Under My Bed - New Fundraiser for Barnardos

What was under your bed when you were a child? A discarded teddy, comics, old records, tapes, CD's, a doll with a broken arm, a much-loved book, lurking monsters, witches, fairies, Peter Pan? The list, real or imagined, is endless -and that is what the  www.undermybed.ie  team, Karen Lee and Amy Dawson, set out to discover when they devised this innovative and creative fundraiser for Barnardos.

The idea evolved while the two friends were sharing a bottle of wine. By the time the bottle was empty they had filled their notebook with the names of people they would approach and ask to write about that childhood space under their beds. I was delighted when asked to participate and spent a nostalgic few days digging out and discarding old memories until I came to my most dominant one - those childhood nights when the wind sang fiercely around my house and the rain against the window reminded me of witchy fingernails tapping the glass. The crackling sounds of the shipping forecast would rise through the floorboards under my bed and I'd huddle deeper beneath the blankets, knowing that my mother, in the room below, was turning the dial on the wireless in an effort to find out if the ship my father sailed on was safe - or in the throes of the storm.

Karen and Amy received a terrific response to their request and they have now assembled a patchwork of childhood stories from some of Ireland's most recognisable names and faces. For further information check www.undermybed.ie.   The  fundraiser will be held from 16-18 January 2014 nightly at 7:30 pm in Smock Alley Theatre, Dublin - and promises to be a really entertaining night. Tickets: www.smockalley.com and www.entertainment.ie are priced at €30 and all proceeds (every last cent!) will go directly to Barnardos. 

 

Another Danish Invasion

Reports in yesterday's paper suggest that Irish bacon is not what it appears to be and retailers are telling porkies to their customers. It's possible that some of our bacon could originate in Denmark and other EU countries.This is my take on the issue. 

I met a pink and portly pig. We were flying with Ryan Air.

Although I tried to be polite I could not help but stare

The hat he wore is often seem on football leprechauns

A ginger bread, his jersey green, he claimed his name was Sean.

He said, "My bacon is the best. It’s Irish guaranteed.

My fate decrees that in this life my function is to feed

Breakfast roll man and those who like an early morning fry

With rasher and white pudding, and sausage piled high.

 I looked him in the eye and said, “Your hat is very striking

 But hidden underneath you’ve got the helmet of a Viking.

 Take you Danish ham hocks, your trotters and your snout

 As Margaret Thatcher would have said ….OUT! OUT! OUT!  

Goodbye - Dear Characters

Today I finished my novel. My characters, ghostly and cliched when I began, have developed personalities, struggled for dominance, behaved outrageously and, occasionally, obediently, lost weight, gained weight, aged, grew wise but seldom sensible, fell in an out of love, schemed, deceived and, in general, led me on a merry dance down cul-de-sacs and wide boulevards where they had no right to loiter. I bade them goodbye with a certain regret, rather like the mood that takes us when we wave beloved visitors from our doorsteps, sorry to see them go but looking forward to relaxing back into our own company.

As they slouch out of sight, I find myself suffering withdrawal symptoms. It’s a restlessness that will take days to overcome as I clear my desk, wipe my brow and pop the cork on the champagne. For over a year they claimed my heart, soul and mind with their conniving. Now they are boxed in place, ready to be dissected, hopefully, by an eagle-eyed editor who will discover hidden traits that have escaped me.  When the painful process of editing begins I will view them with fresh eyes as we are again reunited in those final stages of publication.

It’s possible  I’ll dream about them tonight. I often do. Strange, to create characters who did not exist until they invaded my mind then had the audacity to enter the realm of my dreams. Goodbye characters. It was nice knowing you. Now, will someone please pour me another glass of champagne before the next batch of characters come marching into view. Hic!

Now You See It - Now You Don't

Will someone tell me why - when it's so easy to catch a cold, a bus, train or plane, small ones misbehaving, cheating spouses, lying politicians, robbers and rogues, someone staring, a clip across the ear, a cold sore, a cricket ball, a good night's sleep, a catch-you-later promise, inappropriate infections, computer viruses, hives, hair lice and a tiger by the tail - it's impossible to catch FRUIT FLIES!

The Eloquent Senator Norris

Women have a tough time in politics. Two recent examples - Lapgate, so called because Tom Barry TD pulled a reluctant and surprised female colleague onto his lap in the middle of one of the most important and contentious issues to come before Dail Eireann  - the long-over due legislation of the X Case which will allow abortion in very limited and specific circumstances. The other more recent example was David Norris's verbal attack on Regina Doherty in Seanad Eireann when he accused her of 'talking through her fanny.'

