No Today, no Tomorrow, only Yesterdays - Excerpt from In The Wicker Wood.

Patsy softly closed the door to the day-room behind him. He had carried out his duty as promised. He had delivered Sonny into the Home without incident. He put his keys back into his overall pocket and pointed, “There he said, in the chair by the window. That’s him.”

O’Neill went forward and squatted by the chair. He reached forward and touched his Grandfather's elbow. A face he did not know, with eyes blank, staring and dead, turned towards him.

“Daideo,” he began in Gaelic, “It’s Sonny.”

Daideo turned blankly, not seeing, struggling to make the mental links that would make him see. His mouth moved. O’Neill leaned closer.

“Mind her. Mind your mother.” His head dropped down again and he examined the floor. “The sins of the fathers,” he muttered. “She came back, full of the sin of that father, but I never blamed her, or the boy.”

Patsy crept forward. “Make it short Sonny. Time is ticking on Boy.”

O’Neill waved a dismissive hand. “Quiet!  I can’t make out what he is saying. Daideo.” He said again, louder, “I’m here! It’s me Sonny. Daideo!”

Daideo reached out and grabbed his arm. “Sonny? Is it you?”

“Yes Daideo. It’s me Sonny, I’m here.”

“She never wanted to tell you. I did. She kept a tin: a Billy-Can, to show you, to tell you. Then she threw it away: into the flax-hole. I marked the spot and got it out. I dried them in the sun. I hid them: below the third stone on the mountain, the Druid’s Stone. The hay will be good this year. I’ll turn it with the rake and bring it home on the bogie. Mind them children there! Who owns them?”

He sat muttering, and sobbing softly in the midst of some inconsolable memory, distraught, his mind lost in the past and destined to remain there. For him there was no today, no tomorrow only yesterdays.

I love trying to write A Fairy Tale. Me head goes bonkers and I spout!

From Streets of Birdsong.

 “The foal grew into a stallion and injured the son of the Overman Collins and cast him into Dreamlife. Rathmor now want to take the boy and give him new Fairylife with them.” Glaoim started again but was interrupted by Tig Hernach, the Chronicler, who explained.

“We have taken human children before and left malicious fairies in their place.”

Glaoim waited. With patience slowly, hoping his voice was steady, he said. “This time Rathmor – want an exchange. They want to take the boy and leave a fairy – in his place. A full fairy.”

“What!” Tig Hernach was on his feet again: screaming. “A FULL Fairy! One who would breed with them and in so doing would become MORTAL! NEVER! No mix. NEVER! It would mean the end of us.”

The assembly took up the cry “NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER.” They stopped suddenly, when the air in the centre of the hall began to wave and pulse, a pillar of intense white shimmering light shot up from the floor and spread slowly across the roof timbers. From within the pillar, the Banshee threw her keening into the gathering to announce her arrival. The figure of a tall dark cloaked woman stepped out of the light and into the room.

“Aoibhinn. Banshee to the Dal Gais.” Glaoim announced with reverence and a small bow. “You are welcome.”

Younger fairies began to tremble and older fairies bowed their heads – even the regional Kings and Queens acknowledged her presence.

The atmosphere of fear and wonder that now filled the hall: roused Finvarra from a dream, of young maidens and crocks of hidden gold. He waited, while his senses resumed, then slowly rose, fixing Aoibhinn with a kingly glare.

“Witch” he began, his voice firm and strong. “You were not called to be here. Depart!”

“Whist you old fool. Sit back down and dream of the days when your loins were fruitful. I am here to help. I am here to warn of the real danger in this deed against my Dal Gais Clan. The mating of the Pooka was no accident it was arranged by the Redhats, the Feardearg, so that in the time yet-to-be the Rathmor Fairies will be no more. Overman Collins has no other son. The afflicted one will not father a clan and the one who will be Imbol – will not exist. The knowledge from the time of Danu will be lost. Overclanns will allow their memory of the fairies and the spirits of the land and the Banshees to die. We must fight evil and the Feardearg. We must restore the lineage. The fairy who goes must be full and as such will be mortal.”

Finvarra rose slowly and spoke. “Let it be so. Let Rathmor choose one of their own. Aoibhinn is right. The time must be now.”

Before Bill left Amalgad told him that he must keep quiet about the land under the fairy rath.

“When you get home the fairy will be in place of your son and your son will be here with us. You and a small number of humans will see the boy as a fairy, others will see him as the boy. When men look at fairies they see what they expect to see.”

“Sometimes,” Bairead interrupted, “they even see themselves.”

“Yes.” Amalgad added sadly, this time, not annoyed by the comment. “Indeed: sometimes, the real evil ones only see themselves.”

What is this mysterious person – an editor – that some people say I need to employ to produce my book?

I get amused when on a forum: Createspace or Amazon, a would be writer asks “Do I need and editor?”

I want to scream – WHAT TYPE OF EDITOR? There are many types, of which the following is only a sample.

Acquisitions Editor

• Finds and signs authors with publishable work or book proposals that fit the publisher's goals.

Project Editor

• Responsible for setting and maintaining editorial standards. (House Style).

Developmental Editor

• Collaborates with the author from an early stage to develop a work, that they might publish.

Copy editor

• Corrects errors in grammar, usage, and consistency
• Queries the author with questions about conflicting statements or facts and incorporates the changes

Proofreader

• Scours the typeset manuscript for typos and other errors.

But I suppose all they are asking is do I need someone to proofread my book.

So next time someone says I am an experienced editor, and used to work at “Lick Your Lips” magazine ask: “What type of editor?”

Are Amazon or Goodreads or similar reviews worth the paper they are not written on?

