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How Skype has Changed Christmas
By Sue Leonard

Published in The Irish Examiner December 24th 2011

It was the week before Christmas. I was in the arrivals hall at Dublin airport, and all around me were scenes of joyful reunion. Couples embraced, and grandparents were in ecstasy as they met their brand new grandchildren.

I stood there, watching all this love, with tears streaming down my face. Collecting my man after a business trip, I so wished my eldest daughter, Josephine, would be stepping through those doors. But she wasn’t coming home. At 18, she was working as a Chalet Girl in France. Our brief, phone call on Christmas Day didn’t cheer us. She was upset, and hard at work in the kitchen. I was heartbroken.

Fast forward three years, and Josephine went off to Ecuador. It was a year out as part of her university course. She sent us a fax to say she’d arrived in Quito. And then we heard nothing, for three long weeks.

We sent faxes. And, finally, we rang the school where she was teaching English. They summoned her for us. We asked was she ok, and she said,
“Well I am now.” And told us she’d spent the best part of a week in hospital, on a drip, after eating dodgy ice-cream from the street.

That lack of communication would be unthinkable today. We would have heard about it on email. We’d have been getting constant texts. We’d probably have seen pictures of her attached to the drip on Facebook. Perhaps, in retrospect, our blissful ignorance was better.

Josephine will be with us for Christmas this year, along with her husband and children. But our second daughter, Lucinda, will be away; celebrating in the Rockies with her Canadian boyfriend.

She’s lived in Canada for ten years now. She’s sometimes here for Christmas, but when she’s not, we still see her. Thanks to Skype. We’ll get hold of her when we’ve finished Christmas Dinner and she’s just up to start her morning. She’ll show us her presents, and give us a glimpse of the snowy mountains outside. Best of all we’ll see that gorgeous smile. And we’ll know she’s with us in spirit.

Barbara Scully, from Cabinteely, has a love hate relationship with Skype. She loved being able to see her daughter Carla’s apartment in Perth, Australia, when she moved in last June. But there is, she has discovered, a downside too.

“My first mistake was to Skype from Carla’s old bedroom. She left it looking like a war zone. I tidied it up, rearranged it, painted it, and commandeered it as a room to write in. Carla noticed where I was and said, ‘show me what you’ve done.’ I showed her, and she said, ‘Most of my friend’s mothers will leave their bedrooms alone.’”

Barbara was heartbroken when Carla, 24, left for Australia.
“It’s an instinctual thing. It’s as if part of me has gone. Carla is such a home bird. I was a single mother for ten years, so there were just the two of us. And the longest she’d been away before, was three weeks in Irish College.”

Carla is in Australia with Paddy, her boyfriend of two years. They have great jobs, and share an apartment with another Irish couple.
“It’s a great opportunity for them, and if a fairy Godmother said, ‘You can have things back as they were,’ I wouldn’t, because I know she’s so happy.”

Barbara married fifteen years ago, and has two other daughters with her husband, Paul Sherwood. There’s Roisin, 13, and Mia, 11. They adore Skype.
“They love being able to see their sister, and show her the dog. That’s very important to them. We will, of course, Skype on Christmas Day. That’s important. But it’s formal. I don’t find Skype natural.

“I yearn to meet Carla for lunch. To have coffee with her, to be in her space and share her energy. If she was in Boston, or New York, I’d visit for a weekend. Perth is so far.”

Barbara prefers communicating by text – via Whatsapp.
“I love that. You text spontaneously. It’s more natural. There doesn’t have to be something big to say. I text as I go to bed, as she is getting up. I ask what she’s going to do for the day. We tic tac back and forwards and it’s natural banter. It’s an easy flow of conversation.”

Roisin and Mia keep up via Facebook. And Carla follows her mother’s activities via Twitter.
“She sometimes reads my blog, too.” Barbara’s blog, ‘From my Kitchen Table,’ can be viewed at http://barbarascully.blogspot.com

Monica McInerney, author of Lola’s Secret, comes from a huge, Australian family. There’s her mother, six brothers and sisters, more than a dozen nieces and nephews, and various sisters in law, and cousins.
“They’re dotted around Australia,” says Monica, who is based in Ireland, with her husband, John. Skype, for her, is a life saver.

“I’ll do two sessions of Skype at Christmas,” she says. “I’ll Skype on Christmas Eve to get them on Christmas morning. I’ll have sent presents to my nieces and nephews. Last year they opened them on Skype. I’d sent clothes and dress up, so I saw them wearing them.

“I have teenage nephews and nieces, and smaller ones. The little kids run backwards and forwards to their room, saying, ‘look at this?’ It’s chaos, but it’s like being in the living room.

“I love doing Skype with my mum. I love seeing the living room, and thinking, oh, there’s that vase! I notice the pile of books behind her, and get great comfort. It’s nice seeing their houses, as much as talking to them.

“On my sister’s 50th birthday last February, my brother set up a conference Skype call. There were all these separate boxes on the screen. It was like sitting round the kitchen table chatting. It was fantastic in theory, but it was mayhem. I was too busy watching the boxes to say anything much.”

Most of the real conversations happen on group emails.
“Today I woke to 23 family emails. There are whole conversations going on with various brothers and sisters butting in. It’s all wise cracking. My mother comes in now and again as the voice of reason. I join in at the end of their day. I love emailing nephews and nieces too, I love seeing the words they are using.”

Though she loves modern communication, Monica does have one worry.
“When I was nineteen I went to London. For two years I wrote weekly letters, but censored what I said. I had wild adventures, and chose the things I told about. With Skype and Text and Facebook, kids don’t get that freedom from their family. If parents don’t hear every few hours, they worry.”

Monica is looking forwards to spending Christmas with her husband’s family. But nothing quite beats seeing her own. In Those Faraday Girls, Monica wrote of a large family, who celebrated Christmas together in July.
Reading it, her family decided to follow suit. And next July, they’ll all congregate in a large rented house in Victoria, for their second July Christmas.
“It will be four days of games, and eating and fun. And no need to skype!”

© Sue Leonard. 2011.

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Mum of the Bride

2011-08-16T02:24:00.000-07:00

Mum of the Bride.
By Sue Leonard.
A version of this article was published in the Irish Examiner, on August 8th 2011.

On the eve of my youngest daughter’s wedding, the heaven’s opened. As the day progressed, it became dark and dank. We wondered could this, the wettest day of the year really be June? We prayed that the weather would clear.

And at four pm, as we drove to the church for the rehearsal, the rain lifted. Getting out of the car, the notes of Mozart’s Laudate Dominum drifted from the church. The groom’s sister was practising for the service, and moved to tears by her astonishing rendition, I relaxed.

We found the beautiful ancient church enhanced by the huge country style arrangements of flowers – supplied with such care by my son-in-law, and arranged by a close friend.

The church was full of family. The groom’s godfather was marrying the couple. One of his sons was playing the organ; the other was the best man. All but one of the bridesmaids were sisters or nieces, and the groom’s mum had made the cake. Even the photographer was a relation.

And what was my role? I helped choose the bride’s wedding dress; and cried when I saw her in it. I kept her calm when the dress failed to arrive even a month after it had been promised, hoping her fears that the shop was in trouble were, as they proved, unfounded. And I stopped her from panic buying a reserve dress.

I helped choose the music, playing every Ava Maria going, and cried when I heard it sung. I tested the food – the wine and the Prosecco – a process that involved imbibing several bottles, just to make sure.

We opened one while I watched every minute of the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton, studying every detail for the bride, who was hard at work. Someone had to check that Kate hadn’t copied my daughter’s dress, or chosen the same colour for the bridesmaids. My daughter was upset enough that they’d chosen the same hymns as she had.

“How dare they,” she’d texted, when the news was leaked the day before. “Especially when we chose them before they even got engaged.”

I enjoyed many lunches with the bride-to-be; and dinners with the couple – and his parents. We recommended the band – the incredible Wild Colonials from Greystones, who kept the floor full and rocking wildly, until they gave way to the disco after one.

And I shopped until I dropped for my outfit, buying three pairs of shoes before I was satisfied I’d found the perfect pair.

Mum of the Bride has become an industry, yet the role is now fairly nominal. Not like it once was. When I got engaged at nineteen, and married at twenty, it was assumed that my parents would host the day, organise it, and pay for everything. Although it was all about us, it was, in a sense, their party. Their chance to repay hospitality to friends and family. That our friends were included on the list was a happy bonus.

Forward to my eldest daughter’s wedding a decade ago, and things had moved on. We still hosted the day, and held it in a marquee at home; but this wedding was for the young. Close family all came – including all the favourite cousins, but the couple’s friends had preference over ours. We were at the helm of the organisational machine, but the bride had loads of input.

This time around things have shifted again. As the real hosts, the couple chose the venue, the menu, church, the theme and the guest list. We were there as a sounding board, ready to give advice, but only when we were asked for it.

That didn’t stop me worrying. Mum of bride horror stories haunted me. I remembered my second cousin’s wedding when the organist failed to show. Her walk up the aisle was announced by the tip tap of her high heels. I remembered the priest who forgot my best friend’s name – and that of her groom. Was it just coincidence that neither of those marriages survived?

I thought of the mums of the bride I know who were so wound up with organisation, that they couldn’t enjoy their daughter’s big day. And of the disasters. The cake woman who’d lost the order; the ivy, main decoration for a marquee, that shrivelled and died. Or worst of all, the bride who changed her mind within a week of her nuptials.

I know there’s no sense in worrying. And that the strive for perfection is neither necessary nor wise. How many brides, splurging massive sums, had their day ‘made’ by excesses like chocolate fountains or ice sculptures?

Weddings aren’t about such frivolity; they’re about love. And, as the grooms wonderful godfather said in his address, they’re about kinship. They’re about friends, and fun and family bonding.

Saturday 18th June started off sunny. Soon the house was bursting at the seams. Bridesmaids flicked through ‘Hello,’ as a flower girl ran around in a vest and striped tights. The conservatory was transformed into a beauty parlour as Sinead fixed hair, and Alyson performed miracles with make-up.

There were hours left to go – then, suddenly, only minutes. The flower girls were spinning in their fairy dresses, and the bride looked so achingly gorgeous that her father was struck speechless.

After a magical, meaningful service, we found warmth and sun. But, driving to Glendalough, the clouds darkened into a deluge of rain. The newly-weds had to abandon the 1926 open sided Delage driven by Dudley, and seek a dry refuge in the bridesmaids’ Mercedes.

We feared for the photos, but the weather cleared in the nick of time. One flower girl, 3 year old Daisy, had succumbed to sleep. The other, 4 year old Louise, kept going, and ended up dancing until the small hours.

I expected the bridegroom to speak well. He’s always been open. He asked our permission before popping the question, and sought my advice about the ring. But his outpouring of emotion expressing love for my daughter in front of 120 people, was pitched to perfection.

I loved the day- far more- I suspect, than a mum of the bride should. I couldn’t stop gazing at the bride. I was overwhelmed by her obvious happiness; and proud of her poise, and the way she looked after her friends.

I loved watching my mother, at 89, dance with her small great grandsons. I loved dancing with everyone – young and old – for five hours until the music finally died. I loved the spontaneous reels. I loved watching my gorgeous niece, Kate, fight for the bouquet; just, she said, to freak out her boyfriend!

I loved the whole weekend. The dinner for 30 on Friday night. The walk around Glendalough Lake on Sunday morning, and the foray afterwards to the pub. I loved the bonding. The happiness. And yes, the kinship.

TIPS FOR A MUM OF THE BRIDE
• This is your daughter’s day. You can offer advice, help and money, but her wishes are paramount.
• Your job is to welcome the groom, and his parents and siblings, into your family. Get to know them all as soon as you can.
• Be clear about what you can and can’t do. Offer your services, but don’t be hurt if she turns you down.
• Help the bride by always being there for her to talk to. Take her out to lunch or to a spa so that you can discuss the wedding in a relaxing environment.
• Get an outfit that you, and she are happy with. And source it early so that your look is not part of the last minute panic.
• Remember to relax and enjoy the day.

© Sue Leonard. 2011.

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Living with OCD.

2011-07-30T13:17:00.000-07:00

Living with OCD
By Sue Leonard
Published in Feelgood, The Irish Examiner.
3rd June 2011

Julia Hennessy radiates confidence. In her fifties, the mum of three daughters from Bray looks the picture of health. Yet she is coping with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a condition that, twenty years ago, took over her life.

“I would dread going into the shower, because it would be a ritual,” says Julia. “Washing would take me a long, long time. I couldn’t plan activities, or make appointments. I had to have everything clean and orderly.”

There are different types of OCD, but for Julia, it was a fear of germs.
“I’d have to Hoover the house over and over again. It took me four hours. I could change my baby’s nappy, but then I’d wonder, did I contaminate the couch, or the fireplace? I’d clean it, then clean it again.

“I was terrified of sitting on the DART. I’d go home and change all my clothes. I’d have to clean the wheels of the buggy. And every time I went to the hairdresser, she’d do a lovely job, but I’d go home and wash my hair. I didn’t trust the brushes.”

For Julia, OCD crept up gradually.
“When I was 12 an uncle I really admired committed suicide. After his death I started doing everything twice. I’d go up one step, go down and go up again. I’d walk a line in the street, go back, and walk it again. Mum took me to a psychologist, and within a month I was cured.”

After school, Julia lacked confidence. Failing to become an art teacher, she ended up working in an office.
“I didn’t enjoy it. I managed a shop as well. But I was made redundant three times. It knocked my confidence.”

In the early seventies, Julia’s father contracted Parkinson’s disease.
“I got married, then my father died. Then my mother got cancer and she died. All that happened within the first eighteen months of my marriage.

“I’d go down to help mum dress or feed my father. And one morning she rang and said, ‘can you come, your father has fallen.’ I was making a batch of Apple Tarts – I was trying to prove I was a good wife – and I’m ashamed to say I cleaned up all the flour before I went down. The impulse to clean was overwhelming.”

After her mother’s death, Julia admitted she had a problem. Her GP sent her to a psychiatrist who prescribed antidepressants.
“They took the edge off the problem. I saw a psychologist too. He convinced me I’d be ok to have children.”

Julia had her first two daughters, but her symptoms got worse. She saw a private psychiatrist and joined a therapy group, but she wasn’t coping.
“I felt desperate. And I went to see the local parish priest. I told him about the rituals. He was wonderful. He said, ‘there’s a local group called Recovery. Give them a try.’”

Based on the teachings of the late Abraham Lowe, Recovery tackles symptoms of mental illness, giving people tools to deal with life. Based on cognitive behavioural therapy, Recovery is respected by many doctors.

Professor Patricia Casey has referred numerous patients.
“It’s excellent for patients with bipolar disorder and anxiety, as well as for OCD,” she says. “The members are very supportive, and it helps people deal with their day to day problems.”

Julia says Recovery saved her.
“From the first meeting I felt cared for,” she says. “June and Anne, in particular were such a support. People give examples of how Recovery helped them with various situations, and the members then comment. I was amazed at the things people suffered from, and by the answers that were given. I came away thinking, ‘is it that easy?’

It took time for Julia to learn the system, but twenty-one years on, she’s taken various postgraduate courses; she takes marriage preparation classes for ACCORD, and is assistant leader of the Bray group of Recovery. All thing she could never have contemplated.

“I still have OCD,” she says. “If I’m out, I won’t use a toilet. I still obsess about crumbs in the kitchen, but now I cope with it. I can shake hands with someone who has used a tissue and not rush to wash my hands.”

Dr Michael McDonagh, consultant psychiatrist at St Patrick’s Hospital, Dublin, says that Cognitive Behavioural Therapy is his preferred treatment.
“It achieves the best long term results,” he says. “Someone with OCD on serotonin based antidepressants, has a 90pc rate of relapse if they come off them. CBT is effective by itself, or given with serotonin.

“2 to 4 pc of the population have OCD,” he says. “That number isn’t increasing, but more sufferers are now seeking treatment.”

SYMPTOMS OF OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER

• Compulsions include counting, repeating words of actions, like checking locks or hand washing.
• Arranging things according to rigid rules.
• These behaviours are done to prevent or decrease anxiety.
• When severe, symptoms significantly interfere with a sufferer’s daily life.
• If you suffer symptoms, see your doctor.

FOR MORE INFORMATION.

Recovery International – www.recovery-inc-ireland.ie 01 626 0775.
OCD Ireland – www.ocdireland.org.
OCD support Group. (St Patrick’s Hospital.) 01 249 3333.

Sue Leonard is the author of Keys to the Cage. How People Cope With Depression. New Island 2010. (Includes a chapter on the Recovery method of mind training.)
Copyright. Sue Leonard. 2011.

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Fatherhood Through the Decades.

2011-06-17T05:23:00.000-07:00

Fatherhood Through the Decades
By Sue Leonard
Pubished as the Cover Story in the Irish Examienr. June 17th 2011.

Once the role of a father was clear. He’d pace the floor whilst his wife gave birth; he’d get legless ‘wetting the baby’s head’ with his pals – and from then on, he’d be the main provider, and, possibly, the disciplinarian. The hands on stuff – the nappy changing, feeding and day to day care would be left in the capable hands of his wife.

How that has changed! Dads are now expected to muck in with all the baby-care; with the provision of paternity and parental leave there’s no excuse for them not to. There’s been more blurring of roles still, with the onset of the recession. Unemployment means that many dads are now the chief carer.

Is it difficult defining fatherhood when life was so different for their own dad’s? And what are the main challenges for dads today? We talk to fathers from five different decades.

DAD IN HIS TWENTIES. Mark Garbutt. 29. Dad to Leon, 8, and Kayla, 4.

Mark was a happy go lucky 21 year old when his 19 year old girlfriend, Sharon became pregnant. At the start parenthood was a challenge for him, but he’s now happier with his life, than he’s ever been.

“I missed out on going off and doing my own thing like other 21 year olds, but it never really bothered me. You just get on with life.”

Mark has lost touch with most of his old friends, but he’s made a lot of new ones through the Educate Together school in Lusk.
“I’m the youngest dad there, but we’ve grown up now and do grown up things. We go for nights out with other parents, and to dinner in each other’s houses.”

Senior Contractor for an electrical company for the past ten years, life has been busy. But Mark has always been a hands on dad, even helping out with the night time feeds.

“On week days Sharon would do them, because I left for work at 6.45 am, but I’d take over on Friday and Saturday nights.”

Mark’s dad wasn’t hands on – but he remembers playing in the park with him. And he loves hanging out with Leon and Kayla.
“On Sundays we’ll do something as a family. We’ll go to the beach, or to Malahide Park. We have a great time. The best thing about being a young dad is the energy I have,” he says.

• My advice is to talk things through when the baby is small. The first six to nine months are the hardest time. It’s important to work things out.

DAD IN HIS THIRTIES. Seán Óg Ó Duinnín. 36. Dad to Siún 2 ½.

Married at 24 to Ciara, Seán, from Macroom, hoped he’d be a young father. But it didn’t happen. So when Ciara finally became pregnant, the couple were overjoyed.

“Siún was born in December, 2008. She and Ciara came home on Christmas day and we sank into this groove of domestic bliss. We were so happy.”

But when Siún was nine and half weeks old, tragedy struck. Leaving a friend’s house, Ciara collapsed and died – from sudden adult death. Devastated, Seán struggled to cope, and now has the help of Zara, a German au pair girl.

Life is challenging. Principal of a secondary school, work is busier now than it was a decade ago. But Seán relishes his time with Siún.
“She keeps me going. I come home and she runs into my arms. Like her mother, she’s such fun. I love socialising with her. I love taking her out for lunch or a coffee.”

Seán’s father was 50 when he was born. He didn’t change nappies, but he was a born entertainer.
“He was a musician and story teller. I’d go everywhere with him. We played at weddings from the time I was 11. He spoke to us in Irish. I want to hand the music and the Irish on to Siún.

“Fatherhood has changed me. Before, I didn’t know what worry was. But being Siún’s father is the most important thing I will ever do.”

• My advice is to give unconditional love. But also to fit your child around your life. Siún is the centre of my world, but I don’t pander to her.

DAD IN HIS FORTIES. Rodrigo Lara. 41. Dad to Thomas, 8, Max, 6 and Daisy, 3.

From the time Rodrigo married Josephine his life changed. He moved from Ecuador to Ireland, so had a new culture, a new job – importing flowers – and in 2002, a new baby.
“Having a baby was completely different to anything I could imagine,” he says. “Just seeing this new person who is part of your life. Every smile, or movement of his hand made us so happy.”

Rodrigo thinks 34 was an ideal age to become a father.
“You’ve learned a lot of things and are able to transmit them, and you still have the energy to play football with them. I have plenty to give – and am able to provide what they expect from a dad.”

“My father wasn’t around much. He worked away. My grandfather lived with us. He was the kindest nicest man, but my mother was like a close friend. I could talk to her about anything, and she was always there for me. I’d like to be like that for my children.

“I love Saturdays. We have pancakes and the children help to prepare them. Then we go to our allotment for a while, and maybe have a picnic there. After that we’ll go for a walk, and hopefully find a playground.

“The main challenge for me was learning patience. I think I’ve learned it as the years have gone on. And I worry about providing for the children in the recession.”

• My advice is to be involved in your children’s lives. And to plan your life around theirs.

DAD IN HIS FIFTIES. Carlo Gébler. 56. Dad to India-Rose, 29, Jack 24, Finn, 20, Georgia 16, and Ewan 13.

Author Carlo Gébler had a famously difficult relationship with his father, Ernest.
“I was aware that my father was permanently irritated by me. I never had a conversation with him about anything meaningful,” says Carlo, on the phone from his house near Enniskillen in Northern Ireland.

With a fractured childhood; Carlo’s mother Edna O’Brien, left the family home when he was 7, and didn’t get full custody for seven years, Carlo had no good male role model. So he has learned his parenting skills from his wife.

“We have a life of permanent domestic sharing,” says Carlo. “My main role now is as a chauffeur to the children. I write in my spare time!”

Have the challenges changed with the years?
“I’m a lot more tired now. I am so tired, but the main difference is that at 26 I knew nothing. I now look at Georgia going to a party and feel a terrible stab of anxiety. I don’t worry about her safety, but I despair of the world she’s inheriting. And I worry about the heartache and pain she’ll have to go through. I just want my children to be happy.”

