Almost a year ago, I introduced you to my book, The Lost Things. Some were interested enough to get monthly instalments of the story. That’s done now, so I’ve released the entire book on Amazon for you all.
While a tantalising chapter with a cliffhanger ending might do it for some, I have learnt that most prefer to hold the actual book and read at their own pace, maybe to check the ending makes the story worth reading or to know what the book is called as you read it, unlike the many forgotten titles of the Kindle books we all read.
At the end of this post, I’ve added the opening pages to tempt you into getting your hands on the whole thing. It’s a story that will touch your heart and maybe even change the way you see the people around you, or yourself. I really hope you step into the tale I’ve crafted for you, and find it’s worth reading.
Continue reading “The Lost Things”
all this writing. My grandmother told stories and wrote Reaching for the Fruit, her autobiography. My grandfather on the other side wrote a book of poems, some Biblical reflections and his life story, Home of my Heart, published posthumously. My aunt has written books about reconciliation. Another has published a book about her French ancestors. One brother has his academic thesis and numerous published articles, the other blogs. I’m currently egging on my dad to finish writing down the stories of his times working as an engineer abroad. He has also always been a very entertaining oral story teller. When he climbs up the stairs in Donegal at his grandhildren’s bedtime, you know it won’t be long before shrieks and laughter ensue.
I am so very proud of my family of writers and story-tellers. I love the idea that it’s in the genes, that we just can’t help but pick up a pen or sit down at the laptop and craft real or imagined worlds. Right now, I am wondering why it took me so long to see it. I studied English literature at university, but it never crossed my mind that I would ever write anything that wasn’t just literary criticism. It took me until I was 30 to realise it, and 31 before I let my imagination out of its hiding place. Interestingly, that happened for the first time when I started a writing course at the University of Queen’s, run by my second cousin no less!
When I am feeling frustrated by my inability to manage a full-time job, when I am depressed about my physical disabilities, when life seems entirely unsatisfactory, it only takes an hour of writing to make it feel a whole lot better. The written word can be a powerful, often redemptive thing and I am deeply thankful for it.
Of course, having a reader like you is an added, slightly terrifying bonus! Continue reading “It’s a family thing,”
It’s here. No-one I wrote to wanted to take my book on. After a time of feeling the sting of rejection, I dusted myself down and published it myself. So there.
Reading over a story I had written over a year ago, it felt like meeting old friends, and enemies too. It’s the book I have always wanted to write, and the act of making that happen was sometimes therapeutic, sometimes just downright terrifying. All I can hope now is that people will read it, and be stopped in their tracks, even for a moment. One literary agent, in fact the first one I pitched to, said ‘Troubles based fiction is very hard to place’. Well, here you are, Mr.Lofty, I placed it. Right into the hands of people who want to read it. Who possibly need to read it, even 18 years after the Good Friday Agreement.
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