Jan Carson's Blog, page 30

A Rather Remarkable Week

What a week. I’d like to write something profound and incredibly insightful but right now my mind’s a bit of a marshmallow and I’m still a little overwhelmed by all the good stuff which has happened in the last seven days. Notwithstanding the launch on Wednesday night, it’s been an incredibly busy week including fantastic interviews with both the Irish Examiner and Irish News (to be published later in the month), a new short story on the Ask What Now website (http://askwhatnow.org/articles/what-make-diminished-thing#.U5THBIkFBXU.email), radio interviews at Radio Ulster and with Bangor Community Radio, (which you can check out here https://soundcloud.com/ellierose101/jan-carson-interview), an article on the Irish Times website (which you should be able to read here http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/laughing-in-the-face-of-loss-how-nana-s-dementia-helped-inspire-my-first-novel-1.1818768#.U5TFMaqz_Dw.email), a fabulous reading to launch the Incubator Journal at the Black Box and daily trips to Waterstones, pacing the joint like a would-be shoplifter as I tried to ascertain whether the book had been delivered or not.

It’s definitely not been an ordinary week and there have been many, many highlights and, very few lowpoints. Mostly I’m just incredibly thankful for the enormous amounts of support I’ve been shown. Thank you so much for every thoughtful card, every orange-coloured gift, every text message, glass of wine, offer of dinner and of course every “Malcolm” selfie I’ve spotted on Twitter and Facebook, ( I was particularly charmed by Orla McAdam’s running across 4 lanes of traffic with a book on her head video- please don’t try this one at home folks). Good friends and community have got me to this point and it’s been incredibly humbling to see how many people have wanted to celebrate with me this week. I owe you all an enormous debt of gratitude and respect. Celebrating is so much more enjoyable when you have people to celebrate with.

Stay tuned folks, next week you’ll be inundated with blog posts as I navigate my way through the fantastic Belfast Book Festival. Make sure you don’t miss out on any of the amazing writers coming through town in the course of the next few days.

Happy

Happiness is just about the only emotion which leaves me lost for words.

Last night, was the Belfast launch of Malcolm Orange Disappears at the Ulster Hall. I think I might have been happier than I’ve been in about five years. Almost everyone I love locally was squished into one very sweaty room with wine and cupcakes, Bob Dylan, (sadly not in person), and a tremendous amount of positive energy. Someone, I can’t recall who exactly, said, “it feels like the Hall is smiling” and it really did. Some members of the Hall family were also crying but I suspect they were crying in a happy way, rather than an “oh dear goodness would Jan ever shut up” kind of way. I was given flowers, a tea set, champagne, a fancy writing pen, two Terry’s chocolate oranges and every imaginable variation of orange accessory offered by Belfast, (including Mary Hegarty’s fantastic orange-themed launch survival kit, pictured below). I am more than ready for the Twelfth this year.

Almost everyone who came up to chat with me for their allotted ninety seconds- book signing, it transpires, is like speed dating with people you already know – said, “you must be really happy.” I was extremely happy and also intent on making sure I didn’t accidentally dedicate any books to myself. I was so blindingly happy that I couldn’t think of anything clever or nuanced to say except, “yes, I am really happy.” Even tonight, twenty four hours later, my happiness hasn’t quite found the right words yet. It’s definitely grateful and more than a little overwhelmed. It’s giddy and expectant, somewhat exhausted and a tiny bit terrified to lean to far into the excitement in case it evaporates all of a sudden, with no warning. My happiness is, for once, genuinely content to hold its tongue and savour the moment.

So for now I’ll just say, I am terribly, enormously happy in a vague and all-consuming kind of way. Don’t expect anything too wise or witty from me in the next few days. Words are my default position. They’re easy come by and even easier to hand out. Silence is hard won and worth relishing. So I might be quieter than normal for a few days. I might wonder around the city centre grinning inanely and humming Belle and Sebastian songs under my breath. I might just let the great world spin and enjoy being a little bit overwhelmed.

(Here are some of my favourite pictures from last night, including some sketchy bloke they found to pour the wine and a mountain of miniature Malcolm cupcakes).

