Tag: writing

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fiction Writing

Chapter 25, Dublin 2018 (an excerpt)

‘To us getting the outcome that we need tomorrow,’ I say, keeping my fingers crossed and wincing a little hoping that my suggestion goes down well.

Granted I am feeling a little tipsy, so I have built the confidence to say more than I would have at the beginning of our dinner, however these are things that need to be addressed so I am glad to be the one that is doing so.

‘Cheers.’ Comes my thankful response and I am both relieved and happy that I dedicated this glass to the event.

‘You know, it’s going to be seriously difficult to see his face again. I always thought him a lovely lad but now, obviously, my opinions have changed entirely and I just want to rip him apart. I never thought I could kill, but now I know that I could.’

It is after Sheila has finished her miniature rant that I realise she too is probably feeling a little drunk and that is why the truth is all coming out. Being so reserved at first I thought this dinner was going to exhaust me but now the conversation, and the correct conversation at that, is coming so smoothly.

‘Did you know anything about the way he treated Brannagh?’ I ask her, genuinely shocked at Brannagh not asking her mother for help but rather coming to a total stranger in a different country – me.

‘Nothing,’ she pauses, and something appears to be on her mind. ‘I suppose occasionally she seemed a little distressed after seeing him or she would shut me off and just retreat to her room, but I always assumed that was down to her being on her period or that they had had an argument. It was never clear that something was actually wrong.’

‘That’s so sad that she couldn’t speak to any of us. I mean, she tried to tell me and I guess it’s easier telling an almost stranger than your mother but even then I am convinced she wasn’t telling me truly how bad it was.’

The service in the restaurant is great and I glance at my watch to check the time once we finish our mains. I can’t believe it is only half past nine, it feels as though we have been here much longer than that. I suppose the intensity of the conversation has prolonged time but still, I would have expected it to be at least an hour later than it is. However, we’re all tired and with a big day tomorrow we decide to take ourselves off to our separate beds, despite Eileen offering Sheila a glass back at her house.

I am glad Sheila declined this offer because I am tired but also wanted to debrief with my aunt on my own before tomorrow. We both feel that our meeting with Sheila went as well as it could have gone and that we covered many bases of difficult conversational topics. As a reward to us both for getting through it and to temporarily lessen our dread for tomorrow, we open a bottle of Champagne, a staple ingredient to the contents of Eileen’s fridge.

Categories
Adulthood Observations Writing

The different versions of you

You are an individual, of course you are, just like nobody else. You could be happy one day and another day sad but you’ll still do it differently to everyone. As important as it is to be you and the best version of it that you can be, I still think we all have numerous very different versions of what this is.

There’s the work one. The I must be polite to everyone one. The musn’t swear no matter how better it will make me feel one. The must work hard even though I am so tired one.

There’s the play one. The swear as much as you like one. The drink as much as you can one. The no regrets until morning one.

There’s the meeting old friends one. The can’t stop talking and who needs to take breath anyway one. The so much to catch up on so the conversation is meaningful one.

There’s the friend you see every day one. The still can’t allow for breath but talking about nothing one. The let’s have another glass and talk more rubbish one.

There’s the happiness around dogs one. The forgiving for everything one. The being delighted no matter how bad they are being one – because who can be sad around dogs?

There’s the holiday one. The off duty one. The nothing matters how long it takes one. The I don’t care about organisation I have all the time in the world one. The no cares at all one.

There’s the mundane day one. The I have an hour to do everything so I’m going to stress about it all one. The getting home and listing all the things that I’ve stressed about and laughing it off in the car one.

There’s the crisis one. The everything is such a HUGE deal one. The how can I possibly cope one. The screaming at the top of my lungs while driving down country roads one.

There’s the reasoning one. The logical one. The irritatingly calm one. Jumping in when chaos has struck one.

For me, personally, there’s the questioning one. The querying all that I’m doing and all I’ve ever done one. Wondering if I’ll ever get married, find success, where I’ll end up one. The somewhat dramatic one.

Then there’s the writer in me. The fighter in me. The never giving upper in me. The I am happy, the stop worrying about the future, the keep going, pour another gin.

They may appear to be very different people, but I feel that these are all versions of one you.

Categories
Adulthood Observations Writing

20 ways that my full time job enhances my creative ambition

Having attended university and obtained an above average degree, people often ask me what’s next. I sometimes think that because they can’t physically see the results of my writing and where it could lead, they feel that I go home and do nothing or that I haven’t much ambition at all.