The following poem is a tribute to the eloquence of Senator Norris.

   

The Eloquent Senator Norris 

Oh, David, you’re a terror when you decide to fire

Verbal bullets primed with misogynistic ire.

A woman has a ‘fanny’ – that fact we can’t deny -

But it is not a mouthpiece with which to make reply.

You may be incandescent but is it right to hog

The floor of Seanad Éireann with a sexist monologue? 

In fact, your own vocabulary is not exactly sparse

Yet when have we accused you of talking through your arse?

You speak about linguistics and discussions academic

But sexist rough and tumble has always been endemic

In the Dail and Seanad where bombastic eloquence

Is used as substitution for a dose of common sense.

© Laura Elliot 

Knees Up In the Dail Bar

Sometimes you've just got to laugh at the antics of politicians - even when the subject matter is serious, as is the current contentious debate on the long overdue legislation of the X case. The following poem is my salute to the deputies in Dail Eireann who, when forced to work into the small wee hours, really show their mettle. 

           KNEES-UP IN THE DAIL BAR
Some were saying rosaries and singing songs of praise
Twenty years engagement in political affrays
Was drawing to conclusion within the hallowed walls
Of Leinster House where T.D’s had been setting out their stalls.

James was quite determined to legislate with speed
The verdict on the X case, a judgement once decreed.
Lucinda claimed that ‘group think’ was a cultural disgrace.
So Enda rapped her knuckles to put her in her place.

Amendments were debated as nocturnal hours flew
Eloquence was at its best served with a brew or two.
Abortion is a woman’s right? Abortion is a crime?
The T.Ds in the Dail Bar heard no one calling time.

Some deputies were wavering because they feared a belt
From a bishop’s crozier if they protected women’s health.
But no one thought to check the bar where whiskey and the beer
Had made them rather frisky – or so it did appear.

Now it was reassuring to know that T.D. Tom
Was engaged in horse play – and not acting the gom.
A lass on lap without permit was only having fun
Abortion’s just a woman’s lot – when all is said and done.

Oh, it was a jolly knees-up that took place in the Dail
As deputies decided to stand or take a fall.
Abortion through the back door? A woman’s right to choose?
Argued in the Dail Bar with scruples and with booze.

© Laura Elliot 

Anglo Bank Hoist

If the Anglo Irish bankers were as free with their money as they were with their mouth, we'd be millionaires.

Bank Hoist 

It’s a bit of a farce

When out from their arse

Bankers dribble a figure

That keeps getting bigger

As more noughts are added

And balance sheets padded

Organised to a T

How to fool you and me.

It’s a bit of a farce

When there’s no time to parse

The needs of a nation

Against lax regulation.

To hear bankers chuckle

And use Cupla Focal.

‘Cause it’s all just a game.

Ah, sure, no one’s to blame.

It’s a bit of a farce

When the moolah is sparse

That Anglo wants skin

On the Government’s chin.

And isn’t it callous

To sing Uber Alles

When Germany’s coffers

Will bail out those scoffers?

It’s a bit of a farce

When we’re kicked in the arse

By bankers who’s onus

Is keeping their bonus.

But those scoffing phonies

And political cronies

Have caused consternation

AND BROKEN THE DREAMS OF A NATION.

Laura Elliot©

Widgets Webs And All Those Words

Recently I attended a number of  workshops in the hope that I could find the magic bullet that would make social media understandable, easy and less of a head wrecker. As I listened to the various speakers I realised how much our words have been redefined since the arrival of the World Wide Web into our lives. Instead of learning to appreciate the power of the Tweet and the  impact of the Blog I started doodling and ended up with this little poem. I hope you enjoy it.

Widgets Webs And All Those Words 

A web was once the prime address when spiders set up house

With silken strands to lure an unwary fly or louse.

But spiders and tarantulas now seldom come to mind

Because we have the World Wide Web – and words are redefined.

A tweet was always warbled, the prerogative of birds.

Now it is a pithy note that’s easy on the words.

And  Widgets used to float inside an alcoholic can

To help a glass of Guinness rise up like a flan.

A Virus is no longer caused by sniffles and by snot

Nor is it cured by Lemsip – or many toddies hot.

