Remembering Tuskar Rock and the St. Phelim.

Our first child was two days old and I was watching television in Mount Carmel Nursing Home when the tragic news of the crash of the Aer Lingus Viscount St Phelim flashed on the screen.  How well I remembered that aircraft. I must have flown on it a good number of times. Indees, my very first  flight out of hostess training was on a Viscount - a gruelling duty known as a London/Shannon, with four legs of a journey, forty minute turnarounds and no time to eat in all that  long day. 

For ten months before marriage I had flown the Atlantic with two trips each week to New York and a four day trip to Chicago every so often. But the tragic plane crash off Tuskar Rock brought it home to me how easily I could have been one of that ill-fated crew had the timing been different and I still flying European routes.  Deeply emotional, I remember thinking I knew every mile of that route. In air miles I had walked  the cabin many times over and it gave me a certain affinity with the stricken crew. 

Today as I flew on an Aer Lingus Airbus 320 to Malaga I was very conscious of the significance of today's date. I know I wasn't the only one who would have been marking this forty-sixth anniversary. So many other flight crew would have been aware too, remembering with varying degrees of affection and regret those former colleagues, not to mention the grieving families and friends of passengers and crew. 

Forget housework and keep writing!

We've heard of kitchen-sink writers and I have to say when I first started writing many years ago I used write short stories, first of all in my head and then on the kitchen counter top, while stirring the lunchtime soup.With the children home for the long school holidays each summer and my brothers visiting from abroad not much writing got done during those months..  There were benefits, however, from the enforced time away from the computer, come September when the schools opened again I soon got back in the swing and wrote my quota of words each day; and what's more with a new zest.

In those days I was writing regularly for the BBC and, with two broadcasts a year, was pleased to find that  I had plenty of fresh ideas for stories. I took advantage of a few hours each morning when the house was empty, or as good as, with maybe a baby napping upstairs, to make the most of my free time before heading off to collect the older children from school or kindergarten.  Of course there was still the housework to get through, meals to be prepared, but stories went on writing themselves in my head as I tackled the beds and there was no one about to remark on  'mad mothers' or 'ditzy daughters'  when mouthing sentences aloud or experimenting with dialogue - not that such a word as 'ditzy' was in vogue in those years.

In more recent years chairing an Irish PEN literary evening in the United Arts Club.Anne Enright was the guest author and I listened with interest to her views on housework but it was her entranced  expression as she spoke that made even more impression upon me than her words as she told her audience. 'The car or the kitchen floor will require washing soon again but when you write a story you have it for life.'

Great argument I thought for getting on with your novel or play.  May we all be so clear-sighted!

Are writers the best judge of their own works?

As writers we all like to think this book we are writing now will be our greatest - our major opus!  But at the end of our writing life which book or artistic creation I wonder will we  wish to be remembered by.

 In the 19th century Thomas Hardy wrote sensitive, deeply moving and memorable books on love, infidelity and betrayal, as well as the anguish and frustration suffered by labouring men with bright enquiring minds but without the financial independence to pursue the academic lives they craved.  Hardy's novels were ahead of his time, offending Victorian sensibilities and showing up the bigotry and hypocrisy of the age he lived in.  To my mind his novels were his best work and the world is far richer for such outstanding works of literature. But poetry was Hardy's first love - he was a poet by choice; a novelist by necessity - and it was for his verse that he wished to be revered and remembered.

Michael Farrell's masterpiece 'Thy Tears Might Cease' was published after his death only because in his lifetime he held on to it fearing it was not good enough for publication.  There is A.J. Cronin's best-selling  'Hatter's Castle' which the novelist's wife rescued from the bonfire and sent off to a publishing house on his behalf. But sadly not so fortunate was  John Kennedy Toole whose fine book 'Confederacy of Dunces' gained fame and recognition too late for its despairing author.

The acclaimed singer, Count John McCormack, set great store on his operatic arias and very little on his Irish ballads and yet it was those simple ballads so beautifully sung that were the most popular and best loved of all his works, not only in his lifetime but standing the test of time to the present day.

Does this mean that writers and artists are not the best judge of their own work or can it be in our continual quest for perfection we do not see or value what is already there?.

