Here I am again wondering at the advisability of setting out to be a writer without any contacts from Oxbridge
or public schools! Especially when you read in The Author about the new figures from ALCS (Authors Licensing and Collecting Society) survey concerning author earnings. Apparently: 'since 2005, professional writers' average earnings have fallen 42% in real terms...' and 'the median annual earnings figure for all writers, professional or not, shows a fall of 50% since 2005.'  

It is not a level playing field out there; publishers don't always have their writers best interests at heart. But then if it's what drives you...there really is no choice. 

As to the real world...I am very proud of all of those protesting about our leaders apparently suicidal rush to mass destruction. Do they really think they can hide in their bunkers and citadels as the world burns and ices over?

And there really is no choice for writers, like everyone else they just have to keep going; keep writing; hoping that someone may notice all the scribbling going on. MsLexia magazine current issue reminds us that: the 'Masculine Ethic' was alive and well - when their issue 13 came out -  and told us that the vast majority of Booker prize winning texts were in third person, had a male protagonist and contained references to sex, exteriors, violence, work and tools. Anyone fancy doing some more checking??


And now...back to the writing pad!!

 

Haven't got back into the rythmn of things back here yet but I have several ideas for blogs, so watch this space. Busy trying to finish one or two pieces but thought I'd share this short story with you, It was published recently in HOLDFAST Magazine. 
​LAYLA
I sit at a distance and watch Layla digging purposefully in the dirt. She selects stones, tangled globules of hair, twigs and leaves and places them on the ground around her, as if to remember where they fit in an elaborate jigsaw. An hour passes. The trench she’s made is irregular in shape, surrounded by its innards like some war zone bomb crater. She sits back on her heels observing her handiwork, humming softly.
Layla’s hair shines black as patent leather, hangs soft as a cats, tickling the top of her shoulders. Her skin is the yellow of autumn moonlight; it gleams, pores always open as if breathing deeply. She has arms and legs slightly too short for her body with over large ears and wide apart eyes. Everything about her is a touch too much or a touch too little for comfort.
Although she doesn’t look at me, she knows I’m here. We walk, sit and wait, like shadows of each other. She leans forward, selects a tangerine- sized stone from among her debris and licks it clean. Grit sticks to her gums, mud oozes out of the corner of her mouth. Within seconds the stone is bone white.
She places it at the centre of her trench and begins the usual process of systematically returning to the hole everything she has removed. Another hour goes by. I shiver with the chill of sitting still for too long in the shadow of a tree. When she’s filled the trench, scarcely a scar remains of the earth’s recent surgery.
A breeze stirs the air, the scent of honeysuckle carries. Her nostrils quiver as she raises her face skyward for an instant. I long to know her thoughts, as sharply as her parents wish they could forget this mystery sent to them late in life. She does not play in the pink and polished nursery, preferring the outdoors to her mountain of toys. She will not speak in sounds recognized by the human ear. She carries her eight years heavily, even in sleep.
Most afternoons we go to the river. Layla sits and watches the water but her ears are tuned elsewhere. A few days ago I noticed them twitch slightly. She didn’t alter her position or make a sound but it was as if she was listening to something far off. I looked but there was nothing to see until, eventually, Layla turned her head slowly and stared up the riverbank. I followed her gaze. In the distance, on the towpath, a woman was pushing a wheelchair towards us.
Layla jumped up and ran towards the approaching figures, slowly at first and then with great acceleration, as if there was true urgency to it all. The women stopped walking, startled at Layla’s approach but the girl in the wheelchair smiled. As I caught up with them, her eyes glittered with recognition.
Layla took hold of the girl’s hands; their eyes locked. The woman, too shocked to speak, looked to me for an explanation. I had none. We waited, odd chaperones, as the girl uttered guttural sounds that I couldn’t grasp and Layla hummed a soft tune. There’s no adequate way to describe the strangeness of the scene but gradually they seemed to find a common pitch in their voices. They held the sound for longer than should have been possible.
I rocked back on my heels, almost mesmerized. The woman turned away, suddenly jerking the wheelchair and the girl’s blanket slipped. She had webbed feet. The woman lurched the chair around and fled back up the towpath, nipping one of my heels with a wheel. Blood spurted out in a small arc as the pain swooped up my leg and I fainted.
When I came around a small black dog, with brown tufts around its eyes and legs, was licking my neck. Its eyes were honey; they looked inside and beyond me. Woman and wheelchair were gone. Layla sat placidly with her back towards me, gazing towards the river. I moved closer to her. She was pale and drained and didn’t want me near. The dog sat beside her and they leaned into one another, panting rhythmically. There was a remarkable similarity in their outlines as they were silhouetted against the sun. After that day the dog came and went regularly. It gave the impression that it could never be owned by anyone but it always seemed to know when Layla needed its company.

