'all there is for now', gaelic and telling stories

I'm going to start with the last first.

Telling stories is integral to everything that I engage in personally and professionally, whether it is in conversation, making television, articulating an idea, writing a creative proposal or indulging in writing my own fiction.

And yet people don't really do it any more, not in the traditional sense of huddling around the fire and making elaborate conversation into the wee small hours with a wee story that is as embellished as the day is long.

I feel very blessed to have grown up, and into, an environment where talking was king, be it about football or ghost stories or the good old days of the past, my childhood was often spent amidst adult conversation, lost in endearing and often raucous chat that was the principal source of our evening's entertainment.

It makes my heart heavy when I watch people's eyes roll and sink at the prospect of listening attentively as an older person recounts a narrative which has connotations of some personal importance. It is often part of who they are; its arc the residue of everything that has constituted their very being. Yes, in traditional storytelling it is often exaggerated and its truth diminished as it is adapted to suit its audience, but it makes my heart jump with joy to watch a narrator pass on a skill that quite tantalisingly allows us to grow and develop and push on with some aplomb because we know how to structure a story arc and deliver a beginning, a middle and sometimes even an end.

Everyone should take a minute, or an hour, or even an evening when they get the chance and embrace a story delivered from the heart. It strengthens families and communities and explodes in time in the form of a burst of creativity in others, and goodness me where on earth would we be without that.

Like storytelling language is important, in its vernacular and in its various colloquialisms that allow people to engage with one another in words that build bridges and promote a kindred spirit of shared experience and togetherness. But we don't have to be part of the 'gang' to embrace language and culture that isn't deemed as our ‘own’.

I read with some disappointment recently a comment accusing an agency of "ghettoising" something because it was going to be delivered in the Gaelic language. It's an incredibly naive assessment to make. Gaelic is a beautiful language and it is available to everyone to enjoy. The language is expressive and poetic and hugely integral to the art of storytelling.

The fact that Gaelic is being showcased on its own channel on television and delivered in artistic ways means it is incredibly easy for a viewer to access, engage and should they so wish, understand the language. It is genius. Take football or rugby for example...

In this medium Gaelic can be celebrated and, for those with a desire to learn, comprehended. Watching football, a big rectangle space with familiar words and phrases repeated in easily identifiable areas of the 'painting by numbers' pitch is just lovely. How lucky are we to be able to pull two creative things together - football and Scotland's national language - and present it in an engaging and entertaining way.

I'm not a Gael but I'm embracing the language because it's bold and it's creative and its part and parcel of Scotland's heritage. I'm not fluent, I understand a wee bit, and sometimes to my amusement I find myself using Gaelic words in my head instead of the English equivalent. It's lovely. You can love it too. Come and join the Ceilidh. There’s a nice introduction to using the language on the Learn Gaelic website.

I'm writing a new novel, 'all there is for now' and wee tiny snippet - a whole 75 words - was published by paragraph planet recently. It's a creative website that publishes short fiction of exactly 75 words. It's not as easy as it sounds. Give it a try.

the next big thing...

"The Next Big Thing, authors tagged, questions answered..."

Does the concept sound pompous, slightly up itself perhaps? Well it's not at all; it's a thing of real beauty, a chain that brings together wonderful writers and books in a circle of creativity that is so vibrant it creaks in celebration.

The very lovely Elizabeth Reeder tagged me and in turn I'm going to answer the questions posed and introduce you to some incredibly strong writers who are dedicated to storytelling.

 Here goes!

What is the working title of your next book?

The Dandelion Clock

Where did the idea come from for the book?

When my children were very young they called themselves Mary and Joseph, because as they explained, the Virgin Mary (yeah, that one...) would call in and see them during the night. It got me thinking, in religion people believe the most incredible things with absolute conviction so why not take it a stage further and illustrate that the VM can pop down from heaven and get herself into a bit of an emotional tangle. She was also a good tool to use to illustrate some of Elizabeth's pain. It is Elizabeth’s story and she comes from all of us.

What genre does your book fall under?

Literary fiction

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Oh good question. I would love Shirley Manson to play the Virgin Mary, Kathleen McDermott to play Elizabeth and Sadie would have to be a young and very brash Tilda Swinton. There's a couple of very mean boys in my novel, but I would hate to tarnish anyone's reputation by suggesting that they would fit the part...

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

When teenage mum Elizabeth is plotting to avenge her girlfriend's death she becomes mixed up in drugs, murder and hard-assed Glasgow gangsters, as well as becoming entangled with the (actual...)Virgin Mary who comes to question her own life and her feelings for Elizabeth.