“I love talking to my children,” says Carlo. “That, and listening to them play an instrument. ”

• My advice to fathers is to enjoy your children in the moment. And read to your children. My children know if they ask for a book they will get it straight away. They’ll be denied a McDonalds, but a book? Never!

DAD IN HIS SIXTIES. Howard Campbell. 65. Dad to five grown children and to Ruadhan 12, and Caoilfhionn 9.

Howard Campbell had two families; one in his twenties; the other in his fifties.
“My first five children had left home when my wife became ill and died,” says Howard, a retired doctor from Kilkenny. “When I met Emer, who was still young enough to have children, I was open to the idea. I can’t imagine not being a father, and the second time was even more enriching than the first,”

Although Howard was more of a hands-on father than his father had been, in his twenties he was busy with his career as a General Practitioner. When his second family arrived, he retrained as a psychiatrist and worked part-time.

“And now I’m retired, and have become the main carer. I do nearly all the cooking and looking after the children, because my wife is working. People have said I’m crazy but I really enjoy cooking. And the children are quite self-sufficient. It’s mostly a matter of driving them everywhere, and I did that with my first family too.

“The main challenge is the lack of energy I now have; and the main difference, is that my peers no longer have children.

“I enjoy watching television with the girls, and especially cookery programmes. The favourite in Jamie Oliver. And I enjoy walking in the country with them.

• My advice is to accept that they’re you’re not as physically resilient as you were. I would urge fathers to retire, if they have the wherewithal. Then you’re more available to your children.

Copyright. Sue Leonard. 2011.

Douglas Kennedy. Life can only be understood backwards | Irish Examiner

2011-06-17T05:17:00.000-07:00

Life can only be understood backwards | Irish Examiner

Beginner’s Pluck: Debbie Thomas | Irish Examiner

2011-06-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

Beginner’s Pluck: Debbie Thomas | Irish Examiner

2011-06-03T15:08:00.000-07:00

Beginner’s Pluck: Debbie Thomas | Irish Examiner

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Sarah Harte | Irish Examiner

2011-05-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Sarah Harte | Irish Examiner

Review. Daughters in Law. Joanna Trollope

2011-05-11T19:30:00.000-07:00

Daughters in Law by Joanna Trollope
Published by Doubleday at 14.99. Kindle approx €7.
Reviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published in The Irish Examiner, May 7th 2011.

Joanna Trollope’s sixteenth contemporary novel starts with a wedding. Rachel’s third and final single son is marrying, and she’s feeling unsettled. A true matriarch, she’s, so far, had it easy.

Edward is married to Sigi, from Sweden, so her parents are out of the picture. As for Petra, Ralph’s wife, she’s virtually an orphan, and was loved by Rachel from the time her artist husband Anthony, discovered Petra’s talent.

The new bride, Charlotte, although pretty and sweet, is to prove a lot less malleable. Rachel finds her control slipping and she doesn’t like it.
‘The mother’s mother,’ Charlotte tells her husband Luke, ‘is the first grandmother. That’s how it works.’

Charlotte’s pregnancy causes the first rift, but it’s dreamy Petra who causes the most unrest. The family rocks on its axis. Will they manage to find a satisfactory resolution?

All this is familiar territory to Trollope. She is often dismissed, and her books described as Aga sagas. But whist they are enjoyable, and are perfect for holiday reading, this view is misguided. Trollope writes eloquently, and she has deep insight into the issues she explores.

The characters are wonderful too. They’re believable, and they develop in a satisfyingle way. Her books are generally about female dilemmas, yet her male characters are equally well observed.

Trollope’s special talent, though, is for getting into the minds of children. Nobody who read her ninth novel, Other People’s Children, a cautionary tale about the devastation divorce can bring, could be in any doubt of that. And in this book, her depiction of the solemn nine year old, half Swedish Mariella, is nothing short of masterly. Readers will love her. The scenes with Petra’s small boys are spot on too.

The setting of Suffolk, with its stony beaches and rich bird life is a character in itself. Anthony is famous for his portraits of birds, and Petra shares his passion. The reader feels absorbed into this world.

Trollope has covered many issues in her time. She’s dealt with adoption, and more recently, with inheritance. This one, although principally about the mother-in-law, daughter-in –law dynamic, actually covers much more. Using that issue as a kick off point, Trollope explores a time of change in all her characters’ lives.

Dismantling the various relationships, she writes about the empty nest; about birth order; about power and the loss of it; and about the need to adapt to one’s changing life circumstances.

Whilst Rachel struggles to come to terms with her lack of a role, Petra discovers life is more than about being true to herself. The ice maiden, Sigi, mellows into wisdom, and her husband Edward, learns to share family responsibility.

The characters constantly surprise, and that’s what makes this novel such a satisfying read. It’s one of her best yet. Anyone who still dismisses Trollope as queen of the Aga saga should think again. Read, enjoy, and learn.

© Sue Leonard. 2011.

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Amanda Brobyn | Irish Examiner

2011-05-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Amanda Brobyn | Irish Examiner

Interview with Anne Enright

2011-04-22T20:46:00.000-07:00

I do think writing is about desire...it’s an emotion, a movement, a want | Irish Examiner

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Paul Soye | Irish Examiner

2011-04-16T03:58:00.000-07:00

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Paul Soye | Irish Examiner

Justin Cartwright

2011-04-16T03:46:00.000-07:00

Observant outsider brings charm and trouble to old Etonian tribe | Irish Examiner

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Laura Jane Cassidy | Irish Examiner

2011-04-09T07:55:00.000-07:00

BEGINNER’S PLUCK: Laura Jane Cassidy | Irish Examiner

Review. The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. Amy Bender

2011-04-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

A taste of more | Irish Examiner

Review. Ciara Geraghty

2011-04-09T07:43:00.000-07:00

Finding Mr Flood by Ciara Geraghty
Published by Hachette at €17.50
Reviewed by Sue Leonard.

A shorter version published in The Irish Examiner. April 9th 2011.

Ciara Geraghty leapt to prominence with her first novel, Saving Grace. Her writing, combining humour with a tincture of darkness got her compared to Marian Keyes. I adored that book, and though I was less impressed with the follow up, I was keen to see what Ciara would come up with next.

Finding Mr Flood opens with a night time phone call. This is followed by a dash to hospital, because there’s a kidney available for twenty something Angel. She’s a beauty who, in spite of her illness, lives life to the full. But when the kidney proves a mismatch, all that changes.

Convinced a kidney won’t come in time to save her, Angel sinks into a torpor. Retreating to her room, she ditches her adoring man, whilst her sister Dara watches helplessly.

Dara is the star of this book, and she couldn’t be further from the typical chick lit heroine. There are no designer clothes for Dara – she lives in baggy tracksuits. There’s no flash job, or glamorous lifestyle, either. As for self-esteem- Dara wouldn’t even recognise it. And she’s not only more believable because of these flaws; she’s a damn sight more lovable too.

Dara’s life had an unfortunate start. Her father went out for cigarettes just days before she was born, and he never returned. Dara has always blamed herself. Mr Flood is rarely mentioned in the household, but realising her father’s kidney could save the sister she adores, Dara sets out to find Mr Flood. She hires Stanley Flinter, a disorganised, but delightful private detective to help her.

Readers will love taking this journey with Dara. It’ll take them through the seediest areas in Ireland and England, but give them glamour in Paris. It’ll take them through emotional highs and lows, as Dara despairs of being able to help her sister.

There’s a wonderfully eccentric cast of characters in Dara’s inner circle. Characters like Anya and Tintin, who work in the dog pound with her. There’s Mrs Pettigrew- the sherry drinking old dear who lives next door to the Floods. She’s a recluse – and is terrified to leave the house, but she enjoys poking people, and exchanging tequila slammers on Facebook.

Then there are the dogs. Lots of them. Clouseau, Stanley Flinter’s hound, is as adorable as he’s uncontrollable. But Dara proves his match. There’s Edward, belonging to Mrs Pettigrew, and then there’s Lucky; badly named, because he’s surely the dog least likely to be homed that ever appeared in the pound.

Not all the characters are lovable. The detached Mrs Flood has failed Dara; but she’s nowhere near as bad as Ian Harte. Dara’s devious boyfriend is selfish beyond belief. Then there’s Cora, Stanley’s beautiful lost love, who ditched him for his eldest brother. All add colour, tension, and humour.

This 500 plus page doorstopper flows beautifully from start to finish. The writing never flags, and there’s humour bubbling through the pages. More importantly, the characters retain their authenticity.

So often, reading books in this genre, a reader can feel the hand of the author, as she manipulates the characters to serve the plot. With this book, Geraghty never falls into that trap. The characters develop – and as they do so, the plot moves on.

Finding Mr Flood is possibly the best book in this genre I have ever read. And yes, I’m including the books by that queen of the genre Marian Keyes. When I finished reading it, I missed the company of her eclectic characters. Ciara Geraghty has arrived.

Ends

Review. Your Voice in my Head. Emma Forrest

2011-04-01T20:14:00.000-07:00

Your Voice in my Head
By Emma Forrest
Published by Bloomsbury at €19.80
Reviewed by Sue Leonard.

What’s your favourite way to spend at evening at home with the one you love? Do you watch a movie, perhaps, or listen quietly to music? Emma Forrest, a Los Angeles based writer, journalist and socialite enjoyed her evenings with Simon, in a rather more unusual way.

‘We cut together, several times,’ she recounts in her searingly honest memoir. And we’re talking bodies here. And the slashing of stomachs, thighs and arms. ‘Sometimes he goes too far,’ she writes. ‘Sometimes I do.’
Emma Forrest is, by any account a success. She had a column on the Sunday Times at sixteen. And by 21 was living the high life in New York, interviewing the famous and the great. She wrote two novels. So why, then, does she make a very real attempt to end her life?

Because, it seems, that sheen of success covers a mass of insecurity. Emma has been unhappy since she was fifteen. It’s not only the cutting. She’s bulimic too, and thinks constantly of killing herself. She attracts drama, and is compelled to mix with those who will cause her most pain.

Emma met a psychiatrist, Dr R, when she was at her very worst. And he saved her life. He listened. He made her understand her addiction to love, sex and the dangerous, and he told her, constantly, that she would be ok. He told her so convincingly, that she could only believe.

Your Voice in my Head charts Emma’s encounters with the great Dr R. And when he dies, without first warning her that he’s far from well, she feels betrayed. Needing to know why, she meets his widow; she encounters other patients; patients who suffered all manner of conditions, who admired the doctor just as much as she. All say that he saved their life.

The memoir is intended to be a tribute to Dr R. But it’s much more than that. It charts Emma’s high profile, but ultimately doomed relationship with our own Colin Farrell. (Referred to as GH – short for Gypsy Husband.) It includes an encounter with Monica Lewinski, who asks Emma for some diet-tips.
It’s a tough read at times. Even when Emma is ‘better,’ she thinks of suicide every day. ‘But as something softer, more like a scent.’ Perhaps more worrying, is her ‘romantic dream.’

‘Some people look into the future and imagine themselves at their daughter’s wedding. I always had this romantic dream, that when my daughter had a breakdown, I’d go uptown to see Dr R.’

Like many agony memoirs, this one is utterly self-indulgent. I suppose that’s inevitable, given that, in such extreme depression, sufferers have little room in their brain for empathy with others.

In portraying madness as somehow normal, I can’t decide whether this book is dangerous to other sufferers, or helpful in lifting the stigma. Whichever, it’s a surprisingly enjoyable read. Emma writes like a dream. Humour bubbles through the pain, and her portraits of her family are a delight.

Even in this, though, Emma has an unusual take. She describes her first abortion as one of the most touching experiences of her life. Because it brought everyone together from her family to her friends. And no, she doesn’t express even a tincture of remorse, or regret.

By the close, Emma’s in pretty good shape. She’s fallen out of love with madness, and has come to terms with the death of Dr R.

Sue Leonard is the author of Keys to the Cage. How people cope with depression. New Island. 2010.
Ends.

Howard Jacobson. December 2010

2011-04-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

Howard Jacobson
Interviewed by Sue Leonard

Howard Jacobson is in ebullient mood. He’s extolling the merits of Dublin’s Brooke’s Hotel, saying it’s a far cry from the dump he was put up in on his last visit to Dublin, in 2005.

“I vowed, then, I’d never come back to Ireland,” he says, laughing.
Jacobson isn’t averse to changing his mind. He’s denounced the Man Booker Prize over the years, both for the ‘light’ quality of some of the winning books, and for the lack of literary prowess of some of the judging panels. But he admits with élan that his win this year, at 68, after decades of waiting, has, quite simply, changed his life. And he couldn’t be more pleased.

“It changes everything,” he says. “It changes your name and it changes your previous books. It’s like a vindication really. I was getting very sick of being described as an underrated writer. I was perfectly well known but there was this question mark.

“The Finkler Question,’ will probably end up selling more copies worldwide than all my other books put together. It’s sold to 23 countries so far. It’s sold to China. And to Israel, who, until now, have considered my books too Jewish.”
Jacobson is often compared to Philip Roth – and his literary comic-tragedies do have echoes of the American master, but once, in a fit of pique, Jacobson said he thought of himself more as a Jewish Jane Austen.

“I was bored with the comparison,” he says now. “I consider Roth the greatest living writer, but I’ve studied and taught English Literature all over the world. I’m a Dickens man; a George Eliot and Johnson man.

“A clever American once said, ‘what you are actually is Philip Roth and Jane Austen’s love child.” He smiles fondly. “I quite like that.”
Although fascinated with the Jewish faith in all its connotations, Jacobson wasn’t brought up as an orthodox Jew.

“Far from it. I didn’t know what faith was, and for a long time, I wasn’t interested in it. At Cambridge I would entertain gentile friends with Yiddish isms, but I got on with the business of being English and teaching literature.”
He didn’t mean his first novel to explore the Jewish faith, either. But writing a comic novel, he realised making his hero Jewish could emphasise his feeling of being on the outside of things. It helped the joke.

He’s written about it extensively ever since. Yet he feels as much of an outsider in the faith now, as he did when he was at Cambridge.

In ‘The Finkler Question,’ Julian Treslove, an ex BBC man, who has a chequered history with women, examines his friendship with his old school friend, the Jewish philosopher Sam Finkler, and their one time teacher, Libor. Watching his two friends cope with the death of their wives, Treslove turns from having a suspicion of Jewishness, to an envy of his friends religion. He starts to enmesh himself in the traditions, acquiring a Jewish girlfriend along the way.

“I can’t remember how that idea came about, but it is, I think, what makes the book work. It has made the Jewish stuff much more accessible to non-Jewish readers. It’s an easy road in.”
It’s an astonishing book; mesmerising, inestimably sad, yet laugh out loud funny. How did Jacobson get the idea for the book?

“I’m worried about getting old,” he says. “A lot of my friends have died. I’m worried about how I would cope with a really close loss, and with my own, when the death sentence comes. It could be tomorrow and I’m extremely scared. I have a fear of lying in the earth and a fear of burning. And I’ve no faith to help me out.

“I wanted to explore that, but I didn’t know how. Then two things happened. I was walking home from having dinner with friends when I saw a shadow in a doorway. It was a woman and I thought she was going to attack me. I wondered how I would protect myself – would I have the strength to? I decided to play with that.

“At the same time I was introduced to a man of 90 who had just lost his wife. He spoke with immense feeling about a woman he had loved for sixty years and made it sound such a desolating experience that you find yourself asking the questions that Julian Treslove asked Libor. Is it better never to have loved so much and have such a loss, or is it wonderful to have had that great love?

“He told me he’d had a piano teacher in so he could learn his wife’s favourite pieces. He then filled the house with her music. I stole that story, with permission, from him.”

Jacobson raises serious issues. He wrote the book when there was a backlash about the atrocities in Gaza. Jews in London were worried that this political issue would lead to Jew hating.

“There was an atmosphere of paranoia at the time. Jews were worried.”
The real strength of the book for me, though, was the enlightening way he describes the friendship between the men.

“I like to say the unsay able about men.” he says with a chuckle. “And their unreliability towards one another, their envy of one another, and the dirty tricks they play on each other. What’s your definition of a friend?” he quips. “It’s someone who sleeps with your wife. And what is a good friend? Someone who sleeps with her twice and buys her flowers.”

Jacobson is now married for the third and final time. He met Penny when she produced a programme for him at the BBC. His wives, he says, were all loyal and loving.
“They were better wives to me than I was husbands to them. But I did buy Penny a Mulberry handbag when The Finkler Question got onto the shortlist,” he muses.
The Booker was never an ambition.

“My aim was to write good novels that people read. I always wrote good novels. I now have readers and people like the books so that is fine.”
So he’s happy?

He nods. “But don’t say it! I’m like Treslove. I think if I go out walking I’ll bump into those pillars. I’ll slip on the ice, tumble into the traffic, and that will be the end of me. I have that fear, and I have it more when something good happens to me. Because God is spiteful, and will pay you back with one hand what he has given you with another. So, yes I feel life is very good, but I mustn’t say so.”

The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson is published by Bloomsbury at €17.67.

Life of a cabin Crew

2011-03-19T06:39:00.000-07:00

Being a cabin-crew mum just got harder

As the Aer Lingus roster dispute rumbles on, Sue Leonard meets the flight attendants struggling to juggle work and family life

By Sue Leonard

Wednesday February 02 2011

Drunk football fans; women with panic attacks; screaming babies and belligerent business men... all feature in the working life of an aeroplane cabin crew. Factor in delays and cancellations, turbulence and the threat of terrorism, and it's clear that life in the air is far from glamorous.

What if, on top of all of that, you were a mum? How would you sort out your childcare? It's tough enough for the Aer Lingus crew as it is; but the proposed new rosters will make a work life balance almost impossible to negotiate.

"Childcare is a definite issue," says Niall Shanahan from the union IMPACT. "The new rosters are anti-family and unnecessary.

"Duties can be changed by three hours with little notice," says Shanahan. "You could arrive for duty at 7am to be told you are on a different flight departing up to three hours later. A nightmare if you have kids.

"Duties can be changed by up to four hours the day before the rostered shift. Weekends are affected too. All this is unacceptable."

Michael O'Leary, CEO of Ryanair has spoken out in favour of Aer Lingus management. He says that his cabin crew work 19 flight-hour weeks, and yet, he says, there is no shortage of applications.

O'Leary is a known hard taskmaster, but what is it like to work for an airline abroad?

Alex Humphries worked as a flight attendant for six and a half years. Coming from the rat-race in London, she decided for a complete career change. She stopped flying last year when she moved to Italy with her partner, a pilot, and is now expecting her first baby.

"I worked for easyJet, then left and worked long haul for Qantas for 18 months. Then I went back to easyJet again. Shift working was a problem for my social life. I struggled to see my close friends who worked from nine to five. I'd be working weekends, and away for five to six days.

"My partner is a pilot; some weeks we'd only see each other for an hour or so. Flying paid havoc with my body clock, and my eating habits went down the drain. Flying, you often don't have time to look after yourself.

'The lifestyle was much worse for mothers. They found it very difficult, and there was a lot of sickness as well. They tended to rely on brothers, sisters, and parents. Some mums fly for 20 to 30 years. I really don't know how they do it."

Looking at the issues faced by Aer Lingus cabin crew, Alex has some sympathy.

But she says you expect unpredictability in the airline business.

"At easyJet we were on report. You'd turn up an hour before your flight, and find you were assigned a completely different route.

"Instead of flying to Madrid, which was an hour and a half there -- so three hours there and back, you'd fly to Athens which was three and a half hours -- so seven hours there and back."

She didn't get meal breaks with easyJet -- but there was usually time to grab something mid-flight.

"At easyJet we always had one weekend off a month," she says, "And at Qantas we had one every eight weeks. But airlines are having to cut costs.

"There's more competition now and the cost of fuel is up. It's tough, but it's just the way the industry works."

- Sue Leonard

Irish Independent

Keys to The Cage. Reviewed by Mary Malone.

2011-03-18T08:28:00.000-07:00

This review appeared in the Evening Echo.

Keys to the Cage – How people cope with depression
By Sue Leonard
Published by New Island
Price €12.99
Mary Malone

Renowned freelance journalist, Sue Leonard, has delved into the world of depression from the perspective of real life sufferers in her captivating book, Keys to the Cage. Years of experience interviewing people has added a special quality to each chapter, with the author’s sensitive approach making the individual stories accessible to all readers, particularly those reaching out for support.

Determined to break the silence on depression – an illness that is frequently misunderstood– Sue has selected fourteen Irish people of a variety of ages to share their experience of living with depression. Each participant volunteers ‘things that helped’ and ‘things that didn’t help’ in an open and honest fashion, their ultimate aim being to help others who continue to suffer in silence.

Unlike a physical condition with visible cuts and bruises, depression – regardless of the form it arrives in, panic attacks, anxiety, despair – is frequently suffered in silence and fear. Every problem becomes a crisis, thoughts spiraling in a loop of despair. The sufferer is stuck in an altered world where they believe nobody understands, not even the people who love them. Very often, their loved ones are equally scared and helpless and at their wits end about how they should or could help.

29-year-old Emma is a scientist at Trinity College, in love with life. Looking at her now, nobody would ever guess that six years ago she suffered a mental breakdown and attempted suicide. Irked by those who consider suicide selfish, she explains how she genuinely believed that removing herself from life would be doing everybody a favour. But with the help of an understanding GP, a combination of drug therapy, cognitive behaviour therapy, internet discussion sites and support from friends Emma overcame her darkness. She advises anyone with depression to trust those who say you will get better. This is a snippet from one person’s story.

Depending on whose story is being told, the advice varies. Yet it’s very apparent that one size does not fit all. Other suggested sources of help include composing and playing music, religion, dancing, healthy eating, writing and sport. The detail on one person’s list of helpful items may well be on another’s list of ‘what didn’t help’.