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

It’s the night before the day I’ve been waiting for for almost ten years. This time tomorrow I’ll have launched my very first novel into an unsuspecting, (and hopefully reasonably receptive), world. In much the same way that many girls dream about their weddings, I’ve been running through the details of my book launch since the first day I sat down in the coffee island of the Tower Centre and typed the words, “Malcolm Orange was beginning to disappear.” There will be Bob Dylan, (obviously), cupcakes, the Ulster Hall, Sinead Morrissey, Caleb and Izzy, red wine and even redder lipstick; most everything I love squeezed into one smallish, and hellishly hot, room for 60 minutes. The beginning of this journey an awfully long time ago and since then there have been days, and very long nights, when I truly believed I’d never get to this point. Tonight I’m practising my signature and making a, rather long, list of people to thank. Malcolm Orange Disappears is already available in bookstores, it’s really happening, I’ve seen pictures.

Tomorrow I’ll gather with friends and family to give him a proper send off and I should be extremely excited.

People keep saying, “I suppose you’re really excited.”

I am really excited.

I’ve worked very hard for this, sacrificed a lot to bring those 363 pages to print, poured a lot of myself into Malcolm, Cunningham Holt and all his friends and there is a massive part of me which literally cannot wait for tomorrow night. Celebration has always been a big part of my philosophy and I am thankful to have some wonderful people who are willing to share in just how happy I am at this significant point in my life.

However, I have to admit that there are other emotions knocking around inside my head tonight; feelings and small, but significant fears, which have been waking me up at exactly 11 minutes past 4, every morning for the last ten days. What if this book isn’t any good? What if it is good but it’s the only decent book I ever manage to write? What if I can’t remember people’s names when they ask to have their books signed? What if nobody comes tomorrow night or people come because they feel like they have to or just want to drink the free wine? At 11 minutes past 4 in the morning, even the most ridiculous insecurity can seem like gospel truth. Over the weekend I’ve spent my waking, mostly sane, hours doing battle with these insecurities and trying to remind myself that when I finished this novel, long before I showed it to any of my intrepid proof readers, I was really content with how it had turned out. It’s not perfect but I was proud of it then, and confident in its worth. I’m happy with novel and that is the surely most important thing. I will try to remind myself of this tonight when my biological alarm clock goes off and I feel that I, like Malcolm, am just on the verge of disappearing.

I’ve spent a lot of time this week weeding out the truth from the lies and even after some rather hard-core emotional gardening there are still difficult things lingering behind. Truth must be faced but this process is not always easy. This week I’ve found my excitement tempered by a heavy dose of reality. Nothing will really change tomorrow. Yes, I’ll have achieved one of the biggest ambitions of my life but on Thursday morning I’ll be back in my day job, working to pay the mortgage and keep the car on the road, spending my weekends and Bank holidays scribbling away at my next novel. It could be years before I get to write full time. It might never happen and this might be exactly the way my artistic career is meant to progress. There’s just no way of telling how the future will pan out. However, I can be certain that tomorrow night is not the beginning of easy street. There are hard yards still to be put in, many ways to improve as a writer, many disappointments and formative experiences I simply can’t anticipate at this point. Just thinking about the road ahead is somewhat overwhelming and could easily leave me deflated and incapable of enjoying tomorrow and all its head-rushing excitement.

I don’t want this to happen and so I’m choosing to see tomorrow as a mountain peak worth celebrating with every ounce of enthusiasm I can muster. It’s not the last mountain I’ll have to haul myself up and I hope its not even the highest peak I’ll ever experience but it is the highest I’ve been so far and that is worth raising a rather large glass to and enjoying for what it’s worth; a very brilliant thing!

