And another thing...

So to begin at the start, apologies for the long gap since the last blog post. The last few months have been busy but Georgina, the novel that is, continues apace. I'm currently writing my way through Chapter 25, which should have me on target to complete a full first draft by October of this year.
That should, with any bit of luck, free me to complete some of the scores of short stories which have been kicking around my notebook for the past 18 months, looking for a home. I'm particularly excited about one story, set in an rural Irish mart, which has been prodded into life, if not entirely inspired, by the short stories of Leonard Michaels. The image accompanying this post was taken by my friend Margaret Cahill, herself a budding young Irish writer. The image, taken in a County Kerry ghost estate, could easily form the backdrop to the action in Georgina. Thanks to Margaret for that.

Cheers,
Andy

Blow It Open. Seamus Heaney and the black lake of the Burren

The swans may be gone, but Seamus Heaney still has the power to catch the heart and blow it open. Writes Andy Hamilton.

Sometimes art and nature seem to melt together. It happened in 'Postscript', Seamus Heaney's love-letter to the Flaggy Shore and the North Clare Burren. And, in a strange reversal of symmetries, it seems to be happened again.

Months after the death of the Nobel laureate, the land so beloved by Heaney still appears to be in mourning. Since the turn of the year, things have not be right in Lough Marree, the freshwater lake on the Flaggy Shore.
The lake, located a dozen or so feet from the saline waters of Galway Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, has slowly been turning black. This gradual darkening of the lake came to a dramatic climax earlier this month when the lakes large flocks of whooper and mute swans, the same birds immortalised by Heaney in Postscript, abandoned the lake.
This, understandably, took the locals by shock, especially the members of the excellent blog A Flaggy Shore Miscellany. The blackening of the lake and departure of Heaney's swam had more than a vibe of mourning about it - it seemed to encapsulate the feeling of so many who lived and loved to the rhythm of Heaney's pen.
It would seem, however, that nature has an explanation, even though the romantics amongst may us wish it hadn't. The storms force gales which battered the Clare coast in January and February, would seem to deposited a massive amount of seaweed into lake.
Trapped in the lake, this seaweed has been slowly breaking down in the fresh water for past three months, pickling the water and slowly turning in black.
There is some sentiment left in the story however, and according to John Murphy of Clare Birdwatching, the flocks of whooper and mute swans should return to the lake this Autumn, just in time for the year anniversary of Seamus Heaney's death.

In conversation with... Julian Gough

This is a old interview with Julian Gough, first published just before the release of 'Jude: Level 1'. Julian was at his lively best and he even made some interesting comments, considering what he has said in recent times, about the future of the novel. Enjoy.

WHAT would Charles Darwin have made of Julian Gough? The great thinker, master of evolution and natural selection. Would he have found a room, a paragraph or even a foot note, in the Origin of the Species for the likes of Gough?

If so, it would most likely have come in a chapter titled, ‘Thoughts on the Random Mutation’. Not that I’m suggesting that Ireland’s latest trailblazing avant garde author is some sort of literary missing link. On the contrary, Gough represents an alteration, an almost radical change of direction that is absolutely essential for progress, whether social, biological or indeed literary.

The only question left is one of genetics, dominant or regressive.

“Because it’s an unusual mad kind of book we had trouble getting shops to understand what we were doing or getting publishers to understand what we were doing in the first place. But when I won the National Short Story Prize with the prologue to the book then that changed absolutely everything.

“People began to look at the book in a different way, all of it’s vices suddenly became virtues - the little grey fella turns out to be a swan after all.

READ ON

After Rubicon

By Andy Hamilton 

         “Off... Off!”

         She looks ahead blankly. Silently. His orders, barked from the far corner of the room, do not penetrate her numb shock.

          “Turn it off,” he shouts.

         “What?” she replies at last.

         “Turn. The TV. Off.” His words are slow and cold. “You heard them," he continues. “We have twenty minutes, that’s it. So just turn it off.”

         “But there might be more... Something we could do... something...,” she says in a sudden flurry. “Or maybe the Russians or the Chinese might do something?”

         “Nobody is gonna to do anything. You know that. Just turn it off.”

         She looks at him for a long, silent moment, lifts herself from the couch and walking to the large television in the corner of the room. A red box in the corner of the screen is flashing 18.54, 18.53, 18.52… She presses the large square button on the side of the television and holds it as fire and light flashes across the screen. There a click, and the image shrinks slowly to a single dot, that lingers for a moment in the centre of the screen and then dissolves.

         All is silent.

         “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says as she half-runs, half-falls back to the couch.

         “It’s those fucking governments,” he spits, from his seat in the opposite corner. “Those bastards. They God-dam think they’re God or something.”

         “Oh stop it. Just... I don’t want to hear anymore. What does it matter anymore?”

Her face is plunged deep into a damp cushion. He stands over her, his eyes searching the room wildly. Looking for something… anything. The room is filled with muffled screams.

         “What about them?” she says, nodding towards the sitting room door. “We should wake them. We should let them know.”

         “Wake them? No. Why should we? No. That wouldn’t do any good.”

         “They deserve to know. They are part of this world. They deserve something.”
          “Let them be... the deserve to be spared all of this.”

         She tries to stand but he grabs her tightly on both shoulders.

         “You want them to come to you,” he says. “You want them to put their hands around your neck and tell you that they’re scared. You want to comfort them.”

         “And what’s wrong with that?” she shouts. “They are my children. What is wrong with loving my own children…”

         She stands up quickly, breaking his failing grip.

