I have been waiting for this, my first ever Listowel Writers Week, for a decade and a half. When I first determined that I wanted to be a writer in 1996 it was visions of book spines emblazoned with my name, kind-hearted readers, and summers spent reading at the likes of Listowel that bewitched me. I was living in a hovel in the Himalayas at the time, up on the border of India, Tibet and Nepal, and decided to come home, build myself another hovel in Westmeath, out of bales of straw, daubed with lime plaster, and begin to write. It took years of false starts and wrong turns, of poverty and frustration, in the draughty, crumbling straw house before I finally taught myself to write reasonable prose. All the usual vain-glorious fantasies of the wannabe author fuelled me during those years, and high on the list was the dream of impassioned conversations with fellow authors and perspicacious readers at distinguished literary festivals. The delusion was so intense that it kept me powering on despite sheaves of rejection letters until finally, in 2006, Brandon published my first book, Angels and Rabies.

Since then, I’ve been going to festivals around the country, and picking up various myths and rumours about Writers Week in Listowel – the intensity, the bacchanalia, the claustrophobia and even the odd startling moment of epiphany.

What concerns me most now is how travel writers will be regarded there among the elite of the more esteemed literary genres there. Travel writing has never had much status in the hierarchy of literature, being a mongrel mix of memoir, history, anthropology, geography and adventure story. Colin Thubron admitted that ‘travel writing is relegated to something people do in the gap between adolescence and maturity.’ Theroux, too, recalls that before turning to travel writing he found the genre ‘a bore’, written and read by ‘bores’.

At least, we travel writers are held in higher esteem than the other group with which I identify myself, travel journalists. Within journalism, we are regarded as little higher than the tabloids’ 3am girls – tourists with typewriters, talentless freeloaders. We are ‘journalism’s tiramisu’ – fluffy, soaked in booze and of little sustenance. I’ll be giving a three-day workshop on travel writing during the week, and  I wonder will the participants be more interested in travel literature or travel journalism? It’s disconcerting how much towards the journalism side of the spectrum I’ve shifted in recent years – from truffle pig of travel to porcine concubine to the PR industry.

The prejudice against travel writing is partly the fault of the writers themselves.  The work can too often appear jingoistic, patronising and superficial. While Paul Theroux, Colin Thubron, Jonathan Raban and the rest of the travel writing pantheon of the 1970s and 80s made great progress in developing the genre, it has since slipped back, mostly due to gimmicky accounts of fatuous journeys carrying fridges, etc. Serious travel writing in print (as opposed to the excellent work found in some blogs) is mostly confined to the realm of grand septuagenarians who, while having done pioneering work 4 decades ago, now do little more than genteel laps of honour in which they reaffirm their cold-war prejudices.

I hope to have a chance to tease out these issues at the ‘Wanderlust’ travel writing forum on Fri, 1^st June with Mary Russell and Brendan Harding. We may get a chance to see whether travelers really are better yarn spinners than other writers, whether the open road hones one’s inner seanchaí. I maintain that any group of vagabonds around an open fire or gathered in some seedy flophouse will invariably start telling tales, and unless you can hold your own, you’re soon eclipsed. We’ve all started out being the quiet dull one sitting on our bunk alone, and worked our way up through the ranks, so that we can hold a room or even a campsite of weary wanderers under our spell; keeping them with us even as they pick away at their blisters, mend their rucksacks and slurp noodles from battered pots. It makes facing a festival audience  somewhat easier.

This trip to Listowel will be significant to me as I have only recently began working on my second novel. I am hoping it will be invigorating to be in the presence of so many committed writers and readers. Patrick deWitt’s  The Sisters Brothers has had the most searing effect on me of any novel in many years, and being able to hear him read will be a particular thrill. In fact, it is his book that has made me return to novel writing again. His particular brand of quirky genius has condemned me to 2 years of struggles at my desk – a fact for which I both love him and loath him.

Overall, I’m hoping Listowel will be a return to the well; a reminder of what I set out to do back in 1996, of why I suffered those 7 years of penury in my nasty little house learning how to write.

Manchán Magan

www.manchan.com

Well, the last time I blogged it was about visiting Norway, so what exciting places have I been to recently?

The answer is NONE.

In fact, take this morning. Yes, please, do take it – take it right away from me because it’s been VERY tedious. I have been to the bank. Yippee. I have been to the garage to take the car in for a service. Yippee again. I have been to the Post Office. Oh boy – yippee three times. Now I am waiting for a phone call about a vegetable delivery. Goodness – how can I cope with all this excitement?

I am longing to get back to my shed where I write so that I can drift off into wild daydreams. That’s what a lot of writing is about – not actually writing words on the page but dreaming about the story, imagining it. Sometimes it’s like watching a film going on inside your own head.

Jeremy Strong

I bet that happens to some of you writers out there, and if it does then you will know that it’s a hundred times better than going to the bank. (Unless you’ve won the lottery of course! Which I haven’t. Boo-hoo.)

