Anna McPartlin's Blog, page 5

Reviews of Anna McP books on www. poolbeg.com

Reviewed by Anonymous

Excellent book I would higly recommend it. Anna Mc Partlin is so witty and funny. This book is so well writtin, once you start it you will not leave it down.

April 2010

This review applies to the So What If I'm Broken version.

So What If I'm Broken

Reviewed by Patricia Lewis from South Wales

Another excellent book by Anna McPartlin.

Enjoyed every page of it. Bring on the next book

Anna. Can't wait.

February 2010

This review applies to the So What If I'm Broken version.

pack up the moon

Reviewed by 15 year old book freak from Australia

I love this book. It got everything going for it. It felt like going through an emotional rollercoaster. It was sad, funny, suspenseful. Although down here in down under it's called "Because you are with me" Can't get over how fantastic this book was must thank my sister can't wait to read "No way to say goodbye"

September 2009

This review applies to the Pack up the Moon version.

Pack up the MOON

Reviewed by Harmony from North carolina, USA

FABULOUS! This is the best book i have read in several years. I enjoyed every minute of it! I cant wait for Apart from the Crowd.

July 2008

Reviewed by Lisa Whelan from Dublin

An absolutely fabulous read! Enjoyed Pack up the Moon and Apart from the Crowd so much I kept hounding my local book shop asking them when the third book was out! Bought it last week and finished it already. It's another cracker from Anna! The characters are so real there's a bit of someone you know in every single one of them. Laughed out loud and cried quietly at different parts but thoroughly enjoyed every page.

March 2008

‘So What If I’m Broken’ is out in all good bookshops and ...

‘So What If I’m Broken’ is out in all good bookshops and Tesco from the 1st July.

'So What If I'm Broken' is out in all good bookshops and ...

'So What If I'm Broken' is out in all good bookshops and Tesco from the 1st July.

A Little Self Loathing Never Hurt Anyone…

Do you ever get sick of yourself?

 I do. I get so sick of myself that if I could run away from me I'd jog off doing a mile a minute and never look back. Sometimes I look at myself and think punchable face or I hear myself speaking and think what a tosser. I look at my pals and wonder why do they bother with me?

That's pretty normal isn't it?

Of course it is. In fact I think it's healthy to self loathe every now and again. It prevents you from ever falling into that obnoxious self satisfied smug state of being and from climbing a Hightower and pulling your pants down and dumping on all and sundry.  And that's a good thing isn't it?

Every now and again I begin to feel bad and sad and generally unhappy with who I am and where I'm going. That's been my most recent state of mind. It didn't help that I'm battling allergies on a constant basis so all thoughts are muted by medication and mucus but that's not a real excuse for my misery.  So what the hell was wrong with me? And how dare I feel sorry for myself, the bloody neck of me. Still I did even if it was just a little bit.

Writing blogs is not something I ever thought I'd do. Most of the time, I don't give a crap about what I think never mind expecting anyone else to. But I'm a storyteller and storytellers need to ensure people are aware they are out there. If they don't their stories don't sell and if they don't sell they can't keep writing, at least not full time.  I've tried working a fulltime job and writing and it nearly killed me. So blogs and articles and interviews, TV and social networking it is and there's nothing wrong with that aside from that small side effect of hyper self awareness. What do I think about this? How do I feel about that? Who am I? Where do I stand? What do I stand for? Where have I been? Where am I going? Where do I want to be? Nobody cares Anna. Not even Anna cares Anna. Shut the hell up Anna. Get a bloody life love.

So what do I do when I become hyper self aware and sick of the sight of myself? I disappear into one of my stories. I become many different people with different lives and sets of problems, joys, losses and loves and when I do that perspective is regained and except for being a snotty mess contentment is restored.

For the past month I've been living in the summer of 1990 when Ireland was another country on the brink of the boom years, full of optimism and ready to take on the world. We were in the World Cup and every man woman and child in Ireland celebrated. Against this backdrop I've been a young boy fighting to save his mother, an estranged sister returning home after 15 years, a young girl with a crush and stalker tendencies, a smart arse and best friend, a gentle giant, a genius with an attitude, a woman battling to hold on and a man in love about to lose it all.

Every character and story that I write is a break away from being me. I may have spent the majority of this month writing from my bed but it's turned out to be a hell of a holiday.

