Return to the Mothership

Greetings, Earthlings.


I, for one, feel like I’ve been on Planet Xendor for the last month. I think the best way to go through things is sequentially, so, starting from the top:

I had my last day in London. I was on my own, bar lunch with a certain Go-getter, and I took a bit of a wander. I started at our house in Dartmouth Park, and I toodled down into the fabulous Kentish Town, stopped short of Camden and swung through Somers Town. It was a glorious day until I reached Russell Square and a pizza lunch with the Go-getter, where as the storm clouds gathered, I heard of his myriad impressive plans all stacking up on eachother with their deadlines and possibilities. Take that, pathetic fallacy. I told him of my plans, the agency set-up, the footloose and fancy-free feeling of having no more possessions in my life bar the roller bag and the duffel I was taking home from Gatwick.

I went on up to Islington, which is a great place to go when you’ve nowhere else to be. Full of life-affirming baked goods, expensive furniture, killer jewellery and antiques, it says ‘Waste time here – you know you want to.’ And I did.

It poured, but I took slow buses and thought about not very much and said goodbye. It felt like a great release.

And then I came home.

Irritating, the Maternal One refused to come to the airport, but I made it back home through throngs of Celine Dion fans. More or less immediately thereafter, I went back up to Dublin to meet the cousin. For some reason, I was vaguely dreading it – something to do with a combination of exhaustion and trepidation about entertaining a travelling newbie for a week.

My fears were unfounded and all was well. We toddled around Dublino, saw a couple of near and dear, did some sights, had some pints, went to the beach in the blazing sun, had cocktails, and that was a week. We talked about our shared family, nothing at all, Ireland and college life in Greenville, North Carolina. It was nice to get to know someone else in the family as if they were a real person, rather than a Christmas ornament. I spent my first and only stinky, hot summer in Washington with a different cousin once to the same effect, and I hope to work my way through all of them by the time I hit thirty.

When she left, I slept for sixteen hours. Then, I started to work.

I haven’t worked with such concentration and enjoyed my work or learned so much since I left college. This says to me that I’ve made the right move.

Not wanting to completely cut myself off in the seaside calm, I was up in Dublin for Writers Week, and got to see the wonderful Mr. Jones in conversation with John Boyne and Claire Kilroy, whose work I like very much. It was a slightly nervous set-up, hung on the tenuous connection of the South Seas – but it was a gorgeous introduction to the two baldy gents’ writing. A few days later, I had an infinitely less inspiring evening watching Hugo Hamilton ask poor David Grossman a slew of facile literary questions topped off with the breathtaking rhetorical on the Middle East, ‘I mean, how can you guys find it so hard? We showed you how to do it with Northern Ireland!’ Um, eight hundred years? So myself and the Editor headed for much-needed light-up pitchers of cheap beer and plates of very tasty sushi. Mine, the Eel Dragon roll, snaked across the plate under its crispy skin and looked at me with wasabi-paste eyes.

I’ve been going steadily on a project that came in three days before I launched the business, which is good, but I haven’t yet established any kind of schedule whereby I can do the task at hand while still setting up the bigger picture. I think that I should be able to do that once I’ve settled in our new house and am cookin’ with gas. It is, however, the uncomfortable, rigid, eyes-on-the-screen, slightly panicked kind of work that you do in your first days in a new job, which I guess I am.


To make my teeth unclench and reconnect with the outside world, I started taking huge walks and much shorter runs – and taking a lot of pictures. The river here is tidal, and goes so low that you can see the trouts’ fins as they roil just below the surface. We now have a pair of snowy egrets up from Africa, who seem to be having a tense relationship with the nesting herons. The ’round Ireland yacht race starts tomorrow, visible from the living room, and the lovely bronzed boaty types are attracting a good bit of, erm, harbour totty, I think Curly would call them.

I miss the Bearded One, but he’s been having much the same intense experience in a different context up in the city, so it’s good this way – but better together.

I feel like myself, and ‘glad to be home’ doesn’t even come close.

Reviewing Dublin

So last week, I packed up and rocked out all happy-like for a few days at home. Flying at lunchtime on a Wednesday, let me tell you... why have one seat when you can have six?

Arrived to an office with a view across the Green and on to the Dublin Mountains (I can't even know where to start on that one) a humus wrap and a smiley Brendan, friend and fearless editor of the Dublin Review and the resulting Dublin Review Reader. The launch of the Reader was my excuse to come over, but God knows I don't need one. I can't imagine how pleased he must have been, and how mortified to be lauded by the likes of Colm Tóibín. Mortifying, but deserved. All the great and the good were there, but better still, it was a pleasingly young crowd to boot. Finally met Claire Kilroy, who's as lovely as billed by our own good selves here, and naturally by many more important people. Met a girl whose family house we once rented, which was extremely surreal. The whole thing got a nice write-up and photo in the paper (shout if you need help with the link).