As good as I’ve got at not feeling the need to justify myself anymore, I won’t. Instead, I will tell you all of the wonderful ways that having my full time job at a Post Office and Stores enhances my creative ambition.

  1. It brings new ideas from the situations I encounter
  2. It enhances the personalities of my characters through the variety of people I meet
  3. Providing a break from my desk work is SO HELPFUL
  4. As is earning money so I’m not stressed while I write, since I don’t earn too much from writing yet
  5. It provides another purpose on days when writing isn’t happening
  6. I find so much blog material through working with people
  7. I have many positive chats through my working days about what I am deciding to do
  8. Peers are always interested and encouraging in my slightly off-piste approach, as we chat over the preparation of a bacon sandwich
  9. Hearing how others have overcome hurdles in life and ended up as successful as they are now provides a huge boost
  10. I add to my skill set outside of writing, learning new things every day (including managing the little time that I have to write effectively!)
  11. I get support from customers
  12. I get support from colleagues
  13. I get support from my bosses
  14. Free (amazing, thank you) proofreaders
  15. Advice
  16. Connections
  17. Book recommendations
  18. Opportunities
  19. Inspiration
  20. Happiness
Categories
Writing

Excerpt from Chapter 6, London 1988

She could see signs everywhere and arrows and exits. There were members of staff stood around not doing much at all and others who looked rushed off their feet, so she wondered why they didn’t get better at sharing the workload. The first bag came around the corner and a very happy couple grabbed it finding it hilarious that they didn’t have to wait and could beat the traffic queues. Mary hoped that the smug couple’s car battery had run down like it had on her mum’s car when they were due to go to her gran’s once or that they couldn’t find their keys. Then she silently had a word with herself for being so cynical as they were probably lovely people, she was just bored of walking then waiting then walking so much.

Once they had grabbed their bags and Séan had figured out taxi numbers and prices with the very helpful lady in the tourist information centre, they headed to the rank for another waiting episode during which Mary observed maturely the goings on around her. She often did this and anybody who she openly spoke to about what she perceived would tell her that she had an old head. She never knew what they meant by this expression but nodded and continued her inspections.

The taxi driver was very nice, but he too had that funny accent the same as the man on the passport desk. The taxi was also something new and one thing about England that she had seen photographed – the black cab. She couldn’t remember where she had seen it and gathered that tourist shops in Ireland wouldn’t be promoting very English memorabilia, but she had definitely seen a picture of the famous British feature. She thought it was surreal to be witnessing the reality of these vehicles and cooler still to be travelling inside one.

Mary had always felt that the traffic was bad in Dublin but London trumped Dublin’s busiest times. For the entire journey all Mary heard was the beeping of horns from angry drivers. She found it funny to watch the anger show all over their faces and in the dramatic hand gestures which were sometimes quite rude. What all the fuss was about she didn’t know, nor could she understand why people thought that making this commotion inside your car would help the traffic move more smoothly.

Luckily the two of them were in no rush so the traffic was ok. It will be different when her dad begins work, she noted. This train of thought entering her head made her wonder what her dad was planning to do for work over in London and whether he had sold McDintons or kept it in case they decided to move back home.

All of these questions she stored away for a later date because she felt it too soon to be bombarding her dad with them. Besides, for all she knew he could be feeling quite nervous too.

She couldn’t believe how absorbed in the goings on back home she had been not to notice conversations about the pub or her dad’s work. She was used to listening in on her parent’s conversations always wanting to know absolutely everything but without her mum she figured that no conversation was interesting enough for her to care about anymore.

The chat between her dad and the taxi driver was pretty boring in Mary’s opinion which was why her mind was focussed on other topics. She hadn’t been in many taxis in her lifetime because mostly they spent their free time in the city; if they had gone away it would have been with an auntie or her parents, so they would have taken the car. She did remember in the few taxi rides she’d had there were similarly dull discussions during them though. It was full of what she understood as being small talk. She’d never wanted to travel far if she was with her mother because she worried it would get awkward as her mum often ran out of things to say. Séan on the other hand never had this problem and was the king of this small talk which he was demonstrating in the current situation.

As they got closer to their destination which was unknown to Mary, the houses became larger and less cramped together. The tacky looking newsagents which were cropping up every other building before had vanished and the dirty streets had become much cleaner. Some of the fronts of the buildings looked more like palaces than people’s homes and Mary wondered which one the queen lived in. Perhaps it was one of those. Perhaps they were to be staying with a member of the royal family. She swiftly stopped those thoughts knowing with certainty that the Queen lived at Buckingham Palace and hoped that her dad would take her there quite soon.