And when the doctor tell us to take a week in bed

We don’t expect the Tablet to cure our aching head.

A bite was once a nibble – or a sometimes painful nip

From a dog with rabies – and it was also hip

To wear a scarf from Hermès knotted at the neck

To show that last night we’d enjoyed a bit more than a peck.

But now we talk in Gigabytes -  and when we have a Nibble

Four Bits is equivalent – and does not make us dribble.

And if we want a sandwich we must not ask for Spam.

For it’s a nasty filler, dispatched without a qualm.

A Yahoo, to be honest, was something of a dope.

And a Curser was expected to wash his mouth with soap.

A Blog’s first name was always Joe – and when it came to Hacks

We do not think of journalists– or lumberjacks with axe.

A Mouse left droppings in the pan and caused the girls to shriek.

Now it runs around the screen and doesn’t squeak an ‘Ekk!’

As for us shopaholics, why should we Browse the mall

When we can rest our bunions and do an Online trawl?

Our Domain was a terrace, a semi or detached

But now we cannot enter  if our passwords haven’t matched.

Surfers do not need a tan, a surfboard or a wave

But we are in hot water if we forget to Save.

A Trojan was the wooden horse that did it for the Troys.

Servers were once recognised as altar girls and boys.

A match was used to Kindle the most reluctant flame.

And Amazons were women of extraordinary fame.

I could go on and talk of Clouds – but I’d be wasting time

Which could be spent on Facebook where I don’t have to rhyme.

So, if you’ve enjoyed this ditty please share it with a friend.

It really is quite easy – you Like and then press Send.

Laura Elliot ©

Reviewing All Gods Dead - A Fascinating Read

Brigit Egan is dying but she has no intention of going quietly into the dark night. In All Gods Dead, an extraordinary and ambitious novel, the author Marian O'Neill explores the external and internal struggle that surrounds Brigit's final days. Externally, she is watched over by her daughters, Deirdre and Ruth, who are caught up in the tragic ritual of their mother's approaching demise. They share shifts at the nursing home, console each other with meals, bottles of wine, black humour and recollections of their childhood.

Both have different perceptions of the love they received from their mother. Ruth has always viewed it as deep and unconditional whereas Deirdre believes that Brigit’s love came laden with demands and expectations she was never able to fathom.

Brigit, outwardly drooling, confused and heavily sedated, is engaged in an internal struggle as her memory cuts through the mists of her past with pitiless accuracy. Skin by skin, the layers of her youth are stripped away as she reveals how she escaped from the dulled confines of middle-class Irish society in the 1920 and created a new life for herself on the edges of Parisian society.  

Beautiful and reckless, Brigit senses her escape when a brash young man in a flashy car drives by her parents’ house. Without hesitating, she climbs abroad and turns her face towards the freedom she senses beyond the green hills of home. But there are no greener, faraway hills. Just city after city, London, Paris, Berlin, each with its thrills, its dangers and its temptations.

Brigit becomes JoJo, she is today's wannabe, the groupie, hanging on the edges of other people’s lives, knowing she can never be part of this sophisticated, swinging society. Marian O'Neill is an lyrical writer, sparse yet precise in her descriptions of the cafe culture that danced its way through the decade and beyond.

JoJo whirls with it, part-time dancer and singer, short-time lover of Picasso, confidante of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, circus performer and, eventually, when there are only two paths she can take, she opts for her safe, middle-class roots and embraces marriage and motherhood instead of self-destruction.

Her secret is safe and is banked down over the decades until, as she faces her own mortality, her story must be told, even if only she can hear it. To the others who come and go from her bedside, they are hearing the muttered ravings of a dying woman.

All Gods Dead brings a fascinating, decadent decade to life. The author has a brave voice and a light touch that moves us effortlessly from city to city, endowing each one with its own unique and historical atmosphere.

Aurora Romps Home Today

I'm no angel - and the only use I have for the head of a pin is to jab it into the line-up for the Grand National. Usually, my other hand is over my eyes as I place my absolute trust in the haphazard nature  of fate.

Today, I used the internet to check the runners. As  it's rather difficult to jab a computer screen, I was forced to read the names.  Auroras Encore seemed to leap from the screen and I backed her. The reason was as whimsical as my jabbed pin choices - Aurora is a character in my latest novel, which is still a work in progress.

Currently, my Aurora is a rather cunning and crazed woman who exists on the sidelines of the main story. Imagine my disbelief when her name sake streaked home in first place with the wonderful odds on 66 -1. 