But one strong theme runs through every story – there is help available for those brave enough to reach out and ask (see a selection of recommended websites below). There’s no doubt that Keys To The Cage will touch every reader, just as depression touches the majority of Irish families in some form or other.

www.aware.ie , www.grow.ie, www.recovery-inc-ireland.ie , www.samaritans.org , www.suicideorsurvive.ie , www.pnd.ie www.imba.ie

Kathy Reichs

2011-03-12T12:29:00.000-08:00

Down to the bare bones | Irish Examiner

Review. Ella Griffin

2011-03-12T12:27:00.000-08:00

Escape the reality | Irish Examiner

Elizabeth Day

2011-03-12T12:21:00.000-08:00

The dark side of Day | Irish Examiner

Denise Deegan Review

2011-03-12T12:17:00.000-08:00

Smells like teen spirit | Irish Examiner

Abbie Taylor

2011-03-12T12:08:00.000-08:00

Diagnosis Murder? | Irish Examiner

Review. Martina Reilly

2011-01-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

Giving light to darkness
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, January 08, 2011

A Moment Like Forever
Martina Reilly
Sphere; €15.99

MAEVE BINCHY started it. Then came Patricia Scanlon, Cathy Kelly, Sheila O’Flanagan, and the queen of them all, Marian Keyes. The explosion of Irish women writers since the early 90s has been nothing less than extraordinary. Yet few of the successors to those early big names have managed to sustain stardom in their field.

Martina Reilly has been on the scene since 1997, when, as Martina Murphy, she wrote prize winning books for teenagers. In 2001, she turned to adult fiction, changing her name to Tina Reilly. Eleven books on, with an Impact long listing, and another change of name, she’s writing consistently engaging books which make you think as well as laugh.

A Moment Like Forever starts with a fire. Andrea, known as Andy, lives alone with her ferociously dominant cat, Baz. She has mixed feelings when her sister Kate, a DJ who discusses sex on a Dublin radio show, asks if she and her boyfriend can move in whilst their gutted flat is renovated. Her solitary life suits her; she works from home, and rarely ventures out.

Soon we learn that Andy is scared to be seen. Once beautiful, she has a scar on her face — acquired two years earlier, when, travelling through Australia with her best friend, Lexi, they were involved in a horrendous bus crash. Lexi disappeared, and meanwhile, Andy has lost her boyfriend, her high powered job, and her confidence.

She now works for a specialist funeral magazine, for a boss, Alastair, who has almost as little confidence as she does. If this sounds depressing, it’s anything but. A master of comic timing, Martina can make the darkest situation funny.

Andy doesn’t date; but she has the greatest fun trying to help the hapless Alastair pursue the woman he idolises. That her help misfires in spectacular fashion doesn’t stop her interference one iota.

Meanwhile, we catch up with Lexi, who has found solace in small town Australia. She’s not happy; how could she be after the trauma she’s suffered, but she’s starting to find a little peace. Or is she? This clever sub-plot has a surprising twist that will leave the reader gasping.

The deepness of Andy’s insecurity creeps up on the reader as the novel progresses. There are things about that crash she has not divulged. Not to anyone. And the guilt is eating her up. Finally admitting to agoraphobia, she agrees to take small steps to overcome it. And she’s helped in this by the frivolous Kate, who proves to have a deep insight into her sister’s psyche.

The novel looks into loneliness too. Kate’s boyfriend, Luke, runs a yoga class for the elderly. The participants become enmeshed into Andy’s life too, and they add poignancy as well as humour.

Martina is too skilful to trade reality for pure happiness but it’s real, and leaves us feeling a fondness for all these empathetic characters.

Reilly truly does possess the talent to dance round a dark subject with a delightful lightness of touch. Steadily successful, she deserves to join the ranks of those who, becoming famous early, have become household names.

Read more: http://www.examiner.ie/opinion/books/giving-light-to-darkness-141435.html#ixzz1BsaQrNh7

The Pain of Adoption.

2010-12-16T07:09:00.000-08:00

The Pain of Adoption.
Fiona Cassidy

Interviewed by Sue Leonard

Published in the Irish Examiner. 30TH November 2010

Fiona Cassidy can’t wait for Christmas. She’ll be celebrating with her partner Philip, with her two children, her partner’s two, and their own three year old, Áine. Best of all, Fiona is pregnant again, with a baby due in March. It’s all a long way from the time when she struggled as a single mum of two.

“Christmas will be brilliant,” she says. “We have a mad brood. It was will be chaos, but I love that. I love the identity it gives me.” And that, for Fiona is a vital feeling.

Fiona was adopted. As a teenager, she often wondered who she really was. She wondered what life would have been like with her birth mother. And what sort of person was she?

Fiona had always known she was adopted. Her adoptive parents, Peter and Eileen Cassidy had told her she was special. They’d given her a magical childhood in County Tyrone, and said, simply, that her birth mother had been unable to look after her.

“My parents said I’d been ‘meant’ to come to them. They described me to others as their special wee girl, and when I was younger, I accepted that. But as a teenager you realise, ‘my mother didn’t want me.’ I wanted to know why.

“I was always close to my parents, and I felt almost guilty about asking questions. But I was dying to know if I looked like somebody. I hated those conversations other people had, when they were told, ‘you are so like your sister,’ or ‘you have your mother’s eyes.’ I would have loved somebody to turn round and say that to me.

“My parents always supported me,” she says. “They didn’t palm me off. When I said I would contact my birth mother, they said, ‘do what you want to do. We will always be behind you.”

Fiona expected her search to be long and hard. But when, a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday she went to the registry of births deaths and marriages, she procured her full birth certificate. That certificate had my birth mother’s full name and address on it.

It was a momentous moment.
“It was surreal. It was ‘wow.’ I was once somebody else. I carried my birth mother’s address around for a long time, and I never told mummy and daddy that I had it. I was afraid of their reaction. I felt I’d sneaked off without telling them, and gone behind their back. I knew they were keen for me to go through the proper channels, but I was impulsive. I didn’t want to do that.”

Although she was nervous about taking the next step, Fiona was excited too.
“I’d often dreamt of meeting my birth mother. When I saw people meet their relatives on Cilla Black’s ‘Surprise Surprise,’ I’d thought, one day that will be me. I waited for weeks. I only told my boyfriend about it. I didn’t trust anyone else enough. I was afraid if I told my friends, they would have told their mummies, and their mummies would have told mine.”

Eventually she and her boyfriend went to her birth mother’s house but Fiona hadn’t the nerve to knock on the door. In the meantime she’d found her baptismal certificate, and on it, was an aunt’s address.
“She had been my Godmother. My boyfriend did some sleuth work, and he came up with her phone number. He phoned her, she gave him the address and we went to see her.”

Fiona was hoping for her happy ever after ending, but she was in for one big shock.
“Two aunts were there, but they weren’t exactly welcoming. They told me that my birth mother had health problems, and it would be detrimental to her to meet me. They said it would not do me any good either. It was just awful to hear that. It was really upsetting. I was basically told to go away and not to come back.”

Fiona carried around the hurt for months, too upset to tell her parents.
“I was emotionally distraught. When I did tell them, it was straight to the family doctor, and he organised for me to have counselling. It was a very bad time for me. I do realise it was partly my own fault. If I’d gone down the proper channels I’d have had counselling before making contact. It would have prepared me.”
Shortly after that Fiona became pregnant. Her son is now 15. She had another child, and ended up coping as a single mum. Ten years ago she met her partner, Philip, and they live happily in County Tyrone with her children, with his two part time, and with their own child Áine, who is three.

Having her own family has helped Fiona. She now feels she fits in somewhere. But it’s brought back the pain too.
“When I had Áine, in particular, it did make me think, how could a mum give a baby away. You realise how precious they are, and how much you love them. You think, I would die if anything happened to them. I remember someone came to leave off a baby present when we had Áine. They said, ‘Oh you are gorgeous, how could anyone give one away?’ I was thinking, yes how could you?”

Fiona’s latest book, ‘Anyone for me?’ covers the story of an adopted child. She covers the issue in an authentic way, but gives Ruby the happy ending she would have liked for herself.
“Writing the book was cathartic,” she says.
Fiona is still close to her parents. They’re looking after the children while Fiona is in Dublin for this interview. Over the years, Fiona has tried contacting her aunts again; she wants, at the least, to know how her mother is doing, but each time she’s knocked back.

“They’ve always snubbed me, and that’s hard. I’ve done some research. There are politicians in my family on both sides of the border. There’s a famous actor, even a writer. There are cousins the same age as me. I can’t contact them because I have a duty of care towards my mother. I do understand that her sisters want to protect her.”

She doggedly kept contact, using Philip as an intermediary, but in the Autumn, when Philip met a relative, he was abruptly told that Fiona has been a mistake; and that when she’d been adopted, her birth mother’s family gave up all legal and moral responsibility towards her.
“I’m so shocked,” she says. “And so saddened. I can’t agree that they have no moral responsibility. It’s so harsh. If I could, I would ask them to walk in my shoes for a day. I never asked to be born, any more than any child did, and I’m not wanting to intrude, but I’d love them to acknowledge me.

“One of my biggest fears is I am going to open the obituary pages and see my birth mother’s name. Why can’t they extend their hand and say, ‘I am glad you are well – this is how your mammy is.’

Anyone for me by Fiona Cassidy is published by Poolbeg Press at 13.99 euro.

FOR MORE INFORMATION on ADOPTION
www.adoption.ie
www.aai.gov.ie
ends.

The Abbot of Glenstal - Mark Patrick Hederman

2010-12-16T07:02:00.000-08:00

Underground Cathedrals.
Mark Patrick Hederman
Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published in Reality Magazine. December 2010

What has happened to the Catholic Church in Ireland? Why, when it once controlled our lives, has it lost both its power and its influence? This was the question Mark Patrick Hederman, Abbot of Glenstal was asking himself.

“I don’t think there is anyone who doesn’t ask themselves exactly what has happened,” he says, on the phone from Glenstal.

In pondering the question, Hederman has written a thought provoking book called Underground Cathedrals. He writes movingly, as he studies the history of the church, and hypothesises how we should best, now, get spiritual succour.

“My proposal is that, at this time, the Holy Spirit is unearthing an underground cathedral in Ireland which could help to replace the pretentious, over-elaborate Irish Catholic architecture of the twentieth century,” he says. “An underground cathedral is a metaphor which describes an alternative place and time of worship.”

The church’s problems were inevitable, Hederman feels, because of the way the church was originally set up.
“The problem, for me, was that the Christian Church, at the beginning, mistook what it meant to be spiritual as meaning the flesh was evil.

“I identify Augustine as one of the main purveyors of that doctrine, so that priests, especially, were to be spiritual, and that meant dehumanised. It was then regarded as second rate to be married, whereas being celibate was first rate humanity; and all that was a misjudgement of the reality of the incarnation.

“The truth is, that every great religion has a group of people who are celibate because they have a love relationship with God. That only applies to small minority of mystics, but it was actually forced on all authority and all religious, and it didn’t work. Sexuality, obviously, finds its own way of avoiding the ban, and we now see the result of it.

“Priests thought that they understood human nature, and they knew nothing about it,” he contends. “They were cordoned off from their own nature by the training they got. They were trained to eradicate all beauty; to close their eyes rather than to open them. It was ‘don’t touch.’ It was all to do with purity and chastity.”

The Abbot has huge sympathy for the late John Charles McQuaid, the former Archbishop of Dublin. In bringing a kind of spiritual terrorism to Ireland; in banning books and films with sexual content, as part of his campaign to shield the young from bad influences, he was, Hederman argues, only following the leaders of his day.

“I don’t believe that McQuaid was an evil man,” he says. “He was a well meaning person who was brought up in a particular way. He was a diligent, sincere and absolutely honest man who did his duty as he saw it. By the end of his reign he personally had not changed greatly, but others had.....he stood out as the personal embodiment of all that a new breed of liberals despised and were embarrassed by.”
As for the horror of child-abuse, Hederman contends that McQuaid, along with many other priests, never fully understood it. And whereas children were the victims, nuns and priests are the victims now. And not just the innocent ones.

“We’re always looking for scapegoats, and the priests, even those who were abusers are victims of society. The abuse of children is horrifying; it’s like an epidemic, and it’s not just a church phenomenon. We are still trying to find villains to hunt down, and we’re the other side of the fence. They’re the monsters we can point towards and put in the stocks, but it’s not as simple as that.”

Hederman is wary of the direction in which Pope Benedict is leading the Church.
“The Pope is calling everyone back, almost to Vatican 1. He says, ‘let’s go for a leaner church.’ In other words, weed out anyone who won’t obey the rules. We could end up with a fanatical church, but I don’t think many people in Ireland ate going to be attracted by that, or browbeaten into returning to that.”

Which is why, Hederman feels, we should turn to art and beauty for our spiritual sustenance. He cites playwrights like Brian Friel; artists like Louis le Brocquy; and poets like Seamus Heaney, who can show us the work of the Holy Spirit.

As an example, in 2007, when Hederman went to a retrospective exhibition by the artist Anne Madden, he saw beyond the mere objects in the paintings, and he was profoundly moved.
“It was to see what the eye has not yet imagined and which comes towards us, not as something domesticated and familiar, but as an intense feeling that edges its way towards appearance.”

So what is Hederman’s principal message?
“That we should be dancing to our own rhythms. During the 20th Century, when all those ghastly scandals and all those terrible abuses were taking place, the Holy Spirit was inspiring a number of people with the truth. And the monuments to that truth are all around us. We should all go and visit them and revisit them, and listen and learn.”

Underground Cathedrals by Mark Patrick Hederman is published by Columba Press.

Ends.

Kate Morton

2010-12-16T06:58:00.000-08:00

Bricks and Morton
Interview: Sue Leonard

Saturday, December 11, 2010

The Distant Hours
By Kate Morton
Pan McMillan; €18.45

KATE MORTON has it all. A luminous brown eyed brunette, she fizzes with happiness. She lives in Brisbane with her musician husband Davin, and her two young sons, and professionally, is a commercial and critical success. Yet her third book, The Distant Hours, is not the one she’d originally planned.

It started well. She’d transported her family to England; had lived there, researching, for three months; and, back in Australia, had completed 60,000 words.

"I loved my characters," says Kate, "but this other family crept up on me. The Blythes, who lived in an English castle, invaded my mind. There were three sisters and the youngest wanted to marry, and didn’t.

"I couldn’t make those sisters go away. So I decided to put the book I was writing aside for a while to write these ladies out of my head. That night I wrote a chapter, and I knew that the book about the sisters was the one I had to write. I felt this emotional tie to it. I had to find out what happened."

The result is a fascinating family saga stretching most of the 20th Century. A young publisher, Edie, becomes embroiled with the ageing sisters when her mother receives a letter from one of them, posted half a century earlier. The crumbling castle, holding family secrets, is a character in itself, and there are so many twists and turns, so many genuine surprises, that it would be disingenuous to describe the plot in detail.

Suffice to say the father, a writer, puts his art before the wellbeing of his children. And the ties that bind those children through to their old age are not what they first appear. I adored this book — and was — literally — unable to put it down. There were echoes of Daphne du Maurier; of Victorian novels, and of Ian McEwan’s Atonement. So it was no surprise to learn that Kate has long admired such authors. "I loved Atonement particularly," she says. "My favourite thing as a reader and a writer, is when a tragedy is affected through a tiny misunderstanding. That really attracts me."

A less obvious influence on Kate was Enid Blyton. Kate adored her books from the age of four. Her mother was a second hand dealer and Kate procured many books from the 1950s, reading them whilst secreted away at the back of dusty shops.

Now 34, Kate is a publishing star. Both her earlier books became best sellers. The first, The House at Riverton, won the 2007 Richard and Judy Summer Read, and her second, The Forgotten Garden, was a Sunday Times bestseller. But the start of her career was a little bumpy. At 23, Kate had three frustrating years. She wrote a crime book, got rejected, wrote a second, only to get rejected again. The break came after she’d given birth to her first son, Oliver. Was it motherhood that made the difference?

"In a number of ways it was. Your palette has more colours in it after having a baby, and your chances of being grief-stricken are so much greater.

"I was so aware that the balance of the love I felt for Oliver was the possibility of losing that person. That really changed me.

"And it was timing. I had, effectively, dropped out of the world. I felt isolated, and felt I would probably never be published, but I had to write anyway.

"I decided not to think about genre or what publishers wanted, and that freed me. I immediately gained the ability to make people up and live with them in my head. And I was writing the kind of book I like to read — the kind of book that is rarely written these days. That made all the difference."

The first two published booked were carefully planned and structured. But ‘The Distant Hours’ came more instinctively. And there were difficult moments in the writing of it. June this year, with her deadline looming, was a case in point.

"I’d almost finished the book; I had 90,000 words written, but I’d intuitively written in all these loose ends, and I didn’t know how to tie them up. I must have been unbearable to live with. Davin said I had to go away. I went to a spartan lodge in this mountainous area. It was like having a Rubik’s Cube in your brain. I was twisting and turning the plot, but I couldn’t see how all the elements fitted together.

"I was looking out of the window at the rainforest one night, when a huge storm blew up. I had a vision of this child in a castle tower in a storm, when something in the moate started to move. I raced to get it down. I wrote the prologue, and everything fell into place. That taught me to trust my unconscious mind. There are so many moments like that in the writing of a novel."

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, December 11, 2010

Jilly Cooper 2010.

2010-10-09T07:40:00.000-07:00

Jilly Cooper
Interviewed by Sue Leonard

Jilly Cooper welcomes me with her trademark, gap-toothed grin. A youthful 73, she’s still a natural flirt. When the waiter delivers our tea to her suite in the Shelburne Hotel, she reads his name tag, Julius, and says,

“Ah! Like Julius Caesar! I hope you don’t behave like him.” She smiles, admiringly, as he leaves the room, saying, “look at that swagger!”

Jilly’s niceness, and genuine interest in people makes her a sometimes frustrating interviewee. When you ask her what she thinks, she turns the question back and asks for your view. She can be utterly persuasive. We talk about the hunting ban in England; the Pope’s visit - Jilly found him utterly charming; and the glut of lesbianism in London.

“I’ve heard London is wall to wall lesbian. All the women are having affairs, but having them with women and the men don’t mind. I’ve been thinking about that quite a lot.” There are none in her new book, but there’s a gay vicar and a graphic gay sex scene.

Softly pretty, charming and effusive, Jilly reminds me of Etta, the vague, put upon sixty-something heroine of ‘Jump,’ who finds a tortured racehorse in the snow in a wood.

“My son, Felix, calls me Etta all the time. He’s so naughty,” says Jilly, denying that there’s too much of a resemblance. “She’s much nicer than me. I don’t make scones for workmen.”

Jilly invented Etta, a woman bullied by her high flying children, to highlight granny abuse.
“I see it all the time. These women have interesting careers. They have three children and the wretched mother is summoned from anywhere to look after them and they’re not paid. And they get so tired. It’s awful.”

Etta leads a huge cast of trainers, owners, jockeys, stable lads and lasses, actors, businessmen, and plenty of nubile teenagers, in this 700 plus page blockbuster. It’s set in fictitious Larkshire, around the world of National Hunt racing. Winning ownership in a court case of the one eyed horse, Mrs Wilkinson, the animal besotted Etta forms a village syndicate, and the horse starts winning races.

There’s plenty of sexual intrigue and moments of high comedy, and there are appearances from established characters, like the now famous Rupert Campbell Black.
“He’ll have a bigger role in my next book, about flat racing. He’s going to be sixty and he’s appalled.”

Jilly joined two syndicates during her exhaustive research.
“That was blissful, and terribly funny. You all get together and you have jolly lunches. We had this lovely horse who won races, but he broke down in Worcester and that was awful. We were all cheering, and it just collapsed. We charged across, like Princess Diana in the mother’s race, and cried all over it.” It’s a scene replicated in the book.

Her research brought her to Ireland too; to Leopardstown and to the Shelburne, where there’s a raunchy sex scene in the Parnell Suite. She gave her adopted daughter, Emily, a weekend here when she was twenty, along with her boyfriend of the time. Emily, she explains, is Irish.
“I wanted her to get a sense of that. She’s so beautiful. I love her to bits.”

Jilly has four grandchildren, but the photo she puts proudly on the table, is of her beloved greyhound, Feather, who was rescued from the Dublin streets.
“Look at my Irish boy. Isn’t he awesome? You have to admit he is lovely.” He’s sporting a huge red rosette. But he hadn’t won it.

“I was the judge at a dog show for a lovely trainer called Richard Phillips where there were 500 dogs entered. Feather was with me on a lead. I couldn’t give a prize to everybody, so I had to tell all the dogs, ‘I’d love to give you first prize,’ and Feather got lower and lower. He hated me chatting up the other dogs, so they gave him a rosette to cheer him up.”

Jump has shot straight to number one in the English best seller lists, and that’s a huge relief for Jilly, who found writing the book a struggle. Her husband, Leo, has Parkinson’s disease. He has carers, but Jilly looks after him at night.
“Leo is so sweet, but I don’t get much sleep. I was lacking energy and I thought the book was awfully bad. I’d been paid a large sum of money to write it, and I’d passed my deadline. I was worried. I get into a muddle too. I think it’s age.”

Jilly writes in a gazebo in her garden in Gloucestershire for seven or eight hours a day. She says it’s like being surrounded by her family. When I ask if she enjoys parts of the writing, she turns the question back to me.
“Do you enjoy writing?” I say I’m not a ‘real’ writer, and this sparks a discussion on journalism. Jilly first became famous for penning hilarious columns for The Sunday Times. Deeply personal, they told of her life as a young working wife. She later wrote for The Mail on Sunday.

“This book is because of journalism,” she says. “One of the things I do absolutely brilliantly is to keep my sentences short and my chapters short. I leave air on the page. That is advice I would give to any writer. Journalists are taught to be readable, aren’t they?”

When I commend Jilly on her dignity through tough times; and her openness in talking about her lack of fertility, and later, the public unveiling of Leo’s long affair, she dismisses these difficulties.

“I didn’t give birth to kids, but to get a career and adopt two babies at the same time was a miracle. If you don’t give birth, you must write because it’s so satisfying when books arrive at the printers. Counting this book I’ve had 40 babies.”
She’s won awards too. Honoured with an OBE for services to literature, last year she added an Honorary Doctorate of Letters, awarded by the University of Gloucestershire.

“It’s hysterical,” she says. “And now I’ve got an award for services to racing. That is faint making. They say the book will help young people to come to racing.”

What, though, would she most like to be remembered for?
“For cheering people up.” In which case, she has more than succeeded. I know of several eighteen year olds who read Jilly’s books to relieve the stress of exams. And reading Jump, with its horses who wander round drink’s parties, it’s dogs who inhabit beds, and goat, Chisholm, who ends up with a hangover, it’s possible to forget all the gloom and doom for an hour or two.

This latest in the line of Rutshire Chronicles shows a sense of community, with niceness and decency at its core. We’re talking on ‘black Thursday,’ and it’s been the best possible antidote.