Even though it had been drilled into her from a young age that she had Irish blood and the English were very much a separate entity, one thing she had always loved about England from the little that she knew was the royal family. She had watched Princess Diana and Prince Charles’ wedding on her auntie’s television during the summer holidays. She sat there for the whole day being fed ice cream and fruit but not moving her eyes from the box. Her aunt was having a party which most certainly was not in aid of the wedding, but Mary removed herself from this and was utterly absorbed by Dianna’s beauty and the sheer Britishness of it all. She realised that this was going against all morals that her parents had taught her but, in that moment, she didn’t care at all.

Categories
Observations Writing

Easy Like A Sunday Morning: a writer’s take

Sundays. What a brilliant day. Aren’t they just the best day of the week?

No work (for most people), a quiet space (in most places) and an all round chilled vibe.

As an aspiring writer, I struggle through the week to squeeze everything into my tight schedule. Of course, I have a full time job on top of all the writing that I do because what writer starting out doesn’t? But also I find that I take on so many different projects and this can be both good and bad.

For my brain and writing capabilities it is good to test out different styles and writing for different purposes. I gain experience in writing fiction, press releases, blog posts, academic essays and the list goes on which is great.

On the other hand, it can all get too much and occasionally I find myself unable to work to the best of my ability because I am trying to cram so much into the little time that I have in between shifts.

This is why I LOVE Sundays.

Not only is it an opportunity to have a BREAK and time out away from my laptop (just like I am NOT doing now on a sunny Sunday morning writing this post), but it also gives me time to concentrate, get into the writing zone and dedicate quality time to some of the projects that pass by so fleetingly throughout the week.

Whenever I look back at the work that I have done (whenever I get a chance to do so) the best quality are the pieces I have written on days where I have had more time and haven’t been constantly checking the clock to see how long I have left. Days where I have chosen to sit down and write at the time I choose and for however long it takes are the days where I produce the best stuff.

And there’s no better time to produce the good work than on a Sunday. The air feels clear, the diary is empty and the vibes are strong.

It’s ‘easy like a Sunday morning.’

Categories
Writing

The Write Life is usually fine

There’s a hashtag on Instagram called #writelife and I am so confident in believing that life as a writer is the right life for me. It is the life that I often choose and one that I frequently write about.

In my spare time I decide to write, when I’m not writing I think about writing lots and ideas come rushing to me from all sorts of random sources of life. It’s a busy, creative and happy place in which I give a lot of my life to but sometimes, very occasionally, but something that has to be noted, the writing world isn’t always so rosy.

Writing is a solitary venture. This is one reason why I love it so much because all day I spend talking to people. Small talk, informative discussions, friendly chit chat, advice givings – talking. It’s all good but it does get tiring so in my breaks and on some of my days off I love to lose myself in my writing or nose dive into a book and lose myself there.

However, sometimes this has a negative effect. I read what I’ve written and feel it’s useless but have nobody there to tell me that it’s not or where I can improve it. I feel sad and write about it but the pages aren’t telling me that everything is going to be ok or what I can do to change things. I question the path I am taking but it’s all inside my head and I can create many scenarios – trust me. At times like these, which happen fairly frequently, nobody is with me to tell me that I’m making good choices, that it’s a risky but good move, that it could all lead to something amazing, when all I am thinking is that it is all for nothing and could all go wrong.

Most of the time I am able to believe this myself and repeat these positive sentences inside my head which keeps me going, but sometimes it all gets too much being on my own inside my writing bubble.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love what I do and right now, for an example, I am happily sitting alone with a cup of tea and my laptop in total bliss which is often the case. I also am lucky enough to have a strong support network surrounding me who mostly deliver motivational comments and pride for what I am choosing to do.

So it’s great. The #writelife is great. It’s a new world with never ending limits of creating people and places and stories. Most of the time its the happiest. I can create whatever I want and I feel so free in doing so. However, sometimes, just SOMETIMES, the #writelife is not the best place for me.

(How’s that for contradictory?!) The End.

Categories
Writing

These were all their words, he was all mine

Katie Melua’s cover of What a Wonderful World came out strongly from the speakers because James always saw the goodness in everything and everyone. I was overtaken by past memories that left out the horror of the final years. I was remembering the happy times when our family was one and the times before we had a family at all when we loved every aspect that life threw our way. I could hear Sally crying next to Jack who didn’t know how to react in the situation he was in. His first funeral and it was for his dad. How cruel life was sometimes.

