The pressing news is that ACTION: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol. 1can be obtained for FREE today and tomorrow. This slamming collection offers jam-packed thrills from me, Mr B, editor Matt Hilton, Absolutely Kate, Col Bury, Richard Godwin, Graham Smith, David Barber and many many more. Highly recommended! Not just because I'm in it (though I'm quite fond of "Chickens" which gave me a chance to revisit Los Angeles) but because it's a lot old school non-stop action. As Crimesquad said in its review:
"This book should not be purchased by asthmatics or heavy smokers as it leaves a fit person breathless with excitement."
I had a wonderful trip with the lovely Maura and we both managed to write a lot
between enjoying ourselves immensely. A proper write up tomorrow but I
have oodles to catch up on with emails and whatnot, so you can get a
sneak peak at some of the photos here, beginning with a lovely one out the window of Maura's folks' house.
It's always nice to return home to another new publication. My short "Just Waiting" (yes, it is named after a Fall song >_<) appears over at Near to the Knuckle. Drop by and give it a read, comment and feel free to share -- let me know what you think.
Busy busy. Maura and I managed to get a good amount of writing done after attending 2D, so it wasn't all idling on the beach. More to report soon -- get a sneak peak over at the new publisher Fox Spirit!
Snufkin packs her bindle again: I am away with the lovely Maura for a jaunt north; with luck I will be able to share pictures along the way here and there, but for at least part of the weekend I will be -- gasp! -- without WiFi so I will necessarily have to curtail my posting a bit. Doubtless I will get a lot of writing done and maybe some reading, too.
So here are some sounds of Galway. I can't believe it's the end of May. How time has flown in this beautiful place.
Another Sunday has rolled around; in the States it's Mother's Day, so happy Mother's Day to my mother and all the other mothers out there. It's also Six Sentence Sunday, so I've selected another story to tease you with. It's definitely a tease, because while I've sent the story off to my publisher in Italy, I don't know exactly when it's coming out or even if it will be available in English (I think so). It will be part of a series of sexy noirish tales set in different cities around the world -- yes, another publication venue that Mr B pointed me toward.
The story is named after a local landmark, this sculpture that appears on the Claddagh side of the bay, which is doubtless hardly surprising. Across Grattan Road there's another statue which really does look as I describe it in these opening lines. I enjoyed finding the voice of this character. As you might expect, I've spent a lot of my time here listening to the ways people talk:
I first saw her standing by the icon. I was saying hello to Father Burke's statue as he raised a glass to the offie across the street and thinking about indulging myself, it being a grey sort of day that calls for a smoky glass of the gold nectar. Under the halo of the icon, her golden hair glowed. The cormorant rose above her as if to proclaim her beauty to the world. I'm not sure what the boat represented: maybe it was my hopes sailing away...
This story won't be for everyone: steamy! And noirish, so not everything's going to go well for everyone. I'm enjoying the crime groove. My head's full of interesting ideas.
Don't forget -- you can sample a bunch of writers' sixes at the official site.
This story was inspired by -- wait for it -- the clock on my mantelpiece and the Sekhmet postcard my friend Joey gave me. It started as a caption for the picture on my Facebook page. I liked the blue tone which resulted from the wrong setting on the phone ("fluorescent"? maybe). My friend Richard complimented me by calling it, "Hobanesque" which pleased me greatly. It will be in a collection soon; more as the details come together, but it will feature a number of writers all linked by the Burning Bridge theme.
My six:
At one time, there was another horse on the
clock, but it fell in love with the chime and they ran off together, so the clock
no longer keeps time. The horse that remains behind conceals his broken heart
and keeps the ball ready in case anyone wants to play. Sekhmet awaits the
desert breezes and the return of the rain.
"How does it begin?" The big hand
asked the little hand.
"With laughter," said the little
hand, "but it always ends in tears."
I've been getting all noir lately. I blame Mr B. Ireland's so lovely, but I've been setting stories here that are undeniably grim. So I blame Ken Bruen, too. While I'm spreading the blame around, might as well point a finger (or two!) at Mark E. Smith, too. If he hadn't written a lyric like, "A serious man /In need of a definitive job /He had drunk too much /Mandrake anthrax," then I wouldn't have had the idea for this story, which first started up on Twitter. Let's blame Twitter, too, shall we? It worked for Franzen.