Jilly dedicates my book to Rufus, my black Labrador, saying that Labradors are next to God. She hugs me as I leave. I tell her she’s my role model.
“Your roll in the hay model,” she says, and her laughter follows me into the corridor.

Jump by Jilly Cooper is published by Bantum Press.
© Sue Leonard 2010

Review. Robin Black.

2010-10-09T07:38:00.000-07:00

if I loved you,i would tell you this
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, October 02, 2010

Robin Black
Picador; €17.15

Each story from American writer Robin Black in this collection is a mini work of art. She is telling one story about a married daughter sneaking a lover into her parent’s house, but the real narrative simmers underneath.

Many of the characters deal with difference. A woman hides her stroke from her husband; a man, mildly damaged at birth, ‘loses’ certain words. This is deftly dealt with, the disability informing the plot, rather than defining it.

A father and his blind teenage daughter travel to collect a guide dog, but the real story is the effect on the family of the accident years before, coupled with the daughter’s extraordinary insight. A heartless man causes a border dispute, erecting a fence just feet from his neighbour’s front door, but the point is how his casual thoughtlessness affects the couple struggling with illness and stress.

A father is reunited with the daughter he has not seen for many years. We expect a story of forgiveness, but it’s more about the father’s sense of alienation. Immortalising John Parker shows an artist in grief for a dead lover — but transforms into an exploration into detachment and loss of self. Suffering early dementia, John Parker is in the process of becoming lost.

Divorced Beheaded Survived starts innocently enough with a childhood game. Then it flashes forward years to when the protagonists’ son loses a friend in a car crash. This tragedy brings back the death of her brother in childhood. What she remembers most from that time is how the tragedy set her apart.

The author shows amazing perception of human frailty. In two stories, Pine, and The History of the World, she shows how the unhappy, the bereaved and divorced, can drive others away with self-obsession. The stories stay with you. They teach life lessons and change the way you view the world.

Review. At Home with the Templetons by Monica McInerney

2010-10-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

At Home with the Templetons
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Monica McInerney
Macmillan, €18.45

IMAGINE living in a stately home. It sounds exciting, but when the Templeton family are transported from England to the house they’d inherited in Australia, there’s little fun involved.

The father, Henry, persuades his children to dress in traditional clothes to give paying visitors the grand tour, and they have to muck in with the cleaning and tidying too.

They’re considered strange by all the locals; nobody is keen to mix with them. And to make matters worse, their aunt Hope, an alcoholic, has a habit of spoiling any moments of family happiness. The older girls, Charlotte and Audrey, get some solace from attending boarding school, but Gracie and the tearaway Spenser lead an isolated existence. Until, that is, their neighbour, a young widow called Nina, and her son Tom start to form links with the family.

Nina, though, is wary of the Templetons. She fears Tom’s friendship with them will increase her own isolation. But when the family suddenly decamp back to England, it’s Nina who becomes caretaker.

This door-stopper of a family saga skirts over the next few years, using letters between the families to keep us up to speed until Tom and Gracie are reunited. It covers their burgeoning relationship and a tragedy that forces the two families apart again. Can there possibly be a resolution?

A huge seller in Australia, McInerney is gaining a reputation here too. There’s an old fashioned feel to her storytelling, reminiscent of Rosamund Pilcher, but it’s a less cosy read. There’s plenty of humour, but it’s difficult for the reader to warm to the Templeton clan, apart from the gentle Gracie.

This book will appeal to readers who prefer a saga to more contemporary women’s fiction. McInerney has a good way with words and a humorous touch. But it would have been a much better book at two-thirds of its length.

Denise Sewell

2010-10-09T07:32:00.000-07:00

Dark side of the boy
By Sue Leonard

Saturday, October 09, 2010

Danny, Mario and Me
Denise Sewell
New Island; €13.99

Sue Leonard. talks to writer Denise Sewell about inhabiting the minds of teenage boys and tackling the traumatic subject of suicide in her latest book

IF THERE’S one thing that makes Denise Sewell angry, it’s injustice. The writer from Co Cavan, now living in Monaghan, gets incensed when she sees someone in need denied the help they have looked for. When a tragedy happens, because someone has been denied weekend services, it puts her into a terrible humour.

"It’s like that man who killed his family on a weekend, when he’d been desperate for help. It puts my blood pressure up when I hear something like that, and it is so common. When someone is suicidal and needs to be monitored, they seem often left to their own devices."

Teen suicide in particular disturbs Sewell. "Most parents have no idea what they are dealing with if their child becomes depressed. No one can say, ‘no one belonging to me could ever kill themselves’. And for me, it seems the most awful thing that could happen to someone I love."

Sewell doesn’t baulk at penning the painful. Her novels have been fresh and stylish, but have always confronted serious issues. She dealt with teenage pregnancy in her first, Some Girls Will; and with the theft of a child in The Fall Girl. But she was worried that tackling teen suicide might prove off-putting for readers.

"I’d been told by a friend that the subject was much too gloomy," she says when we meet in Dublin. "So I started another book; in fact I tried two different ideas, but my heart wasn’t in them.

"When I’d finished my last book my agent suggested I try and write from the male point of view. That seemed right. I wanted something difficult; and I took myself through the experience of what it might be like for the friends left behind. Suicide must have such an impact on them. Then, because I realised what a challenge I was taking on, I decided to set the book in the 1980s in a border town – at least that was familiar territory."

The novel starts with the suicide of Danny. He’s hung himself in a field and his two, devastated friends have no idea why. He’d seemed happy. Mario cries, grieves, and eventually struggles on with the semblance of his life, but the deeper thinking Tadhg can barely function. Desperate for answers, he latches onto Danny’s ma, Margaret, visiting her every day in a quest for mutual comfort.

Tadhg’s mother despairs of him. She never trusted Danny, a rebel from the North, who has family in the IRA. Tadhg rejects her concern. He leaves school and tells his ma, quite bluntly, that he cared more for Danny than he did for her.

"I completely understand how Tadhg felt," says Denise.

"I did inhabit his mind in a way. When Margaret turned round and told Tadhg she was leaving, I cried into the computer. She was his connection to Danny still. He wasn’t sure if he was falling in love with her – but it was an intense relationship."

The author has infiltrated the minds of the boys with great conviction. They have distinctive, separate voices. We only see the defiant side of Danny at the start; but as we learn of him through the memories of others, it’s clear he was a loyal friend, who was clever and considerate too.

"I don’t think Danny cared what anyone thought of him," says Denise. "He had the courage to do anything, but you couldn’t cross him. As I was writing the book his character became stronger and stronger in my head. He became almost stronger than me – at some stages I wanted the novel to move in a certain direction, then I’d think, ‘No. He wouldn’t have done that’."

Denise has no brothers. Was it hard keeping the voice of teenagers authentic?

"I certainly had to consciously think more like a boy," she says. "When Tadhg’s sister did all that yoyo dieting, a girl might have had some understanding, but he couldn’t understand. He said, ‘just stop eating’. I had to think how he might feel. I think teen boys feel more in black and white."

Before she became a writer, Denise, a mother of two, worked in the post office. Her husband, Eamon, still does. In fact he double jobs to pay the bills to support children Kevin and Olivia, and to enable Denise to keep writing.

She’s been acclaimed for her original, thought-provoking novels, but because her books don’t fit into a predictable genre, she feels largely overlooked.

"I don’t begrudge chick-lit writers their success, but it frustrates me when people complain that Irish women are all writing about the same thing. My books are different, and not difficult. But they’re not promoted enough in shops.

"I would love my books to do well. I’m not greedy, but Kevin is hopefully going to college in three years time. It can be difficult to keep the faith. The only consolation is that I know I’m not the only person in this position. And with the recession it would be difficult to get a regular job anyway."

Currently working on a play, Denise writes for four hours daily when the children are at school. "It keeps me grounded. I can’t get too caught up over stupid things; like if Kevin makes the football team or how well Olivia does at a feis. But the writing itself can go through highs and lows. Especially when the subject matter is looking at death."

So will she write a happy book next? She laughs. "The subject matter has to mean something to me. I felt compelled to write this one." Does she hope it will raise awareness? "I hope I’ve been sensitive about suicide; I hope people who have been affected by it will think I’ve done a good job. I’d like them to believe in the characters and in the story. I’d like them to feel it was honestly written."

- Keys to the Cage – How People Cope with Depression by Sue Leonard is in bookshops now.

Barbara Kingsolver

2010-08-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

A beast beautifully tamed
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, August 21, 2010

The Lacuna
Barbara Kingsolver
faber and faber; €10.99

Barbara Kingsolver talks to Sue Leonard about the struggle she had writing her prizewinner, The Lacuna

IN November 2007, Barbara Kingsolver discovered an inaccuracy on her Wikipedia page. It said that a new book by the author was due at the end of the month. Kingsolver almost had a nervous breakdown.

"I screamed and I cried and I lay on the floor," says the 55-year-old when we meet on her first visit to Dublin. "I thought, ‘now my readers are expecting a book and I can’t possibly write it’."

At the time, Kingsolver was five years into her sixth novel. But so complex was the structure, combining history and fiction, that she had no confidence of being able to complete the project.

"It was like fighting a seven-headed monster," she says. "I’d started with the idea of exploring Senator Joe McCarthy’s witch-hunts, and where America’s fear of communism came from; but I wanted to layer in celebrities and gossip and how the written word defines the person, and I also wanted to write about Trotsky; oh, and Mexico. All these ideas kept coming in. Usually I can keep them under control and say, ‘that’s for another novel’, but in this case everything seemed to work together."

To make matters worse, Kingsolver had decided to construct the book largely through journal entries and she wanted her hero, Harrison Shepherd, to report events without ever using the first person pronoun. So he was the invisible ‘eye’ rather than ‘I.’ That proved almost impossible.

But why would the American make life so difficult for herself? Surely her publishers and her public would settle for less? After all, her fourth book, The Poisonwood Bible, became an Oprah Winfrey choice and sold four million copies.

"I wanted to write something I’d never written before," she says. "In fact, I wanted to do something no writer had done before. That’s what gets me to my desk in the morning; it’s the challenge and the risk of it. And for the character, Harrison Shepherd, doing it that way made perfect sense."

Brought up between the US and Mexico, the fictitious Harrison’s mother makes it clear that he was a mistake, and his existence a mere nuisance.

"She makes it clear that her life would be better if he wasn’t there. What would that feel like as a child? It made sense to me, that he wouldn’t feel comfortable using the first person until remarkable things start happening to him."

Harrison becomes a cook for Mexican artists Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo before typing up reports for the exiled Bolshevik leader Lev Trotsky. Kingsolver takes care to keep all the facts about her real characters accurate. It makes for a fascinating trawl through the past.

It wasn’t until November 2008 that the strands of this sixth novel finally gelled.

"I thought of my title, The Lacuna, and I had my eureka moment. That word brought everything together. From then on I knew the novel was going to work."

Originally from a farming community in Kentucky, Kingsolver originally decided to study the piano. She still plays, when she wants the words in her head to cease for a while; but she soon changed her mind and studied biology instead. "I’ve always written," she says. "I’ve written journals since I was a child. Writing things down has always made things real for me, but I never thought I could be a writer." Starting as a scientific writer, she turned to journalism before starting on her first novel. "And now I can’t imagine myself without a pen and a notebook."

Her plots and ideas might cause her problems, but there’s one thing Kingsolver is always in charge of – her characters.

"They are always there at my service," she says. "I begin with a theme and a plot, then I think of a character to serve my plot. I knew early on the sort of person Harrison Shepherd was. I figured he’d be a writer and would be persecuted by the anti-communist witch-hunt, then I gave him the past that he needed. You take a character and do things to them, so they will be damaged in just the right way."

So her characters never run away with the plot in the way other writers describe?

"I find that nonsense" she says with a laugh. "I am God! I remember opening The Colour Purple for the first time and Alice Walker writes ‘I thank all these characters for showing up.’ And, well, I’m glad they go to her house. I invent absolutely everything about mine."

While she’s grateful to have readers and happy for the recognition, Kingsolver never wanted to be famous. She’s happiest at home on the farm she shares with her husband, Steve Hopp, and their daughter, Lily, in the mountains of southern Appalachia. Keen on eating local food, in 2007, Barbara co-wrote a book called Animal Vegetable Miracle, with her environmentalist husband and Camille, 23, her daughter from her first marriage.

It’s no surprise that The Lacuna has been universally praised. It’s a sumptuous read, complex but enthralling, and shows the reader an unfamiliar world. It seems certain to follow The Poisonwood Bible into becoming a book club favourite. It’s literary, but eminently readable. Yet Kingsolver swears she was amazed when it beat a strong shortlist to win the Orange Prize. "I was happy to fly to London to congratulate the other five authors on the short list. I never expected to be taking the prize back home. I can remember the first word I ever read. I was three years old and my father was reading the newspaper. It had his attention in a way I was envious of... I remember looking at the page and puzzling over it. I saw a word and said the letters. O-r-a-n-g-e. I remember the word, ‘orange’ popped out. So I suppose it’s only right that 50 odd years later I should be getting a prize for that."

© Sue Leonard 2010

Emma Donaghue.

2010-08-13T10:44:00.000-07:00

Emma Donoghue
Interviewed by Sue Leonard
Published in The Examiner, 29th July 2010.

Emma Donoghue is perturbed. A journalist has just described her new novel Room as ‘creepy.’ And though the subject matter – inspired by the Josef Fritzl case is certainly unsavoury, I found Emma’s sensitive take on it profoundly affecting, and ultimately uplifting.

The novel opens on Jack’s fifth birthday. He’s excited. Jack lives with Ma in a room measuring eleven feet square. Life revolves around TV, and the stories and games his mother constantly invents. He thinks TV isn’t ‘real,’ and he doesn’t know life exists outside. It’s an extraordinary tale of a mother’s love for her son, told with unsentimental reality.

“I heard about the Fritzl case in April 2008,” says Emma, “and shortly afterwards I was driving along in a hyper state, because I hate driving, when I suddenly thought, imagine if you told a story like that from the child’s point of view? That would save you from either being over sentimental, or sexually gratuitous. A child could tell it as, this is my strange world. The book came fully grown into my head.”
Was she worried that by choosing that subject, she’d be accused of being both prurient and of trading on people’s pain?

“The pre-publicity made me wince a little; it hinted that by choosing this subject I was craftily aiming to make a lot of money; but I knew when people read the book, and realised my approach was unlike true crime or voyeuristic thriller style, they would relax into it.”

Emma dedicates the book to her two children, Finn, 7, and Una, 3. Finn was five at the time of writing, and his voice lends authenticity, but was it painful, as a mother, writing about enforced captivity?

“It seems callous to say it, but painful things are meat and drink to us writers. We use pain to provoke a response in our readers, so when we think of something agonising for our characters we mostly say, ‘Ah ha!’

“Writing ‘Room,’ it was almost as if I were their captor. I was the one deciding, will I give them TV? Will I give them vitamin pills, and exactly how many square feet will I give them? I was dolling out their pleasures and their pains, and increasing the pressures on them, but it did not upset me because I knew that, all the time, I was giving Jack the unbreakable love of a really good mother.”
The research though, proved horrendous.

“I was having to read up about children brutally treated within the secrecy of a home; children found by social works too late. There’s a lot I wish I hadn’t read because I can’t get it out of my head. I like awake at night sometimes thinking about it.”

Emma wrote ‘Room’ in France. She’d gone there with her partner Chris Roulston, writing the book in six months while the children were respectively, in school and childcare.

Emma and her family live in London Ontario, but she’s from Dublin, and her first coming of age lesbian novels caused a stir here in the early nineties. Her third novel, the historical Slammerkin was a huge success in Ireland as elsewhere, but since then she’s become better known in the States and Canada. So she’s pleased that Room is bringing her back into our consciousness.

Half way through ‘Room,’ the pace changes. Ma and Jack plan an elaborate escape from their captor, but Jack finds ‘outside’ confusing.
“Any childhood goes from cosy, in a confined space to the exciting world of the teenagers, but for most of us that happens gradually. Jack goes from being a baby to a five year old overnight. He has a sensory overload, and he doesn’t know the laws of perspective. He misses the security of ‘Room.’

It’s worse still for Ma, released to her flawed family, and at the mercy of the media. They’re freaked out that Ma is still breastfeeding Jack – it is that that most shocks people. A crass, insensitive TV interviewer pushes Ma towards the edge. That scene reads with great authenticity, and there’s a reason for that.
Last time I met Emma, back in 2004, she’d just endured a gruelling radio interview. Tom McGurk had vilified her because she had a son with her lesbian partner.

“He went for me, and went on for twenty minutes,” she says, admitting it did cause her trauma. “That was one of my ‘have to get out of Ireland’ moments. It had been many years since I’d encountered that kind of attitude, and I’d never encountered it so malevolently.

“Friends in Ireland have to fly to Denmark or Newcastle to make a baby happen, and the one who is not giving birth has no rights, and even the new civil partnership doesn’t change that. By living in Canada I can forget I am lesbian for weeks on end. I’m just getting on with my life. You don’t have the constant reminder that you are a minority.

The author adores her visits to Ireland, though. She loves spending time with her mother, a mum of eight, who, she says, was the main inspiration for Ma.
“I wanted Ma to be the ideal mother, but not in a bland way. Under those terrible circumstances she has to make tough choices, but she does the best possible job, even though at times she has to annoy and upset Jack.

“Often, when I was writing the book I felt like a bad, bad mother. I was mulling over what a good mother would do now, what games would she invent, then my own kids would come home and I’d be irritated with them because I wanted to be writing. I ended up feeling admiration for other parents, and more and more ashamed of my own parenting.”

There’s a buzz of expectation around this new book. Early reviewers have praised Emma for producing a work of art, and for her dazzling language. They’ve stated that, after reading it, the world will look different; and they’re right. It is a book that can change your thinking. I recommend it, wholeheartedly.

Room by Emma Donoghue is published by Picador at 13.99 euro.

Since I spoke to Emma, she has been longlisted for the Man Booker Prize.

© Sue Leonard 2010

21st Century Dads

2010-07-20T05:57:00.001-07:00

21st Century Dads.
For Father’s Day.
By Sue Leonard.

Published as the cover story in ‘Feelgood’ in the Irish Examiner, 18th June, 2010.

Once the family unit was sacrosanct. It consisted of a working dad; and a mum who cared for the kids. How things have changed! Now that mums work too, and divorce is commonplace, there are all kinds of functioning families. This father’s day let’s celebrate the dads who don’t meet the old stereotypes. What does fatherhood mean to them?
THE SINGLE DAD
Declan Keaveney, 53, and from Maynooth separated from his wife in 2005. He, eventually, gained custody of his children, Coran, 14. Ciara, 12 and Cathal, 10, and his wife has since died. At first, Declan hired a nanny and continued working as a Garda. He adored his job, and gained constant promotion, but he gave it all up for the sake of his children.
“It was the best decision I ever made,” says Declan. “My children are so precious, and this is the most important time in their lives. I think it is vital for me to be there for them. I think one, or both parents should always be there. ”
Before he got custody, Declan took a parenting course.
“That was wonderful,” he says. “It gave me confidence. It was good to discuss ways of parenting with other parents.
“I give the children boundaries. I think kids like them. They test them occasionally to check they are still there.”
The best thing about being a dad, Declan says, is the satisfaction he gets seeing the children go off to school with a smile on their faces.
“To see that is fantastic. I got satisfaction from being a garda; from passing exams and from extra-curricular activities, but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction I get from parenting. It’s challenging, but life is no good if there are no challenges. The worst thing is when one of them gets hurt.”
Declan on Father’s Day.
“It doesn’t mean a whole lot, but I think fathers should be equal to mothers. It’s important to give fathers recognition.”
THE AT HOME DAD
Xuan Busto, dad to Isolina, 6, and Fionn, 3, was once a computer engineer working with Intel. But three years ago, when he was offered redundancy, he decided to take it, and follow his dreams. A keen photographer, he set up a business, www.asturphoto.com, fitting his work around the children, whom he cares for at home.
“My wife, Shauna, works in admin in a university,” says Xuan. “The children were in a crèche full time early on. And we didn’t want that. After fifteen years of working in a job with a lot of stress, it was good to take a break. I may go back in the future, but right now, I’m enjoying being with the children.”
It’s not all easy. There are times when Xuan finds it difficult to keep his cool. Like when Fionn locked himself into the bathroom, or when the children spend their time fighting. And it can be lonely.
“I feel a bit left out at the school gates. I tend not to be included in ‘play dates.’ I had a friend who was an at home dad too. But he only lasted a year. That was hard for me. I miss him a lot.
“The best thing is getting to know the children. When they have a problem, they come to me. I love those intimate moments.”
“There are times I want to bang my head against a wall. Parenting is hard, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
XUAN ON FATHER’S DAY
“It’s good to give dad’s recognition. I think that’s important.”
THE GAY DAD
Brian Finnegan, 45, is the editor of Gay Community News. When he was in his late teens, he wasn’t thinking about having children. Yet though he was gay, he wanted to be heterosexual.
“I was unhappy about being gay when I met my son’s mother. We hit it off, and began to have a sexual relationship. I thought, ‘hurrah I am part of the club.’
By the time Brian’s son was born, he realised he couldn’t be straight.
“We stayed together until he was a year old, to give each other support, and but by then I’d grown into myself. We separated, but we’ve always stayed friends. We take our role as parents very seriously and I’ve always stayed involved.
“My son was aware that I had my partner and that he was always part of my life; when we stayed in his mum’s house we always had ‘our room,’ but we didn’t tell him I was gay until he was nine. He took it well.
“The first time one of his friends asked, was when he was 17. He asked the friend how he knew and he said, ‘he has all the sex in the city DVD’s.’ We had a good laugh about that.
“Fatherhood is hugely important to me. And I know my role has been equally important to him. He has two male role models, his step father and myself. He’s been role modelled by a gay man who is liberal and a lover of equality and diversity in the world. Along with his mother, I’ve been instrumental in shaping who he has become.
“I know my relationship with my son is incredibly important to him. And he has grounded me in many ways I would not have been. He’s made me happier as a result for sure.”
BRIAN ON FATHER’S DAY
“It’s usually the same day as my birthday, so father’s day gets shoved to one side. But it’s good to recognise fathers.”
THE PART-TIME DAD
When Pádraic McNamara, 23, first discovered he was to be a dad, he was shocked to the core.
“It was ‘whoa!’ I didn’t think I was ready,” says Pádraic. “It wasn’t planned. But when Darragh, now 10 months, was born, it was brilliant. I was at the birth and I was dazed with emotion.”
At the time Pádraic was living with Darragh’s mum, but the relationship didn’t work out. So he moved home to his mum in Mulhuddart. He has custody of Darragh for three or four days every week – usually from Monday until Thursday, leaving him free to work over the weekend.
“Being a dad is really rewarding,” says Pádraic. “It’s delightful just to watch your son, and to see how quickly he grows, and how quickly he learns. Darragh has given me a sense of meaning and purpose; he’s given my life a sense of direction.
“He’s a little angel. There’s not a bother on him. He’s easy to look after and he’s a great lad. He’s always happy. When I was still with Laura I missed my freedom, but I still have that now. My mother has taken to the grandmother role well. If I’m working – as a barman- she will mind Darragh for me.
“I have great plans for Darragh. I want him to learn languages and to learn a musical instrument. I want him to have better than I had. I’ll teach him strong family values. I’m determined to be a good dad.”
PÁDRAIC ON FATHER’S DAY
“My father was absent from a young age, so I never celebrated it. It’s just a date, a bit like Valentine’s Day. You should be a good dad all the time. It means nothing.”
THE YOUNG DAD
Liam Duff, now 21, hadn’t planned to become a dad at nineteen, but he’d always wanted to be a young dad.
“I always thought that would be good,” says Liam. “My father was 35 when he had me. I was always aware of that gap.”
A 3rd year student at UCC – Liam misses out on the extra-curricular activities. It’s an hour’s bus trip to get home to Kinsale, to Hugo, and to his partner, Charlotte Cargin.
“People say, ‘shouldn’t you be travelling, or in nightclubs binge drinking,’ but I was never, really into all that. I enjoyed my Leaving Certificate holiday, but even in first year, before I had Hugo, I got bored with it. It seemed trivial and a waste of money.
“The best thing about being a dad, is Hugo’s ability to be always happy. However upset you might be, Hugo will come in and give you a hug. If he walks into a room you can’t help but smile. He’s always jumping around smiling. It’s contagious and has an uplifting effect. He can be frustrating, and I get frustrated with him, but that’s a small thing.
“I hope Hugo and I have a good mutual respect for each other. I hope I can be a good friend who can influence him. I’d like to help him acquire a good spiritual compass, because if one has that, life can be much easier.”
LIAM ON FATHER’s DAY
“I think fathers should be recognised, but I’m not sure father’s day is the way to do it.”
© Sue Leonard. 2010.