Was Aus Liebe Geschieht

To all my German Fans 'Was Aus Liebe Geschieht' is out in Germany now. Thanks for all your support and I hope you enjoy my latest work.

Anna. XXX

Bookfinds Review of ‘Alexandra, Gone’

Often characterized as a chick-lit writer, Anna McPartlin’s latest novel, Alexandra, Gone, offers much more emotional depth than is often found between the candy-colored covers of her contemporaries. McPartlin tackles regret, fear, loss and heartbreak in her very readable and captivating novel. This story centers on the disappearance of Alexandra Kavanaugh and the effect it has on her family and friends. Four people discover themselves while searching for a lost friend. (Alexandra, Gone by Anna McPartlin, Downtown Press, April 13, 2010)

Bookfinds Review of 'Alexandra, Gone'

Often characterized as a chick-lit writer, Anna McPartlin's latest novel, Alexandra, Gone, offers much more emotional depth than is often found between the candy-colored covers of her contemporaries. McPartlin tackles regret, fear, loss and heartbreak in her very readable and captivating novel. This story centers on the disappearance of Alexandra Kavanaugh and the effect it has on her family and friends. Four people discover themselves while searching for a lost friend. (Alexandra, Gone by Anna McPartlin, Downtown Press, April 13, 2010)

The Burka Blog

[image error]

I started my 'Midday' week on Wednesday and with a bang. We were talking about the Belgian Government's proposal to ban the burka. I being the emotionally driven (or unstable depending on your viewpoint) individual that I am was all in favour of the move to ban or indeed mass burn the burka because I regard it and the Jilbab, Hijab, niqab, chadri and any other garb designed to segregate a woman from her surroundings as an abomination. I listened to those who debated the cultural verses religious origins of this distressing torturous phenomenon and it made me squirm in my own skin because we all know deep down and at a visceral level that these origins whether driven by culture or religion are man made.  

And then came the question of freedom, we live in a democracy and so how in good conscience can I or anyone else attempt to limit any woman's freedom of expression regardless of how sad or angry it makes me feel and despite its implications for and limitations of that woman's actual freedom? The calls and texts rolled in. A lot of women (and many more than I would have thought) supported the burka, some for cultural or traditional reasons some for religious and it was interesting to me that the only voice we didn't hear from was a Muslim woman forced to wear the burka against her wishes. (And yes kids she does exist. She isn't a phantom of this western woman's imagination). But of course we wouldn't hear from that woman because it makes sense that she would be as silent as she is invisible.

 My lovely fellow panellists were in part agreement with me but most definitely not wholly. Sinead Ryan (Our resident brain) believed in banning it but only when appropriate for health and safety reasons like for instance driving a car. That made perfect sense but than again Sinead isn't an emotionally driven sap like me instead she is the paragon of practicality so failing to receive support based on my sanctimonious need to unshackle our new countrywomen I decided to jump on her bandwagon for a bit not just because I was feeling a little lonely but also because she's right. If you can't look left and right or your eyesight is limited by gauze you are a hazard to all around you. If Anna is legally bound to wear glasses or contacts to enhance vision when driving surly Afaf should be legally bound to remove her Chadri?

Open hearted and open minded Anna Nolan felt the ladies should be entitled to wear whatever they wished to wear because to legislate would lead us down a dark and winding road after all what would come next? Ban pyjamas in the supermarket? Call me a fascist but I'd be all for that. Or ban the hoodie because groups of boys wearing hoodies scare middle class women over the age of 30? Or ban high heels because they are dangerous and cause unsightly bunions?  I see where she's coming from and again in a democratic society Anna Nolan's argument is the sound one. Mine is the hysterical knee jerk one. My head gets it my heart is still unsure.

