Novel Eclipse

It’s been a stellar novel week in these parts, some might even say celestial. Not only did two of my author friends and word-sparring partners soar into publication, with another short-listed for the Fish Flash, but the moon also took on a rare role and eclipsed the sun.

Stuck in Nova Scotia, I was unable to attend the launch of Lucy O’Callaghan’s debut novel The Lies Beneath in Ireland last Friday, and I won’t make it to the launch of Anne Hamilton’s second novel The Almost Truth in Scotland next Friday, either. I know Mary Butler’s Flash Newborn Mother will be accessible but I’ve had to comfort myself for missing the first two with my close enough proximity to a total eclipse.

As members of the same online writers’ group Writers Ink, I have watched the two novels grow from early-stage drafts to polished manuscripts. I know the blood, sweat, and occasional hair tears that went into crafting all three efforts, not to mention the bucketloads of talent behind them. The first novel is a dark tale of twisted relationships and betrayals, the second, a rich story that crosses oceans, painting scenes of family secrets and intrigue in Scotland, Ireland, and Bangladesh. They are such enjoyable reads that it is easy to write reams about them but I will hold back for the moment.

On Reviewing ‘The Almost Truth’

I was approached recently by a publisher asking me to review one of their books. This was unusual in a number of ways. For one thing, I have never been asked to write a review before and for another, publishers tend to approach with rejections, if they approach at all. Here was a title that I had been privileged to read chunks of back in its early drafty days. I’d been longing to get my hands on the full novel ever since. Of course I said ‘yes’.

The pdf duly popped into my inbox and I viewed it with some trepidation as the questions and the imposter syndrome mounted. What if the excerpts I had read were the best bits (knowing the author, this was impossible but the niggles sprouted)? What if I couldn’t get it read by the deadline? What if I couldn’t do it justice in my review? What if I couldn’t measure up to the other star-studded reviewers?

I’m a bit of a Luddite where books are concerned. I like the feel and smell of books. The illusion that I’m diving between the pages and disappearing from reality for a while. As a result, I was not looking forward to reading the manuscript on a screen. My printer however was out of ink, the one at work not functioning and I didn’t have time to get to a copy shop. Staring at a screen for the duration was the only course open.

Taking a deep breath I opened the file.

The first thing that struck me was the gorgeous cover. I’m a visual person. I also get to see a lot of book covers daily, through my work. Many of them are ho-hum; this one was outstanding.

I scrolled down and dove in. And surfaced many hours later. A glance at the time revealed it was well past midnight and I was due at work in a few hours, where I was expected to be vaguely competent. The story stayed with me through the day and that night, there I was right back at it, junketing between the barely remembered world of Edinburgh and the unknown delights of a children’s home in Bangladesh; each location with its vibrant scenes, peopled by endearing and finely drawn characters. I felt bereft when it ended.

Time for reading is not all that plentiful. I spend my days surrounded by tempting titles. If a book doesn’t engage me in the first chapter, it’s toast. I never read a book twice. There are too many in my towering TBR pile. But as I clicked save and consigned the pdf back to my desktop I realized I would break my rule for The Almost Truth by Anne Hamilton. I will read it again, treasuring the subtle layering and seamless flashbacks but most of all, greeting all the wonderful characters like old friends.

https://www.legendpress.co.uk/the-almost-truth

and furthermore…

Clo Carey Feb. 2024

@clocarey.writer #AnneHamilton #LegendPress #WritersInk

From a Fellow Inker

Becoming a writer – one Irishman’s tale

The Olympic Contest

It was true that Frank’s father had a somewhat obsessive compulsive nature but he was, for the most part, a peaceful man. This particular obsession, though, could be laid squarely at the feet of Barleybix breakfast cereal and their contest to win an all-expenses paid trip to the Montreal Olympics. The Olympics were a particular passion for both of them. Every four years they would rent a TV and watch the events from dawn to dusk in grainy black and white. Frank’s father dreamed of one day attending this fabulous sporting event but for a single parent on the dole, this was unlikely to happen.

Barleybix changed all that. For one thing, they ate a lot of it. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not that Frank minded much but as his father was determined to win the grand prize and as the Olympics were still six months away, meal times became a little bland.

