What Will You Buy The Man In Your Life This Christmas

Girls - it's that time of the year again! Time to put on the red hat with the tassel and think - what on earth can you  buy the man in your life this Christmas? You've bought him the watch, the identity bracelet with your undying love inscribed on the inside, the signet ring, the cuff links with his initials and the monogrammed briefcase. He has enough designer aftershave lotion to bathe Cleopatra and he believes moisturiser is something that gathers on the car window on a frosty morning. You've gone the tech route and presented him with the laptop, Kindle and iPhone. In desperation you've resorted to DIY so he has the Black and Decker, the five-compartments tool kit and the steamer for removing wall paper ... that was a tough Christmas for the relationship.

Vouchers are always handy - but he never found time to take the golf lessons, ditto the hot air balloon ride and the parachute jump. The trip to Barcelona you arranged coincided with a vital Euro match for the Irish soccer team. You were strolling Las Ramblas when he should have been doing a Mexican wave in the Aviva Stadium ... and he's never allowed you to forget it. So, what's left to do? It seems like the end of Romance Road to buy him a year's subscription for The Irish Times - another wallet or a book voucher. 

You check the gift lists - there's plenty of them on-line - and tick them off - done that...done that...done that. Now you're left with only one option. The Onesie.

Fashion has many failings - why else do you crack up laughing when you look back on those old photographs? But the Onesie for the man in your life must be the most stunningly appalling sin of all time. You've examined photos of the Onesie from all angles, back view, front and sides. It makes no difference - on or off the catwalk, all you can think of are Teletubbies.

You have no intention of turning the man of your life into a cuddly toy …or have you? The countdown is underway. Decisions have to be made. A space under the Christmas tree needs filling and as the inevitable day draws nearer you experience an insidious mindset. You begin to think positive thoughts about the Onesie. Comfort and warmth, funky and fun. Why not get one printed with his favourite cartoon characters, one with a pocket for his iPhone and extra padding for his feet. You imagine him warm and cozy in his hood with the novelty flapping bear ears or the reindeer horns. 

By Christmas Eve you have capitulated. You parcel the Onesie in glitter and foil. You place it under the tree. It could be worse. You could have bought him a back scratcher or a stress squeezer. And when all's said and done and worn - isn't there something incredibly sexy about kissing a Teletubbie under the mistletoe?

The Clamour of the Lamb

Some years ago I visited Cill Rialaig — an artist’s retreat on the beautiful and rugged Ballinskelligs Peninsula. I was in search of peace and quiet. Me time, that's what I though when I stepped out of my car with my lap top and my dream of solitude. I had a book to finish and could not imagine anything except wild Atlantic seagulls disturbing my solitude. And then I head the clamour of the lamb. Tiny and orphaned, trotting on skinny, determined legs, a ball of white wool with a blue splodge on his back, he shadowed my footsteps as I unloaded my luggage. His cry was piteous and petulant. I refused to listen. I have been a mother three times over. That sound is embedded in my maternal psyche. It signals responsibility. You go to Cill Rialaig to cast off those chains. The only one demanding attention is The Muse …well…that’s how it’s supposed to work. ‘Go find your own mother," I advised him and closed the door on his pleading bleat. "This mother's not for turning.’ Atlantic waves lulled me to sleep but in the dawn I was awakened by what, in my befuddled state, I believed to be a banshee competing outside my window for the X Factor. In the hazy dawn I recognised my forlorn and hungry Nemesis. He had obviously never watched 'The Silence of the Lambs'and in the words once immortalised by Greta Garbo, I bleated back, “I want to be left alone.” It’s not a good idea to look into the eyes of an orphan lamb. Before the morning was over I was sitting beside the gorse bush where he had made his home, baby bottle in hand. It was the beginning of the end. Five feeds a day, that’s what it took to keep him happy; breakfast, elevenses, lunchtime, dinner and supper. I called him Blue Boy – and, without fail, he called out to me on the dawn of every morning. I’d heat his milk and stagger from the cottage into the teeth of an Atlantic gale. In my dressing gown, anorak and shawl I could have been mistaken for the old woman of the road. But at six o’clock in the morning I did

n’t have to worry about the paparazzi. Blue Boy was a voracious feeder, tugging at the teat until his tiny belly swelled into a fat, taut ball. As my resolve weakened he became bolder, slithering into the cottage as soon as I opened the door. He followed me when I went walking. Believe me, Mary’s little lamb is non-fiction. When I drove to the local supermarket to stock up on his milk supply he ran after my car until he collapsed exhausted on the edge of the road, leaving me anxious and guilt-ridden until I returned. One night, as a storm raged outside, I took pity on him shivering under his bush and allowed him inside. Bad mistake. I spent the following morning with a mop, a bucket and a bottle of disinfectant while he, forcibly ejected, sat on the doorstep uttering what sounded remarkably like four letter bleats. We compromised. I allowed him inside for an hour every afternoon. As I worked on my book, he stretched beneath my wood burning stove, his eyes slitting with contentment as he listened to my favourite CD of Emmylou Harris. I watched, as proudly as any ambitious Hollywood mother, when the artists and sculptors in the neighbouring cottages photographed him. I imagined his image adorning the walls of international galleries, becoming a byword for a new artistic movement, Lambism, perhaps, or the Blue Boy Revolution. When it was time to return home, I purchased five baby bottles and asked the remaining artists to form a feeding cooperative. Distraught by the thought that I might, unwittingly, some Sunday afternoon, actually emulate Hannibal Lector and eat my lamb for lunch, I contemplated becoming a vegetarian or adopting him as a lawn mower for my suburban garden. But reality prevailed and I drove away with tears in my eyes and an album of lamb photographs. My last memory is of Blue Boy following my car until I rounded a corner and he was lost from view forever.