It's 'aw go as they say.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Hopefully published and represented, fingers crossed on that one at the moment...
How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

Well, there's a wee story to that. If we ignore the fact that The Dandelion Clock emerged from the roots of another novel then I would say around 12 months. If we add in the previous work, which has mostly been consigned to the dustbin, then it's a lot, lot, longer.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

This is a difficult question to answer but maybe for the language, the raw humour and the stark bite of reality something Des Dillon or Irvine Welsh.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The need to write a story that narrates Elizabeth's journey. Her road is a road so many travel along. Life is actually like that and we should embrace it and give not always getting it right a voice. It’s okay not to be brilliant. Normal is good.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

It's a story that challenges how we respond to the choices we make, or have made by others for us, and it represents the notion that there isn't a big 'we shall overcome' agenda in life, it's about getting on with it and constantly picking up pieces and slicing up and over the next bit. The story is sad and that's sad because there is always sadness of some degree in a person's life. But there are tiny snippets of hope too and they don't have to be 'happy ever after' paths, they're just there to embrace for the moment and that's the kind of thing that makes life what it is.

This is a story for so many people. It will make you laugh and maybe make you cry too. Key emotions that make us strong and convincing and remind us who we are. It's for you all really.

 

passion is at the root of determination

It is with a heavy heart that I begin to write this.

And yet I know with unwavering conviction that as the words slowly unfold on this page, each tiny letter collaborating with another and gaining ascendancy over the last, gently encouraging the next expanding word, that their strength will grow and so too will my determination.

It has been an evening of contrasting emotions - elation, trepidation, triumphalism, anxiety, joy and then utter, utter sadness. As dusk collapsed into darkness an inspiring movement, a thing of absolute beauty took to the heights with aplomb, riding the horse latitude with confidence only to stutter and stagnate in the face of the doldrums.

 A new beginning was within touching distance for the Scotland's women's national football team. So agonisingly close. And then the trade winds of Spain reversed and cooled and blew defiantly in the opposition's favour.

We crashed to the earth alongside them, not as a nation of people from Scotland but as a union of women, breathing as one, willing the empowerment of one another, collapsing deftly to the ground in unison. Fortunately, we fell on solid ground. It can take our weight and we can stretch our wings and fly again.

With passion there comes determination and a will to push disappointment to the side and battle on. In women's football the players and coaches have next to no financial support and resources, the girls endure scathing attacks on the game as a craft, on their personal skill and capabilities as footballers and as if that’s not enough they have to listen to the ridiculously boring and unfortunately enduring notion that they are women trying to be men.

That inaccurate picture clouds the real vision. In women’s football there is talent and passion in abundance. It is an enviable mix. So much so, that this potent combination led to the banning of the women’s game in the UK in 1921. Excuses were unfurled but the message was simple, with crowds of tens of thousands attending women’s matches the position of men in society was being challenged. Instead of embracing something strong and admirable they chose to try and destroy it. Bizarrely, given the game’s success how the authorities couldn’t envisage the defiance that followed is a mystery.

It's a cliché, an overused boring anecdote that football is more than a game, but when it comes to the women's game it is exactly that. It's a drive to succeed, a commitment to achieve and a will to challenge the world to wake up to itself and its outdated idiosyncrasies and inadequacies and make space for the girls.

Women have been playing football for at least as long as men, from as far back as the 1700s in Scotland. In the 19th century, Lady Florence Dixie, a curious and extraordinary Scot with a desire to make the world an equal place for women, formed a women's football team, its objective to use the sport as a means to create opportunities for women in a tense Victorian society soldered together with gender bias and gross unfairness and inequality. With her captain, the aptly named Nettie Honeyball in tow, Lady Florence’s team, comprised of middle class 'ladies' began a campaign that continues, albeit on a different platform with a different agenda, to this day. A diverse agenda, but the similarities are there. It is still about empowerment.

Anna Signeul’s Scotland team, and the Glasgow City FC’s of this country, aren’t openly brandishing banners depicting their call for equal rights but their determination to create equal opportunities are just as blatant and exciting. The understanding of what the women’s game is and what it is quite spectacularly trying to achieve, is becoming clearer thanks to their commitment.

Women aren't trying to be men; that notion has gone beyond laughable. It’s just downright annoying. They are playing women's football, with WOMEN being the operative word. They are strong, independent individuals who collectively epitomise the fight for a new beginning. They may have been grounded for now but this is their game, and our resolve carried by their skill, talent and knowledge will generate the passion and determination to allow us all to continue to grow.

There isn’t just a tomorrow, there is also a today. The struggle continues. And my goodness, isn't it just fabulous to watch.

the tree of love

 

 

 

Next weekend I'll be here, positioning myself and my family in the gentle shadow of this beautiful old tree, embracing its energy and paying homage to its narrative.

 

The tree's roots plough into the rich history of the land that they sustain, strong limbs stretching with unrivalled intention into warm soil, long fingers channelling backwards and forwards in peaty earth that tastes of cold autumn evenings. The scent of a slow burning fire hangs softly in sharp air that charts the space you breathe, coming alive in a frosty smoke that chases speech playfully, meandering suggestively among tickling branches before taking flight. If its roots were underwater they would fashion a creel; a conduit of hope.

