasn't confident or savvy enough to appreciate what encouragement this actually was.
In the meantime, I read things that were recommended to me. Books about poetry. Books of poetry. Books about anything but poetry. Books like novels and books of non-fiction. I was a starved garden of weeds: books were my fertiliser, pens and paper my digging tools, language my seedbed.
In time (after producing two more children) I met my current partner (and produced three more, bringing my troop to six), I thought I should start into learning more about some of these poets and writers I had read about. I re-joined the Open University (2003) and decided to do a BA in Literature. I wrote more poems, fed by all the newly-acquired knowledge and old knowledge I had. I But I grew, and I learned to see the faults in all the stuff I had written, as well as what was salvagable. I still wanted to write poems and write them well as well as I could.
So, now I wrote and honed poems for real. I tried out forms, like sonnets or quatrains. I played with rhythm and enjoyed playing with words, just for the sake of it. I started sending out some of these later efforts. I got lucky in a journal in the States, after sending a good many submissions. One strike led to a few more, which in turn led to applying for Poetry Ireland 'Introductions' series. I got in second time around, in 2005. A whole pile of credits accumulated and I thought about submitting to a publisher. I sent out query letters to the four corners of Ireland, and one replying positively. I sent them a MS and I can still remember getting a phone call six months later, saying 'Yes, we'd love to publish it next year.'
After completing a BA in Literature, in September 2007, I started straight into an MA in Creative Writing in Queen's University, Belfast. I literally posted the last End of Course Assessment for my OU degree on the Friday and began the MA course on the following Monday in Belfast. I remember meeting the poets and writers on the first day of term and feeling like a fraud - so many there with awards and publication credits under their belt. Surely they would see through me, despite the fact that my first collection had just been published.
Across that wonderful year (07-08) I learned to trust what I knew. I learned to trust myself and to trust my work. My first collection sold very well. I learned to trust the truth of the people at readings across Ireland, in Scotland and in the UK buying the book and enthusing about it. I learned that I was also a good teacher: people trusted what I had to say about writing and poetry and I learned the thrill of seeing talent walk into my creative writing classes and watching them develop their confidence and skills.
All of this happened, because I mitched off studying computer programming and got angry with a man who wrote something I disagreed with! So now you know part of the story.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
25 Writers & their Influences
This is going to have to be one of those posts that gets carried across a couple of days, because I'm hoping to have a good look into some of the early stuff that I liked, which means less than the usual cursory posting.
I don't remember very much of the things I read in primary school. I was a very early reader and I munched my way through the Ladybird books, reading about the adventures of Peter and Jane through a good few of them before I actually started school. But I don't know who the writer would have been for them, so this probably doesn't count.
Later on, my dad joined the Children's Book Club, London (1976?)on my behalf. I can still remember, what I am convinced is the first book of this series arriving. It was Ludo and the Star Horse by Mary Stewart and I remember having a very vague notion about star signs from reading my mum's womens' magazines, and finding this such a compelling story.
Ludo and the Star Horse told the tale of a peasant boy Ludo who tries to bring his family's faithful old workhorse Renti back home when the horse breaks out and wanders off one winter's night. Lost in snow, Ludo and Renti fall into a ravine and somehow find themselves at the entrance to a realm in which there are twelve houses corresponding to signs of the zodiac. In order to return home, they must catch up to the sun on its journey through each of the houses, and they meet the owner of each house along the way - some being more friendly than others! I am afraid I cried at the end of this. You can actually get it now, and I did to see what my kids thought of it.
I can remember reading Robinsheugh by Eileen Dunlop and being totally carried away by the plot. The protaganist is a young preteen, Elizabeth, who's sent to live with her studious aunt in Scotland. Her aunt is busy researching about the 18thc, and Elizabeth amuses herself through 'dreaming' herself back in time to the period (or does she really dream!) that her aunt is researching in the great house at Robinsheugh. She almost pays the ultimate price though... another book that affected me greatly.
Another book that I remember from that series (I think) was titled Bella. I can't find anything about it on the net but I do remember that the plot centred around a porcelain doll, Bella, that seemed to be haunted and inspired those who came across her to become obsessive about minding her, almost to the point of their own deaths. I'd love to find out who the writer was... I loved that book! Believe me I have trawled the internet in search of it!