My six:
Hanley eyed the brick façade. The door proved to be a gothic affair,
metal bound and painted all black. Seeing no modern convenience, he
lifted the oversized bat knocker and clapped it to a few times. They
both craned their ears but all around them it was suddenly as quiet as
death, as if all the people had walked hand in hand into the bay
abandoning the city behind them. Hanley shuddered.
When he had just about surrendered all hope and began to get thirsty for a tall foamy pint, the door groaned open to reveal a disheveled looking eurotrash reject of indeterminate age...
You can read the whole of this bleak little tale over at A Twist of Noir. While you're there, read some of the other fine stuff they've got.
Next week, I'll be back to regular posting, but for now, here's a nice picture of my guests. We'll see how many photos they let me post :-) probably better when they get over the jet lag. Yes, a picture at Spanish Arch is required of everyone who sets foot in Galway. Tick that box!
I met up with the Fulbrighters in Ireland, new and old, for a trip out to Connemara. Here are some lovely photos! We had music and Irish language (including a visit to TG4, the Irish language television station) for our visit to the Gaeltacht, the remaining areas where Irish remains a primary language.
Working on a couple of things before I head off to Scotland later this week, so must dash!
I meant to do a Friday Forgotten Book, but today took a few unexpected turns which involved a glorious day at the beach, a much overdue haircut and a shiny new iPad2 (thank you Fulbright Foundation) which is charging now. So I have added some lovely photos to the Ireland photo album, including a cute little Scottie dog (oddly enough, I'm working on a story that has one as a character). It's often difficult to get the corvids to sit still long enough -- or close enough -- to get a good picture, but rooks have been the best so far. Sitting in a tree on Claddagh Walk, one proved low enough to allow me to get a couple of shots that look all right. I keep trying to get the hooded crows and the magpies -- they're such fun to watch, but wisely wary of humans. Of course, in Galway there are always swans.
Low tide always has such interesting textures in the sand. I like the barnacles and seaweed exposed as the water recedes. Such a variety of textures. Makes for interesting pictures. And there's always my favourite spot. Sigh. It's so picturesque.
My column is up a bit later than usual: overdose on film coverage in the wake of the even more disappointing than usual choices. How the impact of a film like Melancholia could be overlooked seems a mystery. Oh wait, no it doesn't. It focuses on women and isn't a "chick flick" (horrid term).
Oscar Nomination Melancholia
As Bitch Magazine has already observed, the sky is blue, water is wet, and the Oscar nominations are a big feminist disappointment. This seems to be the year they officially become as irrelevant as the Grammys, an industry showcase that reflects no vision of reality outside the industrial boardrooms. In a year when awards can be offered for run-of-the-mill biopics that make horrid people "vulnerable" and "human" (one begins to suspect a subterranean right wing campaign funding both
the films and the awards). At least the National Society of Film Critics and the jury at Cannes picked up on it.
In the seemingly ever smaller number of films that pass the Bechdel Test, one major film got completely overlooked for the major awards: Lars von Trier's Melancholia.
It's kind of stunning because it includes the sort of bravura acting
that usually gets awards—had it been men in the roles, perhaps the
statues would be lining up. Perhaps it was the uneasy accusations of misogyny leveled at von Trier particularly in the wake of Antichrist. But
here's the thing: every female character does not have to be a squeaky
clean role model or redeemed hooker. Male characters have the space to
be good, bad or better yet, complicated. Women remain largely relegated
to secondary roles in most films and to films dismissed as 'chick
flicks' when they star in them.
Melancholia is no chick flick. It is harrowing in so many ways—not least for the unflinching portrayal of real depression...
Read the rest at BBHQ as always. I have more to say about Melancholia, I think. I've really only scratched the surface here: I want to talk about visualising the end of the world -- and the music, too. Anon -- always too much to do!
An unusual day: me away from the net. Be honest -- you didn't really notice I was gone, did you? It's all right. I know occasionally I should take a break from yammering across all media. Besides, I took some more lovely photographs over in Salthill. Nothing jazzes up a photo like a happy, bouncing Lab.
