Aiden O Reilly
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Writing Course at Crumlin College 2024

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Starts Monday Jan 22nd at Crumlin College Dublin 8.
I am running two courses in creative writing at Crumlin College.
Beginners course 6:00 – 7:30 pm
Improvers course 7:30 – 9:00 pm

Anyone out there in the Southside / Dublin 8 area come along. Crumlin College courses are gov-supported and have relatively low fees. Please share the word.

Creative Writing Beginners (on-site) (courses.ie)

To book a place contact the office directly by email or phone

Director of Evening School: Kathy O’Neill
Assistant Director of Evening School: Cathy Daly
Tel: 01 454 0662 ext 122
Email:adulted@ccfe.cdetb.ie

Beginners course 6:00 – 7:30 pm
This course is suitable for those interested in creative writing. We read extracts and practice writing flash fiction, short stories, and memoir. Participants will be given writing prompts to put into practice what they have learned. Participants will be encouraged to revise and rewrite class exercises at home and present them at the next meeting. We aim to have a supportive and creative environment.

Improvers course 7:30 – 9:00 pm
The course plan is based on the idea of a “Writer’s toolbox”: some tools are essential, some you need to try, see if it works for you. We cover techniques for handling dialogue, description, voice, minimalist style, plotting, stream-of-consciousness, and even humble punctuation. Editing skills forms a crucial element of the course.

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Interpolated Stories, by David Rose

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In his published works David Rose consistently seems dissatisfied with the linear drag of plot, its imposition on reality. His previous books include ‘Vault: an anti-novel’, and a vertiginous blitz through through random human lives in ‘Meridian: A Day in the Life with Incidental Voices’. The subtitles already warn the reader not to expect a linear plot.

It’s good to be forewarned. Reading David Rose fiction can be a bit like viewing a piece of modern concept art when your whole sensibility has become accustomed to viewing landscape paintings.

For this collection Rose took some unpublished stories he was dissatisfied with, finding them too conventional. So he 'self-vandalised' the text with authorial comments. He calls this his 'interventionist technique'. (I don't know to what extent others have used such a method before.) The result is generally a 'glimpse in the life' style of story with an overlayer of boldface comments which disrupt the text.

The first glimpse is of an art gallery guard, the second of a man in a post office frenetically observing those before him in the queue. (We quickly learn he is armed and about to rob the place.) The third features a stoic entertainer at children's parties. The stories are written in short sentences, page-turning prose – nothing too obscure, no reaching for a dictionary. The interpolations become stumbling blocks, making the reader pause and reassess what's happening. I'd actually be perfectly happy reading the undisrupted story (i.e. ignoring the boldface comments as far as possible). It's fascinating to get such an intense focus on moments in mundane lives.

The interpolations are like an added puzzle, stretching your brain into a different dimension, not always illuminating but casting a different light.

Sometimes the voice of the comments is the author in a different mood, sometimes they are pseudo-academic, and in one piece a ghostly presence.

Decrescendo is an intriguing oddity among the eight pieces. It's related in the same first person deliberative style of the stories featuring a security guard or fireman. But this one is about one man's dalliances with various philosophies – he has a period of Ayers, then a fascination with Wittgenstein.

“But in the long terrain of middle life, as the solipsism became loneliness, the cosmic silence ominous, I turned instead to Spinoza.”

The battle against solipsism – the isolation of the individual – is engrained in his life. The 'meaning of life' is not what concerns him. The account is in a calm neutral style, as though every fireman, office clerk, and building site worker on the planet each have their own story of personal progression through schools of philosophy.

I love the idea. The interpolations in this piece are all biblical quotations – I need to go back again, I'm close to unlocking this story.

The book contains eight images by the artist Leah Leaf 'created in response to the stories. They are photos or collages – the one to accompany Smoke for example is a woman's face obscured by her unruly red hair and pressed up against a pane of glass. When you read the story you understand why. This use of images is like another layer of commentary, another form of distancing from the text.

In Under the Plan our (again unnamed) protagonist is getting a licence renewed. His skull measurements, distance between the eyes, etc are taken. Straight off we know we are in the realm of speculative fiction (that's what they started calling sci-fi without the ray guns). Pretty much every mainstream writer of gravitas – Joyce Carol Oates, John Banville – has turned their hand to speculative fiction at some point, so why not. It seems to be a totalitarian world developed from the fascist tendencies in the 1930s USA. Perhaps a speculation of the direction things might have taken had Germany not gone there first. It feels like the initial pages of world-building but it's all we get.