The lovely Mary Banotti who looks eerily like my mom and is as wise and kind as my own mom once was, trumpets all people's rights but like me the burka and all versions of it saddens her terribly. And as Mary is the only one of us to actually have worn the burka she has an insight that I am glad not to share.  Mary a former member of the European Parliament was in Afghanistan for meetings, during her time there and while not forced she was encouraged to conceal her femineity furthermore she was told in no uncertain terms not to shake the hand of the men that met her.  Colette Fitzgerald told us in the dressing room that she had reported from the mountains of Pakistan and despite the intense heat and having to carry gear up hills and through tiny rural villages she choose to conceal herself, despite nearly dying of heat. My own foster sister Siobhan nursed in Saudi for a number of years and she too choose to wear the burka when out and about. I remember Siobhan telling me that in a certain area of town on a particular day of the week there was a chopping ceremony in which thieves had a hand cut off in full view of any and all who wished to spectate.  If a western woman was passing this particular area or street at the time of this weekly event she would often be manhandled by those present and pushed to the front so as to witness the atrocity as it unfolded. That is one of the reasons why Siobhan 'choose' to wear the burka. This choice these western women made was made on basis of foreign men's stares and open hostility. This choice was made out of fear of repercussion rather than based on a personal desire 'to give it an 'auld go.' One of the arguments for and against banning the burka is based on 'choice' but what is choice if it is predicated upon fear, compulsion or pressure? Is it really a woman's choice to be isolated from the world around her? Is it really her choice to be uncomfortable and encumbered, invisible and limited? There will always be a few martyrs (or as I affectionately refer to them – lunatics) to any cause but for the most part I just don't buy it.

And on what cultural or religious basis are these women being asked to hide away? Well let me quote a Taliban spokesperson to answer that one. "The face of a woman is the source of corruption for the men not related to them." Ah that 'auld tulip. Let's face it, it's based on the same cultural and religious notions purported by all the major religions throughout history in which women are not merely inferior (Adam's rib my arse) to men but we are also described as incarnate of the devil or partners with the devil after all Adam would never have dreamed of consuming the forbidden fruit were it not for his being led astray by the sinful Eve. (In my book that makes Adam a bit of a gormless gobshite. Just say no Adam you effing moron) From the get go women are painted as corrupters of men. Then of course there are all those charming rituals such as the Jewish Mikvah or the Catholic Churching of women. The Mikvah was a bath designed to cleanse the female body during menstruation because menstruation was deemed suspicious, unclean and in some cases dangerous to the Jewish faith. The women would be segregated for 7 days because those who came in physical contact with a menstruating woman would be also deemed forever unclean. It's funny in a kind of horrifying way kinda like 'Crystal Swing'. In Catholicism when a woman had a child the local priest would be summoned to 'church' or cleanse her of the sin of giving birth before she would be once again welcomed back into the flock. Meanwhile the man who shoved his dick in his wife to contribute his DNA made the tea because sex and reproduction is only sinful and filthy if you are a woman.

Some say the Burka is to protect the chasteness and dignity of a woman because in the presence of a woman's skin poor witless men are unable to control themselves and It's not the man's fault he can't control himself, it's the woman's and why is man's weakness woman's fault? Because she's evil and how can a mere mortal man control himself in the presence of the devil? We've been burned as witches, demonised and renounced age after age and by religious movement after religious movement. In fact in some cases the only thing Judaism, Christianity and Islam have in common is man's desire to control woman.

The mother of Jesus is written as a virgin and of course she's a virgin because sex is dirty and this mother has got to be set apart from all her filthy contemporises.  God is the creator in Heaven and we females are the creators on earth and yet instead of being hailed as being close to God we have been branded as gateways to the devil. As Catherine Tate's nan would put it 'What a load of old shit.' And so as a free woman living in a western society I am afforded the right to give two fingers to the Catholic religion that holds little or no respect for me and that right has been hard won. It wasn't too long ago that the women of Ireland were subordinate to their husbands, brothers and fathers and held hostage by a religion that found more sin in the bedroom than on the battlefield. As a liberal I'm no fan of any ban but as a free woman every fibre of my being wants to emancipate my fellow women from their male imposed bondage and some may not thank me but I hope one day their daughters will.