After staying up until five (fine choice), I then met the Ex, who thought my state hilarious because it's usually his. Later, in the same coffee shop, I met the only editorial staff member of New Island press. Sorry, did you follow? The ONLY editor or editorial anything for a list spanning history, memoir, travel, lit crit, women's studies and fiction, thirty strong per year. Thirty. Now, as she modestly said herself, some are in series, many are rather straightforward... but I know a few people on this more monied side of the publishing waters who might learn something.

She explained that, of course, they don't have plans to expand, but I would have fallen off my chair had she said otherwise. She did suggest that I freelance on copy-editing and the like - I can't imagine that one could make a living like that, but what, as I ask myself daily, do I know. I think a better plan might be to convince an existing house to give me reign to do a fiction list, and dammit, Janet, I still want to do the MPhil in Literary Translation at Trinity (TCD, not Trinity, Dublin... we are not an Oxbridge outpost, dahlink). I can't get enough of their webpage and how it bears the practical, approachable, multiple-hat wearing mark of my favourite professor, Cormac Ó Cuilleanáin, who fosters the kind of interdisciplinary view of academic study seen in American degrees with none of the accompanying bullshit. But clearly, he's an interdisciplinary kinda guy.

I then toddled down to Wicklow and thought too much. Dangerous, female and generally ill-advised, thinking too much, particularly about the unknowable, vaguely near future is completely exhausting. The whole mid-week weekend left me shaken and wanting to relocate home to Dublin for good, now, and I don't know what to do. It's hard to have a night of the kind of working life you want with a combination of people you've known and loved for years and people you'd love to get to know, and then get back on the plane, alone - I do wish that the Bearded One had been with me. As people like to remind me, I have an interesting job with great potential on a good and growing fiction list in an old, famous publishing house, I've landed some great reviewing gigs, I live in a bustling city with lots to do that's also close to home, I'm coming on for four years with one of the best men on the planet who is kind, intelligent, adoring and adored. After one of the worst years on record, we have made a happy heap in a cheap, beautiful flat in a leafy bit of the city, 20 minutes from work, rented to us by a wonderfully warm publishing grande dame. Friends from all over regularly fill the house. To welcome me home were white peaches and pomegranates in the fruit basket, and a pastel de nata from the Portuguese deli.

PDG, right? Right.

Still, bring on November '08 and the decisions that it will bring.

Irish Publishers, learning to compete?

As part of an ongoing debate about Irish publishers' birthright to the Irish market, hackles were raised a while back by CLÉ president, Tony Farmar, with this article in the Irish Times. Should you not have a log-in for the IT, I'll quote the salient points in italics.

-The average European country publishes four times as many titles per head as we do. In terms of titles per million of population, Ireland is actually the weakest performer in the whole expanded EU.

- Unprotected either by language or distance from Britain, fewer than one in five literary and general books sold here are Irish-published. As far as books are concerned, Ireland is still part of the British Empire.

-There are four historical and structural reasons for this situation:
the powerful British publishing industry
Irish authors find British publishers difficult to resist
the radical shift of the terms of trade in favour of retailers
the Irish are reluctant book readers

Reading between the lines, from this I understand that Irish publishers don't know how to compete. Here, the President of CLÉ, compliments the Brits on their "honed marketing skills and deep pockets". Having seen a couple of truly unremarkable marketing and publicity campaigns by small Irish houses, and heard the moans of the smaller-circulation Irish press on their difficulties securing review copies, I wonder why CLÉ is not lambasting some of its own members for failing to make the most of what resources they have, or indeed, as an educating body, why they themselves don't endeavour to teach small presses how to hone their own marketing skills with an aim to, you know, making money, which they could then invest in future titles.

As for the Irish not buying books, 10% of books sold on the two islands are sold in the Republic of Ireland. Try that one on for size, population-wise. Ever see the clever Irish-themed tables at (UK) bookshop chains like Waterstone's and Hodgy Figg? UK booksellers, and increasingly Irish ones in city-centre Dublin like Eason's, Hughes & Hughes, Books Upstairs and the like, have come to realise that summer sales skyrocket thanks to... you guessed it, the Yanks buying books on holiday.

And every so often, we get a window into a displeasingly familiar way of thinking, with left-fielders like, "There is, of course, no knowing what unconscious Anglicisations are necessary to make Irish writings attractive to English tastes". Impossible to know where to begin with that one, so I'll leave it be.