Here's what i mean by the 'deliberate' prose style: you're at some level aware of the narrator choosing his words.

The foreman waved the bulldozer over, got the others crushing bricks to fill in the dip, then the driver pounded them down. I managed to find a beam about the right length, laid it across, checked with the spirit level.

They dug out some of the rubble, flattened it again, added a bit more, until I felt satisfied. I let the jack down, craned the unit over, lowered it into place, checked with the plumb line, gave them the nod. There was another round of cheering.

Foreman suggested a brew, so they could test it. We drank it by the bonfire of splintered rafters.

Tags: David Rose, Interpolated Stories
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Hangdog Souls by Marc Joan

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Deixis Press, UK

Marc Joan has had stories published in many magazines and anthologies, including The Mirror in the Mirror from Comma Press. A short novel The Speckled God came out a couple of years ago with Unsung Stories.

Marc Joan grew up in South India and this novel-length associatively-linked collection of fictions is set there. The possibility of alternative realities weaves in and out, linking stories of Faustian pacts with the particle physics sci-fi ending. (Which is one of the best sections – Marc Joan is a scientist by training.) Spiritualism, horror, colonialism, and repressive customs are all driving themes. Joan’s characters often have an awareness that they are at the mercy of greater powers, whether worldly or spiritual. Some among them are the ‘hangdog souls’ of the title who have compromised with power for their own sake or the sake of loved ones.

Horror seems to be making a return into literary fiction, in Britain at any rate, and Marc Joan is part of that wave. But in the South Indian setting, horror and spirituality merge; horror is real to the believers, and is not ‘gothic horror’ in the European sense.

The individual has limited freedom and must bow to his/her fate, and yet can still choose to do the right thing. I get a sense of the vastness of the world and history from these stories.

One of the longest pieces is the purely realistic study of social mores The Mirror. The ‘monster’ lurking at the core of this story is the custom of arranged marriage. Its evil impact on two brothers and a girl is unfolded over a decade and a half. I got a choking feeling of life and freedom gradually being sucked away under the compression of tradition and family expectations. Only as small children were they fully alive.

Another astonishing tale in the collection is The Dairymen, about two college friends who go into business harvesting scorpion (B. Tamulus) venom by milking it from the stressed insects. They have been assured of the price by a personal phone call to a scientist (PhD from Cambridge!) at a major company in In. On that basis they have invested in dry ice equipment and six months of their time.

It’s got that contingent random feel to it so you feel sure the author must have got the premise from reality.

It’s a rare treat and anyone with a background in the sub-continent or who has trekked around India will have a special appreciation of the book.

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London Trip

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A memory of a literary trip to London with Mike McCormack and Anthony Cartwright in 2017. A huge thanks to Anthony for instigating the idea, and for interviewing us both nights.

Mike & I read from our respective books Solar Bones and Greetings, Hero. Anthony himself has a new novel out: Iron Towns … “Once the furnace heart of industrial England, now the valley is home only to fading dreams.”

So August 2nd we met up at fabled Bookseller Crow-on-the-Hill in Crystal Palace. “Twee, kowtowing, conventional it ain’t,” it says on their website. More than a bookshop, Crow-on-the-Hill is an independent force on the books scene – they also hold writing classes there. Big thanks to Jonathan and staff there.

Crow on the Hill with Mike McCormack and Anthony Cartwright Anthony Cartwright on the left. None of us gave much thought to photographs, so this is the only shot from Crow … and unfortunately only Mike’s knee is in it.

Next night the three of us descended on the Quaker Bookshop, Friends House, Euston road. Different crowd,  different conversation. McCormack sparked an animated discussion about the underappreciated role of engineers in shaping the world. There were also some words about the largely-forgotten tradition of Irish gothic fiction.

Quaker Bookshop with Mike McCormack and Anthony CartwrightMike McCormack reading at the Quaker bookshop.

Quaker Bookshop with Mike McCormack and Anthony CartwrightMyself reading.

