INTRODUCTION TO IMMRAMA MEDITATION, #celtic #Irish #Pagan #CelticChristian #meditation

 

INTRODUCTION TO IMMRAMIC MEDITATION

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In Old Irish literature, we have the tradition of Immrama - voyages to the sacred Isles. In both Pagan and Celtic Christianity, these stories were guides to spiritual journeying, inspiring people to undertake both physical pilgrimages and spiritual "voyages" that linked the three realities - The Otherworld, this physical reality and the inner sacred landscape of the soul.

Deeply rooted in Irish culture, Imramma literature evolved into a traidtion of meditation and soul searching. In modern times, it has become the basis for meditation and journeying practices in traditional Irish paganism and witchcraft.

Introduction to Immrama will explain the historical roots as well as providing a solid foundation in the modern practice as created by acknowledged expert in the mediation practice, Eblanna Raven* and Geraldine Moorkens Byrne, your host and teacher.

*Eblanna passed in 2021, leaving a legacy of wisdom and personal practice in her book "Immrama," (co-written with Geraldine Moorkens Byrne) the first attempt to pass on this tradition.

In this class:

*History of the practice

*Its purpose and uses

*The Archetypes

*The Homeland

*The Sacred Isles

Access to class recordings, chat, files and bonus material included

Suitable for beginners, no previous knowledge of Immrama necessary, no need to have read the book. Some understanding of basic meditation techniques will be provided.

Soul Journey using the tradition of Immrama.

Suitable for beginners, no previous knowledge of Immrama necessary, no need to have read the book. Some understanding of basic meditation techniques will be provided.

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1.

Halloween Part Two: The Ghosts of Halloween Past

 When I was a kid, Halloween in Ireland was Halloweve, or indeed, Hallows 'Eve, if you listened to my third class teacher. Halloween was an "Americanism" and before the deluge of seasonally themed horror movies and spooky family films, it was rarely used. Hallow'eve was the norm. 

Costumes consisted of black bin liners, with shop bought or homemade masks. In school, if you were lucky to have a teacher willing to enter into the spirit of the occasion, we painted cardboard masks, begged a length of knicker elastic from our parents and ventured forth into the night proudly sporting our creations. If there was no mask making in school, you were given a plastic mask from the local shop - it was too big, sweaty, hard sharp edges that cut into the side of your cheeks, and the elastic had to be tied tightly at the back to stop it slipping off. But they came in Witch, Frankenstein, Vampire and Generic Monster, and were highly prized.

Unlike my children, who received obscenely large hauls of sweets and treats every year, we counted ourselves fortunate to get a couple of packets of unbranded crisps and a packet or two of smarties. In the country, kids asked for "A penny for the Pookie" whereas in Dublin, we usually asked, "A penny for the Party." You might actually get a penny, or a bottle of TK minerals, or some small token towards the festivities. But the main treats to be had were fruit and nuts; apples and pears and monkey nuts, with a bag of hard shelled mixed nuts. We had a huge brass nutcracker that was pressed into service once a year, and which was reputed to have belonged to my maternal great grandmother. 

 But if our parties were simple, 1970s Dublin played host to some excellent bonfires, back in the days when health and safety took a backseat to "Arrah, be grand." I have vivid memories of standing close enough to be scorched, and my parents were the seventies' equivalent of helicopter parents. My husband had far more exciting experiences, in Newbridge Co. Kildare. His favourite is of the Halloweve when a giant bonfire was built in his housing estate, on a pile of spoil left over from the construction of the new neighbouring estate. Twenty feet high, this abandoned "hill" provided the perfect place to build a bonfire, visible for miles around. As was common then (and probably still is now) tyres, pallets, wood and debris were collected for weeks beforehand. The local kids dragged it all to the top of the mound, and piled it high.

Then some mischievous soul decided that a really fun prank would be to place a gas canister at its heart. The evening wore on, the flames burnt high, the canister heated up. At last, when only the "hardshaws" - the tough young fellas of the area - were left, drinking and messing, luckily around the lower slopes of the hill, the gas cannister exploded with spectacular results. It blew the stragglers down the hill, knocking some out, and lit up the sky like a war zone. If it had been on level ground, both housing estates might have needed reconstruction.