I also managed to finish a story and send it off to my editor: it was meant to be 5K but ended up closer to 8K. Also not like me: if you get paid the same, why go over the target? Well, sometimes the story demands it. Characters can be so pushy. Thinking about tonight's Over the Edge reading, I also thought I should have something on hand to read in case I can get on the list, so I finally started writing the new novel. Yes, about time after thinking about it for so long. It reminded me that the best way to edit your writing is to read it out loud. I know that, but I seem to always forget it. You may ask, how's that academic essay coming along? [cough] Today for sure! Here: go read Peter Cook's Jekyll and Hyde script and stop hassling me.
Better yet, go read the column, featuring a rudely hilarious animated GIF from The Oatmeal:
Why the Blackout Mattered
K. A. Laity
After some speculation about whether they would take part, it was
telling that Google applied the now familiar black censorship bar over
their corporate logo (in the U.S. anyway—Google.ie continued in normal
mode). More obvious homes of net freedom like Boing-Boing, Reddit,
Wikipedia and Wordpress likewise blacked out for the day, but the
participation of Google confirmed the broadening opinion that even for a
mega-global outfit like Google SOPA and PIPA continue to be very bad
ideas.
People who do not understand the internet
should not be legislating for its control; the sad fact is they allow
corporations like the RIAA and MPAA to do it for them. While many
people will support measures to stop internet piracy, those who do not
comprehend how these poorly written measures will forever change the net
need to know that Facebook, Twitter and all the rest will be as dead
as Napster should SOPA or PIPA pass...
Read the rest at BBHQ. And hey, call your representatives and remind them they represent you and not multimillionaire corporations: fight the real enemy.
Miss Wendy and I tried to do the overnight B&B trip to Inishmore. We got up early Tuesday to go get our tickets for the ferry and make arrangements. The woman at the ticket office said the crew were making a decision at 9. They decided not to go that day.
More timid folk would have decided then and there not to make a crossing in January.
Miss Wendy and I, however, were determined, so we went back yesterday and sure enough, the ferry would be sailing so we got our bus & ferry tickets, but decided not to do the whole B&B thing, which ended up being just as well. Remote islands in the Atlantic in January, it turns out, do not offer experiences conducive to relaxed enjoyment. Imagine our surprise.
We found ourselves back in Connemara on the bus, which took a bit longer than we had anticipated to get to the ferry terminal. Miss Wendy, as you know, used to work at the Coast Guard Academy and has been on whaling trips and whatnot. My family used to have its own boat and I've been on ocean ferries before.
I have never been in water that wild! Miss Wendy said she understood now why Poseidon was the patron of horses as well as the sea as we plunged up and down in the waves. Arm rests have other uses than just resting arms, I discovered. I was trying not to think of things like The Poseidon Adventure and just roll with the waves. Even as I write this, I feel that strange sensation again. I didn't feel ill at all, just nervous.
Very very nervous.
It didn't help that all the islanders we met that day said, "Rough crossing?" and then proceeded to regale us with their own decisions not to take the ferry that week. The woman in the stone shop showed off her arm brace and said how she was supposed to go to her doctor on the mainland, "But I'll leave it until next week."
Our tour around the island brought us to seals (which I don't think either of us could make out) and lots of sea birds, which Miss Wendy found in her guide book. The ruins of the 8th century monastery and its cemetery were quite lovely and picturesque, living history.
The beauties of Dun Aengus were considerable but there was a bit of a problem; as the woman in the heritage office told us, "Be careful by the cliffs." What she might have said was, "The opening to the ring fort creates a kind of wind tunnel that combined with gale force wind will knock you off your feet." We discovered that for ourselves. Some dramatic footage of the cliffs.
The cafe where we warmed up before the hike up to the fort gave a lovely warm glow from the turf fire and the delicious food. The pub at the end of the tour proved a welcome sight as we tried to steel our resolve for the journey back. By the time we walked to the pier, the wind howled and the rain assaulted us. We got on board, but they warned us they were changing us to another boat. After about a quarter of an hour, we all decamped for the smaller, less swank ferry.