No one was more astonished than me when I realised my €2.50 each way bet had netted me a hefty €211

As the horses raced around the track and the commentator told us they were approaching the Foinavon fence I was reminded of a dream my father-in-law had on the night before the 1967 Grand National. In his dream all the horses fell down until only horse remained capable of crossing the finishing line. He could hear people cheering on this lone horse. "Fionavon! Foinavon!" The name was repeated many times and the following day when he was studying the form he noticed the name and remembered his dream.

Fionavon was running at 1oo-1 and he placed modest bet on the horse. To his astonishment his dream unfolded before his eyes as horse after horse fell down or refused the jumps. Alone, with the field in disarray, Fionavon romped home to victory. To commemorate that famous win the fence was officially named after Fionavon in 1984.

Today Auroras Encore leaped that fence cleanly  - and I'm the richer for it.  But what do I do with my Aurora character whom I've treated with scant respect until now. As writers we are advised not to fall in love with our characters. We control them, not the other way round - and love makes fools of us all.  I feel like  pressing the delete button on Aurora's more unpleasant aspects. I want to promote  her from the wings of a subplot and make her the heroine of the main plot.

I'm hoping the fever will pass ... once I've squandered my winnings.Otherwise,  there's just too much rewriting to be done and really, she's far more interesting when she's crazed and cunning, and always capable to surpassing the others by a long streak.

When Cleopatra Upstaged The Luvenders

Today, when I signed my name to a document, the woman witnessing it - thirty-something, attractive, and rising up the ranks of her career - asked, "Are you the author of the Luvender books?"

I nodded and knew that when she had read the aforementioned books she was probably about ten years of  age.  This is just another terrifying indicator that Time is driving on a Formula One track in a Ferrari F12. 

The books we read as children are always fondly remembered. We list off the titles at the drop of a hat: Famous Five, Just William, The Borrowers, The Lion The Witch and the Wardrobe, Little Women, The Witches and so on.

As a child I loved reading and that was the reason I decided  my first books would be written for children. I hoped my imagination - and what it created - would become a memory that they could carry into adulthood.

J.K Rowling can claim much credit for lifting children's literature from the 'pat on the head' attitude of adults towards the genre. But when I started to write for children I was regularly asked,  "When are you ever going to write a real book?"  The adults asking this question always remained blissfully unaware of the grinding noise my teeth made and the smoke billowing from my ears.

Being a children's author is both rewarding and challenging. The rewards is the unquestioning loyalty of fans who, hopefully, will remember the books for the rest of their lives. The challenge is capturing the attention of the uninitiated when they are frog marched into readings in schools, libraries and bookshops. 
If you are the author reading at such events if helps if your childhood gene has not been totally eroded and you are gifted with the skills of a hypnotist, a clown and a benign dictator.  

On one occasion I was invited to do a reading in a book shop. The performer before me was a magician who magicked rabbits from thin air then vanished them into his folds of his cloak. He fluttered doves from his fingers then buried them in the depths of his hat. I knew he was going to be a hard act to follow and my misgivings were justified when he ended his act and his entire audience disappeared before I'd even opened the first page.

That humbling experience was only a prelude to an ultimate humiliation that occurred when I was invited to a major bookshop to do a reading. This was a major celebration for the bookshop and it was filled with face painters, actors in animal drag, authors and children. When I tell you that facing a pride of hungry lions is easier than facing a gaggle of kids  high as kites on E's (of the additive variety) I do not lie.  By the time I arrived they had indulged in Curly Wurlys, lollipops, crisps and coke (of the drinking variety).

Knowing what I was up against I fixed them with my most hypnotic stare (think Derren Brown on a roll) and proceeded to read from When The Luvenders Came to Merrick Town.

They arranged themselves in a circle at my feet and off we went on a fantasy adventure. All was going well until a staff member appeared with a handful of masks. For some reason they were Pharaoh and Cleopatra masks, very dramatic, lots of gold and glitter,  elaborate headdresses and eye-liner. 

The children on the outer circle dived on them. The inner circle, demanding a piece of the action, scrambled over the bodies in the outer circle and screamed, "Me! Me! Me!" Within thirty seconds I'd lost my audience. Even Derren Brown would not have succeeded in bringing them back to sanity.