The Blame

I don’t know whether I’m particularly lucky or have just managed to position myself well but I seem to have spent the last fifteen or so years of my life surrounded by fantastically creative and talented people. Every time a good friend releases an album, produces a play or writes a blistering new song, the better part of me, (that part which isn’t crippled by envy or smouldering insecurity), is freshly astounded by just how marvellously amazing my friends are. To be party to the highs and lows of other people’s creative process has proven to be a strange comfort on the many occasions when I have felt odd and lonely in my own small corner. What a privilege to be surrounded by people who inspire, encourage and challenge me as an artist. I’m really grateful to be part of a community which is more than the individual artists who comprise it and, when one of us strikes creative gold, it always feels like something of a win for the team.
This week my friend and fellow novelist Michael Nolan has released his first book, The Blame, on Salt Publishing. Mickey is one of the most determined, humble and inspiring people I’ve met in the last year. Despite the fact that he’s  young enough to be my much younger brother, he’s already secured an agent, published a brilliant novella and still had time to come along and support many of us at readings over the last year. Mickey is one of those salt of the earth people who write, from sheer necessity because they love books and the words which make books possible. I can’t wait to read The Blame and I hope many of you will come along to the launch on Tuesday 10th June as part of www.belfastbookfestival.com and download a copy from http://www.saltpublishing.com I know this is just the start of big things for Mickey. I’m looking forward to his next book and the dozen or more I’m anticipating after that.
Here’s a quick blurb about The Blame to whet your reading appetite.

“A young drug dealer wants to make amends for the death of a friend, but will he be executed before he can turn his life around?”

Michael Nolan was winner of the Avalon Prize 2011.

Donal, an unemployed twenty-three year old is trying to get to grips with his friend, Pearce, dying at the hands of the fatal Green Rolex ecstasy pills that have surfaced around the city of Belfast. Donal is conflicted, struggling more because it was he, Donal, who gave the pills out at a party in the early hours of the morning the day after Boxing Day. Fra McCusker, Pearce’s uncle and member of a dangerous dissident paramilitary organisation who are wreaking havoc across the city, catches wind and is out to get Donal and make him pay for what he has done. It comes down to a decision that Donal must make between going on the run away from Belfast, his home, the place he feels is ingrained in him, or staying and facing the consequences of which he becomes aware — after a close encounter — will be a paramilitary style execution. From homeless drunks, to young men driven to immigration, political tensions and the ever present threat of violence, The Blame encapsulates the city of Belfast through the eyes of a problematic disillusioned young man in all its divisive complexity — download your copy now.

Survivoring; Twenty Lessons I Learnt From May 2014

1. How to walk for a whole day in high heels.

2. Even Raymond Carver is not infallible, (a rather reassuring lesson to learn when launching one’s first far-from-perfect novel in less than three days).

3. How to transition from day to night using nothing more than a blood red lipstick.

4. Wine helps..

5. ….as do afternoon naps.

6. After crossing a certain point of neglect houses, like hair, become self-cleaning.

7. Inspector Morse is an infinitely reassuring presences and ITV3 seem to be screening one of his various incarnations 4-5 times per day.

8. How to wire a soundboard and project a movie in the never-to-be-repeated off-chance that your scheduled technician does not show up.

9. Time spent with little people who love you will always prove to be the best kind of leveller. (eg. Six year old nephew “What is your book about Aunty Jan?” Jan: “A little boy who gets sad and then holes appear all over him.” SYON: “That is stupid.”)

10. Last minute prayers seem to work just as well as the pre-planned variety.

11. There’s no such thing as orange high heels. (Perhaps this is only the case in Belfast where they might be perceived as sectarian).

12. There is no limit on how many times you can say, “it’s not actually a children’s book,” before interviewers will stop asking you, “so, what age is the book aimed at then?”

13. The cinema is the only place where you can’t really get any work done.

14. I’m not that fussed on bikes.

15. Frank Mitchell gives a surprisingly good interview.

16. Think carefully before adopting a mantra such as, “July is coming,” for you will find this mantra leaps out at you from text messages, emails, post-it notes and personal conversations, ad nauseum, for months.

17. A good personal assistant is the difference between triumph and hiding behind the stationary cupboard, weeping.

18. Bob Dylan’s “Pressing On” is a surprisingly motivational song to chance upon at 6:30am on a Monday morning.

19. Talking about writing or even writing about writing is a poor substitute for actual writing.

20. There is no better, stranger, more inspiring job in the whole of Belfast than the one which has consumed my life for the last thirty one days and promises to enthral me for many, many days to come.

A big thank you to all those known and nameless who helped me survive May 2014. Here’s to June which is already beginning to look like May, the sequel.