A few people had told us the journey back would be better, but coincidences added to our nerves. In the pub the telly showed a Raging Nature program on people dying in blizzards detailing how it feels to freeze to death and the woman sitting across the aisle from Wendy read a novel Dead Tomorrow! or something like that. I think we both blanched when one of the sailors, after staring out the fore window for a time intently, reached up to the row of life jackets hanging on a shelf above our heads. However, he was just retrieving his newspaper which he'd put up there. So we plunged on through the sea in the dark this time, rolling and pitching, rising to meet the waves and it was a bit better but still nerve-wracking, so we were glad to reach shore.
You can see all the Inishmore pictures at the end of the Ireland album. I think we're going to treat ourselves to a spa day today. I expect I may be back to visit the Aran Islands.
Happy new year, everyone. It's been a cold and damp one so far in Ireland (shock!) but Miss Wendy and I managed to get out in the bit of sun yesterday for a little while to do some wandering and bird watching. New birds sighted included chirpy little robin and moorhen up by Salmon Weir. It turns out that all the "crows" I have been seeing around the city are really rooks. Here's a dramatic shot of one out on Nimmo's pier who let me get quite close.
New Years Day gave us some good (if overlapping) television including Eddie Izzard's Treasure Island, a new episode of Sherlock and another AbFab. We only watched the first hour of the pirate yarn and then switched over to see Holmes and Watson -- and of course, Irene Adler. I wish I could say that Moffat & Co did her proud; for the greater part they did, but then by the end... sigh. Why do so many people have such a hard time seeing women as people, not just "not men"? If you haven't seen the "magic womb" Xmas episode of Doctor Who you might not find it as irksome. Then again you might. AbFab was amusing and gave Jane Horrocks a chance to show off her uncanny singing abilities. Edina's outfits were eye-searingly painful.
Bank holiday today: not sure what might be open. Sun's out at the moment. We're thinking of going to the islands tomorrow. More adventures!
Are you ready for Hogmanay? I understand you need a torch, some coal and a bottle of whisky (no 'e'!). I think Miss Wendy and I may just have a nice dinner out. We had a lovely trip through Connemara yesterday. Here are some lovely photos to show it. Cool and misty, but the landscape was so gorgeous.
I'm packed and ready for the next journey -- meeting Miss Wendy in Dublin which ought to be a lot of fun, but makes it no less difficult to leave Dundee. A bus to Edinburgh Airport then a flight to Dublin and one more bus into the city centre. Hopefully Miss Wendy is having a chance to sleep off her jet lag as she should be there already. I leave the UK where it's Boxing Day and arrive in Ireland where it's St Stephen's Day. Will I feel the difference?
I have a lot of New England friends who enjoy exploring the
graveyards of the northeast and probing the histories behind them, so
it’s a treat to be able to visit an even older cemetery here in Dundee
where I am spending Christmas. Of course the big holiday in Scotland is Hogmanay, but I have to be back in Ireland this year, so I’m going to miss it. Dundee also has a famous dragonas well, though it’s best known for the three Js: jute, jam and journalism.
The jute mills once employed much of the population, until jute
production was outsourced to India in the 1920s. Orange marmalade
continues to be a staple of British tables. And Dundee remains the home
of DC Thomson, creator of The Beano, The Dandy and The Sunday Post... [read the rest]
Did you get a Kindle or some other reading device for your holidays? Need something to read on it? I have some suggestions :-)
Doubtless my column will post some time today at BitchBuzz. I am dashing off shortly, though: planes, trains and automobiles on my way to Dundee. Doubtless tweeting and FBing along the way. Wish me luck. Oh hey, a short story up at A Twist of Noir, too! Sorry -- in haste!
Did the Krampus visit you last night or did Saint Nicholas fill your shoes with gifts? Happy Independence Day, Finland (let's have a little Värttinä for that).
My talk is today at the Moore Institute. It's an update of my keynote address from April; I wanted to hit a lot of the same issues, but I've also cut it a bit as well. Mostly the jokes: different audience. Not all of the jokes, of course. But I figure some of the offhand popular culture references won't travel well.
No idea what kind of audience there'll be. Some friends have promised to show and there will be sandwiches. We'll see. And no, I didn't go through with my plan to graft a Guy Fawkes mask onto the Moore Institute logo for one slide. Coward.