Secrets and Deceit on the Great South Wall

Sometimes, when I finish a book, when the drafting, correcting and editing are done, and I can write The End in the certain belief that I have given it my best shot, I find it difficult to pinpoint the original idea that acted as my catalyst for beginning my story. This was not the case with Deceptions.

That seed was sown one night when I was commissioned by a daily newspaper to do a series of features on night life in Dublin City. I was working as a journalist at the time and the idea of writing a novel was nothing more than a quiet ambition. One of the features I wrote concerned homeless people. I spent the night on the streets with young men and women who had run away from home for various reasons. It was an extremely sad experience to meet so many young people with no homes and little hope. I did one interview on the South Wall, an industrial area in Dublin's docklands. It has a nearby pier overlooking Dublin Bay which is a popular place for walkers. On that night it was dark and desolate. When I returned to my car, having interviewed a young man who lived in a make-shift cement shelter, I noticed the dimmed headlights of a car in the car park. A second car arrived. A man emerged from one and a woman from the other, and they embraced before walking into the shadows. I wisely left them to their own devices but as I drove away I wondered why they had chosen to meet in such an isolated, secret location. I assumed they were having an affair. A story began to form in my mind. A hit-and-run accident as one of them drove off. The victim a homeless person, someone on the edge of society. What would be the consequences? Would anyone really care. And, even if they got away with it, what would it do to their relationship? This image of a couple embracing formed the spine of Deceptions when I began to write it sometime later. Even though the novel developed its own creative momentum, that sense of intrigue, secrecy and deceit stayed at the forefront of my mind and created a cast of characters who answered those questions for me.

Your First Novel - Halfway There

Novels usually begin with an idea. Sometimes that idea comes fully-formed and ready to be written with a cast of fleshed-out characters whose dialogue crackles with wit and wisdom. If that is your experience, you may stop reading at this point and continue laughing all the way to your bank. If, on the other hand, you are now half-way through your first novel and wondering why you did not take up bog snorkelling or hang gliding as a less demanding alternative, read on. Writing a first novel begins on a wave of enthusiasm. You are finally taking your idea and moulding it into words. You are putting flesh on the bones of ephemeral characters, endowing them with personalities, voices, locations and a time frame for their existence. They are doing your bidding and behaving with the exactitude demanded by your plot … or so you believe until suddenly at the halfway stage you run out of steam. A friend of mine who is an experienced novelist refers to this stage as the belly drop. Suddenly that taut torso you are moulding begins to sag in the middle and develop cellulite. But enough of the metaphors and on to the real problems that can arise at this point. Characterisation is one area where writers can run into difficulties. You start off with a female character whom you envisage as having a meek, timid personality but every time she opens her mouth she’s lippy and self-opinionated. The hard man you created behaves like a pussy cat with manicured claws. The middle-aged woman drinking a bottle of wine every night is becoming increasingly recognisable as your workaholic boss and you have a vision of yourself leaving the libel courts, pursued by photographers. A character, whom you secretly love more than the others (it happens), must display a behavioural trait that casts him/her in an unflattering light. Your writing becomes defused as you over-explain this behaviour in an effort to make it acceptable to your reader. You won’t succeed. You have to trust your reader to understand the many dimensions of your character’s personality. The plot that began with a clearly defined path has trailed into subplots that meander off in different directions. These subplots are fascinating but are causing confusion and weakening your main story line. You struggle with point of view. Who is telling this story? You began from a clear character perspective but other characters keep intruding, demanding to be allowed their point of view. If you allow them this liberty, how will it affect the development of your plot? The back story you hoped would flow effortlessly into the main narrative bulges like a rather distressing carbuncle every time you cast your eye over the page. Your dialogue is (a) clichéd (b) a reflection of your own thoughts and beliefs (3) indistinguishable between characters (d) static and does not move your story along (e) so repetitive and long-winded that even you are bored reading it back. You attend a publisher seminar and come away convinced (a) it is impossible to find an agent (b) it is impossible to find a publisher (c) erotica is all that’s selling (d) you must write to a specific genre and your book can only be defined as ‘unique’ (e) you’ve discovered that writing The End simply means you’re starting your second draft (f) the writer you most admire and hoped to emulate has just listed the structure of your novel as ‘one of the great mistakes made by first time novelists.’ You discover that a real-life event linked to your fictitious plot occurred a year after the time frame you’ve established and a rewrite is necessary. A true-life incident that acted as a catalyst for beginning your novel is hindering your story as if develops its own energy and direction. As a stronger narrative emerges, this incident has to be distilled into fiction, otherwise it will limit your novel’s imaginative scope. None of these problems are insurmountable. They are part of the learning curve that you travel when writing your first novel – and will be explored during the upcoming course, Your First Novel – The Halfway Stage, to be held in the Irish Writers’ Centre 17-18 Nov 2012.