Monday 25 May 2015

WB Yeats and what we talk about when we talk about Ireland.




Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel and Fionn McCumhail has precious little to do with the price of onions. You’re probably never more Irish than when you’re stuck watching windscreen wipers on the commute home, listening to Sean Moncrieff. But if someone were to ask you what it means to be Irish you might not say that.  The idea of a national identity is something we probably only encounter at the match, when some local band makes it big abroad or when we slate ourselves over how little we protest compared to elsewhere. In other words, it’s only really when we’re set beside another country that we see what makes us different. Our national identity for almost the last hundred odd years is the story of us differentiating ourselves from another country and no one had more say in that than the poet WB Yeats, who celebrates his 150th Birthday this year.
            Different people take different things from the old stories. Cuchulainn has appeared in everything from the Guardians of the Galaxy comic book to Final Fantasy video games. The Táin has been illustrated by Louis Le Brocquy and re-told by Thomas Kinsella and Ciaran Carson, not to mention the album by Horselips. It’s the same way you’d explain to a tourist how Fionn McMuchaill built the Giant’s Causeway. These stories are still alive in strange and sometimes very modern ways. The phrase; ‘let me sing you the song of my people’ is an internet meme some long time now but, to paraphrase Voltaire, if there wasn’t any song any more, it would be necessary to invent one. While we all know Yeat’s role in this, the thing people don’t tend to talk about too much is what a singularly strange man he actually was, even among poets. Yeats had this massive role to play in what Ireland means and perhaps the largest influence on him came from the occult, which is something often briefly touched on but never really discussed. This is interesting because without this unusual obsession he would probably never have achieved what he did. It was the combination of all three of his obsessions: nationalism, poetry and the occult that lead him to playing the role he did in defining how we thought of ourselves as a culture.
 It was in 1884 that Yeats read a book called The Occult World by AP Sinnett.  The book aimed to introduce Theosophy to Europe from the East and pretty much right away Yeats became convinced of the reality of this aspect of the occult and in particular of the teachings of one Helena Blavatsky. Blavatsky was a world famous mystic who had founded the Theosophical Society based on what were up till then secret Indian and Tibetan teachings. Theosophy is an esoteric pursuit which places a single, divine, universal mind operating behind all teachings and cultures and determining all events, all of which an adept much work to uncover for himself. “The mystical world is the centre of all I do and all I think and all I write”, Yeats wrote in 1894. It seemed it was maybe a little too much at the centre of things for him. Yeats was eventually excommunicated from the Theosophical Society by Blavatsky for taking part in practical experiments, something strictly forbidden. As a reaction to that, his next move was to join up with a group called The Order of the Golden Dawn, a much more hands-on mystic sect which numbered among its ranks Aleister Crowley, probably history’s most famous Satanist. This group encouraged members to actively experiment in order to demonstrate their power over the material universe and Yeats experimented freely on his friends and acquaintances, writing of having undergone some pretty shocking visions. The thing about all of this is how often throughout his life he mentions this kind of thing as a chief influence on this thought. Thankfully it wasn’t the only one.
                   Around the same time, Yeats became one of the followers of Douglas Hyde’s Gaelic League. The league strove for the De-Anglicisation of Irish culture and the promotion of a national Celtic identity. Yeats thought the best way to do this was to write the old stories of the Irish people, but in English, the language in which, he said “modern Ireland thinks and does its business”. According to Yeats, folk art "is indeed the oldest of the aristocracies of thought ... it is the soil where all great art is rooted." Combining this belief with his fascination with the occult led to Yeats focusing on the supernatural aspects of Irish folk life, in contrast with many other writers of the time. Clearly still under the influence of the Theosophists, Yeats continued to announce things like: “The fairies are the lesser spiritual moods of the universal mind, wherein every mood is a soul and every thought is a body." Yeats devoted the book Celtic Twilight to taking this particular aspect of folklore and transforming it into poetry.  His book Mythologies delves deeper, incorporating his own visions of spirits, while at the same time helping to establish him as the preeminent collector of Irish folklore.
                   To say Yeats arrived at the national poetic agenda alone is a little unfair. There were actually plenty of segmented little groups working away at the cause.  One such group was called the Young Irelanders; Thomas Davis, John Blake Dillon and Charles Gavan Duffy numbering among them, and they worked hard at trying to promote national poetry through the romantic ballad, which they saw as the supreme form of public art. These were not the songs of the people, but instead more of a high-brow invention, intended more for the parlours and the salons. Yeats was introduced to the Young Irelanders and their books by the revolutionary John O’Leary and by that time their aim was not just national ballads, but to encourage a national identity, unifying the country behind a single cultural idea. Yeats straight away realised that these men weren’t anything like great poets and seemed to believe a lot of things contrary to his own views. In his lecture “Nationality and Literature”, published in 1893, Yeats states that all national literature is maturing from epic to lyrical, like a tree which “grows from unity to multiplicity, from simplicity to complexity” A young nation, not yet fully formed and yet to achieve national and cultural unity, is still at the epic stage. It’s the epic which forms a unity and defines social structure, rather than the lyrical. Yeats saw the epic legends as the ideal way to represent a fledgling social consciousness as they are “made by no one man, but by the nation itself through a slow process of modification and adaptation, to express its loves and its hates, its likes and its dislikes.” Ancient art would be a unifying national force because it speaks to the people’s unconscious identity. Yeats believed the way to achieve this in modern times was to rekindle a relationship with the folk and mythological themes with which, we know, he had a particular relationship.
                   It was around then that Yeats began calling himself “The Celt” and put himself forward as a kind of update on the traditional idea of the Celtic bard. Celts had already been given a special place in the zeitgeist at that time by people like Matthew Arnold, who, in a culture awash with dichotomies like masculine/feminine, emotional /intellectual and natural /industrial, ascribed to Celtic culture a feminine, natural and emotional character as opposed to the masculine/ utilitarian Teuton, and within that Celtic culture, bards were a kind of custodian of culture, knowledge and even prophesy. The thing was, William Butler didn’t actually have any Celtic blood in him whatsoever. He came from the middle class Protestant Ascendancy. To get around this, he rejected an ethnic idea of the Celt and instead tapped into the idea of a hazier, cultural ancestry, combining Theosophy and Paganism and claiming it as “the only true religion of the Irish.”
                   What you start seeing in Yeat’s poetry and plays from then on is a combination of the heroic, the epic and the transcendental. There’s another world, another condition to be achieved. I’ll stop here and flag the fact that this pretty much the MO of every practicing religion since the dawn of time too, but there are singular Theosophical elements you begin to notice emerging. The most obvious example of his combining poetry, nationalism and the occult is the poem “To Ireland in the Coming Times.”, written in 1892. After claiming his place in a list of national poets, he continues to link Ireland’s past with what is to come and highlights the role of art in this. Artists are the only ones who can talk about “things discovered in the deep/where only body’s laid asleep” and their work alone can bring about a supernatural world “For the elemental creatures go/About my table to and fro,”.  The occult is mixed in with the mythological, pagan and artistic with “elemental beings,” and “Faeries dancing under the moon/Druidic land, Druidic tune.” The idea of Ireland as a mystical, other-worldly place, peaceful, feminine, emotional and profoundly “Celtic”, far from the grinding, industrial horrorshow of Europe, becomes a core theme in poems like ‘Lake Isle of Innisfree’ and “Into the Twilight”.  The transcendence of the individual into this quasi-spiritual realm doesn’t only mirror the nation transcending into freedom and cultural identity, but also the transcendence of the world into a higher supernatural plane. Oisin venturing to Tir Na N’og is another example, as is Cuchulainn’s Fight With The Sea.
                   As he grew older, Yeats tried to distance himself a little from the pagan and occult themes in his work, from the stories of automatic writing and the famous séances, maybe after criticism from people like Auden, calling it “the deplorable spectacle of a grown man obsessed with mumbo-jumbo of India.” I happen to think it makes his work more interesting, more layered and if we really are thinking of Yeats when we think of Irish Mythology and Irish culture as a whole, asks more questions about the role the occult and Theosophy had to play. Maybe Dan Brown could get a thriller out of it.  