Okay, what're the odds? Oh sure, it is entirely likely that I would get on with the first medievalist I met at NUI Galway. After all, we medievalists have to stick together like all endangered species. But we keep finding amazing things in common like our birthdays (!) and P. G. Wodehouse and the Marx Bros and Tony Hancock. Destiny took a hand in things, I think, when it sent me to Galway. She even invited me to talk to her Old English course so I wouldn't forget entirely what the inside of a classroom looked like. Here's the lovely Frances, award winning lecturer.
1. What's the first thing you do upon waking in the morning? Let the cats in for a cuddle and go back to sleep, even if only for two minutes. I'm not a fan of sleeping late, but I do like to wake up slowly.
2. What's a song you might be persuaded to dance to?
I'm a trained dancer, but the best songs are those that make me dance like I don't know how! "Come on Eileen," by Dexy's Midnight Runners, has made me jump up and down on ever since I was a bairn in 1982. I remember the first time I heard it: I jumped around the breakfast table with such enthusiasm and abandon that my mum cried with laughter. "Late in the Evening" by Paul Simon makes me do what my husband calls "Muppet Dancing", and it works best when I'm in the passenger seat of the car (although God knows what the people looking in their rear-view mirrors at me are thinking)!
3. Where in the world do you live?
In books. I much prefer stories to real life!
4. What's a great night out for you?
I don't tend to go out. I much prefer 'in'.
5. What's a great night in?
Learning languages, or doing something craftsy. I like to be busy!
6. If you were offered an all expenses paid trip anywhere in the world,where would you go? Japan, Japan, Japan...or New York! But unfortunately, as I don't really like 'out', traveling is not the easiest thing for me to do!
7. What book do you wish everyone would read so you could talk about it?
The one with the boy with the orange pyjamas...but I can't remember what book it was. I vaguely remember reading it in bed--there was a boy who may have been an orphan; someone (it may have been a man) took him in, and a woman (whose name may have begun with a J) brought him pyjamas in which to sleep. The pyjamas either had oranges on them or orange buttons, and the boy had an aversion to the colour orange, so he slept in his clothes and then crinkled the pyjamas the next morning to make it look like they'd been slept in. I can't remember whether I actually read this book or DREAMT that I had read this book so if it sounds familiar to you, let me know what on earth it is!
8. What movie makes you cry?
I don't cry at movies...but Graham Greene's books always have me in tears!
9. What makes you laugh?
At the moment, Diary of a Wimpy Kid. But everything in general...I'm a giggler! [Ed: I can attest to this.] Ooh yes, and games where you substitute the word 'goose' for either a noun or a verb in a film title. That one makes me chuckle too!
10. Are there fairies at the bottom of your garden?
Yes! There's actually a special fairy garden in my garden, where the dead trees are and the primrose grows. I don't like to visit it very often, because it's also where the septic tank lives, but the fairies don't seem to mind.
A gloriously spooky day to you all! I know I have been remiss in my Halloween cards for the last couple years; I have as an excuse the general madness of my life lately -- this year in particular. I suspect next year will either be incredibly dull and boring, or else more mad than ever.
I will not be taking bets on that. Let's not tempt fate, eh?
My sympathies for all my east coast friends who got a lot of snow dumped on them this weekend. I won't regale you with what a surprisingly warm day it was in Galway, how I walked out along the Claddagh and out the causeway to Mutton Island... oh, wait. I am doing that. Sorry! A freak October snowstorm. I'm sure it will be smooth sailing for the rest of the season...
All right, no more teasing. I remember well the painful jaws of the Great Grey Beast of February. Let this be the most snow you see until the thaws begin!
In lieu of an actual card, here's an old chestnut that I hope you're not tired of yet:
Devil's Night
It was called Devil's Night in the town where I lived
That veiled night before Halloween,
When goblins came out and devils ran wild
And some said that witches were seen.
We kids stayed inside, safe in our beds
And whispered of what there might be—
But one year we intended to see for ourselves,
My sister, my black cat and me.
The sun had long set and the darkness had come
To wrap all the houses in black,
When we crawled out the window and crept ‘cross the lawn
And none of us even looked back.
Though the wind tapped our shoulders and played with our hair
And ran through the leaves with mad glee,
We were stalwart and true like the heroes we knew,
My sister, my black cat and me.
