The editor called me into his office this morning. I hovered nervously in front of his desk, heart sinking as I realised he was scrolling through my court reports on his computer.
‘Sit down for feck’s sake,’ he barked.
I sat in the chair across from his desk.
The phone rang, but he didn’t pick up. Michael peered in and went away again.
The head of the advertising department stuck her head in the door just long enough for him to growl ‘piss off, I’m busy. ’
I sat and sat, until I felt I couldn’t sit for a second longer and then he settled back in his padded office chair, tapped his finger against his teeth and said, ‘Did someone help you with these?’
‘No . . .certainly not,’ I answered, feeling an unmistakable thrill at the fact that I was actually entitled to be outraged.
The editor shoved back his chair, muttered ‘right. Let’s go for coffee,’ and strode out into the newsroom, sub-editors and reporters scattering in his wake.
‘MICHAEL!’ he bellowed, and Michael duly appeared from the photocopying area where he’d been lurking.
‘We’re going for coffee.’
‘Right,’ Michael replied. He turned towards the newsroom.
‘Lads – we’re going for coffee. Any problems ring me on my mobile.’
And with that I was swept out the door, into the front seat of the editor’s pale grey Rover, and whisked away to the Lakeside Hotel Breakfast room, where I had a very nice fresh scone with raspberry jam and cream, and two cups of freshly ground coffee poured from a slightly tarnished silver pot.
The editor did most of the talking, between singing snatches of Emmy-Lou Harris and drumming his fingers on the table. It turns out he’s a big country and western fan.
When we were heading back out to the car Michael whispered ‘This is his way of letting you know he’s pleased with your work,’ and I felt a small glow of satisfaction that I’d actually managed to do something right.
I’m still stumped as to who the lady in the photograph I found could be. I know Aunt Dee had dark hair when she was young, and by all accounts, before she became the priest’s housekeeper here, she was a bit of a beauty.
There’s an inscription on the back, but it’s so faded it’s illegible. I think I’ll bring it into the office tomorrow and ask Marie if she can work some of her computer magic on it.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Could this really be Aunt Dee?
I felt a bit smug, until I remembered I worked as a legal secretary for 10 years before I got married.
This evening I tried to do some more work on Aunt Dee’s vegetable garden, but within seconds of going out the door I was engulfed by a cloud of the largest midge/fly/mosquito creatures I have ever seen. After less than five minutes I fled inside. I suspect that, in the past, Aunt Dee may have used some illegal, growth boosting fertilizer in her vegetable garden.
Hunted from the garden, I decided I might as well start on the task of finding a nice publisher for my book.
It turns out that might not be quite as easy as I’d thought. Apparently, to get a publisher to read it, I first of all need something called a literary agent. But as there seem to be plenty of these out there, (probably more than there are books being written,) I suspect it won’t be too difficult.
I also decided to clear out Aunt Dee’s desk, which sits in the corner of a sun-faded room, formerly known as the parlour, overlooking the front garden, and is where I now try to write (and end up exploring the fascinating world of the internet instead).
I found this photograph in one of the desk drawers. She’s awfully glamorous, which is not something I remember Aunt Dee ever being.
But if it isn’t Aunt Dee than who is it?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Paperback writer
Paper back writer (paperback writer)
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be
a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be
a paperback writer, Paperback writer.
Paperback writer (paperback writer)
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be
a paperback writer, Paperback writer.
If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
Paperback writer (paperback writer)
I’ve been thinking about writing since Dómhnall told me I should start concentrating on my own work again.
My book tells the story of a brave, unassuming woman trapped in a loveless marriage who aspires to be an award-winning writer, while writing her novel in secret.
While there are some autobiographical elements, it is entirely fictional.
It was only when my ex-husband (who I will not be writing about here) left me and I realised I had nothing to live on that it occurred to me - I could sell it! So today I decided to do some research, just in case the junior reporting job doesn't work out and I need something to fall back on.
Apparently, according to the internet, there are many, many writers all over the world who’ve sold hundreds of books they haven’t yet written for thousands, sometimes millions, of euros. (Isn’t the internet an amazing thing? You type in a few words, like writer and book deal, and all sorts of things come up).
I’d be happy with 20 or 30 thousand myself. A little more would be nice, of course, but I don’t want to be greedy, and while I feel that my book is good, it is a little dark. Unlike the one in the song above, it is a little less than a thousand pages long (230 pages, to be exact), and while the fictional husband featured in my book isn't a very nice man, he isn't actually dirty. In fact, personal hygiene is something that's very important to him.