Some time later, Layla ran away from me in the woods. I searched for nearly an hour, calling her name until my throat ached. The dog arrived silently and led me to her. She was perched in a tree where she’d built a large nest out of twigs, feathers, leaves and mud. She sat there smiling as if she might be incubating eggs.
One day I watched her in the large greenhouse at the Botanical Gardens amid the exotic blooms. She sat on her haunches, chin cupped in her hands. Large droplets of moisture gathered on her eyelids, upper lips and hair. She sat for almost an hour as visitors came and went, stared at, commented on or ignored her. In her stillness she was like an alien organism.

This afternoon I’m taking her to the zoo. I wash her hands and face gently and look into eyes that are turned inwards. On the bus she presses her face into the window, distorting her odd features even more. Some passengers notice her strangeness. They stare and whisper and I stare back. She once bit a too-nosey woman who kept touching her hair and cooing over her. The woman was horrified. Her face changed from goodwill to suspicious ugliness in seconds and she stared at me demanding sympathy or a reprimand for Layla; I offered neither.
Layla reluctantly holds my hand as we negotiate traffic and crowds. She pants heavily as we queue at the turnstile. The man ushering the tickets gawps openly at her; others keep a meaningful distance. I don’t mind open curiosity but what I see too often is fear.
As soon as we’re inside the grounds of the zoo, Layla lets go of my hand. There’s no revulsion, it’s just not what she wants. She stands on her tiptoes and leaps into the air, head thrown back as far as it will go. Her nostrils bulge as she absorbs all the scents and aromas. I wait to see which direction calls her. She decides on the seals.
We stand overlooking the water, crowded up against other visitors. Cameras click impatiently, children squeal and parents ooh and aah. Layla is silent. I watch her watching, my usual occupation. We stay for over thirty minutes, by which time dozens of groups of spectators have come and gone. I begin to notice how casual and careless the visitors are. I wonder if this is what Layla sees. We leave after she’s slapped a boy who was about to throw chocolate to the seals. The notice is very explicit: DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS AS IT CAN BE DANGEROUS FOR THEM, but as far as I know, Layla can’t read.
We hurry through the snake house, she’s wide-eyed and worried, pressing her small body far away from the glass fronted cages and whimpering softly. As we emerge into the open air she reels a little, her eyelids droop. I put my arm around her, to steady her. She leans back on me breathing in great gasps. I stroke her hair, pleased for once, to be able to help. As her breathing slows back to normal she licks my hand, lightly at first and then more firmly. I have mixed feelings. I want to pull away and yet it’s contact of a sort and I don’t want to reject it. Her tongue is rough and my hand begins to tingle. She will break the skin if she doesn’t stop soon.
I kneel down beside her and she ceases her licking. She holds her small hand up to my lips. I understand that I’m supposed to reciprocate. I manage two small licks before I start gagging because on my tongue her skin feels like fur. All at once the dog arrives and knocks us both flying. He takes over from me, licking Layla vigorously. She laughs and gurgles. I feel sure I’ve failed some kind of test.
The dog disappears again as we reach the chimpanzee cage. Layla leans on the wire and stares. The animals are acting up for their visitors, dashing here and there, displaying swollen genitals. I bend down, her cheeks are damp with tears. Someone in the crowd starts throwing peanuts at the chimps. A banana follows then an orange and an apple. I glance at the faces around me, pompous and herd-like, they all join the game. Soon the back of the cage is littered with nuts and fruit and the animals have retreated.
The crowd stirs impatiently, beginning to get bored. Suddenly the chimps rush forward, screeching. They gather up armfuls of fruit and nuts and fling it back at the visitors. Children scream, parents pull them away, muttering angrily. Grins are quickly replaced by scowls, which the chimps instantly imitate. I wipe ripe banana off my coat. Layla still stands in the same position, the only one that hasn’t moved. A half-eaten pear rests on her shoe.
A young chimpanzee approaches. It stands virtually the same height as Layla and stares into her face. Chimp hands grip Layla’s hands and for several seconds neither move. Then the animal bends down and retrieves the piece of pear from her shoe. It cocks its head to one side, breaks of a lump of fruit and offers it to Layla. She takes it on her tongue and makes a big noise of eating it. The chimpanzee begins jumping up and down excitedly, swinging from the wire. Layla joins in the jumping.
Abruptly, the spell is broken; a keeper appears and bangs the cage with a large stick, sending the chimp scuttling away. Layla turns burning eyes on the man. He winces and tries patronizing us, flashing his identification in our faces.
‘Leave us alone,’ I snap.
Layla leans against me. Anxiety oozes out of her, dampening my coat. I get an overwhelming sense of time running out. This feeling increases as the dog appears. It walks close to Layla and gets on the bus with us. When the driver tries to remove it, the dog bares its teeth and growls. It won’t leave her.