And now the phone is ringing. It must be that exciting call about the vegetables. GROAN

If you’d like to see more of Jeremy, he will be in the Fossett’s Big Top on Friday, June 1st, from 10.30am to 11.30am.

Writers often say that writing their first book was difficult, but writing their second was even harder – was this your experience? Did your second book, The Sisters Brothers, throw up any unexpected challenges? How did writing the two books differ?

The Sisters Brothers was more difficult, definitely. Ablutions was semi-autobiographical, and many of the scenarios were recollected or partly-recollected, rather than invented. Also, Ablutions wasn’t a plot-based book, whereas with TSB there was a constant pressure to bring each scene back to the larger story.

Why, in your opinion, do you think The Sisters Brothers received so much critical acclaim – what was the magical ingredient? 

I don’t know why, and I probably shouldn’t consider it or else I might try to force a re-creation. The main thing people seem to be reacting to is Eli’s voice, which was the draw for me, also. He has a sort of baffled charisma. I found him a comforting presence.

How has your recent whirlwind of success changed you as a writer?

It’s changed things in a practical way – career, etc. – but artistically I don’t believe it’s changed me at all. The process is still the same, and when I’m working I don’t think of anything other than the task at hand. But maybe I’ve been corrupted without knowing it. I guess we’ll see with the next book.

How do you decide when a book is finished? Do you still self-edit when reading a published copy or do you steer clear of your books once they’re in the public domain?

I know I’ve finished a draft when I’m at a loss in terms of what to do, at which point I share with my trusted readers. After weighing their opinions I go back to work or else submit the ms. Normally I go back to work. I do see little things in both novels I’d change now if I could, but this isn’t something I lose sleep over. I don’t have a problem moving on to the next. Looking back is a nasty habit.

Canada is similar to Ireland in that it respects the short story. You’ve had several short stories published, and have also written screenplays – how does your approach differ when switching from novel-writing to these genres?

They each have their unique pitfalls. Screenplays are mostly dialogue, so if that stalls out you’re up the creek. With shorts it’s harder to establish characters and locations. Novels, due to vastness, are great for getting hopelessly lost. But I don’t have any tricks for coping with these pitfalls. Best to just push ahead and address the problems as they arise.

Patrick deWitt will be in conversation with Sinead Gleeson on Friday, June 1st at 3.30pm in The Arms Hotel.

Other than your passion for adventure, magic and literature, what led you to writing children’s books? Was the journey what you expected?

I was always an avid reader with a big imagination. English was my favourite subject in school alongside Art. It felt effortless creating stories and writing essays, it was a pleasure as oppose to work. I was a huge fan of Enid Blython when I was very young. I remember my parents and grandmother reading me bedtime stories. I was riveted by the tales and always wanted to hear more. As I got a little older, I was immersed in the entire Goosebumps collection by R.L Stine.

I will never forget reading ‘Night of The Living Dummy’ by R.L Stine. Every creak of a floorboard or shadow cascaded from that living doll has been imprinted in my mind, as if it really took place. When you are a child, you are in a very unique time of your life, where you see and experience things in a very clear and sensory way. Scary stories are all the more frightening and funny moments are all the more hilarious. Stories at this phase of your life stay with you for life.

I always fantasised about writing a book and was quietly confident that it would happen one day. I was writing poetry and building up to the project of writing a book. I spent six months in Canada in 2010, and when I returned to Kerry it seemed like the perfect time to start.  It was a white winter, and I had the time and ideas to commence my first book; ‘Let’s Read a Story’.

Despite being an artist, your debut book Let’s Read a Story was illustrated by Gerardine Cooper Sheridan. How did this partnership form and how did you make it work harmoniously? Are you tempted to illustrate your own books in the future?

I love sketching and painting. It is a completely different experience and process to writing but I enjoy both equally. Like writing, I have been painting since I was very young. I entered competitions and won a few prizes. As I got older, I started to frame and sell my work. My parents encouraged me to paint and nurtured my talent. I enjoy painting in; Pastels and Acrylics. I enjoy variation and paint landscapes, portraits and abstracts.

Gerardine Cooper Sheridan from Co. Kildare is a very gifted artist whom I have been very fortunate to work with. She worked on a book called ‘Breaking the Silence’ with my father; John Mulvihill and Mary Denis Reidy about the Kerry Bog Ponies. I loved her artwork in the book and thought she would be perfect to collaborate with on my children’s book. I got in touch and soon after we started work on ‘Let’s Read a Story’.

Gerardine and I meet regularly to discuss the artwork for the stories. We always start with the cover and then commence with the illustrations.  We correspond through e-mail to finalise the sketches then we discuss the colours and treatment. We worked on my first book ‘Let’s Read a Story’ and my second ‘The Wise Owl Storybook’ which will be out early July 2012.  We work really well as a team, she is patient and takes the time to execute my visions for each story. She also contributes invaluable insights into each scene. She is a pleasure to work with.

I did think about illustrating ‘Let’s Read a Story’ myself. However, the writing process is already quiet time consuming. I also discovered that illustrating is a unique skill, re-creating a character in different scenes is very difficult. One off paintings and illustrations are very different.

