It's a book!

I started this blog on the back of a New Years resolution made in January 2011. I thought it would help me to discipline myself to create a writing schedule. By March it seemed to have gone the way of many resolutions, and I was no longer blogging regularly.

But this time, it wasn't due to lack of discipline. The blog really helped me find my writing voice and develop a routine - so in March I took out my 40,000 word MS, saw it wasn't working. I had learnt enough to know I had to cut 35,000 of those words. Fifteen months on, I have a completed 85,000 word MS entitled Cutting Loose.

So here I am, back to the blogging community (if you'll have me back!) with a dream come true - I have written a book.

Above is a picture of me, standing beneath a banner created by my friend Gosia, looking rather manic and delighted with myself. I'd a small get together last night with friends to mark the occasion. Below are the cupcakes I shared with friends to celebrate. You're welcome to try one-- I'd recommend the chocolate and peanut butter! :-)

Shtop! Sunday Morning Coming Down is a Must See

 

Truman Town Theatre’s Sunday Morning Coming Down opens with two brothers in their early twenties sitting at the kitchen table of the house where they were both reared.  John has been away working in Italy, and Chris gives him a catch-up of the goings on in Ballinrobe, their home town. 

Shoulders shook in the Cork Arts Theatre, and the laughs came fast, loud and unstoppable, while the boys shared anecdotes. Though the set is limited to the kitchen and living area of the McGuire’s family home, a whole town is made alive and vibrant in the imagination of the audience. Quinn, the local publican, Mary Feerick and a host of others not listed on the program, all enter and exit the stage through the vibrancy of Donnellan’s language.

The laughter stops with chilling suddenness as the tyrannical and tragic figure of Joe, the boy’s alcoholic father, enters the scene. This part was played with great vigour by Sean O’Maille. Theresa Leahy also shone in the role of the mother, her soft voice and controlled performance an effective foil to Joe’s sudden rages and mad deliriums. Both sons were perfectly cast; Conor Geoghan’s wild curls fit well with the character of John, a lad who, like his hair, won’t be contained by small town Irish life. Cathal Leonard’s characterisation of Chris, the good humoured elder son who works hard in the slaughterhouse and can’t see a way out of his life, got the most laughs with his tall stories. P.J. Moore in the part of Martin, the neighbour that walks in and out of the McGuire home as he pleases, usually at the most inopportune time, also offers moments of comic relief.

The language of the play is modern Hiberno-English as spoken in Mayo. There is liberal use of the phrases we grew up with – ‘so tight he’d peel an orange in his pocket’ – melded with the slang words of youth, ‘sound’.  The language reflects the highly metaphorical way in which English is spoken in rural Ireland. When Sharon, John's love interest – played elegantly by Niamh Shiggins – is offered food by his mom she replies no, she is ‘whaled’. In the lobby after the play, the second item on the agenda for conversation, after the piece of theatre we had just witnessed, was language. Talking to PJ Moore, who played Martin, he explained how in Waterford, where he is from, the word ‘Well’ conveys,’ hello, how are you?  What are you at? How’s your mother?’ He got a postcard from a fella once that just had that one word, ‘Well’ on it.  That one word said it all.

  And it was this, Donnellan’s keen ear, acute observational skills, and ability to convey the tightness and vitality of English as the Irish speak it, which was the star of this show. I was reminded of the story of Synge, sitting in his room on the Aran Islands, listening to the talk of the Aran natives through a crack in the floorboards of his bedroom. In this way, he filed for use the phrases, ways of talking and anecdotes of the native Aran people which he drew on for his writing of The Playboy of the Western World.  Ballinrobe has been Donnellan’s sourcebook for this play, and a rich and varied source it has proven. 

Pulled over by the Gardí last night - (J)ustice how are ya!

I went into the city last night to a poetry reading. I wasn't drinking - heck, I wasn't even having my cranberry juices straight, I was mixing them with water. My boyfriend was with me, enjoying the poetry and a few pints.