Back at the house the dog circles the garden before curling up to sleep by the side of a tree beneath Layla’s bedroom window. Twilight approaches. I run a hot bath and make up her favourite supper: Cumberland sausage and mash. She won’t eat a bite. When I lift her into bed she’s shivering and her skin is clammy.
As usual, her parents come in to say goodnight. She smiles at them and they’re confused because she usually ignores them. They exchange puzzled glances. Later, I phone the doctor and describe Layla’s symptoms: shivering, loss of appetite, high temperature. He says it sounds like a chill and he will call the following morning. I press for an evening visit but he is not interested. I wonder if I should just take her to hospital. I ask her parents but they think the doctor knows best.
I sit next to her bed until after midnight. Her eyes are closed but I don’t think she’s sleeping. As I close her curtains, the dog is still curled up under the tree. I watch it for a while from my bedroom window but it doesn’t stir.

I wake early and am immediately anxious. The night has been too hot and heavy. I go to the window and look down into the garden. Layla is curled up on the lawn next to the dog. It looks up at me with those honey eyes and begins to howl, its nose pointing at the sky. I know, as I run down the stairs and through the house, that I’m too late.
A weakness in the lungs, the doctor says, inevitable with this condition, only a matter of time. The dog has gone and I feel completely alone in this room full of people. The next day I visit Layla's small coffin in the Chapel of Rest. The room is cold, impersonal. Canned music and plastic flowers add to the airlessness. They’ve dressed her in a white robe. From a distance she could be anyone’s child. I move closer and see the seams on the shoulders of the robe have come undone. I lean over her body to kiss her cheek, to say goodbye. A layer of dark fur has begun to push its way through the pores of her skin. 
​Kitty Fitzgerald

​

​The flight to Churchill was splendid. Looking down from the airplane window at the enormous etched ice landscape, as we approached the bay, was like something out of mythology or a dream.
 