On Not Writing

This year’s Bridport Prize closes in five hours and thirty four minutes. It’s years since I last neglected to send a short story off to the Bridport Prize and whilst I have yet to win, (or even be shortlisted), I’m a big advocate of the “you have to be in to win, (or even get shortlisted)”, school of thought. Round about this time yesterday I realised that the Bridport was closing in less than thirty six hours. Acting upon some kind of misplaced writer guilt I rushed out to a coffee shop and tried to stretch a 1,000 word short short into a proper story and gave up. Then, inside my head I wrote a story about a man whose hands fall off the day he loses his job. I gave up and wrote two more unfinished “masterpieces” in my head, then gave up and decided to enter the flash fiction competition this year, (250 words seemed infinitely more achievable in the three hours I had left). I soon gave up when I hit 1200 words and meandering, realising that concision has never been one of my writing gifts. I decided to deal with the Bridport issue on Saturday.

Today is Saturday and instead of writing an award-winning short story I have: made hot air balloons with 30 small children, sunbathed on the lawn of City Hall, drunk wine, written Thank You cards, bought tights, proofread a friend’s novel, been to a book launch, drunk some more wine, (it should be noted that i’m writing this at roughly 6pm), and fell asleep over my keyboard. The night looms ahead of me promising Raymond Carver, ironing, X Men and the very real possibility of more wine. At this point it seems unlikely that I could win, (or even be shortlisted), for the Bridport Prize with a story written in less time than it takes to fix a homemade lasagne. I’m giving up on the Bridport. All things considered it seems like a sensible decision in a month when good sense has had to take precedent over instinct. Nonetheless I feel a little disappointed in myself and not entirely certain that I won’t get back from the cinema about 11, drink some more wine and start speed writing something horrific.

With the brave exception of a solitary day out, writing in Derry, I haven’t written a single creative word in one full month. I haven’t touched the novel, Roundabouts in even longer. It’s sitting in my hard drive; a half-formed thing with neither ending nor solid beginning to sandwich it satisfactorily together. Granted there have been articles and interviews and dozens of increasingly enthusiastic emails to newspapers and magazines petitioning for the possibility of writing even more articles and interviews, but I haven’t written a story in weeks.

I feel creatively constipated. The ideas, it turns out, don’t stop just because you can’t get time alone with your keyboard. The stories wake me up in the middle of the night, insisting to be written and overwhelming me with earnest appeals for sentences, paragraphs and honest-to-god titles I could submit to journals. In the wee small hours between sleep and insomnia, I make promises to all my future characters- the man with no hands, the girl who can only speak in the present tense, the young lad up a tree in Broughshane- and I truly mean to wake up before seven and write their stories in 3,000 words or possibly more. The next morning I wake up, somewhere before nine and my first waking thought is “too late to walk to work again today, I’ll have to drive and feel lazy all day and not be able to justify curly fries from the canteen at lunch.” And my second waking thought is, “I shall faithfully promise to leave work earlyish and go to a coffee shop and write these stories down before they dissipate and I can’t recall the difference between a tree in Broughshane and a tree in another more ordinary place.”

However, it’s no ordinary month. It’s May 2014- a literal avalanche of a month- and there are articles to be written and emails to send; terribly useful things, necessary in themselves and no doubt part of being and becoming a contemporary writer. I don’t begrudge a single email if, somewhere down the line, they help me to carve out a little more time to write. But I’m not writing stories these days and I feel a lot like the man whose hands came off when he lost his job; muddling through with elbows when I’d grown to relient on a proper pair of hands.

Talking about the thing you love is not the same as actually doing it.

New Photos

Last Saturday morning I had an amazing photo shoot with photographer, Jonny Ryder in Common Grounds. I wanted to share a few of my favourite pictures from the session. Am really looking forward to using these images for articles over the next few months. Jonny’s done an amazing job making me look like I might actually belong on a dust jacket. Be sure to check out some more of Jonny’s beautiful photography at http://www.jonathanryderphotography.com

         

 

Guest Blog from Daniel Seery

It’s that time of the month again when I invite a guest blogger to take the steering wheel and lead us all on a little literary journey. This month I’m delighted to have fellow Liberties author, Daniel Seery whose debut novel, A Model Partner is currently sitting on my bookshelf just waiting to get the attention it deserves. Daniel blogs at http://www.danielseery.com where he’s been gracious enough to let me ramble on about my literary influences. Over to you, Daniel…

“John Hancock”

For me, one of the more troublesome outcomes of the publication of my novel A Model Partner is the action of signing it for readers. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not something which has been keeping me awake at night. And it’s not the result of any anti-social traits I may have or an inexplicable fear of handwriting (I swear) but I’ve been thinking about it and I suppose the root of the problem could be traced back to my early affiliations with libraries. I frequented them a lot as a kid. And by a lot I really mean A LOT.

