Tuesday, 30 September 2014

Halted, arrested, rooted to the spot.

Fidgeting among the audience in Meeting House Square on Culture Night (19th September 2014), from where the RTE Radio arts show Arena was broadcasting live - I was suddenly halted, arrested and rooted to the spot by the voice of Barry McGovern reading from Finnegans Wake by James Joyce.
I don’t remember which part he read. Finnegans Wake is as baffling and incomprehensible to me as Ulysses.  I just remember the hair standing on the back of my neck, my heart opening, my pulse quickening, I was transfixed.
Finnegans Wake, Séan Rocks told us, was seventeen years in composition before it was published in book form on 4 May 1939 – 75 years ago.

I wondered if that were Joyce himself up there reading - would he be a blogger?  Would he be on facebook?  Would he tweet? I decided he would.  Would his worries be like my worries – about his writing not being linear enough, having too many flashbacks, having too much backstory?
What advice would he give to me? I decided he would say something like this. "bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthur-nuk!

My musings were taking place during a pleasant musical interlude – with Jack L - backed by the RTE Concert Orchestra.  And then suddenly - it happened again.  I was halted, arrested and rooted to the spot - this time by the voice of Ciarán Hinds performing Prospero from Shakespeare’s Tempest. 

"we are such stuff
as dreams are made on;
and our little life
is rounded with a sleep."
The music resumed. My musings now kept pace with the Contempo String Quartet.
Would the Bard tweet?  Would he blog?  Very probably.
What would his advice be – what would he say?
As the quartet built towards its finale, I imagined I heard the Bard again.

“Our doubts are traitors,
and make us lose the good we oft might win,
by fearing to attempt.”

 Thank you to RTE radio, Séan Rocks, John Kelly and Culture Night.



Monday, 15 September 2014

Unleashing the novel within - first try SALT

They say every Irish person has a novel, maybe a whole series of novels, within.  Not every person, thankfully, needs to get them out. For those who do, and who do it well, we are eternally grateful.  

Some of us write regardless of whether we are ‘any good’. It's like breathing.  We simply must.  But should we share those scribbles?  How do we discover if they are any good?  Could it be that there is an audience out there for mine? Should I try to publish?   And if so - how do I go about it?

There is a bewildering array of advice out there.  It seems, however, that the following is important:

Fellow scribbler Triona Walsh has ticked all of the boxes above. She is a performance poet, has published a range of short stories, and is almost finished a gripping novel.  It’s about a Taoiseach’s daughter who – well – I will resist telling you more just now - having become aware of a phenomenon called the spoiler.
I can tell you, however, about Triona’s most recent short story SALT which was shortlisted in the RTE Guide Penguin Short Story Competition 2014. Reading it provides the clues to its success. It has pace, pathos, grey itchy old man cardigans, chipped formica, barren land, sarcoptic mange mite, poignancy and humour.

It begins: The curtains were a poor defence against the morning. Julia wasn't ready. Tiredness wore her still. It would stalk her throughout the day.