Readings came from the reverend who reeled off all of our blurbs put together mixed in with religious connotations of what he felt that death was to him. Abide with Me was the chosen hymn but my voice box failed me due to my weakness and my tears, so I enjoyed the sound of the organ playing a favourite of mine. The committal was spoken, and the curtains closed giving us all closure to a long-suffering horrendous incident. The brain is such a powerful organ. At least our James suffers no more.

As we exited the building for the part of a funeral that any family member dreads, I took Erin and Jack by the hands to the bouquet that some minutes before lay rested where their father was.

‘Take a daisy each,’ I urged to them, both looking fearful at ruining a beautiful display of flowers. ‘Go on, you’re allowed to.’ They each took their favourite coloured bud and cautiously held it in their small hands. ‘Now whenever you’re missing Daddy, press on this for comfort. He is always going to be with you.’ Erin smiled and Jack remained looking confused as we edged our way to stand and be sent many condolences from everybody who loved James.

A true character. A lovely soul. Kind and thoughtful, always giving his everything. Wonderful. Brilliant. Charming. These were all their words, he was all mine.

Categories
Observations Seasonal Writing

Appreciating England

There’s a place that I go to and it’s on the coast. Whenever we drive there along the winding roads and through the leafy trees of summer with banks scattered in wild flowers, I am happy. Some flowers are planted for purpose, looking content where they are, some just sprouting as wild as the weeds – I appreciate England.

It’s on the Suffolk coast where I go and the drive continues on roads that are pathways between the never-ending green hills, something that I would miss if ever I move to a city. It is why I appreciate England.

Somebody said to me once “as soon as you reach Dennington the world and everything around you changes”. Look it up on a map, go there. It does. The people get fewer but friendlier because everyone is so relaxed by the fresh sea air that is never very far away. It is why I appreciate England.

That is a reason why we are so very lucky to be living on an island that is surrounded by the sea, never is it far away (the sea that is). Unlike in parts of America, Australia, Europe and Africa, little old England offers a seaside escape wherever you’re anchored. It is why I appreciate England.

The countryside, though in my opinion is the best, is not the only wonderful aspect. The cities are also exciting and have their own reasons to be celebrated. We have old towns like York, huge towns like Manchester and London, pretty towns like Bury St Edmunds and Ely – and these are only ones that I personally love – this is why I appreciate England.

The simple things like glorious sunny days which we look out for more because they don’t happen very often when the sky is deep blue and the sunshine warms the skin. It is why I appreciate England.

The birdsong starting in the early hours of the morning and continuing when rush hour begins for people who are lucky enough to walk to work listening to it. It is why I appreciate England.

The old cars driving along country roads on sunny Sunday’s when everyone is enjoying a day off. It is why I appreciate England.

The sheep filling the fields, and cows and horses and lots more animals. It is why I appreciate England.

The smell of cut grass when the temperature exceeds fifteen degrees Celsius. It is why I appreciate England.

Warm cups of tea and shortbread biscuits. It is why I appreciate England.

Old churches, old ruins, old buildings, just oldness. It is why I appreciate England.

The traditions, the royals, the character traits of moaning and queuing. It is why I appreciate England.

ROAST DINNERS AND LOTS OF GRAVY. It is why I appreciate England.

So there we go, it isn’t all bad and these are only a few of the reasons. It is why I appreciate England.

Categories
Writing

Chapter 1, Dublin 2018

I had forgotten how magical this place had once made me feel until now, experiencing the magic all over again. I didn’t for one minute think that this would be the case, but I suddenly feel in control and at home. It’s almost as if I’ve forgotten my motive for the trip altogether and for a moment which feels longer than I imagine it is, I am enjoying this pleasant sensation and am at peace.

I have returned at a crucial time which becomes clearer to me as I see the abortion campaigns plastering the streets. I would have thought thirty years ago that this would have passed by 2018 and that the women of Ireland would have the freedom to choose, but instead the ‘No’ campaigners are not giving up their fight, attacking women across Ireland into feeling guilty for having a choice.

‘At 22 weeks I have fingernails, don’t repel me,’ reads one sign from the angry campaigners, desperately clinging onto the past and not accepting the different circumstances that women find themselves in. ‘A woman you love might need your yes,’ reads a board from the opposing side. I’m with the latter, giving women a choice and stopping hundreds who flee to England to safely abort a child that may not survive or abandon the memory of horrific and unwanted intercourse. There are individual stories and this needs to be addressed, but then that is only my opinion after all.

I ponder the debate for a while in blissful silence which is a miracle considering the company I am in. Erin has just bought new headphones so whilst ignoring the hardworking driver’s commentary, she’s listening to her Spotify playlist entitled ‘Musicals’, while Jack innocently attempts to grasp every word that the cheerful and witty commentator utters, adult jokes going straight over his head which I am thankful for.