Author/Actor John Lynch

2010-07-20T05:50:00.000-07:00

John Lynch
Interviewed by Sue Leonard
Published in The Irish Examiner 19th June. 2010

John Lynch is instantly recognisable. He ambles into Brooke’s Hotel in Dublin wearing a black jacket and leather cap, and I imagine I’m in the company of a hard republican. During his prolific film career Lynch has portrayed Bobby Sands, Paul Hill, and in Mo, Gerry Adams.

Parts are still pouring in for the 48 year old from Armagh. He recently returned from Morocco, where he portrayed the Angel Gabriel in The Nativity. He has also just published his second novel. Why, when he’s so busy, would he bother?
“With acting, frustration sets in,” he says, holding eye contact. “As someone said to me a few weeks ago, the only power you have as an actor is ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Once you have said ‘yes,’ to something you’ve said ‘yes’ to everything. To the director, the script, the crew – that’s it. So I think writing is a way of trying to empower myself.
“When I was at drama school studying Shakespeare and Chekhov , I was taking language apart, trying to work out how it came to be. And how to translate that into a physical moment. I thought, some day, I will try and create a total world instead of just driving one character’s story.”
Many actors have turned to the pen; but none as effectively as John Lynch. His debut, Torn Water, was an astonishing assured study of a troubled teenage boy making sense of his world. Falling out of Heaven is even more powerful.
It’s a dark book centring round alcoholism, but the writing is so lyrical; the characters so believable, and the observations so astute, that by the end the reader feels uplifted. This is the best book I have read all year.
Gabriel O’Rourke has a loving wife, and a beautiful young son. He excels at teaching, and has a supportive family. So why does he let drink break him, until he becomes homeless and psychotic?
Falling out of Heaven shows Gabriel’s journey through a secure psychiatric unit to ultimate redemption. In that process, he has to confront his past, and face the demons that led him to act in such a reprehensible way. All this impacts on those close to him. Lynch achieves this with flashback, flitting backwards and forwards in time.
Lynch is a recovering alcoholic. He hasn’t touched a drink in eleven years, but is the story autobiographical?
“Not massively. The childhood is not my childhood, the father not my father and the drinking not my drinking. Someone said, ‘we all fall out of heaven but some of us remember the fall.’ I wanted to capture that feeling.
“I do know about alcoholism; it plays brain tricks. You feel withdrawn, you don’t trust anybody, you go missing, and you have huge melancholia. It’s a constant war to keep going, to keep upright and to keep functioning.
“I didn’t fall as far as Gabriel. I rang my doctor and asked him what I could do. He suggested a treatment centre in London. I met a lot of people there who had a lot of problems, and some of their stories were fascinating. For the first time in my life I was actually listening. I used some of their stories for Gabriel, and mixed them with my own.”
The book isn’t just about alcoholism. It shows the continuing tension in the North too. There’s a wonderful anecdote where a shopkeeper outwits a gang of tribal teens.
Does Lynch consider himself a writer first, or an actor?
“In my head I’m a writer, always. Even when I’m acting, I’ll be thinking, how can I put that into words? How can I relate that emotionally, and how describe it? Defining an inner life – that is a form of writing.”
Lynch recounts a scene in a movie he made in London, where he has to beat a young actor, almost to death. He knocked the actor to the floor, then, in a stunt, pounded a body bag which was covered in blood bags.
“I got into a rhythm of energy and violence. I decided to head butt the body bag. That hadn’t been set up, and it looks really sick on the tape. But the character goes into a frenzy. He’s effectively had a breakdown. By the end I was shaking. And when I washed off all the fake blood, I found this massive blood blister on my head.
“I find it easy to jump into a character I’m writing too. I make a quick decision. I think what would underpin this guy? I based Gabriel as a teacher on my own teachers in St Calman’s. I remembered how they carried themselves and how they behaved. It was important, to me, to show Gabriel as a teacher. It showed that he was, basically, a good guy.”
Does Lynch miss drinking?
“It gave me time,” he says. “I was still working as an actor, but there is a lot of time in-between. I thought, what do I do now? I’ve all this activity in my head. That’s why, and when, I started to write.”
Surely, though, drink is part of what actors do?
“Certainly there’s a great romance between drinking and acting. I remember when I started acting there were all these stories about Richard Harris and all these great drinkers. That time has gone. Bad behaviour is tolerated less.
“There does become a time in the evening, for example, at the wrap party in London, a moment where you just know it’s time to go. It’s when a lot of people have left their inhibitions behind.
“And yes, I am sometimes tempted to drink. When the first copy of this book arrived I felt like celebrating. But immediately an image of drinking appears. I don’t know where drink will take me. I become a version of myself I don’t like. I become unreliable. I go missing. I get depressed, and I can’t stop.”

Falling out of Heaven by John Lynch is published by Fourth Estate at 13.99 euro.

Dancing Backwards by Salley Vickers

2010-06-12T16:42:00.000-07:00

Dancing Backwards
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, June 05, 2010

Salley Vickers
Fourth Estate; €9.85

A WIDOW, Violet Hetherington sets out on a journey across the Atlantic to see a friend, Edwin, with whom she has long lost touch. Violet is a quiet, dignified woman; not one to attract attention, but her fellow travellers feel drawn to her gentleness.

Her fellow passengers are a varied bunch. There’s an ex sea captain, a theatre critic and a romantic novelist. There’s a kind of clairvoyant and plenty of married couples, some of them better matched than others.

Soon Violet finds herself listening to their stories, offering advice and being used as an accomplice. She enjoys the diversion and starts to worry that she is turning into an elderly version of Jane Austen’s Emma. In reality, she reminded me more of a Miss Marple; and indeed she does solve a minor crime.

There is much time on the voyage for reflection. The novel dips back into Violet’s past, to her time as a brilliant undergraduate at Cambridge University. She might well have sunk there had she not been plucked from obscurity by Edwin, a postgraduate who recognised her talent.

The two set up home together, and later co-edit a poetry magazine. Edwin is gay, but the deep platonic friendship suits them both. Then Edwin’s old friend, Bruno, enters their lives, causing havoc, pain and betrayal. His poison leads to life-changing trauma for Violet. She retreats into a safe marriage and is only now trying to untangle the emotions of that time.

I loved this book for its subtlety, gentleness, intelligence and for its lyrical, if understated, prose.

Violet is an unlikely heroine but she endears herself to the reader; we’re rooting for her, hoping for a satisfactory outcome. This stylish novel examining human behaviour brilliantly shows the damage caused when someone sets out to ruin someone else’s sense of self.

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, June 05, 2010

»

William Ryan

2010-06-12T16:37:00.000-07:00

Long Road to Russia
By Sue Leonard

Saturday, June 12, 2010

The Holy Thief
William Ryan
Pan MacMillan; €17.15

WILLIAM RYAN’S first novel is set in Russia. The 45-year-old author lives in London and writes at the London Library. There are no Irish characters in his book, yet his roots are firmly in Ireland. He comes from Limerick, went to school in Glenstal Abbey and then on to Trinity College Dublin.

His desire to write started in Ireland. As a schoolboy reading two novels a day, a monk, Fr Patrick Hederman, once remarked that one day he might write a passable novel.

"I filed that away," he says.

There was another influence at Glenstal too. The monks had an extensive collection of icons. Remembering their power, Ryan uses one at the centre of the plot for The Holy Thief. This debut is a powerful tale set in 1930s Russia when Stalin’s reign of terror was gaining ground.

A feisty detective novel, it’s atmospheric, beautifully written and meticulously researched. There’s a high body count, but the reader comes away with a better understanding of communism, and of how it feels to live in a community when you can’t trust anyone.

The road to writing, though, was a rocky one.

"I studied law at Trinity," says Ryan. "It was a random choice. I had the right points for it. If I’d had more I would have done psychology; less, I’d have done English. But it did appeal. Rumpole of the Bailey was on TV at the time and Rumpole looked like a very engaging fellow."

With no hope of employment in Ireland, Ryan emigrated to London. He trained for a year before becoming a pupil at the bar, but he didn’t last there long.

"I hadn’t enough money to carry on not earning, so when I’d borrowed £10,000, I thought I’d better get a proper job."

A friend found him a job in Deutsche Bank where he worked for six years on derivatives contracts. Meanwhile, he tried his hand writing screenplays, and when one was optioned, he left to pursue the writing dream. Having read The Holy Thief, I assumed this screenplay would involve tension and murder, but not so.

"It was a rom com, revolving around a missing lottery ticket." So he has a soft side then? "Absolutely." He loves romantic comedy, and thinks Pride and Prejudice is one of the best books ever written. "The structure is perfect," he says.

Ryan moved to Devon for a while, but after four years of talking to the film guys, his screenplay was dropped.

"There were lots of discussions. They were wondering would I change this character and that scene, and in the end they broke me. After a three or four year process I had no money at all, and there was little left of the original screenplay that everyone had liked."

So it was back to the city of London; back to lucrative employment. But after a couple of years, feeling burnt out, he decided he had to change his life for the better. "I struggled on until 2003, then I headed off to Tuscany with Joanne, who later became my wife. I was writing a travelogue about cycling round Iceland. But I realised writing prose was very different to a screenplay, and I came home thinking of doing a course which would teach me structure."

He found one, spending year at St Andrew’s University.

"There were such fantastic writers on that course. It was loosely structured. You learn as much from the other students and from reading their work in a critical way. I was writing short stories and I can see huge progression from the one I wrote to go on the course and the last one I wrote." That last one was included in a collection in Germany where it garnered some encouraging reviews. And that gave William the confidence to embark on a full-time writing career. But how did he come up with the idea for The Holy Thief?

"I’d started another novel. It was more literary and with loose ideas. I didn’t know how it would end and I realised it wasn’t a book I would want to read. I was reading Alexander Dumas at the time. He is brilliant at finishing chapters and wanting to make you read on.

"I’d read Isaac Babel’s short stories and was working on a screenplay of his life (Babel was executed in Russia’s reign of terror). I found that whole period in Russia fascinating.

"I took a hero – Korolev, working with the Criminal Investigation Division of the Moscow Militia, who is not the brightest. I threw him in this situation and waited to see what would happen. I’m interested in dictatorship; in how ordinary people behave in extraordinary situations.

"You were required to give absolute loyalty in the Stalinist period. They were prepared to do bad things, believing that the end justified the means. Communism was a religion really. It offered paradise on earth and in the near future. The only way they could function was to believe, ‘this must mean something’."

Ryan has been to Russia, but he didn’t return for research. He believes that pictures, memoirs and letters give a better understanding of historical Russia.

He continued to research as he wrote, checking the way people spoke to each other back then. And it reads with utmost authenticity.

Now working on a sequel which takes Korolev to the Ukraine, William has a tight, self-imposed deadline. Joanne, who works as a producer on BBC Radio Four, is expecting a baby in September.

Meanwhile, The Holy Thief has sold to Poland, Serbia, Czechoslovakia, France, Spain, Germany, Italy and to the US.

The book seems a clear winner. Ryan, though, isn’t sitting back. He’s waiting with trepidation for the reviews to arrive.

"My publishers have been encouraging, but putting a novel out is like giving people a pile of stones and saying, ‘throw something’."

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, June 12, 2010

Joanne Harris

2010-05-24T15:42:00.000-07:00

Blueeyedboy
Review: Sue Leonard<

Saturday, May 08, 2010

Joanne Harris
Doubleday; €14.99

WHEN the novelist Joanne Harris was 11-years-old, a teacher mentioned that she was unnaturally quiet. Enraged, Joanne decided to challenge that assumption and to show how silly such snap judgements are. So she was an extrovert in one class, quiet in another and displayed different mannerisms for all the different teachers. At the end of the year the reports came back sounding as if they were about different children.

At 45, Joanne remains an enigma. With her short cropped hair, air of certainty and her no-nonsense manner, this Yorkshire woman comes across as straight-laced. When she tells me she had her entire future mapped out at 16 – a Cambridge degree, followed by teaching until she could afford to write full-time – I’m not in the least bit surprised.

When she smiles, though, and her eyes crinkle, she seems altogether softer; perhaps that’s the influence of her mother’s French blood. Quite where her rebel side comes from, though, is harder to guess. When she arrives, she is wearing a leather jacket – and she plays bass in a band.

That sense of identity, and the difficulties of ever really knowing someone else, has always fascinated Harris. She explored the issue in Gentlemen and Players and has extended her complex study of it in her dark new novel, Blueeyedboy. An intricate thriller with multiple twists and teasers, Joanne describes the novel as a Rubik’s cube.

Blueeyedboy, or BB, is 42, but still lives at home, in Yorkshire, with his monster mother. A hospital porter, he spends most of his time online on a website called badguysrock. But are the murders he so lovingly describes really fiction?

"I started wanting to write about a dysfunctional family; one where there’s never really been a father figure," says Harris. "And I wanted to start with the relationship between a man and his mother."

The idea has been germinating for some years, since Joanne was in Naples chatting to a taxi driver.

"He was telling me about his hard childhood and about his two brothers who were close to him in age. His mother had decided they would each wear a particular colour through their childhood, so if anyone lost their clothes she would know who it was. I thought, what would that do to somebody as they grew up? I noticed he was dressed all in his colour, blue. Yet he was in his 50s and his mother had been dead for 20 years."

The novel came out of a hard time. Harris had split with her agent and was being sued by her American agent for something out of her control.

"I was being threatened with arrest in America unless I went to court. To have that kind of thing hanging over you, I don’t think you tend to write too well." She shrugs. "It happens."

Unable to write books, she wrote online, enjoying the freedom of role play, as she entered various communities there.

"I have a friend who spends most of her life online. She’s in a wheelchair and cannot speak. The internet is her window on the world. In the street, she is a victim in a wheelchair, but online she is ebullient, funny and kind of flirtatious. It’s an interesting new personality. Before her stroke she was a quiet, timid person."

Colour pervades Blueeyedboy. It dictates the way the characters respond and behave. More than one of the characters has synaesthesia, a condition that is central to the plot. Blueeyedboy is not an easy read; intensely thought-provoking, it’s also disturbing and confusing.

Harris describes the book as literary Marmite, since fans of her previous books, such as Chocolat, seem to either love it or hate it.

Her American publishers were so disturbed by the change in style that they turned the book down. Harris is unrepentant.

"I’ve branched out in different directions on purpose. I didn’t leave teaching to do another job where people told me what to do."

How, though, did she keep a handle on her new novel’s action?

"Some of it is planning, but a book, to me, has to remain organic. If I plan too rigidly I tend to find the plot starts to overwhelm the characters and the characters start to serve the plot. That is death to a book, so I tend to like a general trajectory, and I fill in the details as I go along.

"I don’t think of the process of writing as creation," she muses. "To me it’s much more like method acting. I nearly always write in the first person, so the more I know about the characters the better I am at writing them. I have to work out a lot about their past.

"Like an actor, I don’t feel myself possessed by characters. I can take off the clothes at the end of the day, and say, ‘right, that’s you done’."

Even so, Harris admits to sharing some of her anti-hero’s darker sensibilities – and that extends to thoughts or murder.

"It’s difficult to believe anyone who hasn’t, even fleetingly, imagined murdering somebody. And given the different pressures that motivate people to commit a crime, anyone is capable of doing it. I could quite imagine committing an act of violence if someone threatened my daughter," she says. "That would be my trigger."

For her next novel, Harris intends to please the fans who found Blueeyedboy a bit too hot to handle.

"It will be easier for them to read. And less emotionally draining for me to write." She pauses. "But books should not just make you feel good. I feel, strongly, that if you don’t explore the dark side from time to time, then the rest of it has no meaning.

"I’m kind of with Blueeyedboy on this one. At one point he says ‘it’s getting the reaction that matters’. If you can get somebody to hurl abuse and death threats at you, that’s better than ‘so what?’ There is nothing as bad as getting no reaction."

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, May 08, 2010

Carol Coffey

2010-05-24T15:30:00.000-07:00

The Penance Room
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, May 01, 2010

Carol Coffey
Poolbeg; €13.99

WHEN Carol Coffey left school at 18 she worked in a psychiatric hospital in Dublin. It was tough. The hospital was like something out of Dickensian times and some of the patients were extremely violent. Yet she stayed for five years and found the work deeply satisfying.

"I have a caring nature," she says, when we meet in the Merrion Hotel. "I knew, from years back, that I wanted to work with people who were ‘different’. I remember, when I was young, a girl on our road used to chase us for sweets. Everybody was a bit scared of her, but my grandmother urged me to stop and talk to her. I thought what an isolated life she must have led.

"My job was to work with people who had a learning difficulty and a psychiatric illness. I helped find them jobs outside the hospital. I learned an awful lot there. I felt I was helping as much as I could."

At 23 Carol moved to Australia. But she continued in her caring role. She worked in nursing homes. During the day, all the residents were shoved together into one large sitting-room.

"I started to notice them all. Some of them would have been on opposing sides in war. Some had forgotten their English and only used their first language. There were different nationalities; different religions; people who would normally not mix together at all. I began to realise they all had interesting stories. I was fascinated by that."

Carol has since taken a degree in special education. She’s worked in Australian schools and government agencies. She’s married a man from Co Mayo and, after 10 years in Australia, returned to Ireland. The couple now live in Baltinglass, Co Wicklow.

Since her return in 2000, Carol has worked full time. She’s also written a novel based on autism. But she never forgot the effect those old people in Australia had on her 23-year-old self. She’s used the experience to startlingly good effect, in her latest novel, The Penance Room.

Set in Australia, the novel focuses on a family-run nursing home, aptly named Broken Hill. The story is narrated by the couple’s 13-year-old son, Christopher. He’s deaf and haunted by a train accident in which he lost his foot. A strange yet perceptive boy, he’s determined to help the troubled residents.

When Steve, a research student, asks if he can interview the old people, Christopher is excited. He believes once the residents’ stories are told, all of them can rest at peace. We learn that Mina, who hides food, was once imprisoned by the Japanese. That the reclusive Wilfred was a teenage Nazi. As for the eccentric sisters, Victoria and Penelope, there’s a good reason they’ve never truly embraced adulthood.

The residents aren’t the only ones to harbour secrets. The nurse, Aishling, it turns out, was rejected by her family in Ireland after an altercation with a priest.

"There were a lot of Irish people in Sydney who were running away from something, and many are still there. They never even come home for weddings or funerals. It struck me that one little event can completely change the course of your life. It can go down paths you never imagined."

Central to the novel, though, is the issue of blindness and the effect of their son’s impairment on the nursing home’s owners, Emma and Andy Monroe. Does Carol feel compelled to write about disability in some form?

"Yes, I do like to because there are so many myths out there and I really do want to get the message out. When in my first novel I wrote about autism, I wanted to show that the condition isn’t always as it was portrayed in Rainman. I wanted a more realistic portrayal."

Carol has now completed her third novel contracted with Poolbeg. Yet she’s still working full time – for the National Council for Special Education, allocating resources for children with special needs. Not only that, she’s taking a masters degree too. So how does she fit everything in?

"I spend a lot of time upstairs on my computer, writing and doing my course. I write in the evenings and at weekends," she says. "And in any holiday time I get. My husband, Dave, is very understanding. He’s my first reader, and he’s easygoing. I’m very lucky. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve known that since I was 10 years old. But then other things got in the way.

"I began in 2004. I was recovering from major surgery. I was told I’d be at home for six weeks, but it ended up being three months. I’m used to having a busy life and I couldn’t stick the thought of sitting around. Then I thought this is my chance to write. I began and it just flowed. By the time I returned to work I had a third of the first book written."

When she’d finished The Butterfly State, though, she hadn’t the courage to send it off. It sat in a drawer for four years. Then she thought, at least if I send it to a publisher and they say ‘no,’ I can say, ‘I had a go and it didn’t happen.’ So she sent it to Poolbeg, who requested some changes, and then she got the three-book deal.

