Sunday see the official launch of Booker's World. Almost twenty months now since I first put finger to key. My first efforts at writing many moons ago was done with a pen and paper. I wrote my first screenplay by hand first. But since then that practice has wilted to a virtual stop. It's a way of writing I don't want to lose completely.
Next week begins a new round of attempting to get something off the ground. Glad I've kept the character of Don Booker going all the way through Ireland's woe. I'm not sure what I expected when I set out to write Booker's World. I took a character with his back up against the wall, but one where I felt needed to come out the other side, maybe even the better for the experience. I also felt when I began to write it that Ireland appreciated some endeavor. Reality situations as I sourced help with my book as far back as this time last year told another story.
Whatever happens in the years ahead, the journey of a writer starting out with a goal is wrote about here as it happened. I definitely never expected it to be easy and am glad that modern day publishing and trends means options are open to the new writer.
If new writers were to get a little more support then our various bodies dealing in the Arts would be eventually more self sustainable. The Arts provide masses of benefit to a culture and also to society. It has been proven time and time again, yet forward momentum in implementing more entrepreneurial approaches within its structures has been slow. I'm not sure of all the reasons for that, but I'm sure I'll learn as I go. They can only work with what they have at their disposal, but there is an opportunity there that is not being fully exploited.
I'll get Sunday out of the way first. The Bounty Bar in Trim, Co Meath between 2-4pm for anyone wanting to pop along. A few readings, a little food and even a little music.
Here's the latest piece that did not make the final draft of the novel. The rest can be read here.
The Sun's out and the breeze is free. Who knows, it might even be a good Summer. Time, like everything, will tell.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Mattie’s been asleep for the best part of twenty-four hours now. I hope it's sleep he's in and not a coma! There's definitely a significant breathing pattern and a slow dribble from his mouth forming a stain on the pillow I gave him. I really ought to buy darker coloured pillow covers. For a man without a maid, it's definitely the way to go.
Today was definitely a lot better than yesterday. My only other attempt at a novel ended by page fifty. That was over twenty years ago. I had found myself off work due to an accident which left me with a rather colourful ankle, sizing itself so it no longer fitted into a shoe. Well, none that I had anyway. During my school years my favourite home assignments were when my English teacher gave us a title for a weekend essay. I think it was from there I developed my interest in writing.
He was the type of teacher who cared for willing students but never forced his thinking or ideals on them. His teaching methods were always based on questioning, both at me as a person or work I put before him for a grade.
He taught me so much by making me think for myself. By thinking a little out side the box. Encouraging me to explore areas in life I maybe hadn't thought about up until that point. Teacher’s I came across could have taken a lesson or two from him.
Later in life I found out he had quit teaching to pursue his own writing, which came in the form of historical explorations in all things erotic. I'm not sure where he is based now, or if indeed he is still alive, but if I had a way to tell him he inspired me in my early days, I would. I'm sure he'd take it as a compliment. It's certainly one I'd take from anyone in the years to come.
Mitch is practically here all the time now. I know there is something going on with him. I get the feeling he is waiting for me to ask. I've no problem with it, it leaves me with so much more time to spend up here working, without having to continually take the journey downstairs to check if Mum is still alive. He's seems in form. I just don't like intruding into people's life. I don't burden others with my troubles and in ways it works out well because others tend not to burden me with theirs. I know that sounds cold, but it works well for me.
I'm sure it stems from not knowing one's father and having a Mum who could have easily have been called Havisham. Cold, heartless and bitter.
I don't feel any of those negative qualities rubbed off on me in any life-long way. I'm sure Mum, when she met a new man, (and there were many) set out from the very first instance with plans in mind how she could screw him over. By the time she was in her mid-fifties she had it off to a fine art.
I watched men cry in my living room on occasion. I actually found it quite funny. Not the broken hearts they developed after a time with Mum, but the knowledge that they were merely a pawn in a game she was playing to compensate for the way my father had treated her before he left. When your privy to a sub-plot it can be quite amusing. Then again, I've always had a strange sense of humour. It's been to my detriment at times, but those are other stories.
Mum, if she possessed a creative bone, could have done well in writing books about men from a woman's point of view. I'm pretty sure of it. I can only assume my creative side comes from my Granddad who dabbled in fiction writing. Not sure if my father was the creative type. It's just a family trademark that he’s never spoken about. I've grown to accept it. It's not like he can be there to encourage me in my own endeavours or offer support and guidance anymore. Those days are long past. I'd look well getting read a bed time story now, wouldn't I?
So it really doesn't matter to me who he was though I would not be human if i didn't give it a little thought sometimes.
It was definitely a case of once bitten twice shy with Mum. Maybe that ethos rubbed off a little on me too. I just know she did the best she could do. There was always food on the table, the men she kept always had money, so i was never bullied for the clothes I wore on my back. I can't say I went without.
That makes me luckier than most so when it comes to upbringings. I'm definitely not at the bottom of the scale. I know Leon took many a beating from his old man. His mother was lost in her own addiction. He told me once he had actually seen her with a needle in her arm. Only the universe knows what that did to him. He was only ten.
Right now I'm using the greatest thing my mum ever passed on to me to get by. And that's survival. It's seems such a selfish thing to say when you consider what others have to overcome. It's when I bring myself back into that mode of thought, where I find the blessings that have been bestowed on me. It's where I find how lucky I am. It's where I find what it is I want to become. Lord of the Milky Way with Special Responsibility for Everything. I'm sure I could make it a better place.