I worked for 20 years in writing and publishing in Dublin, as journalist, editor, novelist, creative writing lecturer and literary agent.
In 2009, I moved to London and found, as Proust said of Venice, that “my dream had become… quite simply, my address”. (Though the dream does includes a sojourn to the sunnier climes of California each winter.)
I used to be published by Penguin but am now an indie author. I’ve enjoyed and benefitted enormously from that switch and it led me to found The Alliance of Independent Authors, which I now run.
From my website
I contemplate the child and he pleases me. I imagine him as a man, and he pleases me more. His ardent blood seems to reheat mine… his vivacity rejuvenates me. The hour sounds. What a change! His eyes cloud over; his gaiety is effaced. Goodbye, joy! Goodbye, frolicsome games! A…
He just woke himself calling her name, all his life looking for what never came. Passing right past her, then, and again. And now it’s all over. And now still the same. ~~~~
Most of us write far too carefully. We’re trying to do it right. We’re trying, full stop. Hanging out on the page doesn’t have to be an effort. That it is for so many of us is largely because since our schooldays, or earlier, even the most privileged of us…