Adrienne Rich

I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body
We circle silently about the wreck
we dive into the hold. ...

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to the scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

(extract: Diving Into The Wreck by Rich)

I was sad to hear that Adrienne Rich died on Tuesday at her home in Santa Cruz. Of Woman Born by Rich was the first feminist book I read, or was aware of reading (before I cottoned on that Red Riding Hood was a call to arms!)

"The connections between and among women are the most feared, the most problematic, and the most potentially transforming force on the planet."

Adrienne Rich

Beginning A Novel...

I'm starting into the process of beginning a new novel. This doesn't involve a laptop, just selecting a nice fat note book to fill with ideas, free writing, drawings and images. In a process similar to the one Nathalie Goldberg calls 'composting' I begin to gather material without any pressure to define the theme or subject. At this stage I have the vaguest of notions - like I want this to be a white book, it will feature the Internet and Emily Dickinson and a disappearance - or it may not, this is a stage where nothing gets ruled out.

How do you go about beginning a new piece of writing?

Some authors have very particular rituals and ceremonies. Isabel Allende for instance always begins her books on January 8th. She has done this since 1981 when she received a phone call to let her know that her grandfather was dying. The letter she wrote to him that day became her first novel, The House Of Spirits. "It was such a lucky book from the very beginning, that I kept that date to start."

This is what she has to say about her process -

"That day, January 8th, which is a sacred day for me, I come to my office very early in the morning, alone. I light some candles for the spirits and the muses. I meditate for a while. I always have fresh flowers and incense. And I open myself completely to this experience that begins in that moment. I never know exactly what I'm going to write. I may have finished a book months before and may have been planning something, but it has happened already twice that when I sit down at the computer and turn it on, another thing comes out. It is as if I was pregnant with something, an elephant's pregnancy, something that has been there for a very long time, growing, and then when I am able to relax completely and open myself to the writing, then the real book comes out. I try to write the first sentence in a state of trance, as if somebody else was writing it through me. That first sentence usually determines the whole book. It's a door that opens into an unknown territory that I have to explore with my characters. And slowly as I write, the story seems to unfold itself, in spite of me. It just happens."

How do you begin a new project? With flowers and incense or just a new e drive and a whiskey?

Have a good weekend!:

Novel Fair at Irish Writers Centre

My Table!

There are some photos from the Novel Fair at the Irish Writers' Centre Blog so you can see how it was set up. The photo above is of my table, if you squint you can see the three chapters of the Herbalist, my bio (and my fiendish red notebook.) The day was amazing, well organised, friendly and there was really lovely atmosphere. Pitching your novel to over a dozen agents and publishers in the one day is a great learning experience. Each novelist had a table and a schedule so the agents and publishers moved from one writer to another. We had 15 minutes to pitch to each person. It's the first time a novel fair was run in Ireland, as far as I know, but I hope its not the last. A big thanks to everyone at the Irish Writers Centre:)

I am your only surviving dress

Emily Dickinson’s only surviving dress at the Amherst Historical Society in Amherst, Mass.

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

The photograph is from the new york times article on Pilgrimage
by Annie Leibovitz, which includes images of the television that
Elvis shot, and Virgina Woolf's bedroom, a sombre room which for
some reason reminds me of her suicide and elicits a voice that says
- "see, that's what a room of your own will get you..." (obviously
some heartless character I'm working on is leaking into real life:)

ps...
The Irish Writers Centre Novel fair was on Sat, and it was a really
well run event. It was wonderful to put faces to agents and publishers
that were only contact details and submission guidelines before the day.
Will let you know how The Herbalist fares:)

Calling An Irish Speaking Herbalist!

Posting this on the wild chance that someone out there might know the answer! What does Slán Iomaire mean? I know its the Irish name for Red Valerian, but would love a proper translation. The dictionary, and my weak Irish has left me a bit confused... (healthy ridge?)