You can see why the eighties and nineties saw a crackdown on these traditional amusements...but it was far from a modern development. Pranks, some with unintended consequences, were an age old part of the night as we can see from the following report from 1900. An alarming report of a hanging body turned out to be nothing more than an effigy, left behind after the festivities.

We carved turnips rather than pumpkins, which were definitely a import from the USA. I was well into adulthood before I saw a pumpkin in the flesh, as it were. While some decry the modernity of this imported orange vegetable, they are exponentially easier to carve and less bloodcurdlingly horrifying than the turnip. 

However the turnip could be carried from house to house, adding a truly terrifying dimension to the parade of binbag clad youngsters.

Once safely home, we had traditional games, including apple bobbing and divination. I remember peeling apples, despairing of ever managing to get one continuous peel so I could throw it over my shoulder and see the initial of my future husband.  Barm Brack (Breac) was eaten, with much competition to receive the hidden ring. My mother always tried to give me, the youngest, the slice containing either the ring or the coin but my sister's were vigilant and uncompromising and often the lucky slice was lifted off my plate under threat of future violence, when parental backs were turned. Other little tricks of future telling abounded, from placing nuts in the fire to combing hair by candlelight while looking in a mirror. My dad only let us try that one once though, as it resulted in hysterics when one sister claimed to have in fact seen a ghostly apparition and the rest howled with terror. 

Of course, for the older people, the grandparents when we were young, had even more vivid memories of these folk practices. My friend's granddad regaled us with stories of his youth in Clare, and of the long night of Samhain spent in each other's houses, enjoying the fun. He put nuts in the fireplace and if they jumped, it was a sign (what of, depended on many factors.) My Dad had similar stories of his boyhood both in Dublin and Wicklow, of cream left out with tots of whiskey for the Good Neighbours and of the poignant empty seats left at the table, and by the hearth, so the visiting spirits would feel welcome. The next day, they would go to Mass and to the graveyard and tend the graves, but on Halloweve, on Oiche Shamhna, the loved ones came home to their own places.

 My mother told us of the famous Lyon's Bracks, the barmbracks with "real gold rings" inside, with lucky winners writing to the newspapers to express their joy at finding one.

Colcannon is another tradition, and whether it was a truly traditional dish or a USA invention has been hotly debated in recent times. I grew up with this dish, curly kale and mashed potatoes with diced onion and a pound of butter. My mother grew up with it too and she is 93 now. There are references to it from as early as 1735, by a welsh traveller, who attempted to render the  Irish (Gaeilge) name as Coel Callen, but it was almost certainly "Cal Ceannann" a reference to the white headed cabbage originally used before Kale became popular.

One of my favourite old songs is he Old Skillet Pot:

Ghost stories featured in our childhood celebrations but my dad could recall professional seanchaí, local celebrities, who were invited to tell tales of otherworldly apparitions and phantasms. The older generation believed without any irony; they lived in a world where these things existed, and should be respected, and they were neither dismissive nor overly squeamish about them. 

A report from the Saturday Herald October 30th 1909 by Nora Tynan O'Mahony, shows the affection and importance that Halloweve held in the public imagination. Despite the decline of other traditional celebrations like Michealmas, Candlemas, and St. John's Eve, Hallow-Eve remained a cherished occasion, particularly for children with the report praising its ability, like Christmas, to bring families together, as parents set aside worries to create a festive atmosphere. It was credited with a unique ability to unite communities, and bring neighbours together. The love spells and divination aspect was important for young adults and while she concedes that some of the old customs are fading, many retain their popularity. The belief in the Sidhe and all that might walk abroad that night is matter-of-factly recounted. 

An earlier report, this time in the Freeman's Journal, over thirty years earlier, on October 31st 1873, underlines the place Halloweve held in our national psyche. It confirms the widespread belief in the Sidhe, in púca and sprites, in ghosts and other entities. The same divination games are recounted, for the same reasons - to see future lovers, to find out if one was destined to be rich or poor. It highlighted the cultural importance to Ireland, a defiant note considering the politics of the era. Earlier newspaper articles sought to connect Irish traditions to Scotland, and even England, while by the later 19th century, Irish cultural identity was more publicly celebrated. 