I can’t believe how much this place has changed and how much my life has changed since I was here. Mammy instantly returns to my memory and though she doesn’t cross it much these days, it is comforting to feel. I don’t really know why I have returned anymore. At least in this current moment I haven’t a clue.

A tear drops from the corner of my eye and this as well as the rare Dublin sunshine forces me to put my sunglasses on. It’s a tear of happiness, of sheer contentment which I haven’t felt much at all for as long as I can remember. This place represents the start of everything for me and though I’m not as good as Jack and I’m ignoring every word that the driver is saying due to my mind wandering elsewhere, I think to myself how different things could have been.

‘Stop number twenty-two,’ the driver calls out. ‘The Guinness Storehouse.’ I’ve never been and right now I could demolish a pint of the black stuff like Daddy would if he were here with us but with two young children, I think I’ll pass. Most couples leave the top deck and prepare to stand in the long queue having missed the memo about pre-booking to avoid it. I look up to the top and dream about sitting alone in the Gravity bar staring out mindlessly onto the Wicklow Mountains in the distance. Then I’m suddenly back in reality when Jack claims he’s desperate for a wee. I guess we’ll be getting off at stop number twenty-three then.

Categories
Writing

The Diary of my novel writing process: A First Attempt (section 2)

Keeping diary during my novel writing process was initially an idea that I thought would be interesting to read later down the line but after producing what follows I realise it was a necessity.

Here is my novel writing diary four months in until the end…

30/09/2018 12:23pm

My ‘Novel Ideas’ document which contains my chapter plan is now half complete, the chapters highlighted in green. I have always found so much satisfaction in ticking off lists and figured that in the digital world highlighting brings the same sense of achievement. The fact that the green is covering more than half pleases me no end and gives me the motivation to get to that place – the end.

Once I have a full first draft of my manuscript I am not only going to feel relieved and accomplished having completed an entire novel, I’ll be extremely proud to have stuck it out. Some chapters are much harder to write than others there’s no doubt. One’s with research or a special event from a slightly different culture like the Irish wedding are ones that I’m not overly comfortable with and won’t be until enough people who know have read it.

Writing about an Irish girl and Irish rituals, I have made sure that a close Irish Catholic friend of mine has been the first to read large chunks of my manuscript at a time. I am so grateful for her throughout this process as she is one who would tell me straight firstly about what she thinks of the idea and how it reads but also if I made mistakes within the Irishness.

I am grateful for every reader who willingly reads my work. All the feedback is great and I realise that most are biased being friends and family but it’s still feedback nonetheless.

48,602 words down, around 27,000 to go and hopefully a lifetime of success, launch parties and happiness. Perhaps I’m getting a little ahead of myself. We’ll see…

Sunday 14th October 2018

Thinking today about writing and its solitary ways. It may be the dreary weather outdoors or the three tequila shots that I consumed last night but I’m struggling today. The content I am writing is pretty sad too but I can usually handle this and move myself away from the story. Today, however, I’m finding it hard. The juggling of different projects. The not yet getting anywhere. The fact that time is ticking and I’m working relentlessly to make this work and the thought that it could all be for nothing and I’d be back to square one.

I’m never usually this down about it but today I’m feeling a splurge of the difficulties that, I am sure, all writers face. You sit at your desk creating these extra worlds and people to worry about. You write things that perhaps are for a commission or a course and don’t particularly interest you but it has to be done.

In fact, as is always the case, writing this down has lifted the heavy weight off of my shoulders and I am sat with a fresh coffee ready to keep on going, because after all that is what you have to do, keep going until you get somewhere.

29/11/2018

Final chapter. Flapjack on desk for energy. Coffee for more energy. Window open to let final motivation in. George’s birthday so feeling good. Up early, presents, write. Write. Write. Write.

27/01/2019

The feedback. Feeling thrilled (and shocked) still to have finished my first novel and thoroughly grateful already for the support from friends and family. I have handed it out in hard copy and PDF form to a number of people but with Christmas and New Year it has taken a while to receive feedback.

It’s always good when people support you in something that you love and that is exactly what is happening so far. My mum is the first to have finished and discussing my novel, my characters and my plot line over our bangers and mash this evening has been somewhat surreal. I even read aloud the final two chapters to my sister who liked what she heard and isn’t a reader herself. I must admit I was rather proud of what I had written, words that I had forgotten about entirely. Exciting times ahead, I hope, exciting times indeed.