In response to his own question, 'So what can be done?' Farmar comments,
The ideal structure of a viable publishing house is one that synergises the skills, interests and risks of different types of publishing. The hectic life of a Christmas best-seller sustains the long-term risk of "high art" literary publishing. Irish publishers are keen to develop more literary publishing, but this has to be done in the context of a healthily balanced set of activities.

Although the stories we tell ourselves in high literature are important, they are by no means the only way in which people's understandings and social capital are fostered. Not everyone has the mental stamina for John Banville or Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Less refined, more mediated books spread culture in its widest sense to a bigger audience. Books on such topics as local history, political issues such as "Boston versus Berlin", having a baby here, Celtic prayer, GAA, folk music, and our experience of cancer, are the "long thoughts" of a nation, for which locally published books are the uniquely appropriate medium.

Indeed. As someone who routinely scans Irish publishers' webpages for jobs, I can tell you that local history, health, the GAA and local and political histories are the mainstay of more than half of CLÉ's members, so that appears to be nothing more than back-patting - absurd, to my thinking, because this is Real World Business 101. I wish that I could comment on the sales of such titles, but I do know that they have absolutely no appeal for foreign rights sales. I would love to talk to someone in the know about rights sales in Ireland, as I know that they bring in a decent amount of income for publishers everywhere else in the world. I beleive that the expression is 'money for old rope', but maybe our situation is unique.

The promotion of a vigorous service by local publishers to local writers would seem to be an obvious responsibility of the Arts Council. However, the Arts Council's remit is to "literature", and it is unlikely that any possible widening of that term could include publications on looking after an elderly parent or proportional representation, however culturally useful they may be. We therefore need - as has been evolved in Canada, for instance - an approach to supporting publishing because of its wider contribution. Recently, Michael Ondaatje, the Sri Lankan-Canadian novelist and poet ... has acknowledged the "dedicated nurturing" that Canadian publishers, supported by their Book Publishing Industry Development Program against a similarly "over-mighty neighbour", were able to give him and authors such as Margaret Atwood, Yann Martel, Carol Shields and Rohinton Mistry.

This is simply nonsensical. He says that he wants a widening of the terms of 'literature' as decreed by the Arts Council, and that we should look to the Canadians for an example. But what about that list does not say 'literature' to you? OK, Yann Martel is YA, but literary YA, and Carol Sheilds might be forced into 'women's fiction', but commercial they ain't. Literature IS art, that's why the Arts Council happily supports it. Commercial writing, as he outlines above, is the kind that makes publishing houses money and affords them the luxury of publishing literature. Looks like the Canadians have this one figured out just fine - why don't we?

He then goes on to compose a laundry-list of demands for the Arts Council, suggesting among other more sensible ideas,
privileging Irish-published books in public libraries and other institutions. The EU rightly sees books as the backbone of national cultural identity, and is prepared to allow otherwise iron rules, for instance in competition law, to be waived in their favour. In terms of literature, but particularly funding new literary talent and initiatives, I couldn't agree more, but folks, publishing is a BUSINESS. The people who run publishing houses must heed Farmar's advice and learn to balance what sells with what's art, and publish accordingly.


And as ever-on-the-ball Eoin Purcell points out, it's only going to get worse in terms of the British Invasion, but the subject was closed for the moment as far as the Irish Times were concerned - my letter to the editor, below, wasn't published.

"As a recent (and hopefully short-term) Irish expat working in the British publishing industry, I share Tony Farmar's frustration with the state of Irish publishing in his article of June 20, 'Is Irish publishing on the edge?'.

I would, however, like to point out the exodus of home-grown authors to Britain is not the only drain of Irish publishing talent. In addition to the 'obvious advantages to being published in England', it is short wonder that Irish authors are so sought after by well-established UK presses when the ranks of these same institutions are increasingly filled with young, talented Irish staff.

When in 2005, armed with an honours degree and considerable relevant experience, I found myself unable to find paid employment of any kind within Irish publishing, I relocated reluctantly to London for a graduate trainee scheme. There I joined the Society of Young Publishers, where I was surprised to be greeted by their large Irish membership as part of an ever-growing circle.

Apparently, I was not alone, and most had left when confronted by the financially strapped, closed world of Irish publishing.

I am proud and indeed relieved to have since secured a full-time editorial position in one of those prestigious publishing companies to which Mr. Farmar refers. I enjoy my work and benefit from working on a challenging and diverse fiction list in a highly respected publishing house, but I look forward tothe day when I can return to apply my skills to the works of Irish authors. I hope that publishing houses in Ireland heed Farmar's advice, but that they also attack the task of developing their lists to balance literature, commercial fiction and domestic non-fiction with titles of international interest, which might help to generate profit through improved sales of foreign rights. Furthermore, the industry must address its continuing failure to publicise, market and distribute their books effectively abroad.

