Sound the Retreat!

Finding time to write without distractions is a challenge. My children, both young adults, are on their own, so parenting is no longer an issue. The culprits are those dinner plans that creep into an exciting rescue or tender love scene, or the grocery list that competes with my list of revisions. Telephone calls and bills requiring payment derail my search for those perfect phrases. Appointments, laundry, and cats demanding hugs all conspire to thwart the start of a brand-new chapter. What’s a writer to do?

Writing before the rest of the house is up and about usually works—unless I start by checking e-mail or posting "just one excerpt" so I’ll feel like I’ve done some marketing/promo. Another precious block of writing time gone. Combining my periodic hankerings to travel to Ireland with attending a wonderful writing retreat near the West Cork village of Eyeries works even better. I’ve taken refuge at Anam Cara Writer’s and Artist’s Retreat on the remote and beautiful Beara Peninsula several times now. Each time I do, I get more than a month’s worth of writing done in a week, and I’ve found that having no internet access isn’t a bad thing. (Gracious retreat owner Sue Booth-Forbes reports that Anam Cara has gone wireless since my last visit, but I may pretend it hasn’t.)

What can a writing retreat do besides provide reasonably priced relief from mundane chores? That depends on what you want. Whether you’re interested in structured workshops or uninterrupted time to simply sit and think, most offer both. Anam Cara does, though the only structure in which I’m interested is the schedule for Sue’s fabulous meals. Simply leaving my normal environment provides a tremendous boost of creativity, and I know I’ll enjoy wonderful walking paths and vibrant conversations with other retreat residents.
Worried about sitting in that chair all day? Most writing retreats, Anam Cara included, offer fitness equipment, whirlpools, and massage. The Beara Peninsula’s spectacular scenery begs visitors to take a hike, or at least a pleasant walk. No need to recreate the historic march of Donal Cam O'Sullivan Bere (1561–1613), the last leader of the Sullivan clan.

This city girl walked right by a herd of cows (wondering if they’d attack) and happily soaked her shoes on a gorgeous bog dotted with sheep. On my first bog walk, I met a guardian angel border collie who guided me over barely visible paths I never would have found on my own.

I’m off for another working mini-vacation soon. A bus will take me from Shannon Airport to Cork City, where I’ll spend a day raiding my favorite bookstores and finding new music. The shuttle that will take me to Anam Cara will pass dramatic scenery and rustic villages that will bask in Ireland’s summer sunlight well after ten p.m.

And I’ll bask in the quiet.

Sing Me That Story

Last October I had the pleasure of attending a storytelling in remote West Cork. The hostess, an accomplished storyteller, has an outbuilding on her property dedicated to these magical gatherings. As I entered the big sturdy shed, I easily imagined being in Ireland centuries ago. No electricity lit the room. Candlelight set the mood. A semicircle of chairs quickly filled with guests not only from the local area, but from France, Germany, and Australia. The rules were simple: whoever held the chunk of amethyst ore the hostess passed around had the floor. He or she could tell a story, sing a song, play a tune, or pass the stone and simply listen. The mystical atmosphere captivated everyone, and all participated.

This Boston native held her own. With that purple rock securely in my hands, I sang about a young man from County Clare who wooed and won the girl he loved. The song was a story, as were all the tunes performed that night, and I realized how much those old songs have inspired my own writing. Many ideas from the Irish lyrics I learned growing up have found their way into A Band of Roses.

Isn’t every song a story? Especially in the Celtic countries. Words spring from the Celtic soul like sparks from a roaring peat fire. Whoever first put those words to the tunes drawn from the bottomless well of traditional music spawned a wealth of musical tales that spans generations. Romance, rebellion, ghosts and magic, drinking, death and emigration are only the beginning.

The old troubadours who carried news far and wide used rhymes in their story/songs to help keep their facts straight. Little good that did. In the late nineteenth century, Harvard Professor Francis James Child toured the British Isles and collected 305 distinct ballads, each with so many variations, his collection filled ten volumes. Modern fiction has nothing on the Child Ballads. We find Scottish lords disguised as beggars, and abandoned ladies going to sea dressed as cabin boys. Stalwart patriots, lovesick soldiers, outlaws and enchanted animals abound in these sometimes gruesome but always entertaining narrative songs.

Periodically, new generations “discover” old folk songs. Modern folk singers like Jean Redpath and Andy M. Stewart have recorded many Child Ballads as well as the romantic and political poem/songs of Robert Burns. These talented Scottish singers are among many who round out the Irish "trad" repertoire of performers like the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, Planxty, Dervish, and Altan, to name a very few. Do you have a favorite?

Any writer experiencing “writer’s block” would surely find a cure in the venerable musical tales so lovingly presented by these artists. Of course, you don’t have to be a writer to enjoy them. Whether you read them, hear them, or perform them, they’re sure to fire your imagination.

Visiting Imaginary Friends

With all the information available these days, writing about places an author has never seen requires little more than clicking on real estate ads and vacation sites or opening one of the many geographical guides tailored for writers and armchair travelers. The Writer's Guide to Places is a good one. And did you know the CIA keeps a World Factbook online and updates it every two weeks? Country profiles, maps, flags, governments, and a wealth of other information are just waiting to inform and inspire.

With enough research, I can create the places my characters visit, even if I haven't been there myself. It isn't necessary to see the scene in person. Or is it?

During a recent visit to northern California, the Mendocino coast lured me to see if I'd done a good job describing the home temporarily occupied by the star of my alternate Irish history novels: Taillte Rosaleen Boru, the Crown Princess of Ireland. The house Talty shared with buddies Richard and Nick doesn't exist, of course, but the rugged coast of Mendocino certainly does.

Visiting John and Diane, my dynamic uncle and gracious aunt, is always a pleasure for Mike and me. Last week, they again installed us in the guestroom of their lovely Santa Rosa home. We spent a few days basking in their generous hospitality, touring Napa Valley and Bodega Bay before commandeering one of their cars and heading north. Vineyards and vineyards later, we hunkered down for the night in Fort Bragg and dined in Noyo Harbor watching seals frolic in the small sparkling inlet.

The next day, we invaded the town of Mendocino, an enchanting New Englandish array of houses, shops, and water towers situated on a scenic stretch overlooking the blue, blue Pacific. I pictured Talty strolling there, shopping for groceries, browsing in the bookstore. She might return from Ireland one day for a visit, I thought, and decided that seeing the setting for a story in the proverbial flesh is preferable to surfing the web for real estate ads "fer sure." Not long after, I found the site of Talty's house, cliffs, beach and all!

Well, not really. Only in A Band of Roses. I did imagine dropping in on Talty and the guys for tea, which was enough to make my visit to Mendocino more than worthwhile. That and the armies of redwood trees we passed on our way back to Santa Rosa and Diane's Chicken Osso Buco.

The Cats Ate My Shamrocks

Guinness Beef Stew, brown soda bread, Irish music, good friends, and a bowl of blooming shamrocks. All the makings of a wonderful St. Patrick's Day holiday. I figured that when the stew was eaten, the friends gone home, and the music hushed, I'd have the shamrocks for a remembrance.

I figured wrong.

Bite marks appeared on those shiny Irish leaves. Stripped stems and chewed up flowers soon followed.

From left to right, the felons are Milo, Jojo, and Neko. Good thing they're cute!