Good Ebook reviews from South Carolina

On checking out my Ebooks on #Kindle I  was really pleased to see good reviews from America for my collection of rural short stories The Straw Hat and Other Stories  Happily these stories are finding favour with Irish Americans abroad and bringing a glow to the hearts of those from the 'old country' and making them feel closer to home for the first time in years. These  are 21 short stories about life and love in Irish provincial towns; some of the stories depict an age that has long since gone.

When my father was growing up in the country there was a boxbed in the kitchen - an old wooden bed with a sliding door - and my great grandfather used sleep in it; sometimes to my great grandmother's annoyance he would smoke his clay pipe in there with the partition closed.  What my father told me of these years inspired me to write the story called The Boxbed - about a little boy and his grandfather, of the great affection between them and all the stories the old man used tell the child about the Red Branch Knights and Cuchulann and Oisin. But after the grandfather dies a man comes to the farm to demolish the bed and Paschal realises that his beloved grandfather is never coming back.

In The Straw Hat an old woman decides that this is her last year dressing the itinerant brides and the pick of her bridal collection, donated by the village people, is a beautiful straw hat surrounded by tiny red roses. When a young itinerant girl comes to the door looking for milk for her sister's baby she sees the hat and falls in love with it. Mammy Donovan urges her to try it on and it suits her so well that she lets her keep it, reminded of her own teens when she had set her heart on a straw hat that arrived in a parcel from America but was given to an older sister.

Many people in the Fifties used look forward with delight to the 'parcel' from America and I know my family was no exception.  Sometimes there would be a frilly party dress - maybe not quite the style we were used to in Ireland but very pretty all the same.  I got my first pair of shorts when I was eight years old and felt very self-conscious wearing them out to play. I can still remember imagining everyone was staring at me as I sauntered down the road but they were probably  not thinking of me at all.  No one wants to draw attention to themselves at that age nor to be seen wearing something so different to what other children were wearing - despite the influence of Hollywood and what we saw on  the movies.

 http://www.amazon.com/The-Straw-Hat-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00EVXL3ZI

Style versus voice.

Much is said to aspiring writers about finding their voice, as well as advice about not falling into the trap of imitating their favourite authors. But of course nearly everyone cuts their teeth in this way and soon moves on. Experimentation is not a bad thing if it leads you to finding not only your voice but yourself.  To me voice would seem to be more a reflection of the writer's personality - witty, wry, pedantic - and not to be confused with style, which is a more polished form of expression.

 At the  age of ten or eleven Enid Blyton's school stories held a certain fascination for me.  I was one of a big family and had never been to a boarding school and these stories depicted a delightful, other world of perpetual midnight feasts and high jinks in the dorm. I amused myself and my classmates by writing an Irish version of The Upper Fourth  at Mallory Towers. Imitation I agree but  it served as an introduction to fiction-writing at an early age. Another writer, even more satisfying and exciting, was E. Nesbit who wrote Five Children and It and The Railway Children- the most famous of her well-written, well-loved stories . She created a magical atmosphere, introduced intriguing, sometimes strangely-spoken, characters like  Mouldiwarp and an ancient sand-fairy called Sammy who lived in the gravel pit, as well as the Ugly-Wuglies,  a jumble of innocent-looking umbrellas hanging on the hallstand who metamorphed in The Enchanted Castle into a bunch of pursuing Nasties  intent on harming their fleeing victims. Enthralling page-turners from an author who had undoubtedly found not only her voice but her distinctive style too.

There are numerous styles all proclaimed as high art and, as the word suggests, they are literary and containing a certain elegance.  The real stylist is born not made but thankfully good style can be acquired.  Much of it can be learned by studying the works of famous authors. Style is a unique way of expressing what you wish to say, often it is beautifully written prose as in the writings of F. Scott Fitzgerald or John Updike.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez uses humour that is often black, bizarre or sheer fantasy,  his imaginative vision, his mystical and poetic descriptive passages that could never be mistaken for the work of any other writer are  wonderfully evocative, and his endings often pure joy as in Love in the time of Cholera.  .

On joining an airline..

Every time in my teens that I took the bus along the airport road towards Santry I looked forward with anticipation to the moment when I would come upon the eye-catching cardboard cut-out of the smiling air hostess in the green Aer Lingus  uniform, her shapely legs sheerly clad in Mannequin  nylons, her smile and her eyes beckoning me to become part of that exciting life constantly flying to far-off, exotic places.