Alan Walsh.

 This post was originally for the blog over at the Irish Literary Festival

If you enjoyed that, I've written a novel, Sour, retelling an old Irish myth as a modern murder story:
Read More

Saturday 9 May 2015

Summer at Maghermore : A Short Story

Summer at Maghermore - A Short Story


It was early and no one was anywhere near the shore but for an old man sat against the rock nearest the tide, draped in a long towel, who watched out for the light to break. It was still a little like night to venture out and he sipped from a flask he had brought to warm him at that hour. The first call of gannets had woken two surfers inside of their camper van and they sat, with tea, and watched the old man, wondering why he was out alone so early and on such a remote stretch of beach.
"He’s trying to kill himself," one surfer said.
"Why do you say that?"
"No one would arrive out here so early. He’s working up courage, drinking from that flask, maybe rum. He seems unsteady."
"Then why did he change into that swimsuit? Why the towel if not to dry off?"
"Who knows what occurs in the mind of a suicide? Maybe he wishes to seem normal, like it might look an accident."

They crouched behind the wheel of the van with the light off so as not to be noticed in all of the silence and darkness. The only thing to move was the low branch stooped over the old man’s rock and the loose strands of seaweed in the breeze. The gannets and gulls began to circle more frequently and the light began slowly to come in. When the water was lit well enough to make out, the old man folded his towel down into the bag where he had packed his clothes and placed his flask on top of the rock beside it. He began walking out toward where the water washed the first pebbles on the shore.
"There, he’s going to do it. We can’t just allow it to happen."
"He doesn’t look anything like drunk. He’s just testing the temperature."