     Around 11pm we decided it was time to hit for home. I've posted before about learning to drive. That was three years ago - although some of you thought it was more recent, from the fact I'm still talking about it! Much of my time learning to drive was spent with my right foot shaking over the accelerator at stop signs, dreading having to start again. But I manage fine now, although since most of my driving has been done in the country, I am very much a country driver. I boot along narrow roads and boreens. With city driving I can get anxious. I hate changing lanes. I become glued to the spot, looking in every direction to make sure the way is clear: left shoulder, left mirror, rearview, repeat and repeat. It alwasy feels like I'm  just 'chancing it' and my hesitancy throws all the other drivers. Night driving can feel a little easier as there is less traffic, but on the flip side cars tend to go faster and I find it even more difficult to judge when to make my move.
      So, we are driving along out of the city on the dual carriageway. Somehow, I've got myself into the fast lane. I know I need to be in the slow one. I indicate. I see a car. I change my mind. I let him pass me in the slow lane, then indicate again only to see a white van coming up behind. 'Nasty white van' I say to my boyfriend. "A nasty van" he agrees. Again I hesitate, thinking I'll let him pass me in the slow lane. The van thoughtfully moves into the fast lane behind me. I swing into the empty left lane, and it swings back left again. Then I see the markings on it. 'It’s a garda van,' says I . 'Even nastier' says himself.

in

'I bet you they'll pull me over for erratic driving,' says I .

The words were hardly out of my mouth when their blue lights started flashing. I looked over to my boyfriend. Does that mean pull over? We decided it must. I felt like I was in an action movie - pulled over by the Guards for suspicous behaviour. I indicated and pulled in.

      I lowered my window and poked my head out - 'Did I do something wrong?'
     'Your nearly chopped the nose off that Fiesta.’
      I couldn’t remember any Fiesta.  At this point another garda was circling the front of the car checking my NCT, insurance and tax. 'And you were weaving across the road. We were wondering if you'd been drinking?'
      When in such a situation, I believe it is best to drop all weapons and put your hands up. I assured him I hadn't had a drop and when asked if I 'd a full license, which I couldn’t produce, assured him I’d drop it into a garda station in the morning. After drunk driver, their second theory about me was that I was a learner. So I began to tell him the story of how I passed my driving test first time in Cahir, the driving test centre with the highest pass rate in the country, and that they'd closed it the week after because they were passing even the grannies who were on their fifth attempt.
      "You’d want to come up and sit it in Cork" the Guard laughed, "we do a proper driving test down here!' He then warned me to find room for my driving license somwhere in my handbag with my hairbrushes and make-up (he had three sisters and knew all about women and their handbags).
    Assured that whatever about my spatial awarness, I certainly wasn't drunk, he wrapped things up. He pointed at the fast lane, warned me not to go into it, and told me not to be nervous taking off as he'd keep his blue lights flashing behind me so nobody could come and do me any harm.
      So I started up, my little black micra bathed in the protective blue light of a Garda escort.
   
         

I is for Instructors (aka teachers)

Doing a bit of a catch up on the A-Z. I just wanted to share this Taylor Mali youtube clip with you. 

Taylor Mali is a well known slam poet who also worked for years as a teacher. In this slam poem 'What teachers make' he makes a passionate defence for the work done by teachers. If may seems like a slim connection to the letter 'i', but I'm sure you'll also find this poem illuminating and inspirational.

Baby, Won't You Dance With Me?

On a night out, when I tell my boyfriend I want to dance, he’ll start telling me the music isn’t ‘right’. He doesn’t like the band. There aren’t enough people on the dance floor. There are too many people on the dance floor.  It’s just never the right song:  too slow, too fast, too techno. 

But it all boils down to one thing really – not enough alcohol.

Eventually, he’ll pinpoint the problem. He needs another drink first.  And another.  And another.  At last, he feels sufficiently fuelled.  At this stage, he’s mad for it. All indecision and uncertainty is forgotten - why haven’t we been dancing all night?  Time is pressing; we need to be out there, on the floor, showing the rest of them how it’s done.

     He takes me by the hand, or what he thinks is my hand; at this stage he is just as likely to grab my elbow – or foot.  He leads me on to the dance floor, not stopping when I bend down to tighten the strap on my shoe – I feel my feet will need all the support they can get.  It’s reminiscent of that scene from the Quiet Man where Maureen O’Hara gets dragged home by the top of the head by John Wayne – and she loves every second of it.  I’m mad to hit the dance floor. 

 I forget you see.  I forget the co-ordination skills of my boyfriend are poor when he is sober, never mind when he is drunk.  You know the way those pull-along trolley suitcases have become so popular? There are two ways of wheeling them. The first is to pull it slightly behind yourself. This way you cut a way ahead of your case through the crowd and it is unlikely anyone will trip over your luggage. The second is to wheel the case alongside you, thereby increasing the breadth of the space you take up on the footpath.  These case wheelers trot along paying no heed to the fact that their case is little over a foot high and people can’t see it until they are sent flying over it.  Passersby, streetlamps, bins – nothing stops them.  My boyfriend belongs to the latter category, except he wouldn’t be seen dead with a pulley case – I’m his baggage, or at least that’s how he treats me. He pulls me along and I do my best with the limited bit of rope I have (his arm) to avoid oncoming obstacles.