I would love to include my artwork in a book in the future or perhaps just do the cover art. We will see…

Your book, Let’s Read a Story, was classic in style, despite the current trend for gritty children’s fiction; what made you choose a more classic route? Did you encounter any issues as a result and how did you overcome them?

Some people say it can be restricting writing children’s books, as a lot of topics and language are off limits. However, writing for children can also give the writer a lot of freedom, with subjects such as; magic, animals and adventure that can only be appreciated through a child’s eyes. When writing it is important to think back to when you were a child and remember what made you laugh, cry, shocked you, and what you sympathised with.

For me, a good children’s story should have a sense of adventure and empathy with the characters. Children must be able to relate their young lives to the characters in the story. Children love thrills, so a good twist to a story or scary moment is always appreciated. Kids are mini adults so to speak, they enjoy their own version of a thriller.

When I was a child, I loved the classic stories. They have important moral lessons and there is a clear definition of right and wrong. Classics are classics because they are great and have stood the test of time. I was inspired to write the stories for ‘Let’s Read a Story’ as an ode to traditional style stories, but perhaps in future works I will choose a different style.

Writers often say that writing their first book was difficult, but writing their second was even harder. Has writing your second book, The Wise Owl Storybook, led you down any unexpected avenues or thrown up any unexpected challenges?

There is definitely a big difference between writing your first and second book. ‘Let’s Read a Story’ was a learning experience. I enjoyed the journey. There were some tricky moments agreeing on certain things, but it all turned out very well. I had all the stories planned out first before writing. Then I wrote out illustration directions for Gerardine. It took time with the design, fonts, colouring, cover editing etc. The first book paved the way for the second and there was a lot of transferable knowledge learned.

Starting the ‘The Wise Owl Storybook’ I knew what to expect, i.e. the importance of concentration and discipline during the writing process. The second book makes you want to push the boundaries of the first. I wanted the stories to be more complex, the illustrations to be larger and more detailed, and the cover to be even more memorable. For me, a new project means raising the bar. Never duplicating but bettering. I am extremely proud of ‘Let’s Read a Story’ but with each new book you want to outdo yourself. As you grow as a person so does your work.

Fellow children’s authors, Jeremy Strong and Sarah Webb (also at Writers’ Week) say that writing for children is the best job in the world. What makes writing for children so special and what’s been the highlight for you so far?

I happily agree with this statement. I really enjoy what I do. Children’s literature is a unique genre which requires a certain creativity and a certain style. Children are a fantastic audience. They are positive, energetic and enthusiastic. Their reactions and curious questions are priceless. They want to be entertained and the writer has to rise to that challenge with each story. It is very rewarding writing for children but it comes with  responsibility. Moral lessons, right and wrong, manners and etiquette are all hugely important in children’s stories. Children are highly impressionable so it is imperative to write carefully and act as a role model when doing so.

One of the best feelings in the world for an author is when the writing, editing, illustrating and directing is complete, and you get to hold the very first copy of your work. It is the final chapter of one phase, and a new chapter of; promoting, selling and interacting with the readers and fans. Holding that first copy is a thrill to say the least. It feels like an award for the work you have done, in a way it is.

Reading to people and getting positive feedback is also a tremendous feeling. To hear people discuss characters and places that were once only a figment of my imagination is a wonderful feeling. Touring and reading stories from the book can sometimes be nerve racking but it is well worth it.

What does Writers’ Week mean to you and what can the children attending expect from your sessions?

I have been going to Listowel Writers Week for many years. This year will be my first time attending in an official capacity. I am truly honoured and proud to be a part of the festival this year, and hopefully many more to come. My parents were raised in north Kerry and I have lots of family in Listowel. I was raised in Ballintcleave, Glenbeigh, so it feels great to have such a celebrated annual event in Kerry. My father’s primary school teacher was the great Brian McMahon. He instilled a love of writing and the arts in my father. I am also proud to mention that I am related to the legendary John B. Keane, even if it is a distant connection. It is always a pleasure to return to the beautiful town of Listowel.

I am looking forward to meeting my fellow writers and attending all the events over the week. I am also very excited to meet all the children that come to my sessions. They will be hearing some stories from my debut book ‘Let’s Read a Story’ and perhaps a few from my upcoming book ‘The Wise Owl Storybook’.  I will be happy to answer any questions that the children may have about the stories or on the profession of writing. I will bring lots of copies for the children to share during the readings, and for anyone who would like to buy a signed copy afterwards.

If you’d like to meet Jerry and listen to his stories, he will be reading in the Listowel Library on Thursday, May 30th, at 10.00am to 10.45am  and  11.15 to 12.00 noon, as well as in Wolfe’s Bookshop on Saturday, June 2nd, from 12.00 noon.

Let’s Read a Story: €12 per copy

The Wise Owl Storybook released:  July – 2012

www.facebook.com.jerrymul

www.jerrymulvihill.com

Staying true to their all-encompassing approach, Writers’ Week has again planned an exciting set of events for children, featuring some of the top names in modern children’s literature. For added excitement, many of the events are staged in the atmospheric Fossett’s Big Top.