 When I eventually realised my dream and, training almost over, we were sent to the clothing stores to select a uniform, my belief in having a designer uniform individually created for me withered when confronted by row upon row of green uniforms and learned that, despite the slim skirt sizing, some of the boxy jackets would have comfortably housed a Jayne Mansfield or Marylyn Monroe..

It seemed we were to select  a jacket and skirt to our approximate measurements and take them to the airline's tailors for altering. To think I had fancied myself looking just like the elegantly uniformed air hostess in the Aer Lingus advert. When I repeated this to the tough little woman manning the counter I was disconcerted by her roars of laughter.'Her! God help your innocence. That wan's a pro.  Never saw anyone with legs like hers lasting the pace around here'. Another myth dispelled. But notwithstanding any of that it made a great first novel and happily  'Up Up and Away' is now  available on Kindle.

The art of the short story.

The art of the storyteller might  be compared to a diverting and enjoyable ramble along a leafy lane, the craft of short story writing more resembles the inner workings, the movement and precision of a beautiful Swiss watch..  Each artist has the gift of words but from the storyteller you expect entertainment, from the short story writer eloquence of form. The first, as his name suggests, tells or explains, he is the showman and knows how to get his story across with dramatic language and graphic images; the author, on the other hand, unobtrusively depicts (according to that great master of the short story, Frank O'Connor), mesmerically  suggests and allows the revolving light of each character to reveal the others.

I am reminded of  the film 'Some Like It Hot' when Curtis and Lemmon,  in an effort to escape from the  mob, dress themselves up as women and join up with an all girls' band of musicians. Although resembling classy broads in their feminine apparel, their shaven legs and tottering heels, they are aware their appearance and performance falls short of believable. But when it comes to Marilyn Monroe they reverently acknowledge that she is the real thing; she moves like 'jello on springs'  Lemmon says in awe, there is no doubting she is all woman|! When a short story is successful with all the elements that make it an emphatically personal exposition, balanced, unique and true, it is  like 'Jello on springs'  there is no mistaking the imitation for the real thing!

When a broken ankle proved a blessing in disguise.

In every disadvantage there are the seeds of a greater advantage. Where have you heard that before?  Well, strangely enough it can be true, it was for me. . When in a fit of abstraction - bemused by a piece of prose by  Polly Devlin and, in particular, the irresistible sentence 'The loch was leached of light'  I walked off the stairs in a cafe ending up with a broken ankle, there wasn't a lot I could do but sit about until it healed.  With others doing the housework and helping out with the cooking I was free to concentrate, without guilt, on what I loved best. Writing! In those days I was composing short stories and, in that period of enforced inactivity, I wrote seven new stories.  Amazing how without the pressure of housework or other commitments the words flowed, my muse was never so strong..

Having all day to write was blissful and more than made up for the pain and discomfort I was experiencing from what had turned out to be three breaks in my left ankle, injuries sustained on other instances, once by walking off the bottom step of the stairs, another time when  stepping into a declivity in a roadway under repair.  With all out at work, school or college I left my desk only to hop along the hall on crutches to the downstairs loo, then on into the  kitchen for a snack, and on my return to my computer, I became adept at  nudging with my crutch a litre bottle of water before me along the hallway, enough to keep me hydrated during the day..

It was a six week period of my life when I was totally happy and fulfilled.  The stories proved to be good and publishable so my time and effort had not been wasted. Even better two of them turned out to be prize-winners when eventually submitted to a short story competition and for a time I was filled with the heady certainty if I were only ruthless enough to abandon my family and turn my back on my obligations I would become a best-selling author. Maybe I would, and maybe not.  Happily I didn't put it to the test just kept on serving my apprenticeship, improving my technique and perfecting my style. A lifetime work.with no guarantees of success but then I have learned it's the journey that counts and anything worth the winning is never achieved easily..          

A good title is just as important as a good cover.

What you call your book is every bit as important as your cover. A catchy title that maybe suggests two meanings like 'Gone Girl' is clever and thought-provoking.  For my first novel about life in an Irish airline, conscious of how quickly air hostesses become engaged I played around  for a bit with the title 'Wings and Rings.'   But it wasn't a good title for my book which was not just a light romance but an airline novel written from the viewpoint of the pilots on the flight deck as well as the glamorous hostesses in the cabin, and in particular my heroine irresistibly in love with a married pilot.  The next title I hit upon was 'Standby for Takeoff!' with an alternate title 'Up Up and Away'.  Bingo!  That second choice the publisher went for!.

