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.

Just Another Lazy Weekend

June Considine lives in Malahide, Co Dublin and is equally well-known as a writer of fiction for both adults and children. Her last two novels, The Prodigal Sister and Stolen Child were written under her pseudonym, Laura Elliot. She is married to Sean and they have a grown-up family of three, Tony, Ciara and Michelle.



Q1 Do weekends find you at the coalface or drawbridge up?

It depends. If I'm battling with a deadline, as I was last year when I was working on Stolen Child, I wrote most weekend mornings. No phone calls or emails to interrupt – but, ideally, I prefer to relax at weekends.



Q2 If you can do you grab a lie-in

I'm an early riser. I love listening to radio and will tackle any chore, no matter how tedious, once I have my earphones in my ears. But if I'm engrossed in a good book, I'm happy to snuggle under the duvet and enjoy breakfast in bed.



Q3 What do you remember most about weekends as a child?

My father spent his working life at sea and the weekends with his family were special. I was a reluctant scholar and being off school was pure bliss. I remember the exquisite relief of confession on Saturday evenings, the belief that my soul was a shining, white disc and, with any luck, would remain so until at least the following morning. Then there was the restful silence of Sunday afternoons, gone now since Sunday in Dublin is just another shopping day.



Q4 If you could do anything you wanted this weekend, what would it be?

Spend it with friends on a barge exploring the Shannon waterways, stopping off at out-of the way pubs and restaurants.



Q5 If you could buy anything at all this weekend, what would it be?

A size twelve dress. I've just returned from a fortnight's holiday in Peñíscola, a beautiful Spanish seaport with wonderful restaurants. Unfortunately, the results are showing on my weighing scales.



Q6 At weekends, do you eat out or do you rustle up something yourself?

I enjoy cooking and always make a special effort on Sunday evenings. That's usually dinner for two, unless I organise a family get together, which can range from a group of ten to over twenty if I include my siblings and their families. Once I've time on my side, I'm happy trying out new recipes in the kitchen.



Q7 A night at the flicks or a DVD?

Saturday night for the cinema. I've just been to see The Lovely Bones. I adored the book, which has one of the most gripping opening sentences I've ever read. I was interested to see how it transformed into a film and I particularly enjoyed Soirse Ronan's performance as Susie Salmon. Sunday belongs to the DVD. I'm currently making my way through The Tudors box set. Who cares if Jonathan Rhys Meyers hasn't got a ginger beard or packing a massive belly, I've quite lost my head to history.



Q8 If you had time to read a book this weekend, what would it be?

The Help by Kathryn Stockett or One Day by David Nicholls. I've just finished both, loved them and intend reading them again.


Q9 Do you switch off your mobile and log out of your emails at weekends?

I leave on the mobile but ignore my emails.



Q10 Sunday morning - do you go to church?

No. But I love the tranquility that pervades empty churches of any domination and often enter them at no particular time or day to absorb that silence and peace.



Q11 Your perfect Sunday?

A walk along the coast of Malahide. Then breakfast in a little cafe called Provence, which is always packed and buzzing. A lazy afternoon with the newspapers or meeting friends in Howth for a few drinks beside the fire in the Abbey Tavern. It's one of the few pubs that still looks, feels, smells and remains a pub, rather than a carvery or a TV lounge.



Q12 And when do you start to get depressed at the thought of the week ahead?

I don't. I love writing and every week throws up different challenges and possibilities. I'm currently working on my next book so I'm at that delicate stage where running a marathon on nails or tackling the junk in the attic seems like a easier option than working my way into a new plot and new characters. But I know I'll get there if I keep working on it. When I want to arise on a weekend morning and switch on my computer, I'll know I've arrived at that stage.

Published Belfast Telegraph on 26 June 2010

Decluttering The Empty Nest

De-cluttering the Empty Nest

June Considine

My friends warned me about the empty nest syndrome. Fledglings gone and parents left along in the silent, empty branches. So when my children said, “Mother, Father, it’s time to fly,” we braced ourselves for the inevitable separation. Little did we realise there is no such thing as an empty nest. The fledglings may scatter to the outer reaches of the forest but they leave their debris behind.