From storytelling to a unique baby boogie, illustration workshops to drama, song and circus events, there is something to suit every book-loving and creative child – from toddler to teen. Writers ready to charm, inspire, and make the children laugh include; Jeremy Strong, Oisin McGann, Roisin Meany, Sarah Webb, Jerry Mulvihill and many more.

As a taster of what’s to come, here’s what Jeremy Strong has to say about being a children’s writer:

Jeremy Strong

Writing for Children by Jeremy Strong

Maybe you think writers spend most of their time hiding in a dark place, writing. Well I don’t think that’s the case for most children’s writers. Last week I was in Norway visiting an International School that teaches in English, and enjoying the delights of hugely expensive food out there. Anyone for two plates of fish and chips, only €40.00! To be fair we also found a nice ‘Sarah Lund’ sweater in a charity shop for almost nothing. Came home for the weekend then got back on a plane for The Hague, and another International School. This is definitely the best job I’ve had! A bit exhausting sometimes, but I can’t complain. I get to see places all round the world, and all because I write for children.

In my sessions, I generally talk about where I write and where ideas come from and give a reading and answer Q and A’s and it all seems to make the audience laugh a lot and we have a good time and then go home. In addition I shall be mentioning sheds, superglue, doughnuts and chocolate. And possibly throw in the odd bottom or two. Not to mention dolls made from carrots.”

Although many events are free, some events incur a small charge and are now available for booking. Click here to read the full programme of children’s events.

Whether you’ve just started writing or are an experienced author, there’s always something more to learn about your craft; new techniques, different approaches, fresh areas to explore. And one of the best places for self-improvement is a workshop setting.

Eoin McNamee

Writing workshops provide an opportunity for you to work closely with some of the leading names in modern literature in a supportive setting. As part of a small group of like-minded people, established writers guide you through tried and tested methods, helping you to explore your work and develop your skills as a writer, while gaining invaluable personal feedback.

During Writers Week, we’ve a wealth of opportunities on offer, whatever your skill level or interests. But the festival is only a stone’s throw away, and places on our three-day workshops are filling up fast. We’ve only got a few spaces left on the following workshops, so contact the festival team to book your place before it’s too late.

Novel Advanced with Eoin McNamee, will be focusing the more experienced writer on ‘Story and style: in other words, what you say and how you say it’.

Poetry Getting Started with John Hartley Williams will examine ‘the way poets keep their poems moving along and suggest what strategies you might adopt to get your writing into gear’.

Screen Writing with Conor McDermottroe is intended for both beginners and more experienced writers. The workshops ‘which are intended as a forum for debate, exploration and practical empowerment’ will focus on ‘character exploration and development’.

Writing Funny with Jeremy Sheldon will ‘explore the human experiences and emotions that generate comedy and how we as writers can share in the mischievous fun to be had with those reliable cornerstones of comic suffering: pain, shame and frustration. The focus will be on a range of comic material: TV sitcom, stand-up, sketch, fiction, cinema and engage in a number of creative exercises along the way.’

Songwriting with Mickey MacConnell will cover ‘all aspects of contemporary songwriting and will involve practical work’, culminating in a showcase at The Saddle Bar during Writers’ Week.

Freelance Journalism with Sinead Gleeson, which will focus on getting started in journalism, how to get published, coming up with ideas, pitching to editors and exploring everything from feature writing to hard news and reviews.

Bookings can be made:

By Phone: +353 68 21074

By Post: Cheque / Irish Postal Order Payable to Writers’ Week Ltd.

In Person: Call to Writers’ Week Festival Office, 24 The Square, Listowel, Co Kerry, Ireland (Office Hours: 10.00am – 5.00pm Monday to Friday).

You’ve published novels, short stories, non-fiction, plays, children’s books and an autobiography; how do you account for such diversity? Do you aim to sit down & write a specific genre, or does the idea lead and you follow?

I have published all sorts of different things.  This is true.  I have even written and published a poem (for the Ulster Museum’s 26 Treasures project) though tragically they didn’t pay me for that.  (Moral of that story: there is no money in poetry.) The reason I write in so many different genres is because I have a living to earn, children to feed et cetera and, because of the way things are organized in the kingdom of letters I can’t survive by doing just one thing (writing novels for example): I can only survive by doing as many things as I do.  The good news about this programme is that I am never bored: I’m never bored because I’ve been obliged to learn different things in order to write in different ways: the bad news is its confusing: readers aren’t sure what I do or what I am, whether a novelist or a critic or a curmudgeon.  I sympathize.  Sometimes I’m not sure myself.

2. Tell us about a particularly favourite piece that you’ve written.

I regard my books as like my children and, just as it would be invidious to profess publicly that I loved one child more than the others because that child had some virtue that made me love it (and favour it) above all the others, so it would be invidious to profess publicly that I loved one piece I’d written more than the others because that piece had some virtue that made me love it (and favour it) above all the others.

Also, we know what happens to father’s who prefer one child over another: they end up like Lear losing their wits and running around in the rain.