And the day after that, I headed up to Norwich for a pre-launch event of The End at UEA’s Enterprise centre. Fifteen stories inspired or sparked off by fifteen of Nicolas Ruston’s scratch paintings. This is The End my friends. And it comes with a black wax seal.Unthank Books Nicolas Ruston The End

Brought out by Unthank Books who are a powerhouse of extraordinary fiction and bring out a semi-annual state-of-the-art of UK short fiction. They call it the Unthology series, and Unthology 8 came out recently.

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Writers’ Workbench, Block T Dublin 8

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Starting Wednesday, March 1 2023 at 18:30 | €165 at Eventbrite 

This course could be just the ticket for writers stuck in a rut, or those just starting out, those who need a hands-on approach, and those who have been working away too much on their own. We’ve had bloggers and non-fiction writers on the course before: they benefit from the techniques often thought of as belonging to fiction writing. The course takes the approach that writing is a craft with a toolbox of techniques at your disposal. Enhance your creative/critiquing skillset & knock your writing into shape! 

I’ve had a space at Block T creative hub for several years now. In August last year they move to the well-known Digital Hub on Thomas Street. The classes will be held in a premises close by on the cobbled Rainsford street. Closest landmarks are Arthur’s pub on Thomas Street and the Guinness Storehouse tourist mecca.

Six-week course, Wednesdays 6:30pm-8:30pm.

Contact: blocktwriting@gmail.com
Tickets at Eventbrite

This course takes a hands-on approach.

Whether you have dabbled a bit, or are stuck in a rut, or want to hone your skills, this course will get you into gear. Held at Block T digital court on Rainsford Street (cobbled lane in the Guinness Storehouse neighbourhood)

writing course Dublin 8

Contact: blocktwriting@gmail.com
Tickets at Eventbrite

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Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant

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by Edmond Caldwell. First published in 2012, this edition 2022.

In this book Edmond Caldwell is a purist writer with a visceral aversion to the artifices of fiction, such as plot, character development, dramatic turning points.

I can understand that. Such techniques often feel cheap and meretricious, sugar to help the medicine go down.

His reluctance to pander to the reader extends even to paragraphing – he dispenses with them. Dispenses too with the typical disclaimer ” … names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons …”

He is on a mission to achieve authenticity, perhaps, or to break down the borders that limit fiction and make it 'safe'. He wants to shape a new type of writing.

One of his characters begins to explain it but stops: “As a writer I'm committed to an anti-story aesthetic, or rather anti-aesthetic, blowing up story and aesthetics from-“

Caldwell's stance seems to be one of both taste and philosophy. There is anger and resentment in these pages. He/his narrator seems to doubt the idea of human agency. Agency is part of the myth and the story-telling we console ourselves with.

And so these episodic adventures of our 'wayfarer' emerge from that attitude of doubt and anger with the world.

It begins with our narrator in the baggage claim area after a return home flight to the USA. He tells us his appearance is a touch Middle-Eastern, and in the subsequent chapters he is often sensitive about this, and imagines others perceive him variously as a terrorist or a Jew. He is about to crack a joke with a fellow passenger waiting at the carousel, but holds his tongue and decides the response would be friendlier if his blonde-haired wife were by his side and not in the rest room.

This first section is a close observation of an in-between space and a preoccupied state of mind. “They remained in one of those In-between spaces that exist only in airports … ” he muses. “There were hotels, and especially airport hotels. There were highway rest stops. There were the spaces of shopping malls, including the food courts, and the more confined spaces of supermax prisons.” That's a meta hint: the subsequent sections visit precisely these places. It's episodic, rambling, very real, and always run through with the narrator's endless thoughts circling in his mind. Often these thoughts become the main narrative and the sense of location recedes. This is so particularly in the section Time and Motion. It's an extended treatise examining the development of American capitalism by focusing on the history of the Arsenal Mall: in its early days as an arms factory it was the site of the first recorded workers' strike against the Taylor system of scientific management.

The book (marketed as a novel but it isn't) has the appearance and quality of autofiction. But there's no info on the author publicly available. For example the book's narrator is adopted, but I can find no such info on the author. I googled “Edmond Caldwell biography” and I found this: Author's Bio: information about the individual calling himself “Edmond Caldwell,” claiming to be a “writer” and publishing so-called fiction in intranets “zines” such as Word Riot, DIAGRAM, and SmokeLong Quarterly, please contact the Boston Police Department.

(Caldwell died suddenly in July 2017 and a movement grew to see this novel republished in the UK.)