Disconsolately, I wandered through the ranks of hysterical Egyptians and decided to quit while I was ahead. There was  probably an asp in their midst, waiting to strike at my shattered ego.

A woman approached me with two small children.

"Please don't tell me you've finished your  session," she begged.

I admitted that it had ended slightly earlier than anticipated and watched her eyes fill with disappointment. 

"But my children are your greatest fans," she said.  "For weeks they've been looking forward to meeting you. They were up at the crack of dawn this morning demanding to know when we were leaving." 

My broken ego lifted its head slightly. "I'd hate to disappoint them," I said.  "I'll ask the manager if I can do another reading especially for them."

"Would you?" she beamed. "It would make their day."

I looked around to see my fans but all I saw were Pharaohs chasing screaming Cleopatras.
"Where are they?" I asked.

"Here they are." She pushed the two toddlers forward. They removed their soothers and stared at me in abject misery. When it comes to fan awareness, children are always one step ahead of their parents.  

"But they're so young," I said. "The Luvenders are very frightening creatures, very evil and capable of causing nightmares. My target audience is nine to twelve."

 "Luvenders!" Their mother drew back in shock and shook her head. "Never heard of them. Are you not Thomas the Tank Engine?"

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Home Worker

Just settling down to work on my new book – and it feels like ground hog day …again. I keep reading about the discipline needed to work from home and it’s sooooo true. There’s something about closing one door and opening another – leaving one environment for a different one – breaking the morning with a journey from house to work that has to change your mindset. At home it’s different – and that’s where the discipline sets in.

For me, today, yesterday and, hopefully, tomorrow, I’ll rise, do the make-up regime (very important for self-affirmation even if no one except the tame blackbird in the back garden is going to see me for the morning) have my breakfast then open the door of the room I’ve designated as my office and enter.

Four hours later it’s lunchtime. Anyone see morning passing by in a balaclava? By that stage I’m so hungry I’d even eat a horse burger so I have lunch, take in some of the nation’s angst by listening to agony uncle Joe Duffy on radio – then return to the office for the afternoon shift.

Down to the village for a quick walk and a coffee about 4 pm then back to the computer to wring the final drops of creativity from my brain before I prepare the evening meal.

Sometimes,  I  work at night or very early in the morning. But the above description is my solid routine.

So what do I achieve in that time?  If I’m lucky I’ll have advanced my novel and will be satisfied with a good day’s work. That’s when you hear me singing. Other times I know that what I’ve written will be subjected to the Delete command the following morning. That’s when I wail. Banshees, eat your hearts out. If I’m very very very lucky, I’ll have advanced my knowledge of social media and it many tentacles by another baby step – and made some more new on-line friends.

What have I missed by being a home worker? The water cooler and canteen, the chats and gossip, and the camaraderie of being part of a team. I’ll have avoided the boring grind of peak hour traffic, the office politics and stress of a difficult or bullying boss. Mind you, I’m a tough bully on myself – but I can always give myself the one finger salute if I over-step the mark.

The bully boss is at me now – demanding that I stop idling and get down to the serious business of finishing my book. It’s time to listen and switch off – have a good day at the water cooler – you lucky thing!

Memories on Mother's Day.

I visited my mother today. I brought flowers and touched her cheek. She is now younger than me by almost twenty years – her forever-young face smiling from an oval photograph, the image as fresh as the day it was placed on her gravestone.  

The cemetery was full of people like myself who were there to remember their mothers – and  the purple wrappings of a thousand bouquets fluttered like the wings of exotic birds, blown off course on the cold, bitter wind.  

Earlier, I had brunch with my family, cooked by my son and his wife, a nosh-up that left us replete and convinced we would not eat again for a week. I was pampered and waited upon, delighted to share this day with those I love.

Later, walking between gravestones, I reached out to my own mother, long dead and gone before her time. As I laid my flowers on her grave, the memories came in a stream, and were as vivid  as yesterday.

I remembered her laughter and mischievous sense of humour, the tricks she loved to play, the songs she sang ―for some reason they were always sad – and I would stand with my face to the wall so that no one would see me cry. I remembered her scent, the colour of her eyes, the imprint of her feet in old shoes, her admonishments followed by hugs, the ginger and apple bread she baked, her unstinting efforts to keep our father (a seaman, and at sea more often than he was at home) at the centre of her family. I remembered the letters she wrote to him, simple messages of love and loneliness, a day-by-day account of her daily life, asking his opinion on the smallest detail so that he would not feel excluded from her decisions.