Every week his father sent off another entry and every week he bought seven new boxes of the cereal. Every day, Frank found Barleybix in his school lunchbox (chucked over the hedge at Mrs. Brown’s house on the corner before he reached the bus stop). Longing for a change of pace, Frank bought loaves of bread and chunks of cheese with his pocket money.

Of Hope and Tomato Plants

I have sad news. Lucinda has died. But before you break out the tissues, not to mention the thoughts and prayers,  I have to come clean and admit that Lucinda was a tomato plant; two tomato plants if we’re being precise but all one to me. Let’s back-peddle for a moment.

Lucinda was seeded during June 2019. Yes, very late for the season but I had a lot of work on and procrastination is my middle name. She took her own sweet time about germinating and didn’t put in a plant-like appearance until the end of August, when everything else on the balcony was ending its run. Perhaps she didn’t like the competition or the winds that sweep around our third floor apartment but she was spindly and stubborn, and growth was slow. Her first fruit appeared in early October, when I had given up hope of there ever being any and, given imminent Canadian frost, feared for her survival. As November loomed, I gave up and moved her inside, parking her beside the glass balcony door. She loved this new location and immediately grew up the bookcase behind her, flopping over at the top when she reached the ceiling.

Lucinda in her prime

Lucinda was a cherry tomato plant and she fruited abundantly all through the winter of 2019/20. As news of the gathering pandemic grew, she cheered us up with her bright baubles of juicy delishness. We went into lockdown a year ago this weekend. While trapped indoors for most of the six weeks, my first stop on my morning trip to the kitchen was to greet Lucinda, touch her leaves and make sure she was comfortable. In the true spirit of give and take, during those dark and dreary times, she would offer up another tiny tomato every few days.

The Red Cap

Jerome thought long an’ hard ‘bout wearin’ the red cap to his session with Charlie “The Sheep” Mouton, and his friend Sax.  He’d found it in a dumpster out back of the Piggly Wiggly. Brand new it looked. What would a feller be doin’ throwin’ away a good cap like that? This one had letters on. Jerome couldn’t read too good but he sure knew what they were. MAGA. Make ‘Merica Great Again. That’s what it was.  Jerome weren’t sure ‘bout that. Ain’t never been nothin’ great for him. Ain’t never been nothin’ great for anyone he knew, ‘cept these days folks was dyin’ faster and nothing done to take away the pain. Make ‘Merica Great Again. Well it sure weren’t that, no sir! He shoulda voted last time. Preacher said it was your duty. Jerome didn’t know ‘bout that either. See, them fellers calling theyselves Governors and such, they didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout the likes of Jerome and Charlie “The Sheep” and Sax. Them in their fancy cars and their fancy houses and their fancy plastic wives in their fancy clothes. Never knew a day’s hunger in all their born days. No sir! Jerome’s way of thinkin’ they were the real ignorant ones. They knew nothin’ ‘bout anything couldn’t be bought. They knew nothin’ ‘bout the simple things, like pickin’ bass and suckin’ back beers; your best friends blowin’ the sweet lovin’ Jesus outta their horns and all the folks gatherin’ ‘round on a Sat’day afternoon. Yes sir! That’s where the riches was. That’s where ‘Merica was great. No need to make it into anythin’ else. Them rich folks was just too dumb to see. There was riches everywhere, had nothin’ to do with money.

Jerome set the cap square on his head and looked in his scabby ol’ mirror. MAGA. Music and Gratitude ‘Merica! That’s what it’ll stand for now. All the rest of it belonged in that dumpster; all them liars and cheaters and grifters. Music was where it was at. Jerome grinned at himself, picked up his bass, locked his door and headed for Charlie’s.

Clo Carey – January 2021

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Clarissa’s Christmas Eve

Reblogging with a nod to the day that is in it! Merry Christmas!

Teetering on the Edge

Clarissa opened one eye and waited for the excitement to hit her. It was Christmas Eve. What delights awaited: The lighting of the tree, the sugar plums, the stockings hanging, Papa carrying her up to bed. But that was long ago and she was here and now. It was Christmas Eve and she was alone. She struggled to push off her covers and clamber out of bed. She was sure, if she could hear them, her old bones were rattling. Clarissa gritted her teeth. She would not be blue. Christmas Eve was her favourite day of the year but despite all, she could feel the black dog edging closer in the grovelling crawl that dogs adopt, thinking you can’t see what they’re up to.