The story in my book isn't actually dirty either.
Just sad.
And dark.
And a little . . . uneventful, which I suspect means it may be artistic, although that wasn't something I was aiming for when I wrote it. Then again, I didn't really write it with any aim in mind, apart from trying to do something that would stop me thinking about what my-ex-husband was up to on the evenings he didn't come home . . . . . .
I've been thinking about changing the ending. In my second draft the ex-husband is reunited with his plucky ex-wife after she bravely creates a new life for herself and his eyes are opened to all her newly-revealed wonderful qualities.
Now I'm not sure.
A possible industrial accident that leaves him emotionally crushed and just very slightly maimed might, I feel, be more effective. I just have to pin down the details (flying debris after someone, never traced, plants a small quantity of explosives in his hardhat during a building site visit, versus office chair collapsing under him, involuntarily causing him to catch his index finger in his electric pencil sharpener). Hmmmmmmm.
The red-haired lady was lurking out on the street when I drove into town to pick up my paper. She didn’t get a chance to throw anything at me today, but she did yell something that sounded like ‘bagelmasher’ as I sped past.
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be
a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be
a paperback writer, Paperback writer.
Paperback writer (paperback writer)
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be
a paperback writer, Paperback writer.
If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
Paperback writer (paperback writer)
I’ve been thinking about writing since Dómhnall told me I should start concentrating on my own work again.
My book tells the story of a brave, unassuming woman trapped in a loveless marriage who aspires to be an award-winning writer, while writing her novel in secret.
While there are some autobiographical elements, it is entirely fictional.
It was only when my ex-husband (who I will not be writing about here) left me and I realised I had nothing to live on that it occurred to me - I could sell it! So today I decided to do some research, just in case the junior reporting job doesn't work out and I need something to fall back on.
Apparently, according to the internet, there are many, many writers all over the world who’ve sold hundreds of books they haven’t yet written for thousands, sometimes millions, of euros. (Isn’t the internet an amazing thing? You type in a few words, like writer and book deal, and all sorts of things come up).
I’d be happy with 20 or 30 thousand myself. A little more would be nice, of course, but I don’t want to be greedy, and while I feel that my book is good, it is a little dark. Unlike the one in the song above, it is a little less than a thousand pages long (230 pages, to be exact), and while the fictional husband featured in my book isn't a very nice man, he isn't actually dirty. In fact, personal hygiene is something that's very important to him.
The story in my book isn't actually dirty either.
Just sad.
And dark.
And a little . . . uneventful, which I suspect means it may be artistic, although that wasn't something I was aiming for when I wrote it. Then again, I didn't really write it with any aim in mind, apart from trying to do something that would stop me thinking about what my-ex-husband was up to on the evenings he didn't come home . . . . . .
I've been thinking about changing the ending. In my second draft the ex-husband is reunited with his plucky ex-wife after she bravely creates a new life for herself and his eyes are opened to all her newly-revealed wonderful qualities.
Now I'm not sure.
A possible industrial accident that leaves him emotionally crushed and just very slightly maimed might, I feel, be more effective. I just have to pin down the details (flying debris after someone, never traced, plants a small quantity of explosives in his hardhat during a building site visit, versus office chair collapsing under him, involuntarily causing him to catch his index finger in his electric pencil sharpener). Hmmmmmmm.
The red-haired lady was lurking out on the street when I drove into town to pick up my paper. She didn’t get a chance to throw anything at me today, but she did yell something that sounded like ‘bagelmasher’ as I sped past.
Friday, March 27, 2009
A strange thing happened
Dómhnall dropped in this morning.
He told me that I had far too many pictures of flowers on the blog and that it all looked too girly. He also told me I was ‘way too eager’ to get involved in the many, many exciting things happening on the internet, and that I needed to get my head together and do some writing of my own.
I’ve decided maybe he’s right. I found the nature posting a little stressful, which is, of course, entirely my own fault and is the last thing such a lovely project was intended to be. But somehow I managed to take three hours to upload my photos (which, let’s be honest, are not very good – you should see some of the photographs these people are taking. There’s no other word for them but brilliant) and I also posted my link at entirely the wrong time.
I think I might just enjoy being a bystander for a while.
When I asked Dómhnall how he had learnt to be so wise at such a young age he muttered something about ‘me mam’, dropped the slice of toast slathered in nutella he’d been eating, and left. He is definitely not himself.