Mostly, I remembered her courage as she faced the possibility of her death. The vibrant bandana she wore as she waved me from her hospital ward and promised she would see me soon. That was not to be – and the memories that came afterwards had no place in my mind on a day like today.

My mother died on the cusp of change. Her Ireland was an innocent place, pious, respectful, obedient, hidden and controlling. The women’s movement was beginning to shout, the Troubles to explode, and brutal secrets to be exposed. She was never to have her faith challenged by scandal and revelation, her nationality distorted by those who maimed and killed in her name, to witness confident women demanding the right to equality, to dissect sacred cows and topple the unworthy from their pedestals. She was never to know her grandchildren.

She missed much – and was spared much. Such is the balance of life and death. She walked this way for a short while yet the memory of her presence lives deep within the hearts of her four children. Like all memories, ours are fragmented, selective and personal - yet on Mother's Day they shine with a particular radiance that comes when love and loss combine. Today, in Glasnevin Cemetery, I saw those memories reflected on the faces to those who walked past me on their way to pay homage with flowers to the mothers they will never forget.   

  

A JEWEL OF A DAY

I'm back now, tucked once again into suburbia. My windows are wide and long, and rooftops stretch as far as my eyes are prepared to see. This is my familiar patch and, usually, when I return home it does not take long to settle back into familiar rhythms. This time it's more difficult. 

For ten days I stared out from small windows set deep in stone. I walked a rugged path where rocks leered like gargoyles and the wild roll of the Atlantic   sprayed the air. I heaved bags of turf and logs into a small cottage and banked my wood burning stove with the energy of a stoker. At night a lamenting wind lulled me to sleep and left me with a deeper understanding of banshee mythology. Welcome to Cill Rialaig Artists' Retreat.

Image of a deserted Cill Rialaig in 1991

Cill Rialaig is based on the end of the Ballinskelligs peninsula and is half-way up Bolas Head. The sense of  isolation is strong and the history of endurance etched into the ruins of abandoned cottages that date back to pre-famine times. Sheep graze in roofless rooms where children once played ―and the flaking remains of old settle chairs bear witness to sturdy lives once lived on this hardy lip of Europe. 

Cill Rialaig as it is today 

Twenty-one years ago a decision was made to rebuild a number of these cottages and turn what was a deserted and derelict site into a retreat where artists could come and be inspired by the landscape. 

Usually, it is easel and paint that preoccupy those who come here but this residency was different – and the clacking of keyboards rather than the swish of a brush was the norm.

Thanks to a collaboration between Noelle Campbell -Sharp (the founder and driving force behind the establishment of the artists' retreat) and Listowel Writers Week, I was one of seven writers offered a residency to stay in this unique location. 

Each of us accepted the residency because we had a project in mind: novels to develop, poems to perfect, short stories to sharpen. To go to Cill Rialaig without a project is a mistake. Each resident has her or his own cottage, a fortress of implacable stone that sends out a Do Not Disturb message  - and the swirl of turf smoke is the only indication that someone is within and at work.

The days were quiet and peaceful, a walk up Bolas Head where I battled wind and rain, and enjoyed the occasional burst of sunshine. Then back to my cottage and my computer. 

At first it was easy to believe that only sheep and the occasional tractor was all that would be seen on such walks. February is a bleak month and the gorse that usually blazes the headland in Spring is only beginning to erupt. The wild primroses and cowslips are still unfurling and the bare hedgerows are as gnarled as arthritic fingers. 

So it was the rocks that drew the group of us into a field one day where a monastic settlement - un-excavated and almost invisible to the untrained eye -  offered us a glimpse of this remote headland's history. Thanks to the knowledge of an enthusiastic archaeologist we were able to imagine the hermetic lives of monks who, in the seventh century, dedicated their lives to prayer and seclusion on this spot. We discovered crosses that have withstood the ravages of centuries, crosses dating back to that era still inscribed on the weathered stone. 

A more recent history of village life was evident in the eight restored cottages. Cottage 6 remains vacant and is used purely as a gathering place for residents to browse and engage with each other. It is fashioned in the style of its time and dedicated to the memory of the seanachi, Seán Ó’Conaill, Cill Rialaig's most famous resident.

Born in 1853, unable to read or write, Seán Ó’Conaill had a formidable memory and was a natural talent for story-telling. He was the entertainer of his day,  a weaver of words and a spellbinder of imagination, recounting  legends and folk lore that had been passed down in an oral tradition through the generations.   

