Pontas

I am thrilled to say that the brilliant Jessica Craig at the very excellent Pontas Agency in Barcelona is going to represent me for my novel and detective books. I am very happy.

You can read about them here.

Visual Verse: The Library of Tears

This has been a month of many exciting things, writing things. Visual Verse comes as a sketch, a promise, a diversion; it is a sudden glance shared with a passing stranger, a connection in the crowd.

To read my latest piece, The Library of Tears, click just here.

Visual Verse : Tectonic Love

        Busy, busy, busy with so many things, but, couldn't resist the latest prompt from Visual Verse. In their own words,

"Visual Verse is a celebration. Of the drama of seeing and the desire to express it. Of the things that inspire us, move us, and that we find hardest to articulate".

You can read the latest in Aunt Dorothea's epistolary adventures here.

Like Something You Wanted: The Irish Literary Review

I have a short story, Like Something You Wanted, published in the recent edition of the excellent online Irish Literary Review. You can read it here.

Visual Verse : JUST ONE MORE BRUSH, HE KEPT WHISPERING.

In the midst of a mad month of many things, I've written a new piece for Visual Verse. I love this project.

You can read the latest from Aunt Dorothea over here.

Katherine Mansfield's letters

I was recently given all of my grandparents books. They both died when I was ten, so it is fascinating to reconnect with them through words: reading, books and their marginalia. My grandma appears to have had a passion for poetry. This summer I read her two hard-backed editions of Katherine Mansfield's letters. Collated by her husband, John Middleton Murray, the letters span from 1913-1922. The writing is alive, spontaneous, extraordinary. Desperately ill, Mansfield describes convalescence on the Cote d'Azur, Paris during WW1 and a writing life separated from her beloved author husband. In his introductory note, J. Middleton Murray writes, "Mansfield's one concern was to leave behind her some small legacy of truth..not a little of her 'truth' is contained in these letters"; the texts are lit by her veracity, a naive startling brilliance. Here's an excerpt from a letter written to her husband in the Summer of 1913,

"I'm a lion all day, darling, but with that last point of daylight I begin to turn into a lamb and by midnight mon Dieu! by midnight the whole world has turned into a butcher!"

The Watching Crowd

Awkword Paper Cut and Michael Dickes invited me to contribute to their September issue.

You can read my piece The Watching Crowd and listen to me reading the story here. 

AwkwordPaperCut

The September edition of New York's AwkwordPaperCut is out. You can read it here. There is video poetry, art, music, story-telling and more.... I was invited to write a piece of flash fiction on the theme of the Mob or the Herd, you can read (and listen to) my story, The Watching Crowd.

Summer books

Am planning to take these texts when I travel: a P.D James detective novel, Mary Midgely (The Myths we Live By), Francois Cheng (The Way of Beauty), a Pierre Hadot book for some dry, but thoughtful Greek philosophy, a collection of American short stories recommended on an excellent summer reading list here, a Le Monde magazine edition about Levis-Strauss, a recent novel about death by French writer Maylis de Kerangal and a very old green hard-backed collection of Katherine Mansfield's letters, bought by my grandma in 1929. I am opting for Kindle and books and my bag is rather heavy!

Visual Verse : The Cerulean Song

I have another little piece over at Visual Verse this month. You can read my text, the latest installment of Aunt Dorothea's letters to Clementine if you click just here.

Visual Verse is an inspiring project; brilliant to read, look at and write for. Check out some great writing by Edan Lepuki, Sohini Basak and others....read, read, read...

Books By My Bed : in total disorder

We only moved house three weeks ago. Yet, I appear to have already recreated the messy pile of books by my bed. This pile appears to have a life of it's own, to be attached to me; like Linus's security blanket in Charlie Brown, wherever I go, my pile travels with me. At the moment there are ( in total disorder) : Jasper FForde, Lost in a Good Book, three matching brown Muji notebooks, one small black notebook, David Vann Goat Mountain, P.D James Trilogy of Death, Elias Cannetti Masse et Puissance, Francoise Dolto Tout est Langage, Wilkie Collin The Woman in White and various research notes and articles for I play that I am writing. There's also a loom bracelet, a bottle of water, a pen and a dead fly...