A strange thing happened after I came back from work today. The eccentric looking red-haired lady was standing outside the house by the public phone-box (in which there is no longer any phone) and when I parked the car on the street and opened the front garden gate something large and wet landed with a splat an inch or two from my feet.
It was a big, very soft, tomato, clearly thrown with great force: Some of the seeds exploding from it had landed on my wine suede shoes. I looked up to see the red-haired lady glaring at me. She was yelling something that sounded like ‘ladlebatter.’
I scurried inside and took refuge behind the sitting room curtains, where I watched her glare at Aunt Dee’s house until she finally went away.
I must ask Dómhnall if he knows who she is.
He told me that I had far too many pictures of flowers on the blog and that it all looked too girly. He also told me I was ‘way too eager’ to get involved in the many, many exciting things happening on the internet, and that I needed to get my head together and do some writing of my own.
I’ve decided maybe he’s right. I found the nature posting a little stressful, which is, of course, entirely my own fault and is the last thing such a lovely project was intended to be. But somehow I managed to take three hours to upload my photos (which, let’s be honest, are not very good – you should see some of the photographs these people are taking. There’s no other word for them but brilliant) and I also posted my link at entirely the wrong time.
I think I might just enjoy being a bystander for a while.
When I asked Dómhnall how he had learnt to be so wise at such a young age he muttered something about ‘me mam’, dropped the slice of toast slathered in nutella he’d been eating, and left. He is definitely not himself.
A strange thing happened after I came back from work today. The eccentric looking red-haired lady was standing outside the house by the public phone-box (in which there is no longer any phone) and when I parked the car on the street and opened the front garden gate something large and wet landed with a splat an inch or two from my feet.
It was a big, very soft, tomato, clearly thrown with great force: Some of the seeds exploding from it had landed on my wine suede shoes. I looked up to see the red-haired lady glaring at me. She was yelling something that sounded like ‘ladlebatter.’
I scurried inside and took refuge behind the sitting room curtains, where I watched her glare at Aunt Dee’s house until she finally went away.
I must ask Dómhnall if he knows who she is.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Nature notes (and other stuff)
Yesterday evening I discovered a nice site called Rambling Woods http://ramblingwoods.com/ on another very nice site called Round the bend. Rambling Woods has invited people to post weekly Nature notes, and I think this is such a nice idea I’ve tried (tried being the operative word) to participate.
Firstly, I’m still not sure how this works so apologies to anyone who has landed or lands on this page looking for something entirely different – also apologies for the quality of the photos.
Also I have to be honest and say I’m not entirely sure what the purple flower is. I found it growing on the wall outside the house – I looked it up in one of my gardening books , and the only thing it resembles is something called foxes cabbage.
Firstly, I’m still not sure how this works so apologies to anyone who has landed or lands on this page looking for something entirely different – also apologies for the quality of the photos.
Also I have to be honest and say I’m not entirely sure what the purple flower is. I found it growing on the wall outside the house – I looked it up in one of my gardening books , and the only thing it resembles is something called foxes cabbage.
The smaller picture is of primroses and violets - I stumbled across a bank of them on a walk this morning, the same walk where I spotted this handsome mountain sheep and her two new spring lambs.
*********************************************************
Other stuff
The court reporter called in sick with pneumonia today.
There was a series of loud crashes in the glass box after his call, then Michael scurried out and explained in strangled whispers that the court reporter is the only journalist in the office with shorthand.
‘But . . I know shorthand’ I said, astonished that I might actually be of some use for the first time since I started working here a week ago.
‘You do?’ Michael said, his eyes bulging with relief.
So today I did my first day of court reporting. The town’s ancient courthouse is not the nicest place in the world to spend a breezy spring day – but at least I finally felt I had something to offer. (The cases were not too edifying either – one man charged with urinating on a garda car, many many charges of driving without a licence, or tax, or insurance, and a case of a seventy-eight year-old pensioner who refused to have her eyes retested for her driving licence renewal. She drove away from the courthouse smiling and defiant, straight through a set of red lights.)
I love the of explosion of sharing on the internet. It really is an astonishing place. When I said this to Dómhnall this evening he told me darkly that he was worried about me. He also told me there was a fada on the o in his name.
Then he ate two apples and a slice of tea-cake. I wonder if he’s sickening for something?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
'Please don't worry if you feel you have no talent . .'
Today I came home planning to do a bit of writing.