A seasoned user, brimming with library knowledge, I was the kind of kid who knew where the new books were held before they hit the shelves, the kind of kid who didn’t need colour-coded stickers to know which books best suited their reading abilities. There was even an unsaid agreement whereby I could use the grown-up section of the library if needed.

A little nod to the librarian on duty.

‘Mrs H.’

A flash of the library card.

‘Oh, you’re back again Daniel.’

And BOOM – unrestricted access to the reference section.

My expertise also meant I knew the library rules inside out, the No Singing rule, No shouting, No Tomfoolery, Shenanigans or Hijinks. I knew that any movement beyond the pace of ambling was not permitted. But above all I knew the most important rule…

DO NOT WRITE ON THE BOOKS!!

And I guess, even though it’s my own novel, it’s difficult to rid myself of the idea that signing a book also equates to defacing a book.

My childhood fear of getting extradited from the library has stayed with me. I can see it now, playing out just like those cop movies my father was obsessed with when I was young. It begins with a request to visit an office at the back of the library and then a balding man with a sweaty shirt will confront me about the ink on the book.

‘Damn it Seery, you know the deal about defacing library books. Hand over your Dewey-decimal-related bookmark and your library card. You’re off the case…permanently!’

Another theory I have relates to the message that you feel obliged to add to the signature. Years of writing have instilled the need to avoid repeating the same sentence or phrase and no matter how skilled you are as a writer there’s only so many ways you can say ‘best wishes’. At the book launch I even asked a few people if they would like anything in particular written on the book. For most, they don’t want a message at all.

“I didn’t come here for your life story Mister. I just want your name so I can try to sell the bloody thing on eBay when I’m finished reading it.”

Then I was thinking, perhaps I have an irrational fear that people will learn to forge my signature and use it for dastardly deeds, like filling out Tesco club card applications and retrieving money back on their cash purchases. People can’t just go around getting discounts under false pretensions. It’ll mean the collapse of society as we know it.

Or perhaps it has nothing to do with any of the above. For years I’ve been chasing the dream of getting my debut novel published, countless hours learning the craft, dealing with rejections, the frustration, the feedback and the hope. And now that it’s happened I still can’t shake the notion that I have gate-crashed the party. Justified or not, some writers often feel they are the outsiders and believe that it’s their angled slant of the world which gives their writing freshness. So, perhaps it’s best that I do find the aspect of signatures a bit awkward. Because, maybe, the day I’m comfortable signing my name on a book will be the day I have nothing left to say.

Daniel Seery is a writer from Dublin. His work has appeared in local and national publications including The Irish Times, The Stinging Fly and REA Journal and he has worked on a number of public arts commissions. In 2012 he was the resident writer in the Axis Centre, Ballymun. He has also been shortlisted for an RTÉ drama competition, has recently been one of the winners of the Irish Writers’ Centre Novel Fair competition and he has written and directed a play The One We Left Behind which ran in the Irish Writers’ Centre in May 2012 and in the Helix in August 2012. His debut novel A Model Partner was published by Liberties Press in March 2014.

Belfast Book Festival

For the last few years Belfast Book Festival has been one of my favourite weeks in the calendar. I usually plot my route from Monday to Sunday early on, pack a rucksack full of provisions to sustain me, (cereal bars, Raymond Carver and walking shoes for hightailing it between venues), and then attempt to make it to as many readings as I can possible squash into one slim week. (Last year I peaked at 13 before running out of steam and resorting to spending the rest of the weekend on the couch in front of Inspector Morse re-runs).