In our case that consisted of three crates of comics (that had, according to our eldest fledgling, the potential to become collectors’ items), along with his collection of rare second-hand vinyls, a guitar with broken strings, and his snooker table. My eldest female fledgling left behind three full book cases, a cabinet of CD’s, a large black dog named Smudge, another guitar with broken strings, five pairs of Doc Martens and a set of juggling balls.

The youngest fledgling, having spent four years at art college, left sculptures and canvases, a headshop of chemicals, a large and alarming glass orb representing the human brain, and a suitcase of dairies, locked and tied with many yards of string. They all left wardrobes of clothes that, they insisted, would be reclaimed as retro fashion in later years.

Over the years, our resolve to deal with this debris weakened. Apart from the dog, the rest of their belongings were inanimate, easy to ignore. We began to dump our own junk, broken computers and printers, golf clubs, musical instruments, Christmas decorations, electrical goods that my husband was determined, one day, to repair, and crates of family videos which, when shown to our fledglings, were greeted with the command, “Fast forward, please.”

Occasionally, I uttered dire warnings about impending clear-outs

but they ignored such threats. They knew we were too busy chasing our own deadlines to tackle the weight of their history. There was always tomorrow...tomorrow... and tomorrow would have remained a vague aspiration except for the impending visit of four Scottish friends. Suddenly, the word “de-clutter” became our mantra. We looked at our attic, a vast area of unused space, usually entered by my husband balancing precariously on the edge of the banisters and hoisting himself upwards. After the installation of a Stira folding stairs we sent an urgent S.O.S to the fledglings. Return and decide what you want to salvage or suffer the consequences. Realising we finally meant business, they trooped home to confront their past. This proved to be rather a long-drawn out process as they kept running into each other’s rooms waving objects and shouting, “Do you remember the time....”

However, eventually, they separated the chaff from the wheat. What was considered fit for posterity was placed in lidded crates or large jumbo sacks and heaved upwards. My daughter’s art pieces, including plaster-of-Paris casts of her friends’ upper bodies, were wrapped reverently in sheets of plastic and laid to rest under the eaves.

We are a family of readers and look upon the defacing of books as acts of vandalism. As the date of our visitors arrived loomed ever nearer, we began to task of separation. Pulp went into the green bin, worthy books that we would never read again went to Oxfam, and our favourites were returned to the shelves. As one person’s junk is another person’s treasure, Oxfam also served us well by accepting our discarded bric-a-brac. The broken computers and all electrical goods went to our local recycling plant, jumbo sacks of clothes were left in readiness for door-to-door collections and we disposed of unwanted furniture through a recycling internet site.

While all this heaving and huffing was going on, I decided to ‘touch-up, the skirting board in the kitchen. But I’d forgotten that a paintbrush is a colonising force that refuses to recognise borders. It invades virgin territory, halls and landings, spare bedrooms, the darkest cubby holes whose existence I’d forgotten. I bought paint samples and slashed them on the walls. I became obsessed with the subtlety of shading. I demanded my husband’s opinion.

“It’s cream,” he said. “They’re all cream.”

Astonished that he could not distinguish between Soft Linen, Antique Cream or Matted Rye, I sent him back to the attic and rang a professional painter.

Eventually, we stood back and took stock of our clean walls, clear shelves, empty spaces and groaning attic. We hung the last picture, smoothed the duvets, flicked a duster across the furniture and collapsed over a bottle of wine on the same instant, I suspect, as Eyjafjallajkull exploded.

Well, you all know the rest. Our house was totally devoid of dust and debris –but the same could not be said for the path flight between Ireland and Scotland. As we sat alone in our minimalist surroundings, our fridge loaded with enough food to feed an advancing army, frantic texts were exchanged between ourselves and our visitors. The air flight was consumed in dust, the ferries overrun. But still we hoped until the final text, received, hours before their anticipated arrival, read, “So sorry! Can’t even manage foot passage on the ferries. Hope you didn’t go to any trouble on our behalf.”

“Of course not,” I texted back. “It was just a case of changing the sheets.”

Published in the Daily Mail This Life Page on 29 May 2010.