For my next book, which was the dramatic story of an Irish family, of passion, tragedy and love, I chose 'A Family Affair'  A bit ordinary, even predictable? Well, I suppose so but undeniably  it was about a family and about the affairs of that family, as well as an issue of sexual abuse within the family resulting in a double tragedy deeply concerning them all.  Once more the publisher favoured my second choice which was  'Like One Of The Family'.  Of the two, it was the better title summing up the dilemma of thirteen year old Claire when drawn into the warmth of the McArdles' family circle, sharing in their  hopes and dreams and included in all of their family outings. Sadly though, Claire is  abused by her best friend's father with long term consequences. So does this mean the first title submitted is the 'safe' one while you can afford to relax a little for the alternate -  after all it's only your second choice - and who knows it might prove to be the right one after all!  So it turned out to be in my experience anyway.

So now it's that time again and the name I came up with, some  years into writing this latest novel, was 'Holding Pattern'    This time I have no alternate title to offer and maybe I don't need one.Let's  hope so anyway.. Only time will tell.                                                                                          

Country Banking moved slowly in the Sixties.

When I joined the bank and went to work in the country I found it very different to life in the city, it moved at a slower pace, there was an unhurried way of doing business.  The porter, an invaluable member of the staff, was the particular friend of the lady bank official, obligingly bringing her jackets to the cleaners or calling to the flat to deliver groceries or  unblock drains. In icy weather when the pipes froze and it was necessary to take a bath in the bank house before the annual bank dance, he would stagger up three flights of stairs carrying steaming buckets of water to the antiquated bathroom, emptying them into the iron bath on its metal legs and reappearing somewhat breathlessly minutes later clutching the bath towel given to him by the bank manager's wife, with eyes modestly averted, handing it over before starting back downstairs again. In some of the smaller branches in outlying areas  'things were a bit slow' but it wasn't until the cashier went out to the front hall  for  the post at half-past eleven that he realised why - the porter had forgotten to open the bank door that morning. .  There were quite a few discreet guffaws over that one.

My years in the country gave me much material for the short stories I began writing some years later. In one town I joined the dramatic society and took part in O'Casey's 'Plough and the Stars'. My transfer came in before I got a chance to 'trod the boards' but the manager appealed to Head Office and I was given a stay of execution so I could make my debut as Rosie Redmond.  Sadly, I never got to tour the towns and so missed all the fun. That story was entitled 'The Drama Group'  The first story I ever wrote was about a pretty young bank official arriving into a country town on the evening train and causing a stir of interest amongst the townspeople and speculation as to who she was and what her business might be. 'A Certain Status' made a good BBC radio story with a twist in the tail and was read by Harold Goldblatt, the Shakespearian actor. What a great thrill that was!

Another bank story was 'The Quality of Management' about a senile bank manager who should have been retired long ago and an accountant, continually passed over for promotion, who is finally afforded the chance to get his own branch but cannot bring himself to betray his manager.  'The Boxbed' was inspired by my father who grew up in County Laois, or 'Leeks' as he used call it, and he spoke of of his grandfather who slept in a boxbed in the kitchen and smoked his pipe behind the closed door, infuriating his grandmother. This story was about a little boy and his grandfather and his great loss when the old man dies and he cannot remember his face...until he climbs into the boxbed and finds his grandfather's clay pipe; then it all comes back to him along with it the heartbreaking realisation that he will never see that beloved face again.  So many stories, so many memories and all of them gathered together in my collection  of rural short stories called  'The Straw Hat and Other Stories.'  available on Kindle.

Life above the clouds..

When I joined Aer Lingus and started training to be an air hostess I had never been in an aircraft of any description before. Our training flight was my first flight and I wasn't the only one, it was first time flying for most of the others too. That day two girls were selected by our training officer to serve the rest of us snack trays, tea/coffee/sandwiches and we all sat back and enjoyed the ride. A quick trip around the Eastcoast of Ireland and then back home again to the airport. It was all great fun .But then that about described life as air hostesses -  or flight attendants - in those days.  The travel, the perks, the glamorous life flying in and out of cities, with stopovers now and then in Paris or Rome, more often in London and Birmingham when we visited the West End or the Bullring. Sometime we were based a whole week in Cork flying to and from London, but wherever our roster sent us from week to week we were always on the move, never on the ground for long - never a dull moment either!