We gathered one night in Cottage 6 to hear some of those ageless stories. Illuminated only by candlelight and a roaring log fire, it was easy to sink into an atmosphere where words had a mesmerising power and the only images to distract us were shadows dancing on walls.

  

The weather was conducive to hard work. The Atlantic was mostly sullen and grey but when the sun shone it was a jubilant blast, as if an artist, heavenly inspired, had dashed a paintbrush across the brooding landscape. 

All good things come to an end and on the morning of my departure, as I gazed from my tiny bedroom window, I saw a water colour streak of pink separating ocean and sky. The curve of the wave was lazy and calm as it rode towards shore. This promised to be a jewel of a day. 

I packed my possessions, switched off my computer and raked the dying embers from my trusty, wood-burning stove. As I drove away, the distant islands looked like woodcuts etched against an azure sky. I longed for the energy of a paint brush that would capture the emerald fields with their speckled sheep, the bulging rocks and turf-brown peaks, the sapphire glaze of the Atlantic as it reflected the peerless sky and transformed it into a glittering swell.

Ten Days of Solitude

Tomorrow I'm heading for Cill Rialaig. It's a retreat for visual artists but, for a change, it's going to be taken over by a group of writers. A few minutes ago a friend asked me where was the next stop after Cill Rialaig and I said America. I almost wasn't joking. This beautiful wild place is located at the end of the Ballinskelligs Peninsula in Kerry and from the front door of my cottage I will be looking down into the broad majestic Atlantic.

Those who want to know more about Cill Rialaig can click of this link http://cillrialaigartscentre.org/

I've spent time in Cill Rialaig before - and those who want to know how I spent my time can click on this link http://coastposts.wordpress.com/2012/09/20/the-clamour-of-the-lamb/

Those who want the shortened version - I spent most of my time feeding an orphaned  baby lamb who woke me every morning for his breakfast at 6 am. Sadly, I suspect Blue Boy has graced a few Sunday dinner tables since our time together and, on this occasion, any orphaned lambs had better run when they see me coming - or they will share the same fate.

Anyway, my bags are packed, my computer too - and I aim to work hard on my new book. I suspect there will be few diversions - but one thing I won't have is an on-line facility - and, you know what? - I'm actually looking forward to being off-line. It'll be cold turkey stuff - but I'll cope without email, Facebook, Wordpress, Blogger, Twitter etc ... I think.....

Here's to ten days of solitude!

Just One of Those Time-wasting Days

I've spent a sizable portion of what should have been a busy and productive day messing around - it's the kind of day when you say to yourself, "Get a grip, girl, and stop wasting time," but you don't - because what you're doing is fun - and if you can't have fun you might as well fall to your knees right now and tell the politicians to go ahead and hand you that very tight-fitting hair shirt.

So, what was I doing? Well, I was trying my hand at making a commercial - a 30 second video about my book Deceptions, which is written under my pen name, Laura Elliot. The service offered by a company called Animoto - and the 30 seconds are free - so I put in my photos, text, music and away I went - except that I kept changing it. 

That's the worst thing about decisions - hand me a Chinese menu and I'm lost in the labyrinth of choice. And so it was today - which song, how much text, which theme, delete when it's over thirty seconds...darn it, now it's twenty-right seconds - a thousand piece jigsaw would have been finished in half the time. Anyway, this is my attempt - of course I want to remake, rejig, reconfigure, reconstruct - and all the Re-s you can imagine but I'm gritting my teeth and posting  - and I have to admit I did enjoy the my messing around day.

mehttp://animoto.com/play/APPjf3UWr3AANlWEQzX1AA

Deceptions. A new Laura Elliot Novel

animoto.com

A page-turner with a surprising twist

And the Next Big Thing Blog Hop Just Keeps Going and Going

I asked June Caldwell to participate in the Blog Hop. Knowing June, I reckoned there'd be sparks sparking from her contribution. I wasn't disappointed. She's a wonderful writer with a unique and very distinctive voice - hope you enjoy her Next Big Thing Blog. 

http://junecaldwell.wordpress.com/2013/01/16/the-next-big-thing-heres-hoping/

Blog Hop Continues

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop continues - and this one is hosted by Padraig Hanratty, one of the wittiest writers I know. I enjoy his work - and I know you'll enjoy reading the posts on his blog  - especially if you're into music.  http://quipsandchords.com/2013/01/16/the-next-big-thing/

