Maybe it was the hype. Or maybe it was that it was written for a US audience; in general, the vaccination question seems to be less fraught here. But despite the beauty of this book – and the Fitzcarraldo Edition is an exceptionally beautiful object, with its night-sky blue French flaps and luxurious, creamy pages – and despite Biss’ lucid sentences and stylish blending of personal history with the wider issue of vaccination, which sustained me for the first quarter, I found it harder and harder to keep picking this book up. I’ll grant that I have read reasonably widely on the subject of vaccination, but for me On Immunity added nothing new to the debate. Overall, I was disappointed.

Anne Enright has a new novel coming out later this month, that I almost daren’t read. I’ve read the excerpt in the Irish Times, and Belinda McKeon’s review, and this should be enough to convince me that I shouldn’t. But, as usual, having the reckless streak that I do, I’ll probably ignore my own good advice. It sounds amazing.

The problem is, lately I have had the misfortune to happen upon some really good books. Pond, by Claire-Louise Bennett was the most recent, unless you count what I’m currently reading, On Immunity, by Eula Biss. Both of these writers understand set-up, argument, and pacing far too well. Lisa McInerney’s The Glorious Heresies is an incredibly well-written, highly entertaining literary romp, which I enjoyed in the same way I enjoyed Don Quixote or Tristram Shandy. They’re not exactly the same kind of books – Lisa does plot, and she does it rather well too – more the same kind of fun. Not long before that there was Jenny Offill’s Dept of Speculation, spare and stylish and often funny. I was introduced to Clarice Lispector recently too, and Lars Iyer, and Evie Wyld. I haven’t read a bad book in a while. I have been spoiled and ruined.

The problem is impending publication – and the inevitable comparisons I’m making before anyone else can. And then there’s the next novel, the dreaded Work In Progress – can it ever compete with the wonderful books I’ve been reading? Can it even compete with my own? In short, I have The Fear, and I suspect there’s nothing to be done except keep typing. And maybe whistle a happy tune… 

So, this is what I’ve been up to!

JM Originals, the new John Murrays imprint, was launched last night in The Yorkshire Grey in London. It was a relaxed gathering of book-minded people, with advance reader copies of mine and Jessie Greengrass’ new books there for the taking (and touching and stroking…), along with a snazzy ‘thing’, as editor Mark Richards described the foldout, blurby, information card thing. In his speech, he told us that he kept coming back to the idea of openness, in short, not defining what the imprint would and would not be about, which was refreshing to hear in an industry that can sometimes seem to us authors to be about drawing lines and putting up barriers. He said lots of nice things about our books, too. Then there was the bar, and the food, and the new, interesting people to meet. It all went by in a bit of a blur.

It wasn’t all partying though. Work happened too, in the form of a podcast between Mark and myself, and another between Mark and Jessie. We did this in the shiny new Hachette offices in Carmelite House, and as spectacular as the offices and roof garden are (they are!), the highlight might have been this Five Go To Carmelite visitors card…

The whole trip was as much fun as anything the Famous Five got up to, and I’m already looking forward to the bookshop and library visits that are being planned by planner extraordinaire, Lyndsey, for the run up to official publication in July.

Today’s Irish Times reminded me that commemorative events are underway to mark the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Lusitania. Click the Irish Times link to see a fab picture of the ship that I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to reproduce here. Full details of the commemorations are at Lusitania 100.

A while back, I wrote a very short story called High Tide (below), set in the house of my great-grandmother, Ellen O’Donovan, in Sunnycove, West Cork and based on some of the events of her life, including the sinking of the Lusitania, and her job, as professional registrar, of accompanying the washed-up bodies to Cork city morgue.

HIGH TIDE

Ellen is writing up her books when she hears her son’s cries. He knows not to disturb her when she’s working so she puts the Register quickly into the drawer and gathers up her skirts. She finds him, staring at something in the water.

— What is it, in the name of God?

The tide doesn’t usually come this far up Sunnycove, and Michael isn’t supposed to go so near the edge. Then she sees what has him transfixed: a human foot, lifting and falling with the ebb and flow. She blesses herself.