But the most exciting experience for me  came when I trained for the Boeings and made my supernumerary flight to New York just before Christmas.  That drive from Kennedy to Manhattan, sweeping down into the city with the uneven jumble of towering skyscrapers showing up to our right and all lit up against the night sky, was an unforgettable and magical sight. Straightaway I loved America although to begin with it took some getting used to, the faster paced life, the abrasive-tongued assistants in the stores, the jostling New Yorkers on the baking summer streets .

When I wrote my first novel 'Up Up and Away' I really enjoyed revisiting in memory my time on the Atlantic. In fiction my heroine Kay Martin followed in my hesitant, naive footsteps, getting caught halfway across the busy New York street when the  'Walk' sign had already changed to 'Don't Walk', thrown into tongue-tied confusion when challenged by a big, red-faced
Irish cop on  rearing horseback who kindly held up traffic with a majestic hand to allow the embarrassed cailin scuttle shamefacedly on across to the other side. 'Ah, you're over from Ireland I can tell!.' he roared in a broad Kerry accent. 'Ah, Go on let yeh, and remember the  next time.'   Like myself, Kay was fooled by the pilots practical jokes and really believed the Captain, as they sat waiting in the hotel foyer for the arrival of the pickup taxis to take them to the airport, that the huge laundry baskets being carried out of the elevators were full of suicides.  That much at least was autobiographical but all the rest now - the romance with the dark-haired, devastatingly attractive married pilot, Captain Graham Pender...  Ah now,
on that subject my lips are sealed.  Go ahead and read it for yourself and draw  your own conclusions!  
Up Up and Away is available on Kindle

Where does writing inspiration come from.

When I started writing my brother used say, 'Use your experiences, it's all grist to the mill!'  How true, for a writer everything is valuable. If someone passes your gate wearing a yellow hat replace the brown hat your character is wearing with that yellow one.  For the yellow hat is real and believable, haven't you just seen someone wearing it passing your gate? In my childhood my best friend's mother used call us in from play to give us cups of milk.She was kindly and motherly and virtually adopted me in summertime and I would sit down to picnic meals with them all.  They had a lovely house and they always made me very welcome. My friend sometimes gave me the loan of her second best teddy bear and I was delighted to take him home with me for the night, there's even a photo still about somewhere of the pair of us cuddling 'our' toys.

Sometimes we did our homework at the big dining-table in their house, our heads - hers dark, mine fair - bent over our books. Now and then we would quarrel and once I got up in a huff to go home but I was too small to get my coat down from the hook . Her older brother took pity on me, he lifted it down and opened the front door for me  too, the latch was beyond reach of my  small fingers.  When years later my five year old son's friend was visiting, the pair of them had a disagreement and I came upon the little chap in the hall, angry and frustrated,desperately trying to get out the front door. Alas, he wasn't tall enough to reach the catch. With a sense of deja vu I t watched him tearfully running away home, before closing over the door with a sigh. Well, I remembered my own frustration  that evening long ago, my sense of injustice.

Those childhood memories were strongly with me when I wrote 'Like One of the Family, the story of an Irish family, of passion, tragedy and love. My friend's mother was the basis for the character of Dr Jane McArdle, who was always so kindly and careful of Claire, making her welcome in the McArdles' lovely house that was so like the home of my childhood friend, and including her in all their outings and holidays, as though she were truly one of their family.  But there the resemblance ended. In the book Eddie McArdle, who abused Claire and whose culpable actions sparked off the double tragedy that devastated their family, bore no relation at all to my friend's father who was the nicest and kindliest family man you could ever hope to meet.

But the inspiration was there though, right from my early childhood days, and by letting my imagination free to wander I weaved a 'what if' story around the characters and circumstances managing to produce a book that was dramatic, tender and, at times, heart-breaking. 'Like One of the Family' is now available on Kindle.

www.amazon.co.uk

House-owning obsession or dream?