We had never quite said, but each knew in our heads
The goal of our late night foray;
There was only one house whose black shutters and spires
Cast long inky shadows by day.
The house of nightmares was the subject of dares
For children much older than we,
But we knew we must try to sneak in and spy,
My sister, my black cat and me.
As we walked on our own down the mist-shrouded lane
The goblin cries rang through the night.
My sister told me, with an air of disdain,
That I should not take any fright.
'It's only some kids wrapped in sheets that they hid,
That they took from their mothers laundry.'
And we continued along with much knocking of knees
By my sister, my black cat and me.
The house loomed ahead with its turrets like spikes
Aimed at a portentous sky
The old shutters rattled and the chimney howled doom
But the wind smelled like pumpkin pie.
'An old witch lives here and she eats little kids,'
My sister heard from Katie Lee
And we were likely to die if we drew too near by
My sister, my black cat and me.
'I'll go up on the porch and ring her doorbell
then run—like the wind—quick away.
You go ‘round the back and give a sharp rat-a-tat,
Before she can come out this way.'
Her plans carefully laid, my sister then stayed
As I walked toward the back door slowly,
I'll admit I was scared and I felt ill- prepared,
No sister, just black cat and me.
As I prowled through the gloom I saw a bright room
And an old woman dressed all in black.
'It must be the witch,' I said to my cat
And shivered and shook in my tracks.
I wanted to run but I heard the doorbell
And I knew that my sister's safety
Was all in my hands, so we gathered our breaths,
Poor little black cat and me.
I made a small fist and raised up my arm
To deliver the thunderous tap
But I froze to the spot when I saw a dark shape
That opened the door with a snap.
'I know what you want!' I heard the witch say
But my feet would not move to flee
And she swept us inside the warm kitchen's light,
Poor little black cat and me.
My tears trickled down and I begged for my life
And the life of my little kitty.
The old witch just smiled and patted my head
And said to me, 'Don't be silly.
I've got oodles of pie and candy and fudge
And a gingerbread house so pretty,
And I wish you would share all the food I've prepared—
It's too much for my big cat and me!'
I looked all around and my fear dissipated
The kitchen was cheerful and clean
And the huge oaken table was filled ‘til it groaned
With more treats than I'd ever seen—
Pies of all kinds and cookies with chips
And a big steaming pot of green tea,
And in front of the fire a great big cat yawned
At my ravenous black cat and me.
I said, 'Thank you ma'am!' and plopped down in a chair
And she set a blue plate before me
And I piled it up high with some warm pumpkin pie
And a big taste of each sweet dainty.
I was feeding my face and telling the witch of our chase
When my sister's gaze fell upon me.
But it took little time before we brought her inside
To eat with my black cat and me.
So when you see a witch and your knees start to shake
And you're tempted to run to the hills,
Just remember the night that we wandered quite late
Seeking out Devil's Night thrills.
Some witches are good, and some witches are bad
But they all make amazing candy!
If you're sweet and not rude, they might share their food
With your sister, your black cat and thee.
Happy Halloween! Samhain maith! Wear iron and don't talk to pookahs. Let us remember those who have gone and whom we miss and share the bright memories with those near us now. Be well.
After
the harrowing process of moving and desperately trying to unload many
of my books, I have sworn to buy no more books and to adapt
wholeheartedly to my gypsy life. Of course that lasted until I visited Charlie Byrne's Bookshop,
a Galway institution. I was there for a reading, but I couldn't quite
resist this book. So far, it's the only one I bought there. Let's hope I
can keep to that.
Most people will know Flann O'Brien [true name Brian O'Nolan] from At Swim-Two-Birds or The Third Policeman, acknowledged comic classics. The Best of Myles collects the "Cruiskeen Lawn" columns he wrote as Myles na gCopaleen in the Irish Times. Yes, a lot of pseudonyms, eh? No wonder I love him.
I
was reading this on the bus to Shannon airport last week and giggling
in my seat, doubtless disturbing the poor woman next to me who thought I
was some kind of lunatic. Ahem.