— May the Lord have mercy on his soul. Her soul, she corrects, seeing the flutter of lace caught on a reed. Run, Michael, as fast as your legs will carry you, and fetch Father O’Regan.

The lad turns and flees.

She has been expecting this for twelve years, but it doesn’t make the shock any less. You never stop searching. Missing at sea, presumed dead, the papers said. The search lasted a full week but no trace of Mike was ever found. He’d gone out sand-lighting with Marty O’Sullivan, God rest him, for the sport of it. Marty’s body was washed up the first day, and that was a great help to poor Mary. Without a body, they could have no funeral, no proper mourning for Mike. Father O’Regan held a service, but for Ellen, every day started the same way, scanning the inlet through the bedroom window before anyone else in the house stirred, every day watching, hoping, waiting to say goodbye.

The first woman relieving officer in Ireland is a success, the papers said the following year. Necessity, perhaps, suggested to the widow that she herself could, if appointed, fill the post just as satisfactorily as her husband, and the Board of Guardians appointed her to the position. 

Necessity indeed. Only a month after the search was called off, by now heavily pregnant with Michael, her sixth, Ellen had travelled the forty-six miles to Cork to persuade the Local Government Board to let her do Mike’s job. She sat very still while Mr. Theodore Banks, Secretary of the Board, re-read her letter.

— What you propose here is very irregular, Mrs. O’Donovan. ‘… inspired by the sight of Marty O’Sullivan’s widow shoveling boatloads of bird-excrement, I thought that I too might venture to wield the tool of my husband’s trade…’

But there was a hint of amusement in his expression and, emboldened, Ellen reached into the heavy bag she had carried with her, and withdrew the leather-bound Register of Births, Deaths, and Marriages. She opened it at its most recent entry and passed it across the desk.

— There were three babies born, and two souls departed, besides Marty O’Sullivan. There was no one else to record them…

Mr. Banks examined the entries.

— Well, your penmanship is of the finest order…

— Thank you, Sir.

— And you have kept the books in a most accurate and satisfactory manner… He leaned forward. I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs. O’Donovan. Mike was a fine man…

— Thank you, Ellen said again.

He closed the book and slid it back to her.

— We would be very much obliged if, on a trial basis, you would continue on in the position of Relieving Officer.

There’s talk now that her field of employment might be thrown open to women candidates in future as well as to men. You can fit it around the children, and it’s satisfying work. A column for everything, everything in its column: relieving monies in, relieving monies out; being born, dying. All neat, and tidy, and accounted for.

The limb has already grown waxy, unreal-looking. Against the fuschias, dripping blood-red flowers into the dark water, there’s even something beautiful about it, like a painting. Ellen knows if there’s anything left of Mike it’s bones, not flesh like this. Yet a sort of relief washes over her as she lifts her gaze from the pale limb out to sea. At least this poor craythur would get a decent burial. Lusitania Torpedoed Off Old Kinsale Head, yesterday’s headlines read. She wonders how many more bodies the tide will bring.

____________________________

gorse no.3 was well and truly launched last night in the Workman’s. The tableful of books and pencils – we can’t forget the pencils – had dwindled to nearly nothing by the time I left, and we’d been treated to an entertaining sampling of its very impressive contents in the interim. [I modestly exclude myself from that last as my own reading is a bit of a blank…]. Best was getting to meet in the flesh people I’ve read, or read about, or ‘met’ on twitter.

Big thanks to Susan Tomaselli, who has, with only three editions of gorse, changed the face of the Irish lit scene for the better. Here’s to her many more exciting plans! In the meantime, here’s where you click for excerpts from gorse no. 3 and where you can buy it to read in full.

Here’s The Book Show Soundcloud, on novellas, the Penny Dreadful’s novella competition, pulp fiction, and Sinead Gleeson’s interview with Emily St. John Mandel (novella discussion with yours truly is about 3 minutes in).