         “They don’t deserve this,” he pleads. “Just let them sleep.” His hand goes to his forehead. “Oh God,” he says. “We don’t deserve this.”

A minute later he is lying flat on the sitting room floor, this arms outstretch, his body formed into the shape of a crucifix. She is pacing the room.

         “Water!” she shouts, and jumps over his motionless body.
         Quietness takes him. Lying on the hard floor, staring at the whiteness of the ceiling, his mind empties. He can see brown fields and scorched mountains, grey cities with no people in them. He is the world, and the world is utterly empty.

         A noise enters his dream. He springs up suddenly, gasping for air. The bathroom, the shower, the children.

         “What are you doing?” he shouts, pulling back the shower curtain. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

         “Water,” she says. She gulps down mouthfuls of the off-white liquid. “Water. If we can get enough water, maybe we can get through this. Maybe we can…”

         “We’re not getting through this,” he says through gritted teeth.

         “If we drink enough water me might be okay. Maybe we can…”

         “We’re not getting through this. Nobody is getting through this. Do you hear me?”

         She spits out a large mouthful of water. It lands on his chest, wetting his shirt and his trousers. She starts to cry.

They walk slowly to the bedroom door.

         “Ready?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

         “I’m ready.”

         He pushes the door gently open. The light from the hallway revealing two tiny children, their bodies pressed snugly together, in the centre of a large double bed. They remove their wet cloths and climb silently into the bed, one on either side of the sleeping children.

         “Good night,” she says, as she closes her eyes.

         He does not answer.

Interview... Colm Tóibín

Tomorrow, October 15, Colm Tóibín could be Ireland's latest Booker Prize winning author. In this interview, which took place way back in 2006, I spoke to a refreshingly funny Colm about his writing process, his struggle with short stories, and the joys of walking around in mental pyjamas.      

EVERY walk of life has its unique lines of etiquette. Thin lines, almost invisible to the oblivious eye, but there nonetheless, lurking ominously in the long grass.
Never, no matter how tempted, reach to brush away an avalanche of dandruff which has collected temptingly around the collar of a nightclub bouncer.
When speaking to a member of An Garda Siochana, never follow the word ‘listen’ with either ‘mate’, ‘boss’ or ‘pal’ and expect to get away unscathed.
And never ever, when speaking with an author, ask how the new book is looking.
“It’s looking awful, now that you’ve asked,” said Colm Tóibín with a smile.
“I mean, I’ll give you the draft of it and you can re-write it for me if you like. I wrote the first chapter a good while ago and then just left it. Recently I’ve found a way to add to it but not by much.


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Desire

By Andy Hamilton

The boy sits at the kitchen table, huddled over a book.

            I circle the room slowly, slippers klitter-klattering on the cold tile. I pass the sink, again, scrubbed clean this morning with bleach and a metal scourer. A glass of water on the next lap. Definitely on the next lap.

            “Sir. What about the conflict between Collins and…”

            “Stuart. For the last time, this isn’t school. You don’t have to call me Sir.”

            “Sorry Sir. I mean, sorry Mr Walsh…”

            “John.”

            “Yes. Of course. John.”

            His smile is delicate. Thin, like ice forming in a birdbath.

            “Well? Out with it then.”

            “I was thinking about Collins and de Valera.”

            “A worthy topic Stuart. One that many an Irish boy has spent useful time in contemplation.”

            “The thing is... am... John, I don’t understand why they had to be enemies. In the end I mean, they wanted the same thing after all. Didn’t they?”

            “Well, yes and no Stuart. If you ask me, I think it’s about desire. All men are born with it. In many ways, the fact that they wanted the same thing made their conflict inevitable.”

            His eyes narrow and then turn to large kitchen window – searching the clouds for a sliver of understanding.

            “I don’t get it," he says at last. "If the Irish are free, then they both get what they want. They should both be happy.”

            “It’s true that they both desired freedom but, and this is the real point, they both also desired to be the man to win that freedom.”

            For a moment he is silent. He exhales deeply, in acceptance rather than agreement, and returns to his book. I return to my circumnavigation.

            “Besides," I say after a moment. "None of this will be on the exam. You stick to the topics I’ve set you. Okay.”

The water was a mistake. I’ve finished two full glasses and now I need to urinate. This wasn’t part of the plan. I'm a fool.

            “Stuart, you’ll have to excuse me. I must…”

            “Look at this Sir. I’ve finished the US history essay. In just… in just 38 minutes!” His face lights up.

            “Good man Stuart. Good man. Let’s see it.” 

            I walk to his chair and place my hand softly on his shoulder.

            “Read it Sir. Tell me what you think.”

            I lean over him until my chest is resting on the back of his head. He smells of adolescence – rich, intoxicating, fermented. His breathing is quick, I feel his body bobbing against mine.

            “What do you think Sir? Will this get me the B? Will it Sir?”

            He is vital, exhilarating. A quiver of excitement forms in the tips of my fingers, electricity coursing through my whole body, a wet warmth is running down my leg.

            “Stuart! It’s time to go. Now. You must leave.”

            “But Sir, can’t you just read the essay first – I think it’s good.”

            His words are intoxicating, alluring. I grasp the table.

            “No Stuart. It’s not good. It’s not good and it’s time for you to go. Go!”

            Breathing. Footsteps on wood. A door slams.

            The kitchen is silent.

The Upset [Podcast version]

Set in the near future, The Upset tells the story of Harry, a former priest, who returns to his visit abandoned church. To read the original story click here. [Excellent music clips used with the kind permission of Sanzkrit - www.facebook.com/Sanzkrit]