They both silently got out of the van to watch from the shade, keeping sure to remain very still. The old man stood a while with the water reaching only his ankles. He adjusted his shorts, tucked up underneath where his belly hung, and crouched down to place his hands into the foam. He brought water up to rinse through his hair and down his face, doing this a number of times. He ventured out a little deeper, knee deep and then to his waist, and allowed the tide lap his belly and upper arms while he looked out at the sky gradually changing colours.
"Where are you going?"
"I’m going down there. It’s probably even a crime to stand by and watch someone kill themselves, doing nothing."
"You don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s just taking a dip."

The man craned his knees to have the water cover his chest and then wash over his shoulders. That early it was still cold enough to throw you off if you didn’t take enough care. He went through this motion a couple of times, then finally dunking his head the whole way under to come up again wet all over. Sure of his footing now and far enough from the shore, he pushed forward into a forearm stroke, letting the water catch his weight under the belly and kicking hard as he could manage it. It churned water high in every direction, his strokes weren’t quite timed to replace one another in the water and his kicking legs weren’t strong enough to breach the surface and push him on. He floundered sideways, unable to bring his following arm round in time to keep afloat and kicked down to touch the bottom again. He stood a minute out as far as the water reaching his shoulders and took a few heavy breaths. He washed some more of the tide through his hair. Bending his knees further, he let the tide lap up to his lips and nose and pushed off again, horizontal to the shoreline, this time with greater effort and more foam thrown up about him. His legs kicked harder and he forced his arms on through the water ahead. But he was already off course, and soon heading diagonally out from the tide to where the bottom began to slope off. The push and thrashing soon tired the old man. He quit to stand still a while again, but he had ventured a little far out of his depth. His shoulders dipped under quickly to his surprise, taking his head down under as well and he had to reach right away into another forward splash, even out of breath, to make it in close enough to shore to touch down.

"He doesn’t know about us. He thinks he’s all alone out here. He can’t even hardly keep afloat. It’s still almost dark and there’s no one for miles."
"He’s teaching himself to swim."
"Why would anybody do that at this hour, miles from any possible help? At that age."
"Maybe that’s why he’s out here."
"He’s well into his eighties easy. He was unsteady getting out there across the stones to start off with. Hazard to himself. There have to be laws against people acting out of recklessness with their own well being."
"There aren’t any people out in the water at this time. No one to pay him any attention back on shore either, to get unduly worried. He can concentrate freely."

The old man was back down into another stroke, this one a little sharper, tighter to the line of the tide. He seemed not to kick as much froth up around him either. A number of gulls had settled on the moving surface, content to drift and watch. He only made a couple of feet along before having to touch down again and catch his breath. He knew he was doing it all wrong, that his timing was off, he was pushing too hard and without any grace. Stood deep in the tide, he tried to figure out how to better it with his next go. He waded out a little deeper and practiced moving just his arms, each over the shoulder in turn, slowly as he could, for imagined in this lay the key. Then, remembering what he had seen others do, he began rolling his head from side to side in the water, breathing in one side and out the other. He stood in place and did this a little while. The younger surfer watched him, shaking his head. The man took another breath and lunged forward again, this time in the opposite direction. Again, he kicked up a lot of froth and began to stray diagonally outward, but it seemed a little more contained a motion than before. He couldn’t maintain it for very long and hadn’t gotten the breathing right. He lacked the strength to keep stroking any length and had to stop to again pretty soon. The younger surfer shook his head some more.
"You know he’ll be back out here tomorrow morning."
"He looks that type."
"And we’ve taken the place up by Maghermore. So we won’t be here."

The light had by then come in enough that the rock, the trees and camper van and both men were clearly visible and the old man, seeing them, wet his head one final time in the foam and began to stride his way back into shore through the water. He reached the stones and collected his bag and his flask from the rock, made his way back up the shingle slope and past the camper van, saluting the surfers with a nod as he went. Both of them nodded in return.

In a little while, they had suited up and prepared the boards, they’d locked up the van and headed down to the shore themselves. It was still early but the waves were starting to come in a little harder and break with more force. They paddled out far enough and caught what they could, but the waves weren’t as lively as they had been earlier in the month. That was why the younger surfer has suggested moving on up to Maghermore, where it was said to be rougher. They had planned to pass the summer there but had left it too long. He brought his board out past the furthest rock and let the sea rise and drop him until he felt there was enough in it to try and make it back in on. Each time he did it, though, it tapered off and he was left wishing he had left it longer. A few of these and he had given up. He relaxed and watched his partner fight to drag some life out of the waves, sometimes even getting a little. He sat on the surf board, flat on the surface of the water, and thought about that old man, wondering if he’d be out there the following morning and if he’d ever succeed in teaching himself to swim. It was too dead to surf. He paddled back into shore and lit a fire back by the van. He dried himself off and began to prepare breakfast.
If you enjoyed that, you might like my novel, Sour, an old Irish myth retold as a modern murder story:
Read More

Sunday 3 May 2015

10 ways to get your short story published in a magazine.