We are a little more sophisticated nowadays; pop up costume shops appear in every shopping centre before the last day of Summer has fled. Elaborate disguises, grown-up parties, commercial events have all replaced the more homely, local activities of my childhood. But, the kids still go door to door and the neighbours stand outside to see the costumes. Bonfires still burn, some official and some highly illegal. The magic has changed a little, I concede, but there is a growing resurgence in affection and respect for the older traditions. We are beginning to reevaluate and consequently, re-value, the power and importance of Halloweve. We might call it Halloween now, but it's still the ancient festival our ancestors observed. 

Long may it continue. Oiche Shamhna Shona Daoibh. 

1.

#bookreview The Reaper of Justice, Anne Frehill - #irishfiction #ireland #irishwarofindependence #revolutionaryIreland

"Reapers of Justice" Anne Frehill

Set during one of my favourite periods of Irish history, the revolutionary years between the Rising and Independence, Reapers of Justice is the story of a young schoolteacher, Sarah Murphy, in love with a freedom fighter, Sean . 

Through the story of their tumultuous love, we see the friction, upheaval and danger of those years juxtaposed against the strict social and moral conventions of the era. As events unfold Sarah must confront dark secrets of her own family past while navigating the danger around her.

Sarah is a sympathetic main character, who finds herself increasingly trapped because of her marriage to Sean. The era is well researched, with real events and characters woven into the narrative. The social details are especially well drawn. A very engaging story, well told - definitely recommend to lovers of historical fiction, romance, Irish themes

Available on BuyTheBook or AMAZON 

1.

Caroline Jordan's Ideal Trip to Dublin #TheBodyPolitic #CarolineJordanMysteries #Dublin #Ireland #IrishBlog #MysteryBooks

 A reader emailed me to ask, as they're visiting Dublin soon, what would be Caroline Jordan's Ideal Visit recommendations!

Well in honour of such a fabulous question here's a blog post to answer, and I hope you enjoy it Amy.
Now, we all know the last 2 years have brought a really hard time for the city centre, with a lot of really cool places have closed down. But there are still absolute gems all over the city and from must see attractions to cool restaurants and everything in between there's something for everyone. This is only a tiny sliver of city life and as Caroline is young and single (so far! The Body Beautiful might change everything...) let's buckle up for a fun day.

Let's imagine Amy has arrived in the city and is staying at a fabulous hotel - maybe she's treated herself to the iconic Shelbourne or Merrion, or is going for the fast paced The Grafton or ultra cool The Marker. She's barely unpacked her bag when she gets a text "I'm at the bar!" and she knows Caroline has knocked off work early to come meet her. Later on Paula and Stephen will turn up, with the duo known as "the twins" and Simon Prendergast will wander down from his art gallery on Merrion Square, and they'll all meet up for dinner. This is shaping up to be an epic first evening.

Where for dinner, though? Well, Caroline would say Red Torch Ginger  one of Dublin's best and great value Asian Fusion restaurants. Situated in the D2 area, and surrounded by other great eateries such as The Cedar Tree or Trocadero it's also near to some absolute iconic bars. The International, (inc comedy club) The Long Hall, The Stand, O'Neills and more are all within walking (or stumbling) distance. Streets like Drury Street and South William Street are packed with restaurants, pubs and very cool independent shops. Before they venture to the restaurant, they can check out Irish Design shops, the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, The Stephens Green Shopping centres, boutiques like Om Diva  and the charming array of shops and stalls in the Georges Street Arcade. 
Amy got a bit over excited shopping and is laden with a load of bags - but Dublin is a small city so it's a quick walk back to the Hotel to drop the bags. It's still bright out, and will be until ten o'clock in early summer (11 in high summer!) and there is no sense of having to rush. The city is vibrant and bustling, but in a friendly way. Plenty of time to freshen up and head out (I think Red Torch will win tonight, lots of other nights to check out all the city has to offer.) People arrive in waves - Paula and Stephen with Marie Flynn to have dinner, Simon and the Twins in time for a glass of wine before making their way to one of Dublin's famous pubs. It's worth the short walk to Georges Street to The Long Hall, where the wall to wall mirrors shine and reflect the twinkling chandeliers, and the reflections in polished wood make the place a reminder of gracious, and raucous, days gone by. 
An earlyish night tonight, because in the morning Amy is going on the tourist trail - hitting Trinity College, The Epic Museum, Dublinia, The National Art Gallery, The National Museum of Archeology, Guinness Brewery, Christ Church, Chester Beatty Library, Kilmainham Jail...oh ok, we're not going to kill Amy with exhaustion. She can spread out the list of Dublin attractions in the city centre alone and fill her week up! The hop-on hop off busses make it easy, and again, Dublin is a small city. Traffic can be bad, but for the excited tourist, it's a chance to sit and enjoy the city as you travel.

