Disaster averted, Dad’s 75th was a success and my book mojo’s back I’m dreaming of a Honolulu Christmas, without all the endless adverts
INSPIRED I am this week. The reason, you ask, is that I’ve rediscovered my love of reading, writing and creativity. The spark, coming after years in the cultural wilderness, arrived out of nowhere. Well, it was bubbling away under the surface, finding form in late night scribbles on notebooks and beginnings of stories, descriptive musings, hammered onto the iPad, just before I conk out for the night.
I started a monthly creative writing course in my local library and was convinced I was going to be the next Raymond Carver, only to discover that, as with every craft, a hell of a lot of work goes into writing a short story. The first thing I had to learn was that spewing out a story onto the page may seem like inspiration and, in a way it is, but it is only the starting point. I submitted a story created in a ‘free writing’ moment which turned out to have no real beginning, middle or end. No character progression, no story arc, nada, zilch. It was a descriptive effort which could form part of a chapter of a novel, at best. But it wasn’t within an ass’s roar of being a complete story.
The next lesson I learned was that material for stories is everywhere, right now. There are so many threads which can be woven into stories, which can trigger memories which spark and then fire the imagination. Simply sitting down and delving into the imagination is a habit I’m learning and enjoying.
As a student in UCC many moons ago, I went from studying literary great to literary great, living in keenly observed worlds of the imagination, be they Blake’s, Wordsworth’s, Conrad’s or Shakespearian in dimesnion. The college bar was the place where - over a mug of coffee and a hot chicken roll - the morning’s lessons would be digested and mulled over with other like-minded English Lit students. Then life happened and jobs, of which I tried my hand at many before settling into the world of journalism, which involves getting published, but, it is not the ‘free writing’ of the imagination, the creative writing of the literary greats I studied.
I was away in Kerry last week for my father’s 75th. Organising it from a distance was quite the undertaking. The first venue cancelled and when I tried to find another, they were all booked up for Christmas parties, but I eventually found the Rose Hotel. Then the band cancelled and the bakery got the cake for my niece, who was also celebrating a birthday, wrong, but in the end the whole thing worked out wonderfully.
My sisters, brother and mother were over from the states for the party so it was like a family Christmas, or Thanksgiving, in the American tradition.
My father got the surprise of his life and it was a great occasion. I returned to a creative writing workshop on Wednesday with Wexford crime author Cat Hogan. Cat spoke about the mental health benefits of writing ‘long hand’, how it improves memory, reduces the heart rate and went on to outline how she wrote her novels in a clear, entertaining and interesting way. One exercise she did proved very useful. It involved writing about a place from your childhood. I stared at the blank page dumbfounded but once I allowed my mind to settle, I was able to recall, with some clarity, a place which I was able to write in detail about.
During last week, which I had off from work, my instinct was to get in the car and go to places to Christmas shop etc. Instead I kicked back with a book and read and did some writing. What better way to while away these early winter days.
IWAS quick to get on my high horse when Big Sis rang. Just back home from a scoot around the supermarket, I was suffering from a bad bout of Johnnymathaitis – too much ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ delivered too early. ‘Surely it is not too much to ask to be able to buy frozen broccoli in the middle of November without being assailed by carols!’ I thundered. ‘Carols -and it not even Advent yet.’
‘It does seem a little bit previous,’ replied Big Sis in her most soothing tone – not that her soothing tone was going to halt me now that I was in full gallop.
‘Our neighbours – you won’t believe this – had their Christmas lights up before Halloween. We can see blue bulbs flashing on their gable end every time we go to put the kettle on. ‘I keep thinking the Guards are coming.’
‘Well perhaps it cheers them up a bit,’ pondered Big Sis indulgently, ever reluctant to criticise. ‘Perhaps it cheers passers-by up a bit too.’ She is called Big Sis, by the way, not because she is particularly large – quite to the contrary in fact - but out of respect for her seniority, being older than Little Sis.
‘It sorta takes the joy out of the season of goodwill when it becomes a two month marathon of commercial hysteria, don’t you think?’ I resumed my rant. ‘Pity the poor check-out staff who have to put up with Winter Wonderland and I Saw Mother Kissing Santa Claus on an endlessly repeated loop as soon as the barm bracks have been cleared from the shelves.’
‘They probably don’t even notice it after the first week,’ suggested my sibling. ‘I just rang to…’
But I was not to be diverted: ‘Radio stations should be banned from playing that Slade song before December 18 – that’s what I believe. Where has all the genuine festive magic gone? Where is the heartfelt ho-ho-ho? Christmas should be a time for family not for shopping.’
‘You are quite right, of course,’ said Big Sis calmly but firmly. ‘Christmas is indeed about family. I could not agree more – and that is precisely why I rang.’
‘Eh?’
‘Little Sis and I have been talking.’ When it comes to clan decision making, sisterly collusion is the order of the day. I shut up, choking back urge to mention that I have given up watching television rather than sully myself with exposure to the endless Yuletide advertising.
‘We are all spending Christmas Day with various in-laws. So, we have decided, Little Sis and I, that it would be simplest if the Medders Christmas is held next Sunday. The Niece is cooking. Dinner will be served at 4.30 in the afternoon. No present should cost more than a tenner. Goodbye.’
She cut the line.
Thus it came to pass that Medders Christmas 2017 was celebrated on Sunday, November 26. A full month before the official festival, we gathered at The Niece’s house, with a full complement of uncles, cousins and childer.
The Niece served beef casserole and pretended not to hear when I mentioned that it is customary to have turkey. She also produced lemon meringue pie rather than mince pies.
It was great craic. I hate mince pies anyway. The uncles sang ballads by the fire while the childer (and me, I confess) threw balls of wrapping paper at each other after opening their presents. We left at the end of the evening still laughing and laden down with proper prezzies, including a recipe book for Hermione and monogrammed handkerchiefs for me.
The success of our pre-Christmas Christmas set me thinking that there is no really good reason to stick with December 25 as The Day. The Bible is not particularly date specific. There must be room for manoeuvre.
So I reckon that next year, we should go the whole hog and move the entire kit and caboodle forward not one month but five or six. Let’s have a Hawaiian themed family Christmas, with turkey cooked on the barbecue and everyone holding hands for a chorus of ‘We All Love Figgy Pudding’ performed in the open air.