Then, rather than bemoaning the success of their British counterparts, Irish publishing might welcome home experienced Irish staff and create suitable publishing houses for our great Irish literary talent."

Periodic Plump for Independent Everything

It's that time again, time to rant and rave about the neglected glories of small, independent presses. I am, of course, not alone in my ranting - when am I ever? tschaah, never - as witnessed by the fine folks at Branching Out, a resource for reader development. What peaked my interest is their Independent Press of the Month page, in which they present a well-informed page on whatever press has taken their fancy. This month, it's Peepal Press, which specialises in Caribbean and Black British writing.

Admirably, particularly because the independent presses needn't be integral to their programme, Branching Out also makes a point to highlight the functionality of the press' website, which is extremely important; the LEAST a small press can do is set up a decent, functional and hey, attractive website. It's a small investment, and one that small Irish publishers would do well to make. Some, like Maverick Press with their myspace page, have led the way, along with Liberties Press, but so many others have fourth-rate websites or none at all.

Likewise, while we're cleaning house on all findings indie, I've finally found an independent Irish bookseller online, which I intend to use for all gifts etc. going home. It's the web branch of Dame Street's Books Upstairs in Dublin.

With the sad closure of Greene's Bookshop's city centre shop in Dublin a while back (not dead and gone, though, they've moved to *gack* Sandyford, have a look at their websitehere), something should also be done for those who prefer to purchase in the flesh (paper?), there's this website listing of Irish independent bookshops Books Upstairs in Dublin.

Will keep up a list of interesting independent publishers and sellers in the lists to the right, starting with the amazing Snow Books/and their lovely staff blog. They're doing something very clever, bringing the bloggers directly to them rather than having to go out and find them. At any rate, hopefully I'll doing a better job on the indie list than I have of the short fiction posts, *blog guilt blog guilt*...

New Irish books magazine!

Exciting news, exciting news- what looks like a legit, interesting online books quarterly. I do hope they keep up what they started, and who knows, I might do a little parkbenching in there, too. Wouldn't that be nice. They probably don't pay, but neither do some other very reliable books sites. Have a look at the sharp-looking Dublin Review of Books. Good work, folks. You have the Irish blogging community paying attention, anyway, which is certainly a great start. But where, I ask myself, is 36, College Green? Are these trinnerskids? And if not, how'd they get such a jammy office? Hmmm...


At any rate, serious-minded criticism in an accessible format, highly recommended by yours truly.

Obviously, another winner, for similar reasons and bearing a similar title, is the more tangible Dublin Review. A lot of care goes into it, and it shows- it's respected and enjoyed by people who know their stuff, but interests the youngins like myself. Going strong for some years now, it contains all sorts of literary gorgeousness, criticism, short fiction, long essays, autobiographical stories, dabblings of new travel writers and esteemed authors. Worth its weight in gold, and well produced. Simple words, with a *gasp* design concept? Well laid out, simple, consistently entertaining reading, and one of those things you're proud to say you read. Your challenge for the week? Use the words munken cream at the next possible opportunity.

And so this is Christmas...

A quickie on the personal blog backlog before I cover the rest.

Christmas with The Bearded One took us to the South Bank for a frosty stomp, then an old-school sushi-chase and tickets to a truly kinked-up Cabaret. (Good work, Captain J.)

 

Christmas was spent quietly in Old Country, fresh air, sea, duck, wine.

Went to a litterati party, no less, up a boreen in Blackwater on Stephen's Day. Gorgeous and surreal. One prizewinner, one serious contender, a poetry editor, half a small, dysfunctional press' board, some artsy bigwigs and the prizewinner's family including a funny dentist who hated her job, and her brother, who fell three stories from a Barcelona balcony and was put back together with metal.

Then... New Year's with fabulous friends in Dublin. Amazingly, of the twenty people in the room, say, 17 of them Irish, all had been living in, were living in, or were moving to London.

Et me voila.

Independent Booksellers - query!

Hey there blogland. Two items here, and a shout out for help! I know I'm hardly coming down in visitors here, but if anyone can hear me...

I recently read a feature in one of the UK national papers about a group of independent bookshops who banded together to start a collective website. The idea was that punters order a book online, decide which of their local independent bookshops they wanted it to be delivered to, got an email when it arrived, and then walked in and bought it. The idea, of course, is to redirect some A*$zon users back into the physical bookshop, while offering the convenience of 24-hour internet searching.

Any thoughts, lads? I can't remember the name of this scheme, and I'd love to start sending you their way by way of click-thrus.

Meanwhile, Irish readers, get moving! The Guardian is taking nominations for good independent bookellers in Ireland for their database. I say the Exchange Bookshop in Dalkey and Readers in Dun Laoghaire- both south County Dublin, narf narf. Natch.