Writing news: Visual Verse

     I have another piece on the brilliant website Visual Verse. I am using each inspiring image, as a woman writing postcards home each month! Follow part two of the journey here. Or here: http://visualverse.org/submissions/vive-la-reine-long-live-queen/

And just as a little appetizer, here are a few words describing the latest adventures of Aunt Dorothea :

To my dear niece Clementine,

     Our trip to China has been postponed, for the moment Albert and I are stranded in Paris. The summer days are long and hazy, the streets tainted with the colour of treacle. I do love it here in July. Albert spends his time playing chess with Boris, an organic farmer who comes to visit his family in the Marais quarter every summer. Albert and Boris are to be found each morning at ten, on the terrace of the Café des Amis. They sit hunched over their game of chess, ignoring their steaming cups of espresso, until the liquid turns cold and bitter.

     I watch them from afar, sipping my petit crème. I read Le Monde and peruse the pages of Paris Match. The chess pieces slip and slide across the chequered board. The knight hopping, the castle commandeering, the poor little pawns the foot soldiers of the game, murdered on mass by the others......

Sorting books

I write. I read. I have far too many books and I am moving in four days. In the garage of the new house are fifty boxes containing my dad's books, my grandparents books and possible their parents books. There are books everywhere; books I keep for the title (ex a scientific theory of bowls), old books, new books, a blue book (my sister gave me), classic books and modern fiction. There are kids books, non-fiction books, cookery books and those which I keep by my bed, just because I want them close while I sleep. Some books house so many memories I'd like to chuck them on a bonfire and watch them burn. Other books are unfamiliar, I don't know how they got on to my shelf. I've made so many boxes of books, I can't count. They bring me laughter, bewilderment, a nest to escape to, miracles for dreaming,   a place to hide.  

Foucault against Foucault

Been watching an Arte documentary "Foucault contre Foucault" about the astonishing nomadic French thinker, philosopher, Foucault. He says,

"Do not ask me who I am and do not ask me to stay the same: this is a moral and civic right".

I love this idea, rather like Montaigne, that morals and thoughts should evolve, transform with situations. Montaigne says we never swim in the same river water twice. Foucault strives with each book, each oeuvre, to challenge Foucault. 

Bob Wilson sounds

Photo of Hugo Ball reciting sound poem Karawane at the Cabaret Voltaire

Been reading an edition of Libération dedicated to the dancer-director-artist Robert Wilson. If you read French, it's here. I find his work inspiring. You can watch his performance of Shakespeare's sonnets here. I love his take on language in this piece; words are transformed into dislocated, archaic sounds, like 'speaking in tongues' or Hugo Ball's Dada poetry. Bodies become stream-lined puppets, drawing shapes on the stage. This is the kind of physical avant-garde theatre that you can watch with your kids.

Awkwordpapercut

I was invited to contribute to AwkwordPaperCut. You can hear me reading my text on this podcast. 

There is very cool music, vivid words, evocative sounds...there is Michael Dickes and Bill Yarrow, and Ken Brecher talking about storytelling in the modern world. 

Listen, listen, listen...

Visual verse: The weIght of Matter

A piece that I wrote, 'The Weight of Matter' is on Visual Verse. You can read it here. All the full stops seem to have fallen out of the text, so you shall just have to imagine that they are there.

Here's a little taster:

To my dear niece Clementine, 

Inside this trunk are the remains of my worldly goods; I could not decide what to keep or discard, so I am sending you everything. Albert says I must hurry, the airport taxi is due; we are leaving for China today. Strangely, I cannot bear the weight of matter anymore. I always considered myself a nostalgic hoarder, but I now see these objects as artificial limbs, a prosthetic fleshy armour....

Writing news: Publication in Silver Apples Magazine

My short story, The Oldest Industry in the Galaxy, is going to be published in the new Irish literary magazine Silver Apples. You can pre-order a copy here.

Writing news: Shortlisted for Awkword Paper Cut

My piece "Hold me" he whispers. Tiens-moi,  was short-listed for the New York Awkword Paper Cut writing competition, to accompany the videopoem by the brilliant  Marc Neys (Swoon). You can read my text here.

Ecriture, Duras

During the past week, I've watched the documentary 'Ecriture' about Marguerite Duras three times. I might watch it again today. I want to sear her words into my skin, the sound of her voice, the twinkle in her eye when she says with glee, 

"J'ai écrit des livres incompréhensibles". "I have written some incomprehensible books".

The film is a long interview with Duras about writing. A tiny figure, nestled inside an armchair, white hair scraped back by an Alice band, she narrates the madness of writing that began when she moved to her house in Normandy,

"Que faire avec cette solitude?" she says, her eyes fixing the camera, "What could I do with this solitude?"

The film is studded with verbal pearls, naked stars that lose some of their poetry in translation, "Un livre c'est la nuit", she proclaims, her eyes suddenly full of tears, "A book is the night".