You are known for a rather comically cynical attitude towards writing as a profession (e.g. Grub Street) – is this a persona or is it as a result of the changes in what you refer to as Kingdom of Literature, the one part of the world you really care about?

I don’t regard myself as a cynic (one who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing): I regard myself, on the contrary, as an idealist: I know a lot about the value of literature (I believe) and I know (or I believe) that our obsession with the price means our judgments about literature are skewed.  There are many people in the world who have done literature incredible damage because of their narrow focus on price and in the vanguard of those enemies of literature are those publishers (yes, I said publishers) who lobbied and agitated for the abolition of the Net Book Agreement in 1997 (which opened the way to book discounts, 3 for the price of 2, et cetera) and, at a stroke, by getting the NBA abolished, ensured the death of half the independent bookshops in these islands (since 1997) and also terminated the careers of many authors.  There is some good news though: there is a new circle in hell currently being prepared for these publishers who got rid of the NBA: and their punishment?: they are going to have spend eternity proof reading telephone directories by a 25 watt light bulb.

 Tell us a little about your role as a prison educator; how it came about and where it has led you both as a person and a writer.

The long version is as follows.  I arrived in Northern Ireland in 1989.  I went there to write a book, ‘The Glass Curtain’ (and I’m still there.)

When I first arrived I lived in a house on Lough Erne.  A Belfast writer called Sam McAughtry came to interview me for a radio series he was doing for Radio Four.  He asked me afterwards privately if I had a project I was particularly attached to but which as yet I hadn’t managed to make happen.

As a matter of fact, I had, I said.  I wanted to make a series of films about ‘ordinary’ rural life in Northern Ireland.  I thought a series of films that were not Troubles-centric were long over due.

I’ll put an appeal out on the radio, Mr. McAughtry replied, at the end of the interview.  It thought this was a barmy idea but he did it and, guess what?  A day or two later a woman rang called Maurna Crozier.   She had heard the programme, she had heard Mr. McAughtry’s appeal and what was more she a little government money intended for the seeding of projects like mine that would amplify perceptions of the complexity of life in Northern Ireland. To cut a long story short, she gave a little money. I went to the BBC.  They were impressed that someone in bigoted Northern Ireland had seen fit to give the project some money.  It must be a good idea, they decided.  I made the series.  It was called ‘Plain Tales from Northern Ireland.’  (The Kipling association was intentional in case you’re wondering.)

I stayed in touch with Maurna.  She got involved in a project to bring art into prison.  One evening we had a drink.  She asked if I was interested in going into HMP Maze (Long Kesh to Republicans) and working with prisoners on their writing.  It would have to be even handed.  I’d have to see Loyalists and Republicans.

Yes, please, I said.

An incredibly complicated vetting process followed.  Two RUC inspectors twice interviewed me at home.  I also had to supply an incredible amount of back ground information on many family going back to my great-grandparents.  Obviously, what was being sought, were signs of Fenianism.  If the family were bad eggs in times past that then the likelihood was I too would be troublesome.  Violence runs in the blood here.  I had a small blemish, I had one great uncle who was an IRA Captain in the early nineteen twenties but happily at the same time another great uncle was a constable in the Royal Irish Constabulary.  So I was cool really.

The whole process culminated with a telephone vetting.  A man from the NIO rang me and I had to answer his questions.  As it happened, he rang while my wife was in labour.  She was having our fourth child and she had opted for a home birth.  I didn’t feel I could say to the guy from the Northern Ireland Office who was cross questioning me, “Excuse me, could you call back when my wife’s had her baby.”  I just didn’t think he’d believe me.  How credible an excuse is that – “My wife’s dilated ten centimetres, sorry I can’t talk.”

I politely answered his fantastically complicated genealogical questions, while my wife did her thing.  The conversation continued and the good news, after forty-five minutes, was that I was in, in jail.  And the good news went on.  A little later, after I’d put down the phone, out came the baby and it was a baby, Georgia Madeleine.

Now that I was in, I had to be got ready.  There was a charismatic man in charge of Probation at the Maze.  (Probation incidentally is known as Welfare.)  This man was called Brian Rodgers.  He had a lot to do with the business of getting artists into the jail and involving prisoners in creative work under their guidance.  Brian took me out to lunch a couple of times.  He was a lovely conversational-ist.  He told me about the prisoners, what he expected of me, and so forth.  I had to write a couple of things outlining what I was going to do.  It was all very low key.  It was only later that I grasped that what Brian was really about was finding out what I was really like.  He didn’t want any muck ups.  If I blew it his project would be set back horribly.  I know it’s hard to remember pre-cease-fire but in those days, before the paramilitaries so kindly agreed to stop killing us, the Maze was a high security jail.  The authorities didn’t really want anyone wondering around in there.

Anyhow, Brian decided I was kosher.  I turned up for my first day.  My first port of call was a loyalist block.  The inmates had rioted the weekend before and set the block on fire.  For some reason I had to go in through a turnstile at the side rather than through the front grille. Had it melted?  I can’t remember.