As a radio virgin, it was a bit nerve-wracking initially, but Regan, Sinead,and Zoe made it painless, then did a great job putting it all together.

These are the two fabulous books I got to rave about.

I had the pleasure of talking novellas with Sinead Gleeson this morning for The Book Show (this Saturday, RTE Radio One, 7pm. Tune in – there’s a competition!). In honour of the occasion, I pulled some novellas off my shelves – the ones I could find; novellas get overlooked – and took a shelfie.

I’ve been sneaking peaks, but now it’s official – Generation has a cover, and it’s a stunner, designed by graphic design graduate, Harriet Sleigh, who was the winner in JM Originals’ cover design competition.

Towards the end of my MFA at UCD, Éilís Ní Dhuibhne was kind enough to agree to be interviewed by a complete amateur – me. I had the most selfish of motives: to hear her seasoned thoughts on all things short story, in particular linked short stories, my own particular obsession at the time. She was so generous and frank with her answers that it would have been criminally negligent not to put the interview into the public arena. I was delighted when Maurice at Dublin Review of Books (drb) agreed with me.

Here it is: ‘In an interview, Éilís Ní Dhuibhne talks Paula McGrath about the discipline of writing, writing in different genres, the teaching of creative writing and the differences between tackling a novel and a short story.’ Getting It Down Right.

If you’d like to hear more, you can read Lia Mills’ interview with Éilís over at Libran Writer.

Éilís’ website is here: http://www.eilisnidhuibhne.com/172275256

What is modernism? When did it began? When did it end? Who were its key figures? These are hotly debated issues. Who were the the women involved in modernism in Ireland? Not so hotly debated, perhaps. I could probably have named Eileen Gray and one or two others at most. This is why the exchange of ideas on the subject, organised by Dr Roisis Kennedy (UCD) and Dr Aintzane Legarreta (IMMA), seemed like it could be a morning well spent.

Sabina MacMahon was first up, and a highlight for me. She’s an artist interested in speculative history, and she talked about the little known An Ulaid – South Down Society of Modern Art. We saw slides of photographs of the founding members, and samples of their work. MacMahon bemoaned the lack of archival material for her subjects, but conceded that this was because she had made them, and the entire movement, up. The photos were of her grandmothers and their friends; the paintings were her own. It was the art equivalent of Stephen Marche’s Shining at the Bottom of the Sea (a made up island and people, and their entire culture). Her talk earned plenty of laughs, but made a serious point.

Dr Elaine Sisson  gave a lively talk on “Toto” Cogley’s Cabaret Club. Led by Madame Bannard “Toto” Cogley, who was one of the founding directors of the Gate theatre, this group boasted up to 400 member. Yet almost no archival material exists. There was a suggestion, following on from Sabina’s earlier talk, that we should just make our own.

Dr Angela Mary Griffith, from Trinity, talked about Myra K. Hughes’s etchings. I knew nothing about either Myra K Hughes, or etching, so it was enlightening. Her use of empty space was interesting to me in relation to my own novel, Generation, which tells a story from multiple points of view over multiple decades, leaving plenty of empty spaces for the reader to fill in. For my daughter, currently torn between subject choices of art and metalwork, maybe it’s not such a conflict after all.

Professor Anne Fogarty, from UCD School of English, (and patient supervisor of my many moons ago thesis on Edna O’Brien’s Night), has been researching newspaper records of the Women Writers’ Club, which existed from 1933 – 1958. She noted that while scholarship has long sought to establish a panel of important Irish women writers, such a record already existed in the form of the Club’s list of Guests of Honour: Blanaid Salkeld, Nora Connolly O’Brien, Christine Longford, Helen Waddell, Edna Fitzhenry,Dorothy Macardle, Elizabeth Bowen, Temple Lane, Patricia Lynch, B.G. McCarthy, Kate O’Brien, Ethel Mannin, Teresa Deevy, and Enid Dargan.

ADDENDUM: An Irish Literary Set that was more Bloomsbury than Barstool

Unfortunately I had to skip out early to pick up children  – plus ca change – and missed the last talk and closing remarks.