By the time she's back in the hotel, Amy is happy to have a shower, and a rest, and then back out! A different restaurant tonight, and maybe a few pints. But the next night Simon and the Twins have a brainwave...they hire taxis to bring everyone out to Johnny Foxes Pub in the Dublin Mountains. Foxes is the highest pub in Ireland, and despite being landlocked is famous for seafood and Guinness! There's a Traditional Irish Music and dance event there most nights, which for a girl from Oklahoma is everything she'd imagined about Ireland. Amy finds herself outside, taking a break from the heat and noise, in the balmy night air, listening to an impromptu sing-song in the carpark. A young man from Clare opens his mouth and starts to sing, shyly at first but with increasing confidence as one by one the people fall silent to listen. It's an old song, of love and loss, of a country under occupation and a determination that the future will be one of freedom. When he finishes the last note lingers on the air until the crowd erupts in appreciation, with shouts of "Gwon ya good thing," and "Good man, there!" 
In her hotel room later on, Amy remembers the song and and falls asleep to it's wild melancholy echoing in her heart. 

End of Part one.

 

1.

The Body Count pre-orders on #Kindle open now!

 

MAD EXCITEMENT here!

Preorders have opened on KINDLE for 

The BodyCount, Caroline Jordan Mystery Book 2.

It's 2012 and the banking scandals have hit Ireland hard. The beleaguered Bank of Leinster desperately need an image makeover - and this means Jordan PR are about to pitch for their biggest contract yet. With her best friends and colleagues about to get married, Caroline is determined to grab the opportunity.
The only problem is the fresh corpse in the Bank's meeting room...

This time Caroline is determined not to get involved. Her colleagues (and best friends) are getting married, political reforms loom and there’s an iconic art exhibition to arrange. Not to mention that Bank contract is still up for grabs.

 But in Ireland all things are connected and old secrets bind strange bedfellows. As she begins to realize the web of lies and scandal stretch from the art world to the board room, DS Doyle pulls in a favour - can Caroline possibly resist investigating the rising Body Count?

Pre-orders open NOW! The Body Count by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 

ISBN 9780956240378 ASIN B09L8CWHWK

Paperbook available 15th Dec, order in any good bookstore, on Amazon, or direct from celebratingwords.com (signed copies)

#book #newbook #crimefiction #whodunnit #murdermystery #murderbook #traditionalmystery #whodunnit #irishcrimefiction #irishauthor #irishwriter #ireland #dublin #publicrelations #banking #femalesleuth #womendetectives #booklaunch #writers #writinglife #WritingCommunity #WritersOfInstagram #bookstagram #WritersLift

 

1.

The Body Politic: Caroline Jordans's #Dublin in 2012

 It's 2012 and Caroline Jordan is about to be embroiled in her latest mystery, The Body Count. So in previous posts we've explored Christ Church the area she works in and the area around Leinster House, the home of Irish Politics.  but there's so much more to Dublin than buildings, or even pubs and restaurants.

Dublin is a city justly famed for its characters, wit and unique outlook. True Dubliners (whether born on the North or South side! famous for the rivalry between them) are known for their dry wit, ability to pour scorn with a well turned phrase, kindness to strangers, and huge sense of community. Whether its the famous Liberties (think Imelda May, our amazing singer/songwriter) or the leafy suburbs, a Dubliner is proud of the "blue" (colours of our GAA teams) and proud of their city. 

Flower Sellers on many Dublin Streets bring a splash of colour

Back in 2012, we were still reeling from the demise of our boom era known globally as the Celtic Tiger. Bank scandals rocked the nation, and all eyes were on the public coffers, as we demanded less wastage of money, fewer payouts to politicians and better regulation of Banking. There were also disturbing signs of far right politics, and other unsavoury elements. However the majority of the population backed more progressive, generous politics and left leaning parties saw a rise in popularity as did grass roots activism. In many ways, an exciting time in Irish public life. 

The year saw a number of high profile scandals, politically, at a time when the country called for strong leadership. 