Conshelf Ten, by Monica Hughes and Albatross Two, by Colin Thiele come from the very same series and I enjoyed Conshelf Ten, because it was my first ever taste of science fiction, and I liked it very much (more about that later). Albatross Two was the first time I'd ever read about lives outside of the northern hemisphere, and I enjoyed it for it's setting being in the Australian world and I suppose it also introduced me to the notion of protecting our planet from pollution. It planted the seed that I wanted to go down under, (Aus & NZ) which I hope some day I will do.
And then there was the Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. The great thing about being a kid is that you have no notion of who T. S. Eliot is, or how important his poetry was. All I knew was that there was this great book that my mum had bought, with fabulous pictures and the words were very funny in places too. They sounded great when you read them aloud, which I often did.
No one read this book to me, not because I was deprived or anything, but because I loved reading for myself. I really didn't like to hear other people taking over the words, I wanted to say them and see what they sounded like myself. (Precocious or what? I want to slap that child, now!) How could you not like the sound of names like Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer? And as for Mister Mistoffelees, just roll that name around your mouth like a piece of clove rock - there, doesn't that take you back...?
Another five will pop up in a day or two, when I've gotten over this sudden onslaught of nostalgia! Oh dear, what have I started?
I don't remember very much of the things I read in primary school. I was a very early reader and I munched my way through the Ladybird books, reading about the adventures of Peter and Jane through a good few of them before I actually started school. But I don't know who the writer would have been for them, so this probably doesn't count.
Later on, my dad joined the Children's Book Club, London (1976?)on my behalf. I can still remember, what I am convinced is the first book of this series arriving. It was Ludo and the Star Horse by Mary Stewart and I remember having a very vague notion about star signs from reading my mum's womens' magazines, and finding this such a compelling story.
Ludo and the Star Horse told the tale of a peasant boy Ludo who tries to bring his family's faithful old workhorse Renti back home when the horse breaks out and wanders off one winter's night. Lost in snow, Ludo and Renti fall into a ravine and somehow find themselves at the entrance to a realm in which there are twelve houses corresponding to signs of the zodiac. In order to return home, they must catch up to the sun on its journey through each of the houses, and they meet the owner of each house along the way - some being more friendly than others! I am afraid I cried at the end of this. You can actually get it now, and I did to see what my kids thought of it.
I can remember reading Robinsheugh by Eileen Dunlop and being totally carried away by the plot. The protaganist is a young preteen, Elizabeth, who's sent to live with her studious aunt in Scotland. Her aunt is busy researching about the 18thc, and Elizabeth amuses herself through 'dreaming' herself back in time to the period (or does she really dream!) that her aunt is researching in the great house at Robinsheugh. She almost pays the ultimate price though... another book that affected me greatly.
Another book that I remember from that series (I think) was titled Bella. I can't find anything about it on the net but I do remember that the plot centred around a porcelain doll, Bella, that seemed to be haunted and inspired those who came across her to become obsessive about minding her, almost to the point of their own deaths. I'd love to find out who the writer was... I loved that book! Believe me I have trawled the internet in search of it!
Conshelf Ten, by Monica Hughes and Albatross Two, by Colin Thiele come from the very same series and I enjoyed Conshelf Ten, because it was my first ever taste of science fiction, and I liked it very much (more about that later). Albatross Two was the first time I'd ever read about lives outside of the northern hemisphere, and I enjoyed it for it's setting being in the Australian world and I suppose it also introduced me to the notion of protecting our planet from pollution. It planted the seed that I wanted to go down under, (Aus & NZ) which I hope some day I will do.
And then there was the Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats. The great thing about being a kid is that you have no notion of who T. S. Eliot is, or how important his poetry was. All I knew was that there was this great book that my mum had bought, with fabulous pictures and the words were very funny in places too. They sounded great when you read them aloud, which I often did.
No one read this book to me, not because I was deprived or anything, but because I loved reading for myself. I really didn't like to hear other people taking over the words, I wanted to say them and see what they sounded like myself. (Precocious or what? I want to slap that child, now!) How could you not like the sound of names like Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer? And as for Mister Mistoffelees, just roll that name around your mouth like a piece of clove rock - there, doesn't that take you back...?
Another five will pop up in a day or two, when I've gotten over this sudden onslaught of nostalgia! Oh dear, what have I started?
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