 

This Muile nan Craobh (Mull of the Trees) in the townland of Mullindress, Rathlin Island, is my garden of Eden, the field in which my new home is rising from the hallowed earth, emerging from soil that has enriched and blessed my father's family, my siblings and my children's. It is an integral element of who we all are and what we will all become. Its past is our past, its future our legacy. It is fitting then that this strong symbol of life, so important to us in fortifying our heritage and giving optimism for the future, will be Tommy's tree.

 

Next weekend, my beautiful Grandson Tommy will secure his rightful place in the inheritance that is rightfully his, even though it was wrongfully denied him. As we remember him, imagining with joy and sadness the world that we dared to hope to embrace alongside him, his roots will cradle us, protect us and keep us safe. We will never forget him and in the Muile nan Craobh he will be as much a part of us as we are of him.

 

Tommy’s narrative is embedded in the roots of Mullindress and our American oak swing, hand carved with love and compassion and swung high from the arms of strong branches, will sway with him and hug and protect his memory.

 

 

the mirror to your soul

It can cause chaos and destruction but I am fascinated by rain.

 

I respect it in each and every one of its illustrious guises, especially when it descends in a gentle mist and caresses the earth like the soft down of a newborn baby, or when it is harsh and cold, turning pavements to a stunning silvery grey. Gentle or fierce, it says something about who you are. Rain is a mirror to your soul.

As a child someone took me outside into the rain and told me that, there, above me and around me and below me, was my past. The rain that was enveloping me had hugged my mother and my grandmother and her grandmother before her. In tiny drops it comprised everything I had ever been. It is poetry, it is strength.

When I see rain, when I hear it, and when I feel it tease me, balancing playfully on my eyelashes or trickling under my collar and slipping unsuspectingly down my throat, I know who I am. I am strengthened by a well of familiarity that instead of submerging, releases. It frees.

Rain makes me melancholic, in a malleable way, as if its blanket of sadness can offer some kind of comfort, like a classic poem that brings tears of sorrow to your eyes and a contrasting smile to your lips. When you stare into its looking glass you know exactly where you are going and can understand from where you have come.

Here and then, tomorrow or yesterday, we and it share the same paths, forwards or backwards. Rain is a metaphor, a reminder, just when we need it most, that life is fragile. When the rain stops, in those briefest of precious moments, if we look for it, we can find our time, our tiny chance.

the sanctuary of the ungodly hour

The leaf caught my eye the instant it made its bold move, floating gently, the pretty colours still vibrant, still incredibly sharp. It was bursting with all the stunning things that its tender existence evokes, like the sun that hangs playfully, its richness moored impossibly high in the sky yet with a presence so close it caresses, squeezing itself into hidden spaces, chasing the darkness of the ungodly hour into the shadows.

The summer sun is a silent beacon, compelling us to rise from our cocoons and embrace a light that changes the way we breathe and the way we sip our surroundings, swallowing it greedily like lines of beautiful poetry that sway deeply inside, warming us from toe to tip.

It may have captured my attention but the little leaf, tipping its hat to the bended branch, wasn't trying to impress. When the tiny cup of summer acknowledged my recognition it blushed and overflowed, a gentle gust of wind rushing in to offer it support as it spiralled downwards, carrying it quickly to the ground as if it might never have happened. And yet I could see it settle, the edges of summer sheltering in the roots of a big old tree that had seen it all before, its maturity glowing with a confidence that says it’s okay to let go.

It needn't have worried, that small chalice of hope was skipping enthusiastically towards autumn, its bravery a leap into the unknown, to something new, to the possibilities of another season.

Summer hasn't really arrived this year, it has swayed softly on the periphery, sometimes strong, sometimes shouting its presence with warmth and colour, capturing a snapshot that mirrors a scene played out a million times before. And whilst each landscape is different its sameness comforts, and so will the autumn as it emerges strongly, chasing away the winter, keeping those cold crisp mornings at bay until the bright sky of a December snowfall hangs impossibly high in the sky with a presence so close it chases the darkness of the ungodly hour into the shadows....

Today the leaves explore their surroundings, impatiently waiting for the sun to hang its charm that little bit closer to the darkness of tomorrow. And tomorrow will embrace something new and yet so familiar we will take it in our stride and move towards something we've not quite met, for those ungodly hours are a sanctuary, defending tomorrow from the final residue of today.

an empty hush

I met my beautiful grandson today, stroked the oh so soft skin of his strong face, gazed with sadness and pride as he lay quietly, his soul asleep, his heart at peace. These words are for him, whatever they are...


an empty hush

A sorrowful quiet is falling.

And yet the birds still try to sing,
their heads thrown back toward the sky.
Swallowing thickening cloud their throats open,
their voice piercing.
The stillness of quiet song booming

they remember the precious note,
the one before the melancholy;
The soft melody that was the hymn of hope,
when gentle music swayed and budding petals fluttered,
a fledgling sheltered in a mother's unending love.

And now those tiny wings fly forth on a stolen silence,
their empty hush embracing with a tender kiss,
their warm caress protecting,
blurring the eternal edges of that place between here and now.

Sweet child, sing forever.

For Tommy, with love, Mamo Margot x