In Caroline's world, I have reimagined the reality of Ireland at the time, with the creation of the worldly, flawed but generally decent Michael T O'Mahony, and his closest advisor, Derek Fields - along with Caroline they bring some integrity and reform to Irish politics. What might we have achieved if only there had been someone like that?

And the Irish police, the Gardaí, started to investigate a bank called Anglo-Irish and one of the great banking scandals of modern Ireland began to emerge. 

It's little wonder that The Body Count (due out end Nov) will see Caroline dealing with some very dodgy banking types indeed.

In nicer news, in 2012 the Aurora Borealis made a rare appearance in Irish skies, and Dublin City Council voted overwhelmingly to support Marriage Equality for all couples, including same sex. (In 2015 Ireland became the first country in the world to vote Marriage Equality into our constitution, in a landslide victory. One of the areas with the highest Yes vote was Dublin city!)

Dublin's Colony of Swans on the Canal

At the London Olympics, Team Ireland did well with Bray native Katie Taylor winning boxing gold! A heroine to the whole of Ireland, her influence is felt today in 2021 with the amazing Dubliner Katie Harrington also securing gold for Ireland in boxing. Dublin (and Ireland) has no shortage of great female characters, strong women who have shaped the nation and continue to do so. 

A famous character you'll meet on every Dublin Street is the Irish Mammy* - we are a formidable breed. We are tough on our own kids, but woe betide you if you look crooked at them. Only we are allowed criticize them and there's nothing we won't do for our families. We used to be famous for spoiling our boys and many an Irishman had his mammy doing his laundry until he was married with kids of his own (and sometimes, even then...) The modern breed of Irish Mammy is determined to raise better equipped men - capable of laundry, washing, and child-rearing. But we'll probably be cooking them dinner until they're fifty!

Grand Canal Docks, February Morning

2012 saw the loss of a Dublin institution, Clery's Department Store, a prestigious retailer,. Apart from shopping there,  generations of Dubliners used it as a meeting place in the evening, and "Under Clery's Clock" is where many couples met up to go on a date. 

Dublin wit and humour is legendary and god help the eedjit who tries to enter a battle of wits with a true blue Dub. Dublin Insults are among the most colourful in the world. and even the most casual - ya muppet, I'm scarleh for yah! - sting like no other. Half of the pain comes from the actual words and half from the delivery, the contempt of the Dub for the unfortunate non-Dub. Equally however, the kindness of Dubliners is deeply ingrained: the very auld wan who was calling you a bleedin' dope a few minutes ago will be the first to pick you up and help when disaster strikes.

As Caroline moves through this small but richly endowed city, past ancient buildings and modern apartments, she takes strength from knowing she is a part of it; she's a True Blue Jackeen*

St Stephen's Green, Dublin City Centre Park

Caroline Jordan is the heroine of The Body Politic : a murder mystery set in Dublin in 2010. The second in the series, The Body Count is due to be published in November 2021. 

She also appears in the short story CatNap, available for newsletter subscribers click the link to sign up and claim.

* Dublin / Irish slang - eejit (EEE jiht) is a foolish person. Jackeen is a Dubliner, believed to have its roots in Jacobite. 

*Irish Mammy - the Irish word for mother is Máthair but the affectionate version is Mammy, from (mo Mhammaí in Irish) There is also another use of the word Mammy in the USA, pertaining to a Black slave who was forced to act as a nursemaid to white children, The word in Irish has no connection to that usage, but out of respect for others, when writing on largely US groups or websites please use the shortened form "Mam" for Irish mothers. 

ALL photos in this post courtesy of Ceolnet Irish Design, photographer GMB: all rights reserved

1.

Caroline Jordan's #Dublin: Christ Church, Winetavern Street, Dame Street,

 When you meet Caroline Jordan, in The Body Politic, you are thrown right into the deep end - she lives and works in a particular world, one of politicians, socialites, chic restaurants, and modernity, all grafted onto an ancient and enduring city. Dublin, Ireland to many people might conjure up some old world charm with pubs and historical buildings and shops boasting handwoven sweaters (or as we say in Ireland, jumpers or geansaí.) But modern Dublin is a mix of old and new; a skyline that by law cannot rise above 60 metres (197 feet) and which is dominated as much by ancient spires and domes as new sharp-lined, chrome and glass boxes. A European city, with a vibrant muli-cultural feel, but with tradition and history on every street corner. 

