Shorter than me

Tag: reading

  • Review of the International Dublin Writers’ Festival

    My friend, Katie Moynagh, was the one who told me all about the International Dublin Writers’ Festival, and so it was she who called me to the adventure.  Katie writes beautiful poems and short stories, and I enjoy listening to her read them aloud, and I trust her opinions on all things literary.  All the same, I declined at first, as I had other plans for that weekend, but as things moved around and I adjusted my diary, I found myself in attendance at the festival, at the Academy Hotel, just off O’Connell Street, in Dublin city.

    As soon as I arrived, I felt the fear.  What on earth was I doing attending a writers’ festival in Dublin?  I wasn’t established, successful, well read or reviewed.  I like to write, of course, I do, but what did I think I was doing? 

    I met Katie in the foyer.  She smiled, and said she was happy to see me, and suddenly I felt better.  It turned out, no one minded at all, about my status or lack of it.  In fact, everyone was far too busy having a great time, to worry about my worries, and soon I didn’t worry either.

     There were over 20 presentations over the next three days divided loosely into the creative inspiration of writing, and the business of writing.  There were presentations by writers, publishers, agents and companies offering help to writers.  The Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland were there, talking about their “Grand Theft Author” campaign, which tries stop Artificial Intelligence (AI) from stealing writers’ work.  There were Hollywood screen writers, and a member of the Ottoman Imperial Family.

    There was even an improvisation session.

    Some writers read their pieces aloud in an open mic session, and I enjoyed hearing Katie read again.  Some writers got to pitch their ideas for books and plays to our new friends from Hollywood, and after the scariest 90 seconds, received constructive feedback.

    If there was a dark cave, during the weekend, it might be my reluctance to monetise my hobby of writing.  I love writing.  I’ve always loved writing.  I love my daily practice of trying to put into word form, the experiences of being in this world.  I try to connect, with my honest, messy and incongruous inner world and try, if I can, to make sense of it.  The idea of selling this seems ugly.

    And yet, of course, I would. 

    In a heartbeat, and a nano second and without asking any questions.  Which is why I joined the Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland, so that if I ever did get a book deal, someone would read my contract for me and tell me if it was safe to sign.

    As well as joining the Union, I bought some books.  I made some new friends, and I absolutely adored being surrounded by writers, and people who love the business of writing, for the whole weekend.

    I really thank the lovely organiser, Laurence O’Bryan and his team at Books Go Social, and I look forward to seeing everyone next year.

  • Sailing on Stories

    I am here again.

    I am on the ferry travelling from Holyhead to Dublin, but this time I’m sitting next to a Chinese family preparing lunch in a portable rice cooker. They’ve asked me, several times, if I want to join them, but I’ve politely refused each time. Instead, I’m eating a dry cheese sandwich, and I would prefer to eat their food because it smells very delicious.

    The Chinese family have just watched me come back from the Duty-Free shop and they asked me why I have three pairs of reading glasses.  I tried to explain that one pair is for reading books and my mobile phone; one pair is for my laptop screen, and one pair is for reading the prices of goods in shops, or the numbers on the buttons you find on cookers, and washing machines.

    The Chinese family have no idea what I’m talking about.

    It took me five visits to Specsavers to explain my visionary needs.  On the final visit the optician simply put his head in his hands and asked, “what is that you want?”

    Oh, gentle eye man, if only I knew the answer to that question.

    The Chinese family tell me that they spent the Lunar New Year in Shrewsbury, and I am not clear if they are going back to Dublin to visit family, or if they are flying back to Sichuan.  One of them lost their mobile phone earlier, on the car deck, and I’m trying to explain that they should ask one of the ship mates to announce this over the loudspeakers.  I’ve suggested that perhaps the Captain might be able to help.

    I’m not sure, but I feel like Jessica Fletcher on the verge of unravelling a mystery.

    I am currently only five years younger than Jessica Fletcher was when she started fighting crime in her free time in Maine.  Like her, I used to be a teacher and have a passing interest in local politics.  Like her, I don’t have children and can give disappointing looks to strangers on cue.  But this mystery of the missing phone on the journey of the Chinese family, will have to wait, because I am busy writing.

    I write, ergo I am a writer.

    I love to write.  Any words and in any formation and for any reason at all.  I write a daily journal and postcards, letters and flash fiction.  Recently I’ve started writing poetry and I send my stories off to be read at magazines and publishing houses.  Typically, they thank me and say that my piece was good, but that they received a particularly high volume of submissions this time, and that I mustn’t be despondent.

    I write for many reasons.

    Firstly, to make room in my head for all the new thoughts and words that rush into the space like ice-skaters without helmets or knee pads.  If I didn’t manually remove all the words from my brain, there would a traffic jam of letters, and they would all get loose and be mixed up like this:  x e f ggggg h k v b fffff

    So here I am scribbling in public.

    I write about what I ate for dinner and who my main enemies are.  I write about the weather and how happy and sad I felt during the day.  I write about my plans and then reflect on what really happened after the plans turned into rainwater.  I make myself laugh sometimes, with the absurdity of the thoughts as they dash about like gold, or copper or vomit.

    I love to write in public.

    Look at me!  Look at me just writing about it all…maybe I’m writing about you, gentle stranger.  You there with the leather jacket that’s a bit too small for you, who’s been drinking the Duty Free since we left the port and is probably an outlaw.  Or you, dressed in hemp dungarees with the children and the two dogs.  Or you with the older parent in a wheelchair, who probably can’t fly anymore. 

    I write because I must.

    The only writing I don’t enjoy is work emails.  I remember years ago, when I still worked at the British Embassy in Copenhagen, and we were going to start using this new thing called, “Email”.  One woman I worked with, a woman I liked very much, asked if this new email meant we wouldn’t have to manage the regular mail coming into the office.

    Oh no, said the IT Guru.  We would still have to manage regular mail, but we would also have to manage these virtual inboxes as well.

    Ah, said the woman.

    Ah, indeed.

    And so, we write a million emails to people who read a million emails and somewhere in between, we find the time to write something more interesting.  Like about a mystery on a ferry concerning a Chinese family, who are on the move, or that time we went ice-fishing. What about that evening when we watched the new moon move around the sky, and it felt like it was playing hide and seek? 

    Then when the moon was as bright as could be.

    A mystery worthy of Jessica.