"I’m so lucky," she says. "I’ve achieved my lifetime ambition. In the future, I’d like to write full-time. But I don’t know how realistic that will be."

Reaction to The Penance Room has been positive. What does Carol hope readers will gain from her story?

"I’d like them to think about ageing. My sister had the ideal reaction. She said she really enjoyed the book and that when she visits elderly relatives, she looks at all the residents, and wonders what their lives were like. She said, ‘I never thought of that before’."

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, May 01, 2010

Review. You by Nuala Ní Chonchúir

2010-05-24T15:28:00.000-07:00

You
Review: Sue Leonard

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Nuala Ní Chonchúir
New Island; €12.99

IT’S SUMMER 1980. At the Olympics, boycotted by America, Nadia Comaneci is enchanting the world; and that includes a 10-year-old in Dublin, who lives by the Liffey with her ma and two young brothers.

The girl, who has a difficult Irish name, is referred to, variously, as little miss prim, cheeky pup, or, by six year-old Liam, as smelly arse. Watching the Olympics, she longs to learn gymnastics, but meanwhile, she has more troubling matters on her mind.

Her ma is sad. She cries a lot, and then is taken to hospital for a little rest. She likes ma’s friends, Noel and Cora, who look after the children in her absence. They’re kind, but it’s not the same. Then there’s her da. He left to live with the prickly Geraldine and they now have a snivelling daughter, Clare. She sees him still, but their outings are never satisfactory.

When her ma links up with Noel’s brother, Kit, life seems brighter, but when ma is off with Kit for a weekend away, tragedy strikes.

The girl is a feisty narrator. A keen observer, she tells the story from her own perspective, but using ‘you,’ instead of ‘I.’ So it’s, ‘you’re clumsy. You’re always letting things drop’. It’s a device that works well, and, of, course, provides the title.

You is a sweet, simple coming of age tale. The girl has a good heart. She never resents helping with housework, or caring for the baby. Terrible things happen; the novel is heartbreaking at times, but it’s never violent. Although the girl has sticky moments with her da, she is surrounded by people who love her. It is reminiscent of Julia Kelly’s debut, With My Lazy Eye.

The novel flows beautifully and is understated in tone. The author, who lives in Co Galway, has already won prizes for her poetry and short stories. This gem is sure to win her further acclaim. Nuala Ní Chonchúir is a writer to watch.

This story appeared in the printed version of the Irish Examiner Saturday, May 15, 2010

The Danger of Diet Pills

2010-05-24T15:18:00.000-07:00

Saturday May 15 2010 Irish Independent Weekend magazine.

With the sun coming out and holidays on the horizon, women will be sizing up their winter flab and wanting to lose excess pounds right now. Drastic weight-loss measures are called for, but you've tried all the diets and ultimately failed. You need help. And help can be pill-shaped.

Diet pills are so popular in Ireland, so widely used, that even as Reductil, the controversial appetite suppressant, was being withdrawn from the market in January, there were discussions from eager young mums who extolled the drug on the internet.

And no, they weren't scared by the ban. They were just anxious to know where they could procure a similar pill.

Gerry Ryan often spoke about diet pills. They worked for him, but made him anxious. On his death, some commentators wondered if their use might have sparked a heart attack. It certainly occurred to Suzanne Horgan. As director and founder of the Eating Disorder Resource Centre of Ireland (www.eatingdisorders.ie) she is well aware of the dangers of diet pills.

"Reductil was taken off the market because of its links with heart attacks and strokes," she says. "Back in the 1980s and 1990s drugs like Adifax were withdrawn because of bowel problems. All diet pills have huge side-effects; the effects can be worse than the weight problem."

Many women who attend weight watchers have previously tried diet pills. "They try everything," says Margaret Burke, PRO with WeightWatchers Ireland. "Diet pills can work. But when people stop the diet pills, the weight usually returns and sometimes they put on even more. Pills don't help you to make good lifestyle choices."

Margaret Fahy took her first diet pills at 34. She'd married, had her first baby, moved from London to remotest Mayo and her weight had ballooned to 14 stone.

"I'd had hormonal problems, and used fertility treatment," she says. "We wanted another child, and the first thing I had to do was lose weight. My GP put me on Xenical (orlistat) which works by decreasing the absorption of dietary fat.

"It didn't suit me. I felt sick when I ate anything and I had the most severe stomach cramps. I felt lethargic. I had no energy and I had the most terrible diarrhoea. I'd be in the middle of Penneys and would suddenly have to go to the toilet. Often I wouldn't make it.

"I found myself gorging on any food that did not give me cramps; that could be carrots or digestive biscuits. I took the pills for three months, but they weren't working for me. I lost about five pounds."

Margaret then tried exercise. She toned up and dropped two dress sizes, but she didn't lose weight. So her GP tried her on Reductil. This was 2004, when it was perceived as a new wonder drug.

"My GP did say, 'Don't, whatever you do fall pregnant'," says Margaret. "He said it could have adverse effects on the foetus. With Reductil I did cut down my portion sizes. I didn't eat as much, but I suffered from panic attacks. I had severe headaches and had terrible mood swings. I had post-natal depression and the pills made that worse. I'm surprised my marriage lasted -- those first years were horrendous!"

Margaret came off the pills after two months. She then became pregnant, had her second son, Owen, and six months after his birth became pregnant with her third. After Rory's birth in 2006, Margaret, now 14-and-a-half stone, returned to her doctor in despair.

"He said 'Give Reductil another go'. But it was back to mood swings and panic attacks. I'd have palpitations at the dinner table. My face would go on fire. I'd have them in the shower, too. It was unnerving.

"It was like being on speed. My mind was racing. I couldn't sleep. I'd go to bed by 10.30pm and be still awake at 2am. I'd be wide awake, and tossing. I'd get up, worried about disturbing Martin. Then at 8am I'd be exhausted, yet have to drop the boys at crèche before work."

Margaret came off the pills when her eldest son, Luke, was diagnosed with diabetes at six. She changed the family's diet; Martin lost two stone, but Margaret's weight stayed static.

"So it was back to the orlistat. Back to the migraine and diarrhoea. In three months I lost just four pounds."

Then Margaret discovered LighterLife (www.lighterlife.com). Using the meal replacements, and attending the LighterLife counsellor, Margaret lost three stone -- and she's kept the weight off.

"The support was unbelievable," she says. "I'm now the LighterLife counsellor for Co Mayo. And GPs are referring clients to me."

Teen dieter

Mary O'Donoghue was 17 when she first discovered diet pills. She was on a bus, discussing her Debs, when one of her friends mentioned them. "I thought, 'Whoopee! A quick fix'," says Mary.

Mary was 13 stone at the time. A chunky child, she'd piled on the weight in her teens. "I had bad food habits," she says. "I worked in a newsagents at 14. That didn't help -- I ate the profits!"

It was a miserable life. Mary bought her clothes in Boyers -- more suitable for a woman of 70 than sixteen.

"I went to the doctor; he prescribed Adifax. He told me to go back every two weeks. I didn't tell my mum." The pills worked wonders.

"I lost weight quickly. I was giddy. Life had sped up and I was delighted. I felt great because I wasn't eating. I was full of energy and needed very little sleep. I'd be up, cleaning my room at 4am. I lost about three stone. I went shopping with my friends for my Debs dress. I looked like everyone else. That was brilliant."

The effects, though, didn't last. Mary piled the weight back on, and over the next 13 years her weight yo-yoed. She tried every diet going; every product advertised. And she went back on the diet pills.

"I'd go to the doctor, get a prescription and lose seven pounds. They gave me Ponderax -- I think Adifax was off the market by then. I'd run around, giddy and hyper, but I never told anyone. And when I stopped the weight went on. I crept up to 15 stone.

"Then, one day, I went to the chemist near work where they didn't know me. The pharmacist was reluctant to give me the pills; she wanted to ring my doctor. I was mortified. I got the pills but alarm bells rang. I realised they might be dangerous. And Ponderax is now off the market."

At 30, Mary saw sense. She joined Weight Watchers, and when she lost weight two weeks in a row she realised this was a system that could work for her.

"WeightWatchers is a lifestyle change," she says. "I took off five stone, and 11 years on the weight is still off. I'm a leader, and I'm healthier and happier than I've ever been. And WeightWatchers is legitimate. You can tell people you are on it. My mother still doesn't know about the diet pills."

- Sue Leonard

Irish Independent

Sally Bee's Heart Attacks

2010-03-02T10:07:00.000-08:00

I survived three heart attacks in one week -- but now life is better than ever

TV's Sally Bee tells Sue Leonard about living with a rare disorder

Tuesday March 02 2010

Sally Bee positively glows with health. At 42, the TV presenter and mum of three looks years younger. She doesn't smoke and is a walking advertisement for her new book of healthy recipes. It's impossible to believe that, just five years ago, Sally suffered a series of such severe heart attacks that her doctors left her to die.

It started at a friend's birthday party in her home town Stratford-on-Avon.

"I was holding Lela, my then nine-month-old baby, when I felt this sense of impending doom. I just knew something was terribly wrong. Twenty seconds later, the pain hit. Then I was on the floor having a heart attack."

The doctor in the A&E, though, couldn't believe it.

"There were 'changes' in my ECG, but he didn't think, 'heart attack.' They think there has to be a reason; that you have to be overweight or a smoker, or have a history of heart disease in the family. They said I had reflux, and sent me home with medicine for indigestion."

Three days later, the pain hit again. Given morphine, she was left alone and unable to breathe. Then a nurse, reading the heart monitor, shouted for the doctors.

'I had three cardiologists standing around saying, 'this is telling us that you are having a heart attack, but we still don't believe it'.

"The next day they performed an angiogram, and they saw the main artery that feeds my heart literally fall apart. They'd never seen that before, and they didn't expect me to live. They left the room, and told my husband to go in. They thought I would die there and then."

Sally, it turned out, was born with SCAD -- Spontaneous Coronary Artery Dissection -- that could have killed her at any time.

To the doctors' amazement, Sally survived. She stayed in hospital for two weeks, then was sent home on 'critical recovery'. And, as the mum of three under-fives, unable to do anything, that was tough.

"We had to get a nanny, and my husband took a year off work. I couldn't be on my own with the children for one second, because if one of them fell, I couldn't get up to help.

"I worried all the time. I'd think each breath was my last. A few times I thought I had died, and was a ghost.

"But, gradually, I began to get better. I started walking a little every day, but I was always scared.

"After a year, I'd got used to the idea of living. I had my year anniversary and was on a high. Then the cardiologist said, 'I think you have a problem'. He thought I had an aneurysm in my aorta. He said we need to scan this, and if I had, there were two options. He could operate -- there was a 40pc chance of survival -- or leave it, meaning it could blow and I could die any time.

"I knew if they found an aneurysm they'd operate at once, and I could die. So I prepared for the date. I had wardrobes built; I got the decorators in; I bought the children's clothes for a year, and I put all my girlfriends on standby. I cried every day.

"Then the night before, I thought, if I'm going to die let it happen. I thought, I can't live like this anymore. I can't live with the fear of dying.

"I'll never forget the MRI scan. They told me it would take 40 minutes, and I knew it had taken an hour and 20 minutes. I was getting fired up, sure I had an aneurysm. I was thinking, if you doctors do your bit, I'll do mine. I will really fight.

"This Chinese doctor said there was no aneurysm. I kissed him, and decided that I wouldn't live with fear anymore.

"That was my tipping point. I remember saying to my kids, 'right, on your bikes. We're going round the block'. I began to push forward, and I've not stopped since."

From the start, Sally had watched her diet with care. Her body taught her how.

"If I had a cheese sandwich for lunch, I'd sleep for 14 hours. If I ate fish and fruit I'd have a bit of energy. After six months I had an Indian takeaway. The monosodium glutamate sent my heart into abnormal rhythm and I was back in hospital."

Sally experimented with healthy heart recipes. And at the same time she was counselling heart patients sourced by her own heart nurses. She helped them with their diet too, and she decided to write a recipe book, The Secret Ingredient.

With a TV programme planned for the autumn, Sally is flying high. She's not cured, and never will be. But she's not worrying about dying.

"I've got a voice. People need to be educated after a heart attack, and I can help them with my recipes.

"I'm having an adventure and I'm loving it. Life isn't worse than before. In many ways it's better."

The Secret Ingredient by Sally Bee is published by Harper Collins. For more information; www.sally-bee.com

- Sue Leonard

Irish Independent

Women who Cheat at Fifty

2010-02-15T13:33:00.000-08:00

Wives who cheat at 50

Sue Leonard on the 50-something women happy to have an affair once the kids are raised

An affair to remember: Meryl Streep?s It?s Complicated character rekindles a relationship with her ex-husband who has a new wife

By Sue Leonard

Monday February 15 2010

In the 1950s, the era of TV's Mad Men, women were middle-aged at 30, and old at 50. Their children reared, life was essentially over. How things have changed.

Today's over-50s feel sassy and sexy. They're independent. They embrace life. And they relate wholeheartedly to Jane, played by Meryl Streep, in Nancy Meyer's new movie, It's Complicated.

After years as a single, celibate mum, Streep's character becomes attracted to a younger man. She gives off sexual vibes; her ex-husband responds, and they have an affair -- making Jane 'the other woman'.

It's great to think that women in their 50s feel so sexually alive -- but do they really have affairs?

"Absolutely," says Cathy Breslin, a counsellor who runs the website www.ditched.ie. "They love the excitement of an affair after years of being with the same person. They love the buzz. Very often they go for married men. They feel there's a safety net. The affair doesn't have to go any further. They feel he is committed to his wife, and I am committed to my family.

"Botox and invasive and non-invasive cosmetic surgery has given women confidence," says Cathy. "And when they have confidence, they really believe they can do more. There's a wonderful awakening, in this culture particularly. They start new careers around 50 as well. Their guilt has gone. Their children are reared and it's now all about them."

Self-help groups and books have helped women rediscover themselves too.

"They realise there could be more to their lives," Cathy continues. "They've been rearing their kids and waiting for something to happen. Now they're reaching out. It's like a rejuvenation."

Gerry Hickey, a counsellor and psychotherapist, agrees.

'Women of 50 don't feel as old as their mothers did, and they're not expected to feel old. There isn't any pressure on them, as there was when they were younger. The fear of pregnancy has gone, so has the responsibility for children. And they feel more accepting about their body shape and about themselves. They radiate confidence.

"Previous generations stepped from one age to another. Older people recoiled into the background, but that is not the case now. Women are more financially dependent, so they can afford to get out.

"Reality TV and the internet have opened up a debate about sex," says Gerry. "Women have lost their fear of talking about it. And if they're not afraid to ask for what they want, that opens up a whole new world for them. It can improve their marital relationship, or lead them into an affair."

Affairs though, can bring anguish.

"The guilt and fear can take the good away, because older women feel more responsible than younger ones. And their biggest fear is that the children will find out. Their reputation within the family will be tarnished. The advice given to them would be to try and get some help with their marriage," adds Gerry.

Surely, though, the demise of the Celtic Tiger has reined in women somewhat?

"It's curbed the nightclub scene," he says. "But when couples are stuck together at home a lot, they become bored. And boredom forces them to face their own reality. They want cheap thrills. So they look for escape routes. I've seen an increase in older women having affairs since the recession kicked in."

Many women in their 50s look for men on the internet. But it's a high-risk activity.

"I know one man who recently met four women through the internet, and he got an STD."

And sexually transmitted diseases are not the only risk.

"At 50, an affair is far more likely to end the marriage," says Gerry. "It's extremely high risk. Rather than wanting to work on the marriage, the 'wronged' partner will usually say: 'I haven't been feeling the best about the marriage either, so that's fine.'

"At that age, people feel life is too short. They feel: why bother to fix something that's over? When someone's affair is discovered, they often don't want to work on their marriage. They seem to think 'that was a cycle of my life, and that is completed'."

We often think that older women will go for younger men. But that's not always the case.

"Many women prefer an older man. I know one who goes for over-60s. She meets them on the internet. And she's having a ball."

- Sue Leonard

Irish Independent

Breastfeeding Older Children.

2010-02-14T15:07:00.000-08:00

breastfed my daughter until she was six . . .

It's still a taboo subject, but Sue Leonard discovers why many mothers give children time to self-wean

Krysia Lynch and her children Naoise, Fionn and Siabhra . Krysia was happy to breastfeed her kids into toddlerhood. Picture by Ronan Lang

By Sue Leonard

Tuesday January 19 2010

We're getting used to the sight of young mums breastfeeding in public, but how would you react if the 'baby' being fed was five -- or even older? Should limits be set on breastfeeding?

Ann Sinnott, from Cambridge, breastfed her daughter until she was six and a half years old. Believing that all children should, ideally, be allowed to choose when breastfeeding ceases, Ann set out to explore international attitudes to this somewhat taboo practice.

In her book, Breast-feeding Older Children, she questioned women, men and children from 48 countries via the internet, and she found that breastfeeding until a child is three, six, nine, or even 11 is a growing phenomenon.

Why, though, did she write her book?

"My aim was to support mums who are long-term breastfeeding, and to show them they are not alone," she says.

"I'd like to educate health professionals, because the damage their negative comments can do is incalculable.

"If, as a result of my book, more mums breastfeed their babies for a year, I'll be happy. If they breastfeed until the child is two I'll be happier still, and if they allow they child to self-wean I'll be happiest of all."

Ann aimed to challenge the negative perceptions of many psychologists who contend that breastfed older children are emotionally damaged.

"Breastfed children are happy. They rarely cry because their needs are being met. My daughter, at six, was serene and incredibly independent, yet she had the need to continue breastfeeding. I went along with her until she was ready to stop."

Pointing out that an older child rarely breastfeeds in public; that it's something done behind closed doors, Sinnott says the reasons most mums gave for long-term breastfeeding, was that it was what their child wanted.

The World Health Organisation recommends that mothers breastfeed until their child is two years old, and beyond.

Yet, in Ireland, only 2.4pc of women are still breastfeeding when their babies are six to seven months old -- according to a national study on infant feeding, carried out for the HSE by Trinity College Dublin.

"We don't have figures for mothers who breastfeed on a more long-term basis," says Maureen Fallon, the HSE's national breastfeeding coordinator.

"We would recommend that mothers follow the WHO guidelines and feed until two or beyond. But it must be a mutual decision. At that stage, breastfeeding is more for comfort than anything else.

"If it's mutually beneficial, it is the mother's and the child's business, and it's not for anyone else to intrude upon."

When Krysia Lynch first saw a walking, talking child breastfeeding, her eyes almost popped out of her head.

She was at a La Leche League meeting with her first child Naoise at the time, and had not realised long-term breastfeeding was possible.

"It was wow! I didn't know my body was capable of that," says Krysia, who is now a mum of three. "I'd never been exposed to it before."

Krysia had always intended to breastfeed.

"My mother breastfed all of us until we were around six or seven months old," she says, "and all the women in my family breastfed. I knew I would do it, but I had no idea how long I would continue.

"I was naive. I thought when your baby took real food you stopped breastfeeding. I didn't realise there was a process called weaning."

When Naoise reached six months, Krysia started to introduce solids, but the baby wasn't too interested. And, realising that breast milk provided all the nutrients Naoise needed, Krysia relaxed, and stopped worrying about what he was eating.

'I'd imagined I'd have finished breastfeeding him by the time he was a year old, but when his first birthday came, he still seemed so small.

"It had taken time to get breastfeeding properly established, and it seemed crazy to stop something that was going so well. By then I'd learned to follow Naoise's needs, so I carried on. And before I knew it he was two, and I was still breastfeeding. I just carried on until he didn't seem to have a need for it."

Were there ever any embarrassing moments in public?

"No. With an older child you can set limits on breastfeeding," she says. "You can say 'we'll only feed at night-time', or 'only first thing in the morning'. You can say, 'It's not acceptable to walk up to me in the shopping centre and to pull my top up'."

Krysia breastfed her second son Fionn, beyond his second birthday, too, and she is currently breastfeeding her daughter, Siabhra, who is 15 months old. But she wouldn't describe herself as radical.

"I'm just following my child, and mothering through breastfeeding," she says.

"I know loads of mums who long-term breastfeed. I met some of them at the local mother and toddler group. I don't think these mums breastfeed older children by design, I think they end up doing so because they see the benefits to their child."

Many mums, though, keep quiet about the practice.

"It's just not culturally acceptable in Ireland," says Krysia. "Other cultures are different. I was breastfeeding Naoise in Portugal when he was around 21 months old. We were at a truck stop on a motorway and I thought, 'this is the worst possible place'. But a lorry driver gave me the thumbs up. Three others shouted encouraging comments. They were saying, 'sup it up baby!' They were telling me about their children, and the late age they had been weaned."

Monica O'Connor, a mum of six -- who recently fostered four more children -- breastfed all her children long term. Some of them weaned themselves at three -- one, the most resistant, at five years and four months. Monica is still breastfeeding Eamon, at 23 months. To her, it is entirely natural.

'When I was 16 I met a family with a new baby. He was breastfed into toddlerhood. It was the first time I'd seen that. I liked the family's healthy lifestyle, and felt theirs was my parenting ideal.

"Darragh was born 23 years ago when I was 18. Breastfeeding was relatively rare back then. Out of the 24 women in and out of the postnatal ward the week I was there, only four breastfed. Yet I breastfed on planes and trains; in the church and the cinema and in supermarkets, and have never, ever, received a negative comment."

Monica doesn't believe people are aware when she's feeding an older child. "Up to two I'd have them in a sling, and most people presume the child is asleep," she says. "By three it becomes a private thing first thing in the morning. Few people would know about it; even the grandparents might not be aware.

"I wish long-term breastfeeding was culturally acceptable, but I realise that it's not. And there are times when I have to distract an older child, because I know it will cause the people around us discomfort. Yet if I pulled out a soother, or a bottle for an older child, nobody would raise an eyebrow. That bothers me. Because by breastfeeding, I'm doing the very best that I can for my child."

Monica believes that many women are nursing older children, but are hiding it.

"They feel they have to. It's as if it's something shameful, which of course it isn't. And because it's hidden people are unaware that it's happening."

Breast-Feeding Older Children by Ann Sinnott is published by Free Association Books www.fabooks.com

- Sue Leonard

2009-10-25T10:20:00.000-07:00

Real Life: New research on the causes of suicide and the effects on those left behind

New research, due to be published next year, hopes to finally shed light on the causes of suicide and the effects on those left behind

Positive: Nuala Whelan, whose husband killed himself 10 years ago, has come to terms with what happened and says 'life is to be enjoyed, not endured.'