The first part of Dublin we'll look at is the area in the city centre, on the south side of the River Liffey, where Jordan PR makes its home. The area is known as Christ Church, because it is home to the Viking era Cathedral  of the same name (now owned by the Church of Ireland.) It is bordered on one side by Dame Street, a long and historic boulevard home to Dublin Castle, the Olympia Theatre and a vast array of pubs, hotels, hostels, and restaurants. At one end of Dame Street, is Trinity College, and the bottom end of the city's famous shopping street, Grafton Street. At the other end, where our story is concerned, is the Cathedral, the well-known Drury's Hotel, and a group of new (for Dublin) office blocks and commercial buildings, which continue down the steep slope of Winetavern Street and onto the Quays. Incidentally, this includes the famous old pubs of The Brazen Head and O'Shea's Merchant Pub (known to generations of Dubliners as the Merchant O'Shea's.)

Caroline's office is a small unit in one of the buildings towards the top of the hill, near to Drury's Hotel and the Synod Hall side of Christ Church Cathedral.  It's an expensive enough area in which to rent space, but cheaper than the more exclusive areas such as Ballsbridge, Pembroke or Leeson Park. Jordan PR is just a fledgling company, and a modern office helps with the image. As Caroline's biggest client is a Government Minister, she would have liked to be closer to the the area around Merrion Square, but this is a good second, and handy for the myriad small events hosted in one or other of the vibrant pubs and clubs around Dame Street, Temple Bar, or Grafton Street. 

After work, Caroline and her friends/colleagues Paula Hughes and Stephen Walsh, might hit any number of cool and funky, or perhaps posh and fancy, places in the area. Gastro-Pubs, Restaurants, cafes, Dublin boasts a wonderful array of choice for any foodie. The greater Dame Street area alone has over 34 venues, with more again on the side streets, and in Temple Bar. Bison Bar and BBQ is a favourite with Jordan PR, as is the Vintage Cocktail Club. But when they want some comfort food they make the trek halfway down Dame St, turn right into Andrew's Lane, and find Red Torch Ginger. Many a client has been discussed (discreetly) while tackling the RTG menu.

Next time: Caroline's political life, Leinster House, The Offices of An Taoiseach and more

Winetavern St. In 1926, with P. Corvan Jewelers and Pawnbrokers Shop, on the left with a statue above holding the traditional balls symbol if the trade.

1.

What Fresh Hell is this?#writing #crimefiction #fiction #irishwriting #irishdrimefiction #books #editing #marketingbooks

 So I used to think the main problem with writing novels was actually writing the damn thing. If I could get more disciplined, write more words, and generally do the adulting, then I will have a book. OK, obviously there would be pesky re-writes and editing but the most important thing would be accomplished. All I'd have to do then is send it to my publishers, a tiny micro publishing group, who would put it out into the world and the world, recognizing my genius*, would react in a suitably grateful manner.

But Independent publishing isn't that simple. I've published and edited poetry anthologies, and while there is a small audience for the same it's a loyal one. People who love poetry, love poetry books. They buy them, review them, and discuss them. There's an exponentially wider audience for novels, but they have a correspondingly wider choice in books. Genre fiction - in my case, crime fiction - is a popular and very well served category. It your book, like mine, isn't a Noir, with serial killers at large and women with tragic backstories dying in horrible ways, then it's dismissed by a lot of male readers. (Interestingly, of the men who have read it, the majority enjoyed it. It's a fun read. It's not going to haunt your sleeping hours but it will amuse your waking ones. Sometimes fun is what you need.) No matter how good your book is, standing out among the glut of choices is difficult. 

According to roughly half the gazillion emails in my inbox, the key to success as an author is building a mailing list of readers, each email promising to teach me how to do just that. There are offers to edit my book, promote my book, and in one rather bizarre case, make my book into a screenplay for the trifling fee of $10,000. Spoiler alert: if I had 10k to drop on vanity projects I'd spend it on yarn. YARN. 

There are some reliable steps on this murky and confusing road. The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLI) are the first stop for either self published or small imprint authors. From reviewing competitions and publishing tools to webinars on marketing the site is packed full of helpful services, and the Facebook Group is a lifesaver. Joining costs a small fee, but compared to what you'll waste trying to feel your way through all this unaided, it's well worth it. 

From there I