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.