Monday September 07 2009

This Thursday, September 10, is World Suicide Prevention Day. With 460 people dying by suicide in Ireland in 2007, and our youth suicide rate the fifth highest in Europe, it's a date we should all take note of.

Until now there has been little research to find out just why so many young people kill themselves, and that worried Professor Kevin Malone of UCD and St Vincent's University Hospital. So thanks to funding from, amongst others, 3Ts and the Padraig Harrington Foundation, he decided to talk to the families and the friends of suicide victims.

"We examined 400 suicide cases: 400 young people who had attempted suicide, and another 400 who were depressed, but who had not made a suicide attempt," says Professor Malone. "Over 80pc of those who had committed suicide had told someone of their intention up to two weeks before," he says.

"That is so sad, and is a reflection on our society. It's difficult, too, for the friends who are burdened with that news. They may feel, in the aftermath, that they were enabling the suicide, by standing by their friend and not telling."

Life, too, is difficult for those who made a suicide attempt, and survived.

"They get a second chance at life, but society is angry at them," says Malone. "Yet they had reached a point where they were overwhelmed by a feeling of low self-worth, where the world would be better off without them.

"In the aftermath, they have to deal with anger, and the realisation that they are considered selfish in a society that doesn't care. They have no idea what the aftermath of a successful suicide is like for their family. If they knew they would probably think about the act, but they are in a bubble of despair and they don't see any way out."

Ten suicide clusters were identified in the research, accounting for 40 additional deaths. And this, Malone suggests, is a complex issue.

Loss

"It is clear that the grief of suicide death and suicide loss is profound in a young person's society," he says. "They feel alone, afraid, and they identify with suicide as a solution. Young people often tell their parents that suicide is a dreadful thing, and they would never do it, but two weeks later they are dead themselves."

Mental health support for the young is woefully inadequate. There are no public beds for adolescents with mental health problems in Professor Malone's catchment area.

"Not one," he says. "We can 'buy' expensive beds from St John of God's Hospital, but that is not the solution. There are three suicides on our database directly associated with adolescent kids being put in an adult unit. They felt completely out of it."

Anthony knows that feeling well. At 19, he was a patient in St Columba's Psychiatric Hospital in Sligo. It was his third visit and he had been having suicidal thoughts for some time. Whilst there, he went to a nearby derelict building and jumped from a second-floor window.

"I wanted to end the pain," he says. "Killing yourself is not a selfish thing to do; you don't want to hurt your family. It's not brave either. It is neither of those things. My thinking just wasn't right."

Anthony smashed a knee and the bones in his heel. He couldn't walk for five weeks. But when he woke, he was glad that he was alive.

"That was my turning point," he says. "I have been through a lot since then, but I have never once been suicidal. People took me seriously after that. Nobody did before; not even the doctors. I don't think my doctor believed in my story. He didn't believe what I was going through."

It was a long road to recovery. But at 30, Anthony's life has improved beyond recognition. "I still get low days, but I can cope with them now," he says. That is due to counselling and to the support of the organisation Grow, a kind of AA for sufferers of depression.

"I go to Grow every week now," he says. "It gave me the confidence to talk about my illness. I went to Grow to get help for myself, but you help other people as well. You open up about things."

The artist Bernadette Walsh has lost not one but two of her three sons to suicide. Her youngest, Owen, was 33 when he died.

"His breakdown was related to work," says Bernadette. "There'd been trouble, and Owen stood up for his colleagues. He felt, after that, that he was isolated."

He left that job, and started working as a carpenter but he was severely depressed.

"He felt his capacity as a man was diminishing," says Bernadette. "He didn't think he could support his wife, Marie. He was ashamed and we couldn't reason with him."

The family tried to get Owen help. They talked to doctors, and Owen had told his GP that he wanted to kill himself.

"There should have been intervention," says Bernadette. "He should have been admitted to hospital." But he wasn't and on December 6, 1999, Owen was found dead.

Bernadette is convinced that Owen's death contributed to the death of his elder brother, Stephen, years later. Stephen had been a volunteer for four years in Moldova where he'd done sterling work. He'd worked in Ireland as a plumber, and had then volunteered to dig for pumps and to build wells in Sri Lanka. It was soon after he had arrived in Sri Lanka, on December 26, 2006, that he drowned.

"No one wants to believe that her son took his own life, but I know that he did. Stephen couldn't swim. He hadn't been sleeping and he had said goodbye to friends he hadn't seen for years. Work was tough. He was worried about his daughter. Stephanie was pregnant. The baby was born two days after he died."

How has Bernadette coped with this double loss? "I've been helped by the support group Console," she says. "They have been so good to me. I write poems and I paint and paint until I am exhausted. That is how I keep going.

"It is like a glass shattering when you lose someone. Families can split up over the pain. My son David is a hero because he has survived and is a good father. All my sons are heroes. Someone said to me, 'how come you didn't die afterwards?' I said, 'I live for me. Hope is all we have.'"

Depressed

When Nuala Whelan's husband John killed himself 10 years ago, she had absolutely no idea that he was depressed.

"Everything was in his favour. He was 41. He'd worked as a postman for 22 years and worked up the grades. He'd changed jobs just before he died, and he seemed happy. We didn't have debts and we had eight children aged between 18 and six.

"It was like being hit in the face with a shovel. My first thought, though, was for the kids. They were looking at me to get them through this, so I had to get myself to a place where I could cope. I handed the funeral over to the kids. I felt they needed control over their grief."

It wasn't until Nuala's father died, a few years later, that she realised how difficult John's death had been.

"That's when it hit me. My dad died with his family around. It was a release. John's death was so lonely and cold. It was so hard to visualise his pain.

"I had a dark three years. I've never understood why John died. No matter what I do I will never find the answer. So I might as well live my life since he chose not to live his."

Ten years on, life is rosy. All the children are well and happy. One is married and pregnant, one is a barrister, one a banker with a first-class degree, one is an architect, one a business manager, and another an intensive care nurse. One is studying interior design and the youngest is soon to start college. Nuala has returned to college too.

"Life is to be enjoyed, not endured," says Nuala. "Even after the funeral I said: 'I want a bucket of laughter for every tear you have shed.' You have to find the good in the bad and get on with it."

For help and support

GROW - www.grow.ie
CONSOLE - www.console.ie, Helpline 1800 201 8910

2009-10-25T10:13:00.000-07:00

The Children’s Miracle Network.

Niamh and Mairead Condon

Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published in The Irish Independent 9^th march 2009.

Every Tuesday, Niamh Condon has to miss a day of school. The 14 year old from Knocklong in County Limerick, has a rare condition called Hurler Scheie Syndrome, and she has to spend her day in Limerick District Hospital, where she receives an enzyme by a drip.

“I will be there for four or five hours,” says Niamh. “It’s very boring. I tend to do my homework there, and I read. I have nearly all the books in the library read.” she says.

The worst thing, Niamh tells me, is missing class.

“Especially now that I’m in secondary school; the John the Baptist Community School. I have more to catch up on with all the different subjects and teachers.

“A couple of my friends take down all the notes and stuff, but on Wednesday night, when I have my normal homework, I have to copy down all the notes they did for me on Tuesday as well. There is an awful lot to do.”

Niamh is extremely diligent. She insists on going into school on Tuesdays, to attend two classes before she goes to the hospital.

“She’d love to stay longer if she could,” says her mum, Mairead. “Niamh loves her schoolwork. She wants to do well in life.

“It is not a joke going into hospital every week. She has to wait to be set up on the drip; that can take two hours, or longer if there is someone in the day unit who is sicker than her. The enzyme takes four hours to administer, and she has to see a doctor after that.”

When Niamh was a baby she seemed perfectly well.

“We hadn’t a clue there was anything wrong with her,” says Mairead. “Then we noticed that she couldn’t hold her hands out straight. There was some stiffness there. They did every test in Limerick, but they couldn’t find out what was wrong.

“So they referred us to Our Lady’s Hospital for Sick Children in Crumlin. And Dr Riordan, the Geneticist there, sent a urine sample to Great Ormond Street Hospital. He diagnosed Niamh with Hurler Scheie Syndrome when she was six years old.”

This is a rare biochemical abnormality, that affects just one in a million children. Niamh is missing the enzyme Alduranzyme, hence the need for her infusion. There are 30 families in Ireland whose children suffer from one of the mucopolysaccharidosis conditions; known as MPS. They meet regularly thanks for a support group run by volunteers.

It took a while, after diagnosis, to get set up with funding to enable Niamh to receive her enzyme infusion.

“At that stage they were testing the procedure with selected children in England,” says Mairead. “After the funding was set up, it took another two or three years for the enzyme to become available. Niamh was the first child in the South of Ireland to receive it. And meanwhile, she was often sick. She kept getting chest infections.”

At ten, Niamh was frightened of needles. So a small device was fitted under her skin to allow the doctors to administer the enzyme. After nine months, this became infected, and caused a serious infection of Niamh’s heart valves, called endocarditis.

“Niamh already had a bad heart as part of her condition,” explains Mairead. “But that infection has made it much worse. Niamh was extremely sick. She was in Crumlin for almost six months, on a very strong course of antibiotics. She was on four or five different ones, and it has left her with a lot of damage. She now has serious backflow in the aorta and mitral valves.

“Today, at five foot, Niamh weighs 7 stone. When she was in hospital she went down to just under three stone. It happened in the space of a few months. It was very serious. Niamh had to be tube fed. It was a big ordeal.

“Niamh’s activity is now curtailed. She can’t take exercise, and misses out on all the sport at school. She can manage everyday life, but can’t walk far without becoming breathless. Her back hurts too, and she can’t write a lot; for essays she uses a laptop. Not that she ever complains.

“Niamh has never known anything else,” says Mairead. “”She gets on with life and accepts it, in spite of all the knocks. Life hasn’t been a bed of roses, but she is always positive. She’s a treasure.”

With her constant smile, it is no surprise to learn that Niamh has made lots of friends in hospital. All the nurses and doctors appreciate her positive outlook. She was in Crumlin over Christmas four years ago, when she had the heart infection. And during the traditional Christmas ‘ward walk,’ Niamh met celebrities including Brian McFadden.

“That was a huge thrill for her,” says Mairead. “Niamh is a big Westlife fan.”

She also met Suzanne Downey, who’s in charge of publicity there.

“They became friendly, and we try and meet up with her when Niamh attends for her checkups,” explains Mairead.

“Suzanne rang us before Christmas last year, to say she would like to put Niamh’s name forward, along with other children, to go to Florida with the charity Children’s Miracle Network. We said, ‘of course,’ and a week later we were told that Niamh had been chosen to go to represent Crumlin.”

The whole family are setting out tomorrow, (Tuesday 10^th March.) And they’re all hugely excited.

“I’ve never been to America,” says Niamh. “I can’t wait to see Disneyland; and I’m looking forwards to the shopping as well. I think I’ll buy jeans with labels and T-shirts.”

Niamh’s younger brothers, Conor 13, and Thomas, 10, are looking forwards to the trip too.

“It’s tough for them,” says Mairead. “Both boys are big into the GAA, but when Niamh is sick, they have to go to matches with friends or neighbours. Their lives have to revolve around her.”

Niamh future is uncertain; she will, at some stage need heart surgery. But she’s totally upbeat.

“I want to just get on with life,” she says. “Even though I miss one day a week in school, I am determined to do my best there. Eventually I’d like to work with computers. I’m very interested in them.”

Niamh’s dad Francis, hopes that one day she will achieve a degree of independence; and go to college and work afterwards; and maybe, drive a car. As for Mairead, she is just happy when Niamh is at home, and is well.

“That, for me, is a huge thing,” she says.

The priority right now, though, is for home infusion.

“That would make life so much easier,” says Mairead. “The hospital manager is working on raising funds for her. That would be like winning the lottery.”

The Children’s Miracle Network, was started up by the famous Osmond family, to help children with hearing impairments.

“Two of their sons had hearing problems,” explains Conor Byrne, Director of Development with the network. “They started with a telethon; then they decided to do more for children’s hospitals in general. They have expanded and now have corporate partnerships and media partners. The network is worth over 2 billion dollars in America alone.”

The Children’s Miracle Network first appeared in Ireland in 2007, with a radiothon in conjunction with Dublin’s 98FM. And since then there have been further radiothons in Dublin and in Cork.

The network raises money for those extras that make a child’s life more normal in hospital; things such as toys, and murals on walls.

“Some of the money goes on research and occasionally on machines,” explains Conor, who was once in charge of fundraising at Tallaght hospital. “It’s up to the hospitals how they spend their money, but in general it does not replace the funding the government is supposed to be doing. It adds to it.”

Every year the network meets at the headquarters in Florida, with all the corporate and media partners who have helped.

“It’s a way to celebrate,” explains Conor. “And as part of that, a child from every area is selected to represent the children who have been helped. They are the ‘champion children.’

“They are ambassadors for the charity. They get to meet children from all over the world who have been in similar circumstances to themselves. There is a big medal celebration. Each child gets up on the stage individually.

“We have a celebration breakfast, where they are photographed with Disney characters, and they meet with the sponsors. But the children are the stars. There will be one or two events every day, where they are the focus.

“This is the second year children from Ireland have attended. It’s wonderful to see these kids who have been through so much. They have so much energy; so much life.”

It is important for all the families too.

They may not, normally, have been able to have holiday; one of the families who went last year had never been out of Ireland before. It was such a huge event for them.

“It gives families a chance to be together. And that is especially important for the siblings, who may have had a very rough ride. The children’s Miracle Network is about treating the whole family; and not just the child.”

For More information; www.childrensmiraclenetwork.ie

2009-10-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

The Changes in Chemotherapy.

By Sue Leonard.

Published in The Irish Independent, 16^th march 2009.

The word ‘cancer’ spells terror. We know that the Big C is no longer, automatically, a killer. We know that many people now survive, but we fear the treatment too. We’ve heard the horror stories. We think of the vomiting; the constant illness, and wonder how we would ever find the strength to cope.

Cancer is still a serious illness. People still, do, die, but the treatment, in the past twenty years, has improved beyond recognition. The treatment, of course varies hugely for every type of cancer; and indeed, for each individual.

Take breast cancer. There are many different types of breast cancer, and different treatments, but the news, in general, is good.

“The treatment for breast cancer is dramatically better,” says Dr John Kennedy, Consultant Medical Oncologist at St James’s Hospital.

“Back in the eighties there were, maybe, two or three drugs available to treat breast cancer. The drugs had just a modest impact on the risk of reoccurrence in early stage cancer, and just a modest benefit for those with advanced disease. There have been huge advances in both those areas.”

We now have well organised expert centres, so it’s easier to treat patients. Chemotherapy can be prescribed specifically for each patient.

“The chemo drugs are better, and medications to prevent sickness and reduce the risk of infections have improved too,” says Dr Kennedy.

There are better hormonal therapies; and better ways of managing patients who have more advanced breast cancer.

“We now use bisphosphomates; drugs that are also used for osteoporosis to help when breast cancer has reached the bone. These substantially reduce pain, and the risk of fracture.”

Patients don’t feel as bad as they once did, either.

“These days vomiting is unusual; most patient’s don’t ever vomit. 20 years ago, they all would. This is because there’s now a range of effective drugs to treat it.

“The newer chemotherapy therapies tend not to cause low blood counts or sickness, but they can cause tiredness.

“The majority of patients say that the chemotherapy treatment was not as bad as they thought it would be,” says Dr Kennedy. “They say it was over quicker than they expected it to be. For most people it takes six months of therapy; and getting back on their feet takes a year.

“It is routine for me to see patients in my clinic who were diagnosed seven or eight years ago with a very high risk breast cancer, who are now well. I am convinced that 20 years ago, those women would not be around.”

Naomi Fitzgibbon, breast cancer information nurse with the Irish Cancer Society, says that patients are generally terrified before they attend treatment.

“They have to go through this whole learning curve, with all these technical new words. They have heard all these stories, and have no idea what the first treatment will be like.

“It can be disconcerting, too, that the lady beside her, who also has breast cancer, might be on a completely different set of drugs. They may have their treatments in a different order. Some women have chemotherapy after surgery, and some before. It depends on the type of cancer that they have, and on the stage it is at.

“It’s not ‘one size fits all.’ The treatment is now very much tailored to suit the woman. And, now that we know how the drugs work we cab pre-empt the side effects before they happen.

“But the really good thing, is that we now have such good communication,” she says. “Nurses work closely with the women, so they can describe how they are feeling, and get interventions when they need them; maybe a dermatologist, dietician or psychologist. Women can get all the support that they need.”

When Geraldine Jennings was diagnosed with a rare, and acute form of breast cancer, she was devastated.

“I had inflammatory breast cancer; there was pain, and a lot of swelling,” she says. “It was a terrible shock. I cried; then got drunk, then cried again.”

When she’d got over the shock, though, Geraldine became more positive.

“I thought, ‘at least it’s me, and not my children,’ she says. “The consultant at Beaumont said I had a large fibrous tumour. He said I’d need chemotherapy, surgery and radiotherapy. But he said, ‘you will live through this.’

“He said I’d have the chemotherapy first, and it would be a strong dose. But I knew it was going to save my life. I said ‘throw everything at me.’ I wanted to get on with it.”

Geraldine was diagnosed at the end of April 2007, and she started her chemotherapy on 4^th May.

“I remember walking in that first day,” she says. “I didn’t know what to expect, and there all these people sitting around. The room felt welcoming. It was as if I was the new girl in school. They knew how I felt. They had been there. There was nothing intimidating about it at all.”

Geraldine was prescribed FEC Chemotherapy- and it was given four times, three weeks apart.

“It was injected over an hour and a half, and the effects are immediate. But I felt ok afterwards. I went out to Chapter One restaurant, and on to the gate Theatre as planned.

“Those first weeks I continued to work,” she says. “I’m a business consultant, and I was working with a client. But I was gradually slowing down, and closing off accounts.”

After the second dose, Geraldine’s hair began to fall out.

“I’ve always been identified by my hair. It was long and luxurious. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about losing it. My children, who were then 22 and 21, came up for a hair cutting day. I didn’t want to find wads of hair in my bed. We opened some champagne, and they shaved it off. I was surprised. Being bald didn’t look too bad.

“My eyebrows and eyelashes thinned, but I never lost them completely. I tried to keep feminine, and I always wore make up. There was a ‘beauty day’ at Beaumont. They gave us makeup, and showed us how to pencil in our eyebrows and use blusher. That was fun, and very helpful.”

Although she sometimes felt nauseous, Geraldine never vomited. But she did feel unwell, and extremely tired.

“I was surprised by that. I am an active, positive woman, but I was floored. I kept hearing of people who worked right through chemotherapy. I had to remind myself that this was not a competition; and that everyone has a ‘different’ breast cancer, and different treatment.

“At the start I kept wondering why someone like Linda McCartney died. Why would she, as the richest, healthiest person die, if I was not going to? But I realised I knew nothing about her cancer, or what stage she’d been at. I only knew about me.

“I did a lot of reading, and the stats for my cancer weren’t too good. My breast care nurse told me that the drugs that were keeping me alive were not available five years ago.”

Geraldine didn’t lose her appetite; she didn’t get mouth ulcers either, but she did lose a certain amount of taste. And, at around fifty, she went into the menopause too; there’d been no sign of it before. For all this, she found the support of the team in Beaumont second to none.

“The nurses became my new best friends. I could ring them anytime. They told me that if I felt unwell I should always tell them. Because I shouldn’t. And If I did, they could modify the drugs.

“I was living alone for most of the time. My daughter had moved out, and my son was in college. I had to learn to ask for help. A couple of times I rang a friend and said, ‘I’m too tired to cook, and I’m just snacking all the time. Would you cook me dinner?’ And she did. People were so kind.

“The tiredness is accumulative. When it was bad, I’d set targets for myself. I had bad reflux, and needed to get to the chemist for an over the counter treatment. I knew I could ask a friend, but I thought, ‘I will just get out of bed. I will ring then if I need to.’ I got dressed, and finally did make it to the shops.”

The holistic care at Beaumont was second to none. Geraldine had psychological support, and says that that, too, helped to get her through. And she attended the Gary Kelly Cancer Support Centre.

“It was wonderful to meet all the women who had been through treatment and were going through it. They were all such strong amazing women. If someone was having a bad day they’d get a hug.

“We’d discuss things like ‘chemo brain.’ I once asked for a yoghurt maker in a computer store; another woman put her mobile into the fridge and put a pound of butter in her bag.”

After the chemo, Geraldine had a total left lateral mastectomy.

“They took a lot of lymph nodes as well,” she says. “It wasn’t pretty, but there are worse things. I may go for reconstruction eventually.”

Next was a course of radiotherapy; and after that, Geraldine had a second course of chemotherapy.

“I thought, ‘here we go again,’ but it wasn’t such a strong dose,” she says. “I didn’t feel as sick. I drove myself there and back, but it affected me in different ways. I had pins and needles, but it didn’t worry me. I was still able to sew and do embroidery; something I found essential for all the hours of waiting around.”

A year and a quarter on, it’s all become a memory.

“You do forget,” she says. “It’s like childbirth.” Work, in the recession, is difficult. But Geraldine keeps herself busy running a theatre group, and painting. “I’ve got hens now, and also two dogs. They keep me occupied,” she says.

“There are positive things about cancer. I never knew what love was. It’s being able to ring the niece and say, ‘bring over dinner.’ It’s the little things.”

Has she advice for anyone who is now going through chemotherapy?

“Ask questions. Get to know as much as you want to. Believe your doctors. And don’t compare yourself to anyone else.

“Once you are diagnosed you are in the safest hands. You are with a team and the support is wonderful. They know, exactly what you are going through. They understand you.”

FACT FILE.

Breast cancer accounts for 28pc of all cancers in women in Ireland. 1726 women are diagnosed each year.
The death rate is improving by 2pc each year. This is due to better treatment.

FOR MORE INFORMATION.

1800 30 90 40.

1800 200 700.

Should teens holiday alone.

2009-10-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

Sun, sea and teens let loose

They should be thinking about their studies but many students are already planning their post-exam breaks. Are they really ready for it? Sue Leonard speaks to one mother and daughter

By Sue Leonard

Monday September 21 2009

The post-Leaving Certificate holiday has become a rite of passage. Parents worry about it, but accept that once teens have left school, it's time for some independence. So, what if they fancy a pre-Leaving Cert holiday without you? Should you let them go?