To Fly Or Not To Fly…

[image error]

As a kid I hated needles, snakes, heights and flying in that order. As an adult I was forced to find a way to overcome my fear of flying and needles but I'm still pretty phobic about snakes and heights. Back then I'd run a mile if I saw a doctor or nurse coming at me with a needle. I'd have to be cajoled, bribed and finally held down while the doctor attempted to take blood or administer medicine and avoid my flailing arms and bucking legs at the same time. My aunt told me once that I'd change my mind about receiving an injection one day when I was in real pain. I laughed her off saying no way Hose but she was right. It took a car hitting me at approx. 80 miles an hour for me to truly appreciate a needle in my vein and I can honestly say having spent years in and out of hospital since that fateful night you could stick me for 24 hours solid and I'd barely notice. I say this with confidence because having extremely poor veins over the years the various medics I've encountered especially junior doctors have spent pretty much day and night trying to get one vile of blood, freaking out, sweating buckets and  tagging one another until eventually a nurse usually in her fifties got pissed off and did it herself.  And here's a tip from me to you the reader of my nonsense, nurse's who have been around the block are usually the best at taking blood.  They have a diviner's sense about where that one good vein. The really good ones are in and out in seconds, they have a plaster slapped on before you know it and with a smile or a nod they usually say something cheerful to send you on your way. One or two of these ladies mentioned in passing that although I suffered with weak veins at least I'd never make a heroin addict so every cloud….

I don't know when I first decided that I couldn't bear snakes but it was early. I was a big fan of the zoo and so maybe it was there in that rank smelling dark creepy moist house which was home to the fattest longest ungodliest thing I've ever seen(Insert mental sexual innuendo here). Or maybe it was before I'd ventured to that rank smelling dark creepy moist zoo house, maybe it was when my first teacher told me that the reason we'd all been kicked out of paradise was because a snake had tempted Adam and Eve. We could have had it all Sneaky little bastard. One of my uncles lived in a desert in America for a while in the 80's. He returned home with the skin of a rattle snake for my foster brother Denis, charmingly the rattle was still attached so he spent an entire evening chasing me with it. That definitely didn't help. My uncle mentioned he'd skinned the snake himself and ate the meat which of course tasted like chicken. I couldn't look a chicken for about six months but than again that could have something to do with my aunt chasing my foster sister Brenda and I around the kitchen with a bag of red bottle tops she pretended were chicken guts, in or around the time my uncle had returned from the desert with the already mentioned rattle snake skin. Brenda woke up screaming two days after the bottle top incident believing that a raw skinned chicken was hanging from her curtains. I was too hung up on the rattle snake which was nailed to the wall next door to my bedroom to worry about hanging chickens.  Because I live in Ireland, snakes have no medicinal purposes and you can't use them for transport I will probably go to my grave phobic about snakes and that's OK with me.

Heights are a bigger problem. I suffer from vertigo. The higher I go the worse my vertigo gets. I have tried to cure myself of the problem by forcing myself to walk up stairs or steps or get on the lift that took me to the top of the sky tower or empire state building just because every dog and their duck said "you've got to see the view". The problem is that once I get up there I never see the view because my body becomes independent of my mind. My mind says all is well, look at the view Anna, isn't it lovely. My body says hit the deck, face on the floor, hands cup back of neck, rock a little, curl in a ball, basically behave as though you are a mental patient on a day time television show. My pal Hallie and I went to see Leonard Cohen play in The Royal Albert Hall last year. We walked up the stairs to take our seats and when we got to our section I realised I was in the Gods. I forced myself into the seat. Hal kept saying "let's just leave" because apparently I was becoming paler than one of Michael Jackson's kids. I decided I'd be fine until my hands started to shake and I realised that my eyes would not open. I swear to God it was as though they were glued shut. Hal decided this was definitely not the way that I should experience Leonard Cohen so she got an usher to help her move the crazy lady in ailse G unfortunately this crazy lady couldn't get out of the seat and walk instead I had to crawl on my hands and knees with my eyes screwed shut and follow the sound of my best pal's cackle. I've been on clifftops in Italy and hugged the walls, I've swam in rooftop pools and never ventured near the side. I've had meetings in skyscrapers and kept my eyes on the desk, floor or person in front of me at all times. I tried and tried and I will probably never get over my phobia of heights, it's a pain but it's a fact.