The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

Dianne Ascroft, author of Dancing Shadows, Tramping Hooves:A Short Story Collection and Hitler and Mars Bars, tagged me in The Next Big Thing. Dianne loves to lose herself in the past, particularly in stories set in Ireland and Scotland. Dancing Shadows, Tramping Hooves includes tales of outsiders who discover they belong, a humorous slice of life yarn, heart-warming love stories and a tale of taming fear. The shadows are on the wall, in the heart and clouding a woman’s memories while tangible foes tramp through the physical landscape. You can read Dianne's Next Big Thing Post at: http://dianneascroft.wordpress.com/2013/01/02/the-next-big-thing-an-authors-blog-hop. Dianne's short story collection Dancing Shadows, Tramping Hooves can be accessed on http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dancing-Shadows-Tramping-Hooves-ebook/dp/B008C9DUSA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355986666&sr=8-1 To find out more about Dianne check out her blog Ascroft, eh? blog: www.dianneascroft.wordpress.com . Dianne’s Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/dianne.ascrofthttp://www.facebook.com/#!/dianne.ascroft

How the Next Big Thing Blog Hop works: an author answers ten questions and then, if possible, tags five authors to do the same thing the following week on the same day, which in this case is a Wednesday.  I'm Laura Elliot (aka June Considine  - the name I use for my children's books)  and these are the answers to the questions:

1) What is the working title of your next book?

The Big Break-Up - but that's just a working title and I've yet to decide what I will call it.

2)  Where did the idea come from for the book?

I'm interested in the dynamics of human relationships, marriage, partnerships, family interaction. So this new book is about the breakdown of a marriage than runs in tandem with the collapse of the Celtic Tiger. What the couple had hoped to do becomes impossible as the economy implodes and changes the direction of their lives.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

Contemporary fiction.

4) What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

I’ve loved every gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, nail-biting moment of Boardwalk Empire so I would love to cast Michael Pitt (Jimmy) and Kelly McDonald (Margaret) in the role of husband and wife. The glamorous and diminutive stalker who terrifies everyone has to be played by Reese Witherspoon.

5) What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A couple decide to divorce without acrimony and all hell breaks loose.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Represented by a literary agency.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

I'm still writing it. Six months of solid work so far and, hopefully, another three to go.

8) What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

It's very difficult to compare writers. We can tackle the same stories but bring an entirely different approach to them. As my story is told from two points of view, the husband and the wife, One Day by David Nicholls comes to mind.

9) Who or what inspired you to write this book?

All my books Stolen Child, The Prodigal Sister and Deceptions deal with marriage break-up that is final and heart-breaking.  There is the betrayed and the betrayer. I wanted to take a more light-hearted look at a couple who are in total agreement that they want a divorce. 

10) What else in your book might pique your reader’s interest?

The struggle to change life in mid-stream, to walk away from your comfort zone and dare to hope that lost ambitions can be realised.

juneconsidine.com

The authors I have tagged are:

June Caldwell is working on a novella Little Town Moone  and a book of connected short stories based around the city called: Dubstopia. She freelanced for the UK & Irish press for 14 years, publishing a biography of a terrorist's moll: In Love With A Mad Dog (Gill & Macmillan, 2006). In 2012, she was shortlisted for RTÉ Guide/Penguin Short Story competition.  She was shortlsted for Over The Edge New Writer of the Year (2010 & 2011); and winner of Best Blog Post at the Irish Blog Awards (2011).  Her blog is:: www.junecaldwell.wordpress.com

Brian Finnegan is the author of The Forced Redundancy Film Club, which is published by Hachette Books. He is currently the editor of GCN, Ireland’s monthly gay magazine, and has been contributing to all of Ireland’s national newspapers for over a decade. His next novel will be published in 2013.  His wordpress site: http://bafinnegan.wordpress.com

Website is http://brianfinnegan.ie

Padraig Hanratty is a freelance editor and instructional designer. He is the founder of  QUIP Editing Solutions. From Dundalk, Ireland, Padraig has written numerous short stories and flash fictions over the years. He has also had articles published in music magazines such as Judas and ISIS. In 2012, he published A Blanket of Blues, a collection of short stories, and Dimestore Avenue Blues, a novella.

His blog also serves as my ‘blog site’: http://padraighanratty.wordpress.com/