Once the reader loses their expectations of plot, they can enjoy the book – it's like signing up for a holiday and after a couple of hours in the train realising that there will be no destination.

In the second chapter he is in a hotel outside a major airport, and on a leisurely stroll sees there are five or six other hotels in the vicinity – the vicinity being a nowhere-place surrounded by motorways. “As tired as he was he could not help continuing to reason, restlessly to reason.” He begins to realise this is a zone of hotels for people who have been bumped off their flights, connected solely by shuttle bus to the airport and nowhere else. It's a zone where one might feel one's sense of self dissolve. He perceives the things around him as being 'laminated' and the reader will intuit what he means. He walks further and comes across a village, but it is not a real village “it was shiny and clean and laminated and new”. (Something very like this happened to me on a hill walk around Oxford. We came across a village with an olde village school and olde village parsonage – but these old stone buildings were now private residences for commuters to Oxford city a mere 10 minute drive away.)

But it doesn't get bleak. Our narrator is always thinking, making connections, speculating, observing the rabbits, the typeface of road signs, making associations with historical events – and also worrying about how he might appear foreign to others.

And so it goes on. In the next section he is in St. Petersburg. Not exactly a holiday, he has gone with his wife who is at an academic conference. Again he is restlessly wandering, always puzzling, trying to penetrate the essence of this place.

His anger with the publishing industry emerges in the lost Beckett play section. “It's a platform, see? You can't get a lift-off these days if you don't have a platform!” Hodge (apparently an alter-ego of the narrator) screeches.”These days it's the mainstream or it's nothing.” He needs a provocation, and so unveils a plan to kidnap the critic (he's real) James Wood.

Well, you can see why this novel was never going to be accepted by one of the big 5 publishers and launched into the stratosphere.

William Storr in his book The Science of Storytelling expresses says this (in 2019, after Caldwell's book which in all probability never came to his attention):

Humans might be in unique possession of the knowledge that our existence is essentially meaningless, but we carry on as if in ignorance of it. We beetle away happily, into our minutes, hours and days, with the fact of the void hovering over us. To look directly into it, and respond with an entirely rational descent into despair, is to be diagnosed with a mental-health condition, categorised as somehow faulty.

The cure for the horror is story. Our brains distract us from this terrible truth by filling our lives with hopeful goals and encouraging us to strive for them.

Edmond Caldwell's narrator:

“Story was a trap, a false friend, an unreliable prosthetic, a delusion. He would go without story to make his fortune, without story his literary fortune would be made.”

That lost play by Beckett is a bit juvenile, too smug with its own irreverence. I had thought the book was on a journey from aimless interiority towards a greater sense of being embedded in history – a sense perhaps of having to make the decision to be involved in history. But then the Beckett play comes along and it's too showy for me – intellectual sparring while trying to shock with sexually explicit banter. I didn't understand why that section was included.

The book is defiantly original and stubborn, I keep going back to read sections again, seeing new things in it.

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Selected Posts

  • Backstory of a book
    2019-02-22
  • Stinging Fly Wheldon essay
    2017-07-24
  • The Blocks by Karl Parkinson
    2016-10-02
  • London Trip
    2023-03-05
  • Honest Ulsterman interview
    2016-02-29
  • Greetings, Hero launch Hodges Figgis
    2014-11-21

Selected pages

  • Debut Book
  • Publications
  • Writers' Workbench at Block T

Crucial

  • . .
  • Asylum books
  • Buy the book at Kennys
  • Daniel Seery
  • David Mohan
  • Djelloul Marbrook
  • Gorse magazine
  • Slava Nesterov Artist
  • The Penny Dreadful
  • The road to publication
  • The Short Review
  • The Short Review
  • Unthology

Other links

  • . .
  • Karl Parkinson's The Blocks
  • Unthology 4 review
  • Wandering minstrel Larry Beau

What I'm up to

  • Buy the book at Kennys
  • Examiner review
  • Irish Times / Ashley Stokes
  • Irish Times Q+A Irish Times Q+A
  • The road to publication

Recent posts

  • Writing Course at Crumlin College 2024
  • Interpolated Stories, by David Rose
  • Renaud Contini’s The Infinite Castle
  • Hangdog Souls by Marc Joan
  • London Trip London Trip
  • Writers’ Workbench, Block T Dublin 8

Quotation

The Tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction
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