The day Peter and I landed it was 29% below freezing and the walk from the plane to the tiny airport building, wearing my short red boots, was alarming. Later that evening my eyelashes froze, as my eyes were the only things not covered in suitable clothing. However, The Seaport Hotel was warm and welcoming and the amount of food they served at every meal almost defeated Peter, and those who know him will be aware that’s no easy task.
 
We didn’t see polar bears and sometimes – after particularly gruesome tales – we were glad about that. Other times we wished with all our hearts for a glimpse. It seems we just missed the airlifting out of naughty bears that are kept in Bear prison for making continuous forays into the town. As the ice on the Bay unfroze again while we were there, these ex-con bears will probably ‘be back’.
 
Polar bears have this cuddly image but when you see a stuffed animal, reared up on its hind legs at over nine feet tall, it’s pretty scary.
 
The light in Churchill is amazing: I’m attaching one photo of an Inuit Inukshuk monument, in the bay. They are found all over Inuit lands as guides for travellers and placed there since before anyone can remember. Simple as they might look, they exuded something almost sacred, which took my breath away. I could have stayed there all day looking at this one.
 
Churchill is still something of a frontier town with a huge mix of people but we were made welcome in the Legion Club, the hotel, the library, the University of the North, The Northern Studies Centre and Gypsies café.
 
We met some great people and had a lovely time doing writing workshops at the University of the North. Hopefully this will be the start of a continuing connection between there and University of Manitoba.
 
If you ever go there, don’t miss a visit, or two, to the Inuit Museum it’s, an extraordinary and informative place.
 
The two day train journey back to Winnipeg was dreamlike and we liked to lie on the couchette looking out of the window at all times of the day or night. Sometimes we had to stop for hours to allow a freight train to pass, as there is only a single line most of the way. Snow everywhere but food, drink, showers and comfortable sleeping quarters kept us cosy. The on board staff were brilliant; nothing was too much trouble. When the train stopped at Thompson -a mining town – for three hours, we walked into the centre and saw a street sign which said: Take Care, Dancers Crossing, with a silhouette of a ballerina.
 

It's only a couple of days now before Peter arrives in Winnipeg and we go to Churchill. We'll be flying out of Winnipeg
 on the evening of Thursday 26th and arriving in Churchill before 8.30am (Canada time). Jamie Christie who works for the Arts Council there, will meet us and take us to visit the Northern Studies Centre; a place where Canadian Writers can apply to have residencies.  I'm looking forward to seeing it.
The great thing is - because the weather has been so calm - the water in Churchill has not yet frozen and the polar bears are still there, so we will have a guide take us around and try and spot them: it's too dangerous for visitors to go bear hunting alone. I'm so excited about this I can hardly sleep.
We're staying at The Seaport Hotel on Kelsey Blvd and on Thursday evening, Peter and I are doing readings in the library. Friday is a day for enjoying Churchill and on Saturday we are showing the Amber film, In Fading Light, a drama set in North Shields , filmed out on the North Sea and in Shields, which I was involved in making.  Peter will be reading from his book, The Last of the Hunters, also set among the fishermen of Shields, and on the boats Peter worked onboard.
Later that day, Peter and I will be running workshops: me on developing stories for film and Peter on short fiction. We are both delighted to be meeting and working with the Churchill community.
We hope also to see the Northern Lights and I have purchased the Ojibwe Sky Star Map Constellation Guide, put together by Annette S. Lee, William Wilson, Jeffrey Tibbetts , Carl Gawboy. The book is 'an outgrowth of Native Skywatchers research and programming...which seeks to address the crisis of the loss of indigenous star knowledge, specifically the Dakota and Ojibwe who are the native peoples of Minnesota.'
Although the information in the book isn't directly related to the Churchill area, it is  fascinating and the images of the stars and constellations are stunning.
After our day's workshopping on Saturday, we take the train back to Winnipeg : 1700 miles and two days travel. The train has to go slow enough for indigenous people to flag it down if they want to get on board, part of the deal they made when the railway was built on their land. The only restriction is the length of their canoes. 
As it is covered in snow here in Winnipeg right now - I have just walked to the shop in 13% below - and more is forecast, the train could easily be delayed on the journey back. And so, although there is food on board, I intend to take extra food and water, just in case.
As I read back on this, it almost seems like a dream. More, after I get back to Winnipeg...expect photos as well.
​