Once inside I found myself in a blackened wing with charred cell doors.   There were no officers (although this is not to say officers did not go onto the wings at the Maze.  They did, there just weren’t any at that moment.)  My greeter, a Loyalist lifer, sniffed the air as he led me down towards the kitchen come dining room.  (I would be holding my class in the band room – where Loyalist paraphernalia was stored – behind the kitchen.)

“Had a bit of a barbecue the other night,” he said, lightly.  “But of course so and so,” – and here he mentioned a famous prisoner, “he would throw too much petrol on and it got a bit out of hand.”

I went through the kitchen and into the band room.  It was filled with drums and banners emblazoned with paintings of King Billy.  Four writers joined me.  I read them ‘Pale Anna’ by Heinrich Boll and then got them to read me their work in turn.

That was in the spring of 1992.  Twenty years later (twenty years later, oh how the years have flown) I am still teaching in jail though now it’s not HMP Maze (Long Kesh) as it’s now closed, but its Category A sister, HMP Maghaberry – and they’ve even given me a title, I am known as the writer-in-residence.  My job is to help anybody with anything that involves writing.  You asked at the start what it has done for me: in a word given me access to what I value most – narrative.

In an interview discussing A Good Day For a Dog, you said in relation to Melanophy: “He certainly becomes a better person, he suffers. But he’s still a monster. That’s the way people are. That’s what makes people interesting.” How does this approach help construct your characters?

Ah yes.  The thing about Mr Melanophy is his shame: he is mired by it: the shame comes from his childhood: he is ashamed by what happened to him then: so his response (psychologically) to that shame (his coping strategy if you like) when he becomes an adult is to do things (violent, vile and awful) which he can then use to explain to himself the stain of his shame: in other words he offends in order to have a crime (or in his case crimes) commensurate to the shame he feels.  In my time in jail I have met many men like my character Mr Melanophy: they offend because of childhood trauma: they do awful things as adults that they can they can then cleave to as an explanation (and justification) for the way they feel.  These views (of mine) won’t be to everyone’s taste: society (it is my instinct) likes to cheer itself up by believing that criminals are just evil monsters and that’s the end of it.  Well, some criminals are evil monsters but even the monsters have their reasons, their story, and as a writer that’s what interests me, or interested me about Mr Melanophy: I was interested in his reason (for being the way he was), and the story that made him what he was: I also thought it would be useful for readers who had never been in prison to be introduced to a man like Mr Melanophy and shown why he does what he does.

How do you decide when a book is finished? Do you still self-edit when reading a published copy or do you steer clear of your books once they’re in the public domain?

A book is finished when I feel too exhausted to go any further with it.  When I am reading (from something I’ve written) I will skip bits: its always more interesting never to repeat yourself exactly – it keeps you on your toes.

During a talk at the Irish Writers’ Centre, you said that ‘if you want to write, you must learn to manage failure’. Can you expand on this?

This derives from Graham Greene who said (somewhere) that all writers fail: one reason for failure is that nothing you write will ever be perfect: it will always be provisional.  So you must learn to accept that everything you write will be imperfect.  Graham Greene also said (somewhere) that the writer’s life is the longest long distance race in the world.  He said it lasted at least sixty years (which makes it a very long race indeed).  And what happens (sorry to labour this) as you race?  Well, that’s where the other kind of failure comes in.  As you run, you slow and then younger smarter fitter sleeker sexier writers overtake you and they streak ahead and leave you lagging behind.  But you plough on, like Sisyphus (what other way is their to manage failure but to plough on?) because now you’ve joined this infernal race you can’t stop until you die.  Also, and this does keep you going as well, you cling to the hope that those who have overtaken you will break a leg or something, which will allow you to catch up and then over take them.

There’s a lot of romantic thought around the idea of being a writer – but in reality, it’s hard work & you can’t make a living by just writing. How do you convey this to those people who think that writing is about sitting and waiting for inspiration?

Many writers of my acquaintance who are younger than I am have told me emphatically that I am not allowed to spoil the golden dreams of literary novitiates with my tedious prattle about the awfulness of Grub Street.  And generally speaking, though it’s a struggle (I am a natural Cassandra), I try to follow the counsel of my colleagues and I try not to say too much.  Now I know I’ve occasionally been negative but trust me, I could be much worse.  However, on the issue of the hard work that writing involves, we are all agreed, myself and my colleagues, that the truth must be told: writing is labour intensive. I usually communicate that fact to novitiates by itemizing the number of drafts I have to produce in order to get something right.

Have you ever received any invaluable writing/publishing advice?

Vera Britton in ‘On Becoming a Writer’: she said (I paraphrase) if you get a bad review, do not write an angry letter to the critic who wrote that review or the editor of the publication that printed that review: instead, what you do is you sit down and write the first paragraph of your next book.  Vera Britton’s book incidentally, along with Stephen King’s On Writing are the best books on writing and being a writer that I have read.

What do events such as Writers’ Week mean to you?

I spend a lot of time alone: in Listowel I am not alone: and better still, in Listowel I am with people who are interested in the same thing I am interested in – literature (or, story telling, a term I much prefer).  So what’s not to like about that?

Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview, Carlo. Before we go, is there anything you’d like to add?

You can never read enough.

Carlo Gébler

Carlo is directing a 3 day Advanced Creative Writing workshop at Writers Week (Thursday May 31st to Saturday June 2nd). During this three day workshop, participants will be looking at story, character and atmosphere.  It will involve a couple of exercises and practical writing challenges.

Carlo will also be in conversation with Carol Birch on Saturday, June 2nd in the St John’s Theatre and Arts Centre at 5.30pm.

Every year I’m lucky to be invited to lots of book festivals. This festival season I’ll be at Listowel Writers’ Week in Kerry in June which I’m really looking forward to; plus Dalkey Book Festival, also in June; a festival in London in July (details TBC); Kilkenny Arts Festival in August; and Mountains to Sea Book Festival in Dun Laoghaire in September.

I’ve been writing for children for some years now and I’ve found that the children’s events at festivals are just getting better and better. I’m very impressed by the range of events at this year’s Listowel Writers’ Week, there really is something for every child of every age. In a future festival blog I will talk about the session I am doing at the festival for very young children, and why it’s vital to share nursery rhymes with babies and toddlers. But for today I will concentrate on why I love book festivals.

Why I love festivals so much:

1/ Firstly and most importantly I get to meet my young readers. There’s nothing like meeting young readers in person, it’s such a thrill and they are so enthusiastic about books and reading, it really is refreshing.

2/ Making new friends. I still keep in contact with some of the adults I taught writing to at last year’s Writers’ Week – what a lovely bunch of women they were. I hope to meet some of them again this year.

3/ I get to hang out with my writer friends like Roisin Meaney and Oisín McGann. And I love attending readings and hearing other writers talk about their work, it’s fascinating.

4/ I always learn something new at festivals, from fantastic books to read, to how other writers organise their writing lives – are they morning writers or evening writers; do they have any lucky writing charms; paper or laptop etc.

5/ My mind fizzes with new book ideas after book festivals. There’s nothing more inspirational than being surrounded by world class writers. My favourite festival talk ever was one given by Patrick Ness about writing with joy – it was spoken from the heart and very moving. If he’s ever at a festival near you, go! You won’t regret it. He is a truly gifted speaker.

6/ Book people are my people and it’s lovely to be with my tribe. Spending a few days talking books, books and more books, that’s my kind of holiday!

Yours in books,

 Sarah Webb

There will be Cupcakes and Book Fun with Sarah Webb on Sunday, June 3rd at 11.00-12.30 in Lynch’s bakery, The Small Square. Sarah will talk about her latest book for young readers Ask Amy Green: Love and Other Drama-Ramas, and will answer questions about writing and getting published. All young writers are welcome to bring their work to read aloud!

Whenever someone asks me what I do for a living, it takes quite a bit of effort not to accompany my response of ‘I’m a writer’ with a large smirk. The annoying truth is I hardly regard my job as work at all, more of a heck of a way to spend my days – and to be paid for doing what I love just makes it all the sweeter. It’s full of fringe benefits too – legitimate entry into writers’ retreats (I’ve been to Newfoundland, Spain and France), licence to spend your day under the duvet as long as the laptop accompanies you, and if you’re particularly fortunate, inclusion in the Writers’ Week programme of events.

Roisin Meaney

That’s not to say the life of a writer is easy; some days it’s far from easy. Some days I squeeze out a page or two of what I know in my heart is drivel that will be deleted the next time I switch on the laptop. Some days I sit and stare at the blank screen until my eyes cross, and nothing else happens. On these days the only cure is to down tools prematurely and head into town to do severe damage to my credit card balance. They don’t call it retail therapy for nothing.

But there are other days, thankfully much more common, when I tap the keys in happy little bursts, when my characters behave themselves and the story moves along obediently and the word count at the end of the day has four digits in it, and I can reread all of it, or most of it, without cringing.

Since 2001 I’ve written eight adult novels. Two of them have crossed the Atlantic. Four of them have gone in the other direction, to sit in various European bookshops. This summer will see my first Italian translation. And for all that, there are times when I still feel as if I’m waiting to be found out. (Don’t tell.)

Every book I write starts with me lying in bed after I close whatever book I’m reading and switch off the light. This is my time to start tossing themes around in the darkness until I hit on one that takes my fancy – someone being dumped on the eve of opening her first shop, someone who decades to offer evening classes in life drawing, a group of amateur actors coming together to rehearse a play. Sometimes it takes quite a while to find one I’m happy with.

Once I have my theme I get to work on my main character, another slow process. Before I can write someone’s story I have to get to the stage where I feel I know her as well as I know my sister, or best pal. And in order to get to that point, I mentally sit her across the table from me and interview her. What faults do you have? I ask. How do you think others see you? What do you most desire? What’s your earliest memory? What annoys you more than anything? And so forth. I have to feel that I’d recognise her if she walked into a room. ‘Why, there’s so and so,’ I’d say, delighted that we’d come face to face at last.