“Be gone!” she said, turning her back on darkness and summoning happier thoughts. She would wear her blue empire waist dress with the puffed sleeves and…

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I See the Future: it is near

*this piece was originally written in October 2020. Re-posting again because, well…

Most of the crowd arrived last night, happy to sleep rough; secure a decent spot.  The dawn rain did little to dampen their enthusiasm as the weight of the last four tyrannical years lifted from their shoulders.

Now things would improve. 

Now there would be jobs and healthcare and housing and food and vaccines.

The ultra-rich would be taxed and the poor would not. Life would return to some semblance of normal, where people were kinder; death no longer stalked the streets.

The air might be filled with the stench of unwashed bodies but it crackled with excitement and ballooning hope. Rumors spread like wildfire as dignitary after dignitary was escorted to their seats.

“There’s the Canadian fella.”

“Is that Tom Cruise?”

“Lift me up, I can’t see.”

They made friends with strangers they’d never see again and laughed and joked; sharing booze and food.

“He’s coming”

“It’s too early.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Pass that joint.”

Campaign Camping

“I’m going campaigning, Grandad.”

“Camping are ya? It’s a mite parky for that in’t it?”

“No Grandad, campaigning.”

“Oh, yer joinin’ t’military then?”

“What’s military got to do with campaigning?”

“That’s what they do, armies, they have campaigns, war and such.”

“Oh that’s not like my campaign. My campaign is potstickical.”

“Potstickical?”

“Yeah, I’m going to a potstician.”

“A Potstician, eh?”

“Yeah like you see on the tele. I’m going to be on the tele and I’m going to stand up and shout at other people and have no manners.”

“Oh you’ll be going out on the stump then, I suppose.”

“I don’t think trees have anything to do with it, Grandad. You never see trees when they shout at people.”

“You’ll see ‘em if ya go campin’.”

“Campaigning, Grandad.  I’m going to run.”

“Where you runnin’ to?”

“I don’t know where ever they tell me.”

“Not many voters when yuh go campin’”

“Grandad!”

“Alright so what are you campaigning for then, if it’s potstickical?”

“I’m going to be President of the Not Very United States or Prime Minister of Not Very Great Britain.”

“I see, and ‘ow do you think you qualify for those jobs, then?”

“Well, Daddy said the President had the mental age of a six year old and Mummy said the Prime Minister had the mental of a six year old and I’m six nearly seven so I think I would be qua…qua…qualifilled for whichever job they wanted me for.”

“Yes, yes, I get your point. You’d certainly be a vast improvement on what we ‘ave now.”

“He’s trustworthy, loyal, obedient, cheerful, and all that, but he leans to the left.”

Clo Carey – October 2020

Blog challenge One Word Prompt “Campaign” @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=david%20brown%20for%20council-%20district%206%20region%20of%20queens #amwriting #elections2020 #politicalcommentary #southshorescribes

Brown Shoes

Brown shoes! Why had he worn brown shoes? He was playing Death for Chrissakes. Everyone knew that Death wore black shoes. Black suit, black shoes. It said so on the costume list. Every year the same. Sister Concertina would never forgive him; that mouth of hers bunched up like a sundried tomato. And the bishop would be all for excommunicating him. After all, it wasn’t often that a member of the congregation was allowed to audition for the annual production of Everyman. He had given it his best shot and he hadn’t got the part. Father Flynn did; pompous git that he was. Joe got to be understudy. But then Father Flynn had tied on one too many at the yacht club last Saturday night, went out in his yacht, and hadn’t been seen since. That had worked out well.

Now Joe had his big chance. Everyone said he was perfect for the part with his rangy frame and his lugubrious disposition. But brown shoes? He would have to perform in his socks. Yes, that would do the trick. No one would notice. Joe looked around the empty church. Where could he hide his shoes? Kicking them off, he nipped up to the altar and stuck them under the cloth. Sure there was a bit of a bulge but no one would notice. They’d all be focused on the play. He tiptoed down the steps and sat again, waiting. The church bell tolled seven times. Wait a minute, where is everyone? With panic rising, Joe checked his mobile. Mon, April 12. Shite, the performance was last night. Why had no one called him? He’d missed his big break, him and his brown shoes.

 

Clo Carey – May 2020

Blog challenge @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting

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