Let's start with this – I do not do reviews – I'm a writer: not a reader who writes reviews.

I'm glad I have this rule, since most reviews that writers get enamoured with and then re-post on their websites, and other promotional forums that they value, are rubbish.

So when is a review really not worth bothering about?

Well let us start with:-

“I got a free copy of this book and although not asked decided to review it.”

Normally this is followed by the writer's bio, obviously supplied with the “Free” copy. So disregard this type of review, since it is about the information the writer supplied, not the story.

Then there is a glowing review and when you check the reviewing history of the poster, you find this review and the one for the “Girlie Magazine” or the four slice toaster and the curtains: all also sold on Amazon.

Friend and “Followers” reviews you can spot from a mile off. They are the ones with the worse style of writing. Usually they also call themselves writers, but they are not.

Reviews written without mention of the names of any of the characters in the book, or just the main character, are very suspect, as are reviews of scanned parts of the plot with an additional odd bit of the back cover blurb.

One solitary review of one book and no other ever – is obviously suspicious.

But the ones that get me are those reviews trumpeted on an author's website as from “Mr X reviewer from XYZ's X review  group” and author of 200 reviews. This review of their precious book means Mr. X is working for his next merit badge.

So in conclusion, I always wanted to conclude with a conclusion just like the best executive summaries I used to write and read.

Read a book because the author himself or herself has sold you on it with a good evocative title, a good blurb, and if it is being sold on Amazon or the like, that gives a Preview or a Look Inside feature, read those and decide for yourself.

If on the other hand the preview/look inside raises questions about the work, in terms of grammar, punctuation and maybe in some cases unsubstantiated CSI or NCIS action that is believable only in the authors mind, skip the wonderful opportunity offered to read their masterpiece.

Faró,Fadó - long long ago (in Ireland).

From "Brown Trout Street" - The Canal.

My memories of the canal are of a time when it was used by Odlum's Mills to transport grain and flour between their Mills at Dublin, Sallins and Portarlington. The large black canal boats were power driven although I have some memories of seeing horses pulling canal boats, where the horse and a man walked along the tow-path.

During the Emergency, when petrol was scarce, the canal was used to ferry turf from the bogs near the town to Dublin and to ferry the provisions for the town back down.

The canals also helped to build up the distribution and popularity of Guinness which from the turn of the century was transported from St. James's Gate Brewery by canal because in those days the porter was not a good traveller over roads. Rural areas would have a better pint if the brew could be transported under gentle conditions. Canals were ideal, because the brew was cushioned against bumps or knocks or rolling about. The porter was carried in wooden barrels which were filled through a hole at the top which was then bunged with a wooden plug. The tap for drawing off the drink was inserted into the barrel in place of the wooden plug which was knocked into the barrel.

These wooden barrels were returned to the brewery for cleaning which involved scouring out the inside of the barrel by flaying the wood with chains. Over a period of time this scouring increased the carrying capacity of the barrel. A new barrel would hold eighteen dozen half pint bottles, but a well washed barrel would hold twenty four dozen half pints. The boatmen knew this and would use selected barrels to draw off their Tilly – a word used for the extra drop of milk the door-to-door milk seller would add to the pint already poured into the jug. The result of this was that many farmers along the canal side exchanged vegetables or potatoes for porter with the Tilly Men. The publican who received the barrel with the regulation amount of Porter in it could have no real complaint with the brewery.

We used to go and watch the sunburned red faced men move the boats through the lock, or moor and unload at the Canal side storage depot. The locks were to me an ingenious device for lifting the boats up from the lower canal level to the higher level. The boats entered the lock through the big wooden gates and when the gates were closed water was let in through trap-doors in the gates which the keeper opened to flood the chamber and lift the boat.

The sight of the boat and men raising silently and without effort past the granite kerb stones that formed the top of the chamber was like some magic trick in the circus When boats were travelling down through the lock coming in at high tide and moving away at the low level the magic never appeared as awesome or amazing.

Gettin' good comments about these on G+

Wheelwrights.

The Smiths lowered the glowing rim,

onto the spoked wooden wheel,

and with water baptised a union:

unblessed by clergy.

Spoke-shaven spring felled ash shafts,

summer cured,

pole-balanced by saddle chains.

A blue orange Donkey Cart,

barrel raised on naked axles:

wheel bound.

Two men offer wheels to greased hubs,

pinned:

they spin true.

The cart backed into the shed,

raised shafts:

skylarking white clouds.

Donkey

Donkey shakes a lantern jaw,

avoiding the harness,

swerves, stomps, crushing my foot.

I scrunch toes back

into boot-heel: pained.

*

Harnessed, blinkered, breeched, collared:

cart saddled.

He waits impatiently.

The dawn drizzle discourages him:

work beckons.

*

Beyond the lane, bog beacons:

home-bound turf Clamps.

Farther : bog cotton sentinels,

embraced, dancing, gliding,

coupled with Dust Devils.

*

Turf, hand tossed,

creeled, imprisoned.

Full cart swaying.

Donkey head down, tired.

Teenager as well,

both content

with their bog-air appetite.

Surprising what the seaons throw up - from deep in the subconscious 1960's

South Star

The leaves are falling on Griffith Avenue

They lie there

Inches deep along the Pavement

Just crying

To be walked through.

I have no mind for shuffling in them

Any more.

Besides, I’m not even sure

If they would welcome me.

They seem to wait for you.

I watch the stars.

Finding The Plough

I trace the North Star

Then turning from it, face towards you

Even if you never see me.

Someday, I pray,

I’ll find a South Star.

And then,

I’ll never have to turn my back again

To find you.