Finally, armed with my theme and character, I take myself off to the laptop and begin. I plot each book fiercely and in some detail, needing to have the security blanket of an A-to-Z storyline to wrap around me. Having said that, my plots rarely stay unchanged. I blame the characters, who will insist on having their own way sometimes. In my first book, The Daisy Picker, I was determined that Lizzie O’Grady would not fall in love. I wanted to buck the happy-ever-after trend and keep her single, but the hussy had other ideas. (Mind you, he was lovely. I would have done the same.)

When I’m ready to begin writing the book, I open three documents on the computer. The first is the manuscript itself; the second is ‘points to remember’, where I record any factual detail as I go along – ‘Joe has blue eyes’ – so I can check back when I need to. The third is ‘overview’, in which I summarise the story section by section – ‘34-36: Angela’s birthday party’ – so I can find a scene easily. I have no idea if other writers do this – for all I know they have much more efficient ways of organising themselves and navigating through a manuscript, but it works for me.

And then I potter along, writing for anything from two hours (bad day) to the whole morning and a bit of the afternoon (very lovely day). I find five or six hours per day is about all I can handle, with a few little five minute breaks thrown in (during which I might sit in the sun, talk to the cat, make a cuppa or check emails). Any more than that and my head is scrambled, and I know that anything I commit to the screen will probably be doomed by virtue of being crap.

The inspiration for my latest book, One Summer, came from the fact that in 2010 I happened to visit a multitude of islands – Lanzarote in May, a scatter of Croatian islands in July, Guernsey and Sark in the Channel Isles in September, and tiny, beautiful Sherkin off Cork’s coast in October.

And in November, when it was time to start on a new book, I decided to find someplace scenic and cheap to rent for a month, just for the hell of it. And wouldn’t you know, I ended up on Valentia Island, off the Kerry coast, in a little cottage that had started life as a stable. Talk about scenic.

As I settled into my home-for-a-month, the significance of all my recent island-hopping struck me. Wouldn’t it be interesting, I thought, to set a book on a small island? And once I decided to centre it around the local hairdresser who was getting married, the plot of One Summer pretty much fell into place.

But again it changed as I wrote the story. It got a little quirkier and a little more poignant, and the ending was slightly different. And I have to say that I really, really loved writing this one, and there were fewer bad days and a lot more very lovely days while it was coming into being.

And now it’s out there, and I miss my islanders, and I hope they find favour wherever they go.

One Summer, published April 2012 by Hachette Books Ireland.

During Writers Week, Roisin Meaney will be Storytelling (6-8 Years) in Listowel Library on Friday, June 1st (1.30pm to 2.30pm) and running a What’s Your Story? workshop on Saturday, June 2nd (2-4pm) in the Feale Room, Arms Hotel.

Find out more about Roisin at www.roisinmeaney.com

I’m delighted to be rejoining the team at Writers’ Week in the run up to the 2012 festival. You can expect regular posts that’ll bring you the latest news and help you get into the festival spirit, as well as guest posts from some of the attending writers and contributors. During Writers’ Week (May 30th to June 3rd), I’ll be bringing you coverage of as many events as possible – and once again, I can’t wait.

So why am I so excited? Firstly, Writers’ Week is offering an extensive festival programme, including an impressive list of writers, circus-themed children’s events and a wide selection of three-day workshops, covering everything from songwriting to advanced creative writing. On a personal level, it’s an excellent opportunity to meet like minds and learn from some of the world’s leading literary talent. And if last year is anything to go by, the atmosphere will be fantastic.

Now in its 41st year, the small market town of Listowel has served as the perfect setting for Writers’ Week. Originally an intimate gathering of like minds, Writers’ Week has grown into a two-way celebration of literature for writers and readers – a place where both can meet and celebrate their experiences of the written word.

A literary institution, Writers’ Week continues to attract national and international crowds and an impressive list of eminent literary figures. Poet laureates, booker prize winners, best-selling authors and debut writers have all graced its programme, and yet, none of the original intimacy has been sacrificed.

Instead, Writers’ Week has maintained an intimate feel while adapting and reinventing itself to provide a quality programme which reflects the changing landscape of the arts. Through a mixture of readings, workshops, competitions, book launches, music, dance, theatre and literary awards, the festival has strived to celebrate Ireland’s overall contribution to the arts on a global scale.

Unsurprisingly, Writers’ Week has also become one of the most important events for new writers and established writers alike. At this year’s festival, a total of €20,000 will be awarded as competition results, including the Kerry Group Irish Fiction Award – the richest prize for a work of Irish fiction in Ireland – are announced.

If you’re attending Writers’ Week in Listowel this year and really want to immerse yourself in the celebrations, we have a long list of prominent writers waiting to share their skills in our workshops. Topics include poetry, fiction, theatre, journalism, song writing and comic writing, and you can view the full 2012 workshop programme here.

If you have any further questions about this year’s festival, please comment on the blog (I’d like that), email the team on info@writersweek.ie or tweet @writersweek. We want everyone who’s attending to have the best possible time, so don’t be afraid to ask us for assistance.