It's only natural wanting to own your own home, everyone can identify with that. Some people spend their whole lives planning and saving for it but it never happens. Or else, it comes too late for them to be able to enjoy it. Some people search for their dream house until it becomes an obsession but that's another story now.  Growing up, our rented house was a bone of contention between my parents and in later years it was a story I felt compelled to write, giving it, simply enough, the title 'The House'. My mother hated paying rent and she took it as a personal affront that my father went off briskly on the first of each month to pay our landlady. She would have happily left 'the old biddy' to stew a few days longer but my father was a very law-abiding, courteous man and wouldn't have dreamed of making her wait for what was, after all, her money. His punctiliousness was the cause of discord between my parents but the way things turned out my father had the last word and my mother cause to thank him for bringing about a happy ending to what gradually became an obsession with her. An unexpected legacy and a howling gale (which blew out the front windows one night), marked the beginning of mother's campaign to get the landlady to sell us the house.  It was to be a long and weary battle. From month to month the old woman changed her mind as well as her asking price. For a brief period negotiations ceased. She was keeping the house for her son, she said, she might even decide to live in it herself.  My mother wasn't having any. 'We have rights too,' she said darkly, and after a brief lapse into her house-owning blues, she would return more vigorously than ever to the fray.. Looking back I think the fight to get the better of the stubborn old woman was what my mother enjoyed the most and the realisation of her house-owning dream only secondary to this. Of course, the beauty of being a writer you can shape your story any way you want, but I wrote my mother's house-owning obsession the way it was. It is only now so many years later that I see all kinds of different aspects to the affair, not least my mother's own stubbornness and intractability.  But that's the way with life, it's only with time and maturity you begin to see the bigger picture.. The House' is one of 18 stories in my collection 'The Mask and Other Stories' and available on Kindle.

Can life imitate art?.

Can life imitate art is a question that is sometimes posed?  In my experience it sometimes can although I wasn't the one who witnessed it in action. Rather, it was my long-suffering, saintly husband who used to regularly do the 'Monica Run' - as we'd got in the habit of calling it - the drive across the city to collect my mother from the elderly people's home she resided in and bring her back to spend the day with us. As the short story was my first love and I'd already had some success in writing for the BBC it wasn't long before I found myself exploring this theme in 'The Usual Arrangement' (see my story collection 'The Straw Hat and Other Stories' on Kindle). In it an elderly woman, waiting for her son to call on Christmas Day, becomes confused when he's late and begins to wonder if he is coming  at all. Believing he has forgotten all about her or, worse still, her daughter-in-law has turned him against her, she sadly goes into the dining-room to join the other old ladies and eat her Christmas dinner. Some years after this story was broadcast the identical scene was replayed right down to the tiniest detail in real life. There my mother sat at the dining-table on Christmas Day, still in her hat and coat, the paper crown balanced on her head, the cracker in her hand ready to pull with her neighbour as her contrite son-in-law hastened forward to bear her away to join us all around the family dinner table. It wasn't a story of mine that she ever read but she, who in her heyday had always shown such kindly hospitality to the elderly, would most certainly have appreciated it!
 http://www.amazon.com/The-Straw-Hat-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00EVXL3ZI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1383312014&sr=8-1&keywords=nesta+tuomey

Dawn flights and strong black coffee.

My first awareness of Dawn London flights in my teens was the roar of the Viscount passing over our house, on the city northside, as I lay warm and snug in bed.  Sometimes I felt a slight unease though - the engines sounded so loud, the aircraft so low in the sky  - that I feared it would land in the back garden as I had dreamed on more than one occasion. But I was determined to become an air hostess and knew I needed to rid myself of such notions. When the time came and I became one of the 'glamour' girls those Dawn Londons weren't high on my Wish List nor on anyone else's either; everyone wanted Paris/Romes and the chance to stroll by the Trevi Fountain, tossing coins and making wishes. One thing sticks out in my mind past rising in the dark, applying  full makeup and getting to the door before the crew-car driver hit the bell and woke the house, was companionably sharing strong, hot, black coffee in the galley with the other early risers and enjoying a natter before the passengers boarded. It was fun living it, fun writing it. See my book Up Up and Away on Kindle. Ah, those were the days!   http://www.amazon.com/Up-Away-Nesta-Tuomey-ebook/dp/B00EG09S5I/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1383311916&sr=8-3&keywords=nesta+tuomey

Writing about the pain of loss.