And now he's pulling me onto the dance floor. He eyes a fairly empty spot and makes for it. Then he’s off. He gives a quick look around to see what ‘moves’ are de rigeour in these circles.  Then he starts not to replicate them, but to better them. This involves kicking his legs higher, waving his arms harder, and shaking his body quicker than everyone else on the floor. But his favourite moves involve spinning me around. He sends me out like a spinning top on a string, then winds me back in again, out again, in again, under his arm, twirl.  At this point I’m beginning to feel dizzy. At over six foot, he has plenty of leg and arm to throw around the place and with which to throw me. I’m sent flying to various corners of the dance floor. All that talk of a suitable song was in vain – it doesn’t matter what the song is, he is dancing to his own beat.

     At last, it’s over. I’m beat. He tells me he wasn't that gone on the song.  Funny, but somehow the dancefloor has emptied. The others musn’t have really liked it all that much either. 

C is for Cachinnate

I've written before about my tendency to sneeze, loudly and uncontrollably: you can read all about it here.
     Unfortunately, loud, uncontrollable, inappropriate outbursts are not limited to my sneezing. My laughs are also show stoppers.
      If I think something is funny, I will let out a loud, sharp 'ha,', normally in tandem with banging my knee or the random body part of some other poor unsuspecting unfortunate. Oh, if only such skills had been recognised in me and nurtured by my parents and I a child, I could have formed a one woman band. My dexterous, multi-tasking skills could have been put  to use by blowing on a harmonica and beating a drum at the same time, and perhaps I could even have made a bit of money.

           

    Instead, these skills seem to go unappreciated by friends and acquaintances. Often, when I look up from my 'ha', tears in  my eyes from the exertion, it isn't unusual for the rest of the company to have forgotten the joke. The stare at me, shocked out of the moment by the raucousness of my laugh.
      A joke is a delicate thing, needing air and light to live and breathe. My laugh, like that of many other guffawers and brayers out there, effectively smothers the joke as if I had put a pillow over its face and shook and pummeled until there wasn't a dreg of life left. When the murder is complete, I, like others of my ilk, will look around to see if everyone else enjoyed the joke just as much as I did. More often than not, I am greeted with the image of those in my company wiping the spittle of their faces and looking rather grim.
       That literally puts a dampener on the evening!

 What kind of laugh do you have? Are you a polite titterer, a snorter, a guffawer, a giggler or a chortler?
     

    

B is for Butterflies

 When my mother was a small girl, when out in the garden during the summer, her grandmother would chase her, captive butterflies between her fingers. She would  hold them by their slight bodies, their coloured wings flapping. When she caught up with my mother, she would set the butterfly free inside the tent of my mother's skirt, their wings brushing against her naked legs. 

     My great-grandmother, when butterflies were in short supply, would do the same to my mother with the torso of the chicken she’d be after decapitating for the dinner.  The bird’s wings would still be flapping and he'd be creating a big fuss- understandable seeing as he had literally lost his head!

         This left my mother with a phobia of all winged creatures, though despite her fears, she is a nature and bird lover and feeds the birds each winter. Just don't put one in a confined space with her. As a child, she would never allow me have butterfly hair bobbins or dresses with butterfly patterns. She couldn't view them as pretty.

           When I would accompany her to mass as a child, the butterflies would dance in the air of the high vaulted church. She would not allow them to leave her sight line. An observer may have thought that she was captivated by the beauty of their performance. She was captivated alright - glued to her seat in fear. My eyes would follow hers and as a result, I have a small touch of the same phobia.

              As an adult, my fear has pretty much subsided, though hers has not. I can now clear a room of butterflies for her, she cowering in another part of the house than the intruder. When the job is done, she'll look at me as if I've taken on a burglar. 'You're very good, you're very good, aren't you great to be able to do that now?' 

      I still wouldn't wear or choose a butterfly pattern. Though whenever I see them, I think of my mother. And thinking about them tonight is leading me to think of her and Mother's Day tomorrow. 

                 Happy Mother's Day to my own mother and to all my readers that are mothers.