How to get your short story published in a magazine



Getting your story published in a magazine is a great way to showcase your writing ability, get your name out there and grab the attention of editors, agents and publishers. Once you're writing to a good standard, it shouldn't be too difficult to get noticed by the magazines, but in many cases writers try the same things again and again to no benefit. I've compiled a simple list of points that should help set you up for a successful submission. 


1) Read the magazine you're submitting to.
This sounds pretty obvious. It's not all that obvious to many writers. Read at least a whole issue, ideally, read more. What this will do is give you a pretty clear insight into what the editor likes. He or she is your target market. Your YA tale of forbidden school-yard werewolf romance, no matter how well written, won't appeal to someone only publishing gritty social angst stories. It's all too easy to shoot off multiple emails to lists of magazines with a copy-and-paste intro and an attached word doc of your story. You're playing the game a little like a lottery there and chance are you'll get pretty much the same results.


2) Pitch the story in your intro email.
This is maybe not so obvious. Editors of these magazines aren't always working full time and have a limited amount of hours to trawl through submissions so a quick pitch, outlining tone really helps. A simple few words out to suffice, think clickbait. This doesn't need to be a synopsis. "Alexandra and Wesley are classmates united by an unusual preference for dog treats. Mr. Jeffries wants to know why they never meet during a full moon." 



3) Address the email correctly. 
Be specific. People can tell when they get blanket emails. Address the editor by name, mention the magazine, talk about the style and themes the magazine goes in for and why your submission would fit in exactly. This shows you've taken the time to get to know the publication and that you actually care about where you get published. 


4) Care about where you get published. 
This seems pretty obvious but only submit to magazines you're actually interested in. You might find a publication run out of someone's backyard shed, using a combination of fonts making it look like a ransom demand, you might happen upon a magazine where they dedicate a few pages to the opinions of the deranged, blinkered or worse. Look for magazines you actually like and respect. 

5) Show the piece around to people before submitting. 
Writing is a solitary endeavour, but as soon as you submit something it no longer stays that way. The whole process of getting a story out to people, in whatever medium, is highly collaborative, so get used to working with others in getting your work the best it can be. Show it to honest critics. Friends who fawn over your prose are no good to you. The ones who sit you down and list how and why a thing isn't working are invaluable. The greatest mistake a writer can make is thinking 'this person just doesn't get what I'm saying'. Your job as a writer is to make people get what you're saying. Feedback and second and third and ninth drafts is part of what you do. This will help massively. 


6) Use standard formatting. 
Comic Sans, random bold text, font size experimentation, trying out different margins, spacing, colour as ways to express your individuality are out. You express yourself through the words. The rest should be as undistracting as possible. 

7) Read as many short stories as you can. 
Read the greats, of course, Carver, Hemingway, Alice Munro, Chekov and so forth, read them to bits, but read younger, current writers too. Be aware of how people are writing now. Find your own voice. 

8) Tell a story.
I know, I know, but vignettes, exercises in prose styling, crazed narrative experiments and 'what-if' fan fiction is tough to find a home for. Very tough. Know what your story is, know what it says. Make sure it has a beginning, middle and end, conflict, and all the things a good story ought to have. When you're a seasoned pro you can turn around and mix it up.

9) Submit to one magazine at a time. 
Wait for their response. Worst case scenario is not two rejections, it's two acceptances, for then you must contact one magazine with the bad news and know that they will never entertain an approach from you again. Be respectful to the magazines, try and forge a bit of rapport, follow them on twitter, retweet them. 



10) Keep trying.
This doesn't mean keep sending the same story with updates. If a story doesn't make the cut in a magazine bite down on the fact and embrace it. Most of the time you won't be told why. The reason is either the piece is totally wrong for the magazine, the upcoming issue is dedicated to a particular theme and your story doesn't fall within it or it simply wasn't good enough. If it wasn't good enough, that's okay. It means you need to work harder. As a writer you'll always need to work harder. Craft what you do. Show it around. Beg, plead for criticism and when you get it, take it on the chin. Someone hating your piece  and you addressing that makes you better. Someone liking it just keeps you at the same level. 


Hopefully, these are of help, I'd be delighted to hear any other tips.  



If you found that interesting, maybe you'd like my novel, it retells an old Irish myth as a modern murder story:
Read More