"It depends on the teenager," says Lloyd Byrne, National Childline manager with the ISPCC.

"It's not so much the age, as the level of maturity.

"Some 16- and 17-year-olds are wise, and very mature; and some 18- and 19-year-olds may not be. It's about parents knowing their children and knowing where they are going."

It is harder to say no, he says, when they fund themselves.

We encourage our children to be responsible, to earn money and to make their own decisions, so if they save to go on holiday should we allow that?

"It's up to the parents. A lot of young people, abroad, drink and party to a level where their decision might be compromised, but that can happen on the streets of Dublin as well.

"It helps when children have confidence. If they are informed of the consequences of their actions, and are used to making decisions for themselves, they are more alert to the dangers out there."

The MUM Susan Clark

When Susan Clark's daughter Sophie (17), asked if she could go on a fifth-year holiday to Puerto Banus, Susan hesitated.

"She said that there were four of them getting an apartment together. I was reluctant to say no, especially as there were two mothers with other kids going to the complex.

"I rang one of the mothers. and she said that they were not going to be minding them. I understood that. But I decided to let Sophie go because I trust her. Over the years, I have said that I would expect my children to behave in a certain manner, and I hope they do. You hope the 17 years she had spent with us will count for something.

"Then, though, the plans changed. Two of the girls dropped out because their parents wouldn't let them go.

"I talked to one of those mums, and she asked me if I knew that boys were also going. I discussed it with my husband, Martin, and we decided we'd still let her go. There wasn't an apartment available but, through a friend, we found a hotel at half-board, a bit away from the main group.

"They were to take taxis, and they were to stick together and mind each other," says Susan.

"And she was to text us to say things were ok. I said to her: 'If you don't text, and from your own phone, I will be worried. And I don't want to worry because I want you to have a good time.'

"If Sophie had asked to go away at 16, I don't think I would have allowed her to go.

"I have five children. Sophie and her twin, Hannah, are my youngest. The other three never went away before they were 18. But when I was Sophie's age, I had done my Leaving Certificate and was at liberty. That influenced my decision."

Sophie has always been independent. She first went to the Gaeltacht at nine. She worked as an au-pair in Spain at 15 for a family she and her parents knew well; and at 16, she went to learn French in Biarritz. And she's at Wesley College as a boarder.

"I think being away from home does help their independence," says Susan. "I haven't packed a case for the girls for years.

"I am aware of the dangers though. When we drop their sisters at the airport, I've always said to the girls to just look around the airport. See all these lovely teenagers going off excited. Some may not come back. They may be murdered; fall off rocks, drown or be hit by scaffolding. I'd say that's your job to come back to us safe.

"I used to say don't drink, and they would reply but all our friends do. I said 'then change your friends' but realised I was wasting my time.

I explain that there is pressure to drink, because then, if there is trouble, the guilt is shared. And I stress that they must be careful not to get 'out of it'. They must take care to keep themselves safe.

"When Sophie was packing, I asked her if she was looking forward to it and she said: 'Oh mummy, I haven't been this excited since we went to Tunisia.' That would have been her first family holiday away.

"She was abroad for six days. Since she came home , she hasn't talked much about it. She was pleased to see us at the airport. That was a good sign. It seemed to go well. She enjoyed herself and came back safe.

"I haven't quizzed her about it. I assume she will tell me, but I don't expect her to tell me an more than I'd have told my parents. And would I want to know?"

The daughter

Sophie Clark

'One of my friends at school has an apartment in Puerto Banus. She said that a big group of us should go over. Mum seemed happy when there were going to be four of us in an apartment, but I expected an argument when two of the girls dropped out.

"Surprisingly there wasn't that much. She knew I was sensible, and she stressed what I should and should not be doing. She liked my friend, and said we should stick together. She trusted me that I would.

"Mum paid for my holiday, and my friend funded her own.

"We went from July 13 until July 20. It was just the two of us flying. We were so excited.

"I wouldn't let my dad come into the airport. We flew Aer Lingus, and we had to make our own way to the hotel.

"I'd researched that on the internet the night before. We couldn't find the shuttle bus, so we got a bus to Marbella, then a taxi to the hotel.

"The room had an entrance to the outside. We bought food and ate in there. It was basic, but nice. Everything was cheap there. We had a great time. We sunbathed during the day, and we met up with the others at night. There were nine other girls from school, and five boys. I was happy it was just the two of us.

"We'd get up at 11 or 12 after being out until around 5am. I got drunk, basically, every night. I didn't overdo it though.

"One night we got a random knock on the door. We thought it was the cleaning staff so we opened it, but it was this weirdo saying 'do you want to get some beer with us?' We shut the door. That was the only scary thing to happen to us.

"The best thing about the holiday was having the independence from our parents. That was really good.

"All the other girls had to stick together and be home at a certain time. We didn't have to stick with a group.

"Next year a group of us plan to work in Puerto Banus.

"Then we'll go on the Leaving Certificate holiday to Crete, or wherever the schools go."

Sue Leonard

Sebastian Faulks.

2009-10-10T16:02:00.000-07:00

Sebastian Faulks

Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published in The Irish Examiner, October 11^th, 2009.

Sebastian Faulks has always wanted to write a book set in contemporary Britain. But in the past he’s had difficulty finding anything to say about it. That’s why he wrote his French Trilogy, including his first world war classic, Birdsong.

“France was a sort of liberation to me,” he tells me, when we meet on a Saturday morning before his appearance at the Dun Laoghaire Mountains to Sea Festival. “I could go there, and as soon as I got off the boat everything seemed to suggest to me stories and characters and things of weight and importance.”

His latest book, though, A Week in December is set entirely in London. It describes a time when the cracks were just starting to show in Britain’s boom. Chronicling the lives of seven major characters, their interweaving stories make for a complex plot.

“I started the novel in 2006; then I stopped to write the James Bond.” (At the request of the estate of the James Bond creator, Ian Fleming, Faulks wrote the 36^th Bond book, Devil May Care.) “When I returned to the novel last September, the banking world was falling apart. I realised then, that I could not make the novel bang up to date, so I anchored it in 2007, when financiers should have realised the game was up, but didn’t.

“It’s not quite the book I set out to write. I wanted to write a novel with strong themes, strong ideas and big characters set in the modern day; but I have ended up writing about the here and now. It is, essentially, the way we live now.”

The novel centres on Veals; a hedge fund manager whose life is dedicated, solely, to the acquisition of millions. He’s an obnoxious character who never smiles, and who can’t connect to his children.

“I wanted to write about the making of money for no purpose,” says Faulks.

Veals’s son, Finn, becomes a slave to skunk and reality TV; the tube driver Jenni spends her spare time playing an alternative reality game on her computer, and the student Hassan, buries his mind is Islamist theory.

“Most people in London live in a self enclosed bubble,” says Faulks. “They have earphones on their ears, they’re on their mobiles or their laptops.”

Faulks reread Dickens’s Bleak House and Our Mutual Friend before embarking on his novel. He was inspired by the way Dickens connected up the city, and used coincidence. And A Week in December does read a little like a modern day Dickens. It’s satirical, and is heavy on plot, and rather lacking in emotion.

“A lot of my books explore the emotions of people. Their hearts, and by extension mine, are laid bare. This book is much more from the head than the heart.” There is, though, one romance. The impoverished barrister Gabriel falls for Jenni. “I did go into their feelings. I think they provide emotional identification.”

Faulks has long been fascinated by psychiatric illness. He lectured on schizophrenia at a conference in Venice, and often touches on such issues in his writing. In A Week in December he explores the connection between smoking genetically modified cannabis and psychiatric problems, and gives the lawyer, Gabriel, a schizophrenic brother. Where did this interest come from?

“I knew people when I was a child,” he says. “At my prep school the cleverest, nicest, most talented boy had a schizophrenic breakdown at 18. I’ve known several others. I felt sorry for these people, but also realised they were going through extreme experiences, at the outer limits of what humans can go through. And my interest, in all my books is ‘what are we made of, and what are we like.’”

His last mainstream novel chronicled the life of a man with a personality disorder. An extraordinary achievement, Engleby was particularly fascinating to me, because I knew Faulks in childhood. His father was our family solicitor, and I knew enough about Sebastian’s life to realise that it ran in direct parallel to his eponymous antihero’s.

Both were born in Newbury, Berkshire in 1953. Both won scholarships to Wellington College, and both went to Cambridge University before editing the literary pages of a new broadsheet. Did he set out to invert his own life?

“Not at all,” he says. “I woke up one morning and heard Mike Engleby in my head. It just began, ‘I am in second year at an ancient university.’ He went on and I thought, ‘this is good.’ I went to work and wrote down what I could remember, and once I had written the half page, I thought, ‘this isn’t how I write books.’ But I had nothing else on, so I just tuned in every morning, and ‘yes, it was coming.’

“I had never been able, before, to write in the first person, but now I was doing so with confidence. I thought, ‘there is nothing of me in this character, but his life is parallel.’ I thought, ‘I might as well make it more parallel.’ It was a game really. It was kind of fun.”

In his new book, Faulks pokes fun at London’s literary scene. The malicious reviewer Tranter provides comedy, but all the characters are defined by their reading habits, or lack thereof. Does it annoy Faulks when people claim that they never read fiction?

“It annoys me when they describe fiction as an escape from life. In my view it engages with life.

“People never put into words their inner lives, and what is most important to them minute by minute. And when you read a book that expresses something close to what you have thought, but dramatises it in a different way or set of circumstances, it is exhilarating. You feel connected to humanity. If people don’t read, I wonder how they know what to think, how they know who they are, and how they understand other people. If the characters in A Week in December read more books they would be better off. That is the moral of the story.

A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks is published by Hutchinson at 15.99 euro.

John Banville.

2009-10-10T15:57:00.000-07:00

John Banville.

Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published by The Irish Examiner on 5^th September 2009.

My interview with John Banville started with a spat. Batting away my praise for his new book, the Infinities, he insisted that, like all his work, the novel is flawed. That includes his Booker prize winner, The Sea. And no, he didn’t enjoy writing his latest; especially not the humour which had appeared by a happy accident.

“No it was not interesting to write,” he said, taking a sip of the port he’d ordered to ease the lingering symptoms of his flu- man variety- not swine. “To do it at all you have to crank yourself up every morning and think about the awful stuff you did yesterday, and how can you compensate for that by doing better today? You have to sink down into yourself, down and down into everything in order to get anything done.”

At a recent crime writer’s festival in Harrogate, Banville caused controversy by saying that as John Banville he writes 200 words a day; but as crime writer Benjamin Black he churns out 2,000.

“I don’t know why people got so fussed about that,” he mutters. “It is simply a different way of working.” Does he get irritated when his words are picked on? “Not really. I am too old to get irritated.”

Banville likes to write the kind of books that he wants to read. But there’s a problem.

“The only person who can’t read my books is me. That is the difficulty of doing interviews. The book is something I did last year, and all I am interested in is next year. That’s when I’ll write the great masterpiece which is going to wow the world; to make them stand back in total amazement.” He laughs. “I know in my heart that the next one will be another botched job, but you have to keep going.”

The Infinities was intended to be a novel based faithfully on Heinrich Von Kleist’s play Amphitrion.

“Kleist’s great ambition was to blend Shakespearean burlesque with Greek drama and in Amphitrion he certainly does that. It’s a painful play about a General whose identity is stolen by the God Zeus. That was my starting point. I kept the skeleton, but fiction always goes in its own direction.”

The Infinities shows Banville at his very best. His prose, as always, is impeccable. But it’s his playfulness, his weirdly compelling characters, and the way he conveys with such delicacy, the atmosphere in a house waiting for death that got me hooked. Who could not enjoy seeing God portrayed as a randy adulterer; or appreciate the hypothesis of humans being spared the tedium of eternal life.

“More and more writing feels like dreaming to me,” says Banville. “I can’t remember inventing those characters. I can’t remember how they came to me, or how they evolved. I don’t know why the daughter is called Petra. But it suits her. She could never have been called Mary, could she?”

Indeed not. Petra, the troubled daughter of the house, is far too exotic for any ordinary name.

“Petra is nice, isn’t she,” he muses, softening. “I think the saddest thing about Petra, is where the God says, ‘she will be with us soon because we love her.’ She can’t live, poor Petra, she is going to destroy herself. That is so sad.”

Born in 1945, in Wexford, a county that has produced such extraordinary writers that there, surely, must be something in the water, Banville worked for Aer Lingus instead of going to college.

“I think that was a great mistake,” he says. “I should have gone. I regret not taking that four years of getting drunk and falling in love. But I wanted to get away from my family. I wanted to be free.”

Banville has always written.

“I wrote poetry, of course. Everyone did,” he says. “And after I’d read The Dubliners, and was struck at the way Joyce wrote about real life, I immediately started writing bad imitations of The Dubliners. It seemed necessary, from early on, to sift experience through the mesh of words before it would become real to me.”

He worked as a journalist for years; starting as a sub-editor for the Irish Press, where he became Chief Sub Editor, and then, on the Press’s demise in 1995, moving to The Irish Times where he ended up as Literary Editor. As a writer, wouldn’t he have preferred reporting?

“I couldn’t have done reporting,” he says with alarm. “When reporters came back with 400 words on the burning down of an apartment I’d think, ‘how do they do it?’ I would have been stuck on the third sentence for hours.”

Does he miss journalism, now that Benjamin Black has replaced the Irish Times in subsidising his ‘real’ writing?

“I miss office life. I miss that strange erotic intimacy you have not just with women but with men. You tell your most intimate secrets to the person sitting at the desk next to you, and when you meet them in the street you avoid their eye. I miss that.”

Is he proud of Benjamin Black?

“Very proud. As proud as a craftsman would be of a beautifully made table. I see him as an Eileen Grey. He is driven by plot, character and dialogue. I’m an artist as John Banville. I’m trying to blend poetry and fiction to some new form and that is very difficult to do. I always try to write about the way life actually is and not the way we imagine it is. Life is awkward and messy and trivial. One has to try and portray that.”

Banville is relaxed now. He’s moving his head from side to side in happy contemplation. And when we get on to Rex, the dog who narrates a section of The Infinities, any residue reserve dissolves. Rex was based on Banville’s favourite Labrador. My favourite died suddenly, just weeks ago.

“You poor thing,” he says, putting his hand on my knee. “My best dog died in 1980. I still miss him. I still dream about him.”

The Infinities by john Banville is published by Pan Macmillan at 13.99 euro.

Carlos Ruiz Zafon

2009-10-10T15:54:00.000-07:00

Carlos Ruiz Zafón.

Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published by The Irish Examiner on 18^th July 2009.

‘A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story.’ So starts The Angel’s Game, by the Spanish writer Carlos Ruiz Zafón. For Zafón that time came when he was nine years old, and was selling his stories from a publishing house he’d set up with friends at his primary school in Barcelona.

The enterprise ended in grief.

“The principal of the school found out and shut us down saying the material was subversive,” says Zafón, when we meet at the Clarence Hotel on his whirlwind trip to Dublin. The young boy could scarcely have guessed, back then, that he would one day write a book that would sell over fifteen million copies worldwide.

But that’s exactly what he did. The Shadow of the Wind, Zafón’s fifth novel, and his first for an adult audience sold stealthily, by word of mouth. Impossible to classify, it was a gothic mystery, a thriller, a comedy and a tender love story.

Above all, though, it was a literary novel about the power of books. At its centre was the Cemetery of Forgotten books, a secret library where forgotten books end up. The novel was devoured by ‘book clubs’ everywhere.

Set in Barcelona after the Spanish Civil War, it conjured up a dark place, full of menace.

“It is not necessarily a realistic portrayal of the city; or a social portrayal. It is an extreme stylisation, and is based on the way I feel the essence of the city, and the history and the true spirit. And that,” says Zafón, “is much darker than people like to think.”

Born and raised in Barcelona, in recent years Zafón has divided his time between that city and Los Angeles. And that, he feels, was necessary in order that he could understand what it was about Barcelona that had affected him.

“It’s like a relationship. You can’t write about a love affair when you are in one. You won’t make sense of it. Things happen to me and at some point afterwards, I am able to write about it. If I try sooner, I have nothing interesting to say.”

It’s never been a case, for Zafón, of ‘if’ he would write.

“The question was figuring out a way to make a living out of doing what I wanted to do. And that was not easy. After school I wrote for magazines and newspapers, then at 19 I started making TV commercials, writing and producing them, and playing around with images and sound.

“I was successful at that, and I wrote short stories, novels and plays on the side. I tried to get a novel published in my teens, but it became clear to me that I had to work really hard at it to hone my craft.”

If The Shadow of the Wind was a book for readers, The Angel’s Game, also set in Barcelona, and featuring the cemetery for forgotten books, is for writers.

“This is a book which gets inside the kitchen. It is a story about the writing process and what it means to be a writer.”

In the hero, David Martin’s case, making a living from writing is a far from easy business. He abandons journalism to write sensational novels under a pseudonym for publishers who pay him a pittance. Writing at the top of an abandoned mansion, poisoned by the evil memories that surround him, he’s close to death and despair, when he is rescued by an offer from editor Andreas Corelli. But it requires selling his soul.

Writing isn’t that bad for David’s creator; but it is something that he takes with extreme seriousness.

“I need to be alone, and I need to write every day. Writing takes time and space and thought, and you have got to follow the process. It’s not that you produce six pages every day; some days you just throw away the stuff, but if somebody is going to pay money you have to take it very seriously.”

Being a writer, of course, is not just about the writing. And in The Angel’s Game we see the public side of the writing life too. David Martin is the victim of jealousy; of bad reviews and victimisation.

“There is, of course, snobbery and small mindedness. It is so hard to succeed in the field of writing, so hard to survive, that the resentment it creates in people can morph into dark anger that transforms them and the way they look at things. I guess I am envied. I guess to some people I am the devil.”

Writing Shadow of the Wind and The Angel’s Game, though, was liberating.

“Up to that point I had been writing books that had some limitations imposed. I had also been a screen writer and that can be frustrating because you do what other want you to do. With these books, I did what I really wanted to do regardless of whether the world wanted it or not.”

Zafón has planned another two novels based in historical Barcelona. But he might write something else in between. Is it hard, sometimes to come up with ideas?

“Ideas are easy to produce,” he says. “You can force them. I think what makes a novel any good is the execution, and what your intentions are.”

The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón is published by Weidenfeld and Nicholson at 15.99 euro.

Anne Michaels.

2009-10-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

Anne Michaels.

Interviewed by Sue Leonard.

Published by The Irish Examiner on 27^th June 2009.

Anne Michaels is fascinated by emigration. Daughter of a Polish father and Canadian mother, she was born in Toronto in 1958, and lives there still. But she has become increasingly aware that very few of her generation live in the place where they were born.

“I am very conscious of that,” she says as we chat a few hours before her reading at The Dublin Writer’s Festival. “I think that affects the core of us. Do you belong to the place where you were born, or the place where you are buried? Or do you belong to the place where your children were born? There has been this profound change, and its one I don’t think we quite acknowledge.”

This, she says, is particularly true in Canada.

“I am very conscious that everyone around me moved there either before the Second World War, or after it or because of it. You walk to the corner store for a litre of milk, and the man behind the counter is reading Gustav Faust in Korean.”

Michaels’s first novel, Fugitive Pieces depicted a Polish orphan who was rescued from Nazi occupation and smuggled to Greece. Her new one, The Winter Vault has a section remembering the decimation of Warsaw. Set in 1964 in Canada and Egypt, the novel follows Avery and Jean through the early years of their marriage.

An engineer, Avery is rescuing the great temple at Abu Simbel, as the waters rise of the Aswun Dam; an event that will cause destruction of villages, just as the St Lawrence Seaway had back in Canada.

“I was thinking about dispossession and of rebuilding, and also of commemoration. There have been so many attempts to commemorate the story of events in cities destroyed by bombs or by natural disasters. Some places leave the ruins and build nearby, and in other places they build a new city. In Warsaw they decided to replicate the city and make an exact copy, but nothing brings back the past or the dead. It is heartbreaking.”

The novel opens as the original temple is being dismantled. It’s a scene of devastation. Nearby, on their houseboat on the Nile, Avery is painting landscapes onto his new wife’s back. Sometimes he paints the scene before him; sometimes, by memory, the Chiltern Hills. It’s an arresting image.

“That,” says Michaels, “was the first image to come to me. It encompasses almost the whole book for me. There was the tenderness of their relationship, and the privacy of that relationship within each of them; and the holiness of the Temple being dissipated as it was taken apart.”

The novel is full of such images. The 250 lyrically written pages are packed with history; and with information on engineering and botany. Michaels loves research because she is interested in everything. Her real strength though, is in the abstract; in ideas, in humanity, and in feelings. She describes Turin as being ‘drenched in grief.’

Jean has lost her mother, then her father, so when her baby dies before birth it is heartrending.

“It was very hard to write those passages,” says Michaels. “It’s hard, I think, for any writer to have something very difficult happen to their characters. But I think that where she is emerging at the end of the book there is a very real hope.

“There is a sentence that sums it all up for me,” she says. “It’s when Avery and Jean see that plastic garden in the graveyard. It says, ‘everything that isn’t made from love is a lie.’ I don’t think Jean would be quite able to understand that at the beginning of the book.”

Passionate about writing, Michaels wrote three, prizewinning volumes of poetry before penning the novel that garnered praise, prizes and massive sales. But she hasn’t written any for a while.

“I always give the answer that I hope I will write more when I am wise enough to do so.”

There’s an intensity about Michaels. She seems as careful in speech as she is in print; dissecting every thought with absolute concentration.

“When I start a book I never know if I am going to end up in a place of greater or lesser despair. I have a need to find answers to those questions that are, perhaps, unanswerable, and to express the inexpressible very precisely.” And since she became a mother, to daughters of ten and six, this need in her has become even greater.

Michaels refuses to smile for the photographer, explaining that her work is serious, and so must she be. You’d imagine she hates the media circus, but she says she adores meeting readers.

“I always feel there is a privilege that you can hold a reader close for 200 or 300 pages. It is an incredible honour to meet people who have read the book. I really want people to trust me with this new book and to know that I have gone into this subject and these questions as deeply as I possibly can.”

The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels is published by Bloomsbury at 17.99 euro.