People often maintain that it is therapeutic to write or speak about the devastation felt upon the death of someone very close to you. Just as they say better not to suppress your grief, rather you should let it all out, allow yourself to cry, rant and rave, whatever gives you relief; bottling it up only delays the healing process. But the truth of it is the healing process is slow whatever you do and, where you truly love, can never be wholly complete; years may soften the loss but never entirely eradicate it.  Images, memories, a remembered tune catching us unaware can wipe away, as though they had never been, the in-between years. Each of us copes differently with our separate grief, shocked, saddened and bewildered by the feelings evoked. Seamus Heaney describes such loss in his poetry as being caught broadside, nearly blown away by the suddenness and force of it. Emile Zola speaks of the artist in 'His Masterpiece' who at once turns stricken from his dead child's bedside to begin capturing the image on canvas. In this way we are desperately striving to diffuse the pain, to put order on something that in our hearts we are all too aware is beyond our control.

Nesta's website just updated. See Ebooks!

Pleased to report my website www. nestatuomey.com has just been updated. Now with the addition of the EBook version of my second novel Like One Of The Family' on the EBook page all four titles can be seen with instant linkup to Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble (the Nook) and other suppliers.
Other titles are Up Up and Away my first airline novel. The Straw Hat and Other Stories tales of life, love and conflict  in Provincial Irish towns and The Mask and Other Stories  about sensual, intriguing and feisty  modern Irish women. Check 'em out!

www.amazon.co.uk

Back to work!

Taking another day before getting down to the business of writing. Need more time to think of my characters, put more flesh on them and discover the small things about them only a friend would know. Important to record their ages so I don't get bogged down later when in full flow. Maeve Binchy used always drew up charts listing names, ages and relationships of her characters. Good advice. But I'll probably just plunge in. Ah well, we all have our own method. Some people end up not using their first chapter. Very few are like Gabriel Garcia Marquez who retained the opening lines to his books, never altering a word. Someone once said  the first and last chapters should be discarded as they are all lies anyway. Most would agree using the last chapter to summarise what the book was all about is a mistake!  The main thing is to stop talking about it and, in the words of Sean O'Casey, "Get on with the bloody play!"

'Like One of the Family' now on Kindle!

Delighted when I checked my author page on Amazon to find that my EBook version of 'Like One of the Family' is now available on Kindle with two good reviews already?  All  thanks due to that brilliant team headed by Matt and Diana Horner  ebookpartnership.com  This is a book about an Irish family, a memorable tale of love, passion and tragedy. A book that you can tuck up by the fire with and once you get stuck into it - so I'm told by friends and others! - you won't be able to put it down till you read that last page! So enjoy and happy Christmas! http://www.amazon.co.uk/Like-One-Of-The-Family-ebook/dp/B00HFZ7K6A/ref=tmm_kin_title_0

All about EBooks!

A few months ago, learning of the great advantages of going global with my published novels and short stories, I decided to get help having them converted to Ebooks. A writer friend gave me the name of EBookPartnership  and when I emailed them they promptly replied, giving me all the information needed to get me going. This brilliant team, headed by Matt and Diana Horner,offered me a good package - it consisted of formatting my books, designing the covers, providing ISBNs and taking care of general distribution. They also gave me a discount for multiple titles. So within a couple of months I had three titles - my first novel and two collections of short stories- available on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes and Noble (the Nook)and several other popular outlets. When I decided to go ahead with my second novel and submitted it to Matt for formatting, along with the completed forms listing my ideas for the book cover and other relevant publicity information, he sent me the new book cover three days later! Wow! And this cover, like the other three book covers, is really lovely. I'm so pleased with it and will be showing it in my blog very soon. Hopefully, 'Like One Of The Family' will be online, if not before Christmas, very soon afterwards. In the meantime I'm getting used to using Facebook, twitter, Goodreads and Linkedin to make my books known. It's all a bit of a learning curve but thanks to eBookPartnership.com all of the angst was taken out of the conversion process and I haven't had so much fun in years. It has been an enjoyable and satisfying experience. While I am so pleased with Ebook publication I am still very much in favour of traditional publishing and my new airline novel 'Holding Pattern' (sequel to Up Up and Away) is going through the usual channels at present, hopefully will be in print very soon. I have to say though, there is something irresistible about being able to read your work on screen and to have the facility to make it available to readers world-wide. To change is to grow and to change often is to become perfect!