This morning it was a real treat to be part of the launch of Belfast Book Festival 2014 at the Crescent Arts Centre. I’ve included a few quick snaps from the launch here and am particularly enamoured with the beautiful graphics on the new brochure, (please note the teeny tiny, perfectly formed icon of the Ulster Hall on the front cover. I was impressed before I even opened the programme). As part of the launch festivities Hannah McPhillimy and I got to eat free pastries and debut some of the music and words we’ve prepared for our Book Festival “gig” (Disappear Here Tuesday 10th June, 9pm, The Black Box). It was the first time I’d been able to read from an actual physical copy of Malcolm Orange Disappears and while it was slightly traumatic breaking the novel’s spine in front of a live audience, reading from a real book with flippable pages and proper paragraphs was infinitely preferable to shuffling through the photocopied sheets and post-its I’ve been using up to this point. It was also my first time performing with a fellow artist and, I have to say, the very fact that at any point in proceedings I could turn to my right and see a smiling, familiar face in exactly the same position as myself, made it one of the most enjoyable, relaxed readings I’ve ever given. Afterwards, while posing for awkward pictures with ukuleles and giant scrabble letters, Hannah and I involuntarily turned to each other at exactly the same time and said, “that was a lot of fun,” and it really was. Having a partner in collaboration is one of the best creative experiences I’ve ever had. We’re both very excited about putting the finishing touches to Disappear Here over the next few weeks and sharing it with you next month.

The Belfast Book Festival programme is pretty impressive this year. Keith Acheson deserves credit for putting together a marvellous, and extensive, line up of great writers, fantastic workshops and wonderful events. There really is something for everyone here and 30% of all the events are free. My own personal highlights are going to be Joseph O’Connor, amazing short story writers Colin Barrett, (of Young Skins fame), and Claire Keegan, local legend Michael Nolan’s book launch, and poetry from Paul Muldoon. Then there’s a great selection of Literary Lunchtimes at the Ulster Hall and some brilliant events for kids and families. For full listings check out the website at http://www.belfastbookfestival.com Book your tickets early for there’s nothing that warms an event programmer’s heart like a pre-booked ticket and then start packing your rucksack for a fantastic week of bookishness.

Photo Shoot

Over the next few weeks I have quite a few articles and interviews appearing in newspapers and blogs. Much as I love Instagram, (and most of you know just how much I love Instagram), newspapers don’t seem share my enthusiasm for hastily shot selfies, perfectly square photographs and Amaro, (fall back filter of choice). About 4 weeks ago it became clear that I was going to need some good photographs if the publicity surrounding Malcolm Orange Disappears was going to make any significant impact. Step in, Belfast-based photographer Jonathan Ryder who very kindly offered to take some pictures of me and make me look like a proper author.

This morning Common Grounds coffee shop were kind enough to allow us two hours of access to their back room and the fantastic exposed brick wall, natural light and quirky sofa which hides behind those double doors. Much of Malcolm Orange was written in Common Grounds and I am really grateful for the patience of their baristas who allowed me to linger for hours over a solitary Americano and also introduced me to the Yumm Bowl; possibly the best thing to come out of Belfast since Van Morrison first approached a microphone. I wanted a natural look to my photos and was particularly to have them shot in a place I actually enjoy spending time in, so Common Grounds was a natural fit.

In the past I’ve done several photo shoots for work; dancing with elderly men, pouring pretend tea and, perhaps most worryingly, throwing cold chips in the air on the corner of the Donegal Road. Most all of these have ended up looking a little posed and stiff. Some have turned out downright ludicrous. Before this morning I was somewhat concerned that I’d end up with another set of photos where I looked like an awkward mannequin incapable of holding a convincing smile still. However, Jonny did a marvellous job of putting me at ease. As we chatted about Bob Dylan, the book and the Ulster Hall I hardly noticed him snapping. So many professional author’s photographs look posed and clichéd. You can probably picture the shots: book under arm, black polo-neck glare, peering over typewriter, moodily. Working with Jonny was so relaxed and natural I know I’m going to end up with some amazing photographs where I look like myself, rather than some intense, and possibly unhinged, stranger. I even managed to harness my inner Tyra Banks and learnt how to “smile with my eyes” whilst looking professional.

I’m looking forward to seeing Jonny’s photos and I’ll let you get a sneaky peek as soon as they come through. Until then make sure you check out Jonny’s website http://www.jonathanryderphotography.com for a sample of some of his beautiful work and contacts details if you’re looking for some professional shots or wedding photography. I can definitely recommend working with him.