Who says dreams don’t come true? Since I was eight years old, pored over a map of Hudson Bay, Manitoba, at school and saw pictures of polar bears, whales and husky dogs, I have wanted to go there. And now it’s happening.  Thanks to Dr Warren Cariou, Department Head, Centre for Creative Writing and Oral Culture, University of Manitoba, where I am currently, Writer-in-Residence, and Jamie Christie, Churchill Regional Centre Coordinator, University College of the North, I will be travelling from Winnipeg to Churchill in a few weeks time.
I will be talking about my writing, reading from some of my fiction work, introducing and showing the feature film, In Fading Light (Amber 1989), which I worked on, and running a screenplay workshop with people from the community.
Not only that, I will be joined on this adventure by Peter Mortimer, who will read from his book, The Last of the Hunters, which came out of his six months residency with North Shields fishermen, when he went out to sea with the fishing crews.  He will also read some of his poetry and run a short fiction workshop.
 
Churchill lures people to the shores of Hudson Bay for polar bears, beluga whales, a huge old stone fort and endless subarctic majesty. But while these are reason enough for Churchill to be on any itinerary, there's something less tangible that makes people stay longer and keeps them coming back: a hearty seductive spirit that makes the rest of the world seem – thankfully – even further away than it really is. – Lonely Planet

​Read more: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/canada/manitoba/churchill#ixzz3p2jvPCCR

photo below courtesy of Vincent K. Chan
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Last week I had the great fortune to meet two amazing men. LOUIS BIRD legendary and tireless collector of stories from his Cree elders, in order to preserve, document, share and celebrate them and photographing him, here in Manitoba, the fabulous, self-taught pencil artist, GERALD KUEHL.
 
Louis Bird of the Omushkegowak Cree people from the Hudson and James Bay lowlands of Northern Manitoba and Ontario is in his eighties and has been documenting stories told by his elders since 1965. This afternoon I will hear him tell some of those stories. You can hear some, in either English or Cree at: http://www.ourvoices.ca/index/ourvoices-browse-action
 
Gerald Kuehl has been creating amazing pencil portraits of indigenous elders from the North and Far North since 1997. Don’t take my word for it, here is a link to his website where you can view some of his portraits: http://www.portraitsofthenorth.com/gallery.html
 
I feel humbled by many of the people I’ve met while I have been here, their creative drive, their urge to acknowledge the harms and mistakes of the past, their dedication to move forward in partnership with Indigenous communities in a spirit of reconciliation and collaboration and also the generosity shown by strangers - apart from those car owners who don’t appear to see cyclists even when they are on cycle paths!
 
My sadness is the loss of all the young indigenous young women who have disappeared. Known as the Red River women because so many were killed or went missing close by that river, a recent protest had people hanging red dresses from trees in rememberance.
 
The Museum of Human Rights in downtown Winnipeg is quite an achievement. A Silver Level sustainable building, there are six levels of exhibits and galleries, education projects, book launches, an oral history project and much more. Examining Human Rights abuses and also achievements worldwide, there is also a section looking at Canada’s own past record, both positive and negative.
 
A few days ago I went to Fort Whyte with fellow writer, Ranee Parker, to see part of the geese migration and we just missed the birth of a baby bison. Drinking coffee, eating cookies, standing by the lake as it slowly grew dark; watching thousands of geese flying in to land on the water and chatter non-stop with each other - while moving around and creating intricate pattern formations on the lake surface - was a great experience.
 