Instead I spent an hour exploring the internet, another hour watching television, a half an hour berating myself for not writing, and a final half hour telling myself there was no point in trying to write anything anyway, because it was almost certain to be rubbish, and everything worthwhile has already been written - Like this:
The Tay Bridge Disaster
William Topaz McGonagall (1879)
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
’Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clods seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say --
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say --
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill’d all the people’s hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed
The Scottish American Society holds an annual contest in William MacGonagle's honour.
'Get out your pen and paper. Get ready for the poetry contest in May. Yes, folks, it's the William MacGonagle contest once again. The competition will be fierce. And please don't worry if you feel you have no talent. This is exactly what is required. '
Instead I spent an hour exploring the internet, another hour watching television, a half an hour berating myself for not writing, and a final half hour telling myself there was no point in trying to write anything anyway, because it was almost certain to be rubbish, and everything worthwhile has already been written - Like this:
The Tay Bridge Disaster
William Topaz McGonagall (1879)
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
’Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clods seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say --
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
When the train left Edinburgh
The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
Which made their hearts for to quail,
And many of the passengers with fear did say --
“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”
But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
So the train sped on with all its might,
And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
And wish them all a happy New Year.
So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
Until it was about midway,
Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
Because ninety lives had been taken away,
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
Which fill’d all the people’s hearts with sorrow,
And made them for to turn pale,
Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed
The Scottish American Society holds an annual contest in William MacGonagle's honour.
'Get out your pen and paper. Get ready for the poetry contest in May. Yes, folks, it's the William MacGonagle contest once again. The competition will be fierce. And please don't worry if you feel you have no talent. This is exactly what is required. '
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Writerly things and daffodils
I spent another hour this evening clearing the back of Aunt Dee’s garden and unearthed two more finds (see pics – I knew one of them was a daffodil/narcissi type thing. The other one, it turns out, is forsythia).
I also went exploring the internet last night, managing to avoid youtube this time, and instead sticking mainly to writerly related subjects.
Scrolling through the many, many blogs and websites, I was hit by an overpowering attack of inadequacy. It pursued me into the night, making me wake up at four this morning to ask myself how I dared to call myself an aspiring award-winning writer (who has yet to win an award) when everyone else in the world was clearly incredibly creative, talented, and much more accomplished than I could ever imagine being.
People are doing such astonishing things – creating beautiful places, documenting their smart, clever lives. And lots and lots of people are writing. All over the world people are writing beautiful poems, stunning novels, plays, movie scripts and more.
Then it started to get bright, so I sat by the kitchen window with my cup of tea and watched the sea turn from midnight blue to pearl grey, and decided that in the end it was probably better to have aspired to something than not to have tried at all.
So I’ve decided to send off another four poems,( this time to The Stinging Fly, a very clever publication featuring both fiction and poetry whose deadline for submissions is the end of this month.) And then I went to work.
When I came back Domhnall was sitting in front of the television in Aunt Dee’s chair, eating my brand new replacement box of crunchy nut cornflakes, watching The Simpsons.
Closing the door after him a little later, I noticed the eccentrically dressed red-haired lady standing a few yards away, watching us.
It may have been my imagination, but I’m almost sure she looked angry.
I also went exploring the internet last night, managing to avoid youtube this time, and instead sticking mainly to writerly related subjects.Scrolling through the many, many blogs and websites, I was hit by an overpowering attack of inadequacy. It pursued me into the night, making me wake up at four this morning to ask myself how I dared to call myself an aspiring award-winning writer (who has yet to win an award) when everyone else in the world was clearly incredibly creative, talented, and much more accomplished than I could ever imagine being.
People are doing such astonishing things – creating beautiful places, documenting their smart, clever lives. And lots and lots of people are writing. All over the world people are writing beautiful poems, stunning novels, plays, movie scripts and more.
Then it started to get bright, so I sat by the kitchen window with my cup of tea and watched the sea turn from midnight blue to pearl grey, and decided that in the end it was probably better to have aspired to something than not to have tried at all.
So I’ve decided to send off another four poems,( this time to The Stinging Fly, a very clever publication featuring both fiction and poetry whose deadline for submissions is the end of this month.) And then I went to work.
When I came back Domhnall was sitting in front of the television in Aunt Dee’s chair, eating my brand new replacement box of crunchy nut cornflakes, watching The Simpsons.
Closing the door after him a little later, I noticed the eccentrically dressed red-haired lady standing a few yards away, watching us.
It may have been my imagination, but I’m almost sure she looked angry.
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