O'Brien maintains a
tone of daft reasonableness whether he's plotting to take over the Irish
Writers, Actors, Artists and Musicians Association (rebuffed in his
offer to take charge, he first finds fault with all they do, then
decides to form a rival splinter group), suggesting dialogue at the
Abbey Theatre be printed as banners and hung above the stage so audience
members can read ahead to catch their buses on time, or developing
get-rich-quick schemes like his Beard Food (accompanied with appropriate
sketches of the wonders it will provoke). He relates many adventures of
"the brother" -- a schemer of the first order who nonetheless seems to garner a grudging respect from many despite his high-handed ways.
He addresses "the Plain People of Ireland" often -- and
offers their suspicious views of his meanderings. No surprise as he
invents business schemes of dubious execution: artisans who will give
wealthy stupid people's books the impression of having been read, with
increasing fees depending on the amount of wear and the addition of
pithy ripostes or citations annotated on the pages, or ventriloquist
dates to accompany the not very bright and provide their half of the
sparkling conversations. The Plain people are inclined to interrupt with
corrections of his spelling or signs of impatience when his
self-glorifying goes on too long.
Among his vaunted skills are the accompanying drawings
illustrating various points. The drawings are wonderful as well,
offering valuable visual advice such as how to carry your drunken friend
who has collapsed or how to cross a river without getting your top hat
wet. Valuable advice indeed.
I
did go to the reading last night and read my new poem because Kevin was
soft-hearted enough to squeeze me in at the end. It seemed to go over
well. I tagged along to the pub afterward and it was great to have a
chance to get to know people a little more. Quite a community of writers
here.
I ambled off to Octocon on Saturday after a good night out on Friday, where I had attended the 3rd Annual Fiction Slam put on by the local lit organisation, Over the Edge. I had no idea quite how it would go, but it was more or less like a poetry slam: that is, a short time to read with a focus on performance, and of course, competition. Among the judges was the multi-talented Emer Martin, who read a bit from her latest novel between the two rounds; a really engaging performer herself.
After hemming and hawing a bit, I decided to try to sign up to read and took "Rothko Red" and "Wixey" with me. There was a good crowd at the museum; Galway really is a writers' mecca. I got chatting with Rachel Coventry, a local writer who read from her short story about a man who finds himself disappearing. All the stories were good: this is significant, as I've seldom been to a reading that did not have at least a few clunkers. I read "Wixey" first and was gratified to get some laughs; in fact I made it into the final three, much to my surprise. Rather good for my first time reading in Galway. The bottle of wine went to the young woman who read from her "memoir by a rabbit" which was a real hoot, and who will also be performing at the Galway Comedy Festival (sob! both Dylan Moran and Tim Minchin's performances are long sold out).
I had an early train to Dublin, but as I live across the square from the station, I didn't have to get up too early and once on the train, I fell asleep not long after seeing a deer running across a field (deer? yes!) and woke up at Heuston. I caught a cab to the hotel, checked in and then went down to registration. Gareth at reg immediately led me to Pádraig. Great to finally meet after knowing each other on line for so long. We had a chance to chat and to introduce me to Deirdre, his wife, before the panel he was on about meeting your heroes. Deirdre and I sat in the back and murmured various comments, including discussing whether it was worth laying money on the odds of any female names coming up in their adulations. Of course not: I did ask the question at the end, and I was struck by how the conversation immediately moved to crushes and fancying, including how attractive Tanith Lee is 'despite her age' you know.
Ahem.
This discussion led rather neatly into the women in genre/is it necessary? panel later, which drafted James Bacon at the last minute so that it wasn't an all-female panel. The discussion went very well for the most part, keeping a focus on practical solutions and dispassionate identification of the mechanisms that keep labeling women as "other" rather than simply as people. There were a number of encouraging comments aimed at organisers to move beyond the default position of simply relying on the same old (usually male) friends and to actively encourage women to participate, as well as for women to overcome that reluctance and self-effacing behaviour that dooms them to non-representation. It takes a concerted effort on many parts to overcome these structural problems. And then of course, the last question to the panel came from a guy who said, "But it's true that women mostly write about relationships and I just like action stories." Sigh. Enough to make you want to strangle someone.
The rest of the time I spent mostly chatting with Pádraig and Deirdre and the other folks they introduced me to; I don't usually go to cons unless I have something to do or know lots of people, so it was a relief that I had someone to hang out with. I met lots of terrific folks and I look forward to seeing many at P-Con in March (where I get to play "The Professor").