Shared a lovely Thanksgiving Dinner with Heather and Robb, their family and friends last night. Lovely, talented and welcoming people.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Online again...hurrah!
Here I am in Manitoba, at the University of Manitoba, Winnipeg, to be precise. Just started my Writing Residency here at the Centre for Creative Writing and Oral Culture.
Red squirrels dashing about on the grass trying to avoid the dozens of Canada geese also loitering on this fabulous, hugely multi-racial campus. The weather is changeable but generally hot and with a good wind, perfect for walking. Although residents here predict both an early and a late winter, depending on their experience. When they show me their winter clothing it reminds me of that old John Carpenter film, The Thing!
On Sunday, I'm reading at an event called Writers from Abroad, together with writers, Meira Cook and Ulrikka S. Gernes at Ralph Connor House at 2.30. It's part of the Thin Air International Writers Festival 2015.  Then on the 23rd I have  a Welcome event at the University in the Great Hall at University College, where I will be reading from old and new work.
I'm looking forward to meeting up with students in a few days time, offering advice on their writing and then running a weekly fiction workshop.
So many talented people in the department, I feel in awe of their accomplishments and aspirations but hope this will be a new learning curve for me. 
My writing is going well, inspired by the time and space available here to enable  me to create and also because I am working on fiction that has been lurking around for quite some time. I have dipped in and out of it, waiting for that moment when you know the idea has reached its birthing time. Here's to a good delivery!

Had a long break over Xmas and New Year. Lots of family stuff, which was great and lots of walking, with and without dogs. Back at my desk now and thrilled to have been offered a Writing Residency at The University of Manitoba for 3 months, starting September 2015. I can't wait. It's a part of Canada I've always wanted to visit and the university itself sounds wonderful and challenging.


Just read a great article by Uri Avnery, one of Israel’s founders, challenging the historical veracity of the Bible. A very brave thing to write and so eloquent. Here's the link: http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article40620.htm

It made me want to look again at the draft of a novel I wrote some year's back, called The Angel Curse. It's only in first draft form but I keep wanting to go back and do more work on it. Perhaps it's because I'm getting older, that I want to finish off every draft I've started; impossible, given the number of files I've got but perhaps if I get them all to a reasonable level, someone else could complete them? Wishful thinking.

So back to the drawing board and my new young adult novel: The Palace of the Marble Dogs, which should keep me busy for this year!! All good wishes to you all for 2015.

Been recently working on a radio drama script. It's a while since I wrote anything for radio and it's great to be creating script again, such a good break from holding eighty odd thousand words in my brain while writing a novel.  And while my new book is in the hands of my agent, it's useful to focus on something different.

I plan to do some more work on my memoir over Autumn and Winter and as part of this will be staying in Ireland for several weeks in 2015. I'm finding it hard to decide on what to leave out... and where to begin and wonder if this is a common problem. My inclination is to start with my parents and their coming into the world because it all begins in Ireland and the influence it has exerted on my life. However, life isn't a straight line, it curves, twists, fragments, comes back on itself and I'd like to somehow convey this is in the structure of the memoir.

I'm also pondering on the notion: the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Because is there only one 'truth'? Don't we all have different versions of it. My mother used to tell a story of when I was two, in rural Ireland, walking from the well carrying two buckets of water, sporting a shaved head and a blue gingham dress that she'd hand sown. An American couple stopped in car and took a photo of me because I looked so 'cute'.  I could barely walk because of the weight of the water. They sent a copy to my grandmother's cottage and I remember seeing it when I was older... but that was before my mother burnt all the family photos and that's potentially another starting point for the memoir.

So, maybe I'll stop thinking about it and allow my memory to take me where it likes.

It's and up and down life when you're trying to keep earning a living as a writer. I don't get writers' block (not so far anyway) but I am influenced by what's happening in the wider world - e.g. sadness and sometimes despair at the terrible things we do to each other - and by what's happening with my family and friends.