When I started flying first I was petrified. I felt physically ill. My hands became clammy and my skin crawled. When the doors closed my chest tightened and I could hear my heartbeat in my ear. I wanted to run but my legs refused to move. I wanted to scream but my voice was gone. I was frozen with fear. That's what petrification is and it's bloody awful. In my twenties I got drunk every time I flew. I would go to the airport an hour or two early and shove as many gin's down my gullet as was possible within the time frame I had given myself. I'd go onto the plane drunk as a skunk and I'd proceed to order as many drinks as the air hostess was willing to give me. I'd fall off the plane and depending on who I was with because I would never have flown alone I'd either be carried or wheeled off on one of those luggage thingy bobs through the airport and to the other side where I'd usually have to be sobered up with a tank of water or coffee or my head plunged into a sink of water before we ventured further.  When we travelled to New Zealand as a family to attend my foster brother Denis' wedding I was in such a bad way my uncle plied me with so much wine that I ended up drinking at least two bottles from LA to Auckland that wouldn't have been so bad if my foster sister hadn't given me a pretty strong 'valium'. The first time I met my NZ in-laws I swayed through customs with a red wine stained mouth and slurred the words, "lovely to greet ya," before seeking directions to a place deemed appropriate to vomit. After that incident it became clear that I had to find another way to deal with my problem.  Flying is unavoidable so I gritted my teeth, meditated, sang the song 'kum ba ya' in my head and finally after too many flights to count I found myself able to breath comfortably. I still grip the seat a little too tightly on take off and landing but for the most part frustration has replaced fear.  The airport itself is now more daunting than climbing inside a metal bird. Having to deal with those stupid rules about the 50ml bottles because apparently you can't make a bomb with 50ml of regular old shampoo but you might just swing it with 100ml is pretty annoying. The requirement to practically strip off and then redress standing over a grey bucket with some crabby half naked dude try to push you and your bucket off the conveyor belt thingy with his oversized laptop while your still only one boot on, irks a bit. The necessity to display your passport and ticket 9000 times and of course the 90 mile hike from security to the plane culminating in paying approximately €20 for a coffee at the gate café which the airport staff refuse to allow you to bring on board is less than endearing. I've had expensive perfume, conditioner, tweezers and a bottle of Evian confiscated from me going from Dublin to Kerry and that hurt. And here's another tip for you security people don't like Macgyver  jokes .  

Flying is one of my least favourite things but I was coping and then came the ash cloud. I began to fret again. Two of my flights to London were cancelled and one I cancelled myself because there was no way I was going to be one of the first one's up there when the skies had just reopened. I did fly to France last weekend and I was on edge but luckily I was so exhausted by the onset of this new fear that I slept through it. I tried to pretend I was OK on the way back but that old familiar crawling feeling was slowly returning. We were flying Ryanair and it was the first time I'd flown Ryanair since I'd had to get shitfaced to get on a flight so basically France was my first time flying Ryanair. We arrived in Beauvais at 9pm for a flight leaving at 9:50pm and skipped through the customs delighted having had a fantastic weekend (See last week's blog). At 9:30pm we were told the flight was delayed leaving Dublin. At 10:00pm we were told that we'd be updated in 20 minutes because if the flight didn't leave before that time we couldn't fly out of Beauvais because Beauvais is a no fly zone after midnight. Of course the flight didn't take off and just after they turned off the landing lights it was announced that our plane had been redirected to Lille, we'd be bused there and flown out at approximately 5am.  They gave us yoga mats and blankets and that should have been our first clue that we were going nowhere. We chose to sit in the bar area and stay awake which was a good thing because around 3:30am my pal heard a whisper that there was no plane and those who didn't want a refund would be forced to stay in Paris for two more days in an approved Ryanair hotel (Oh the humanity) before they could be flown home. At 4am we were on a bus to Paris and at 5am we were standing on a street hailing down the only taxi for miles while other sleepy passengers descended on us like zombies. I remember screaming to my pal Joanne 'Just go, go, go.' At 7:30 am we were sitting on an Air France flight headed for Dublin. We were 800.00 quid poorer but we were high on adrenaline. The nightmare that was our Ryanair experience kept us chatting throughout the flight and it was only when I reached terra firma that I realised I hadn't been petrified.  Frustration beat fear. So thanks Ryanair. I'd rather catch a nasty case of the clap then fly with you again but credit where credit's due, you saved me from myself and now forever more I'll save myself from you.

No Way To Say Goodbye

Hi folks, my second novel ‘Apart From The Crowd’ was published in Ireland in Nov 07 it’s now available in the UK under the name ‘No Way To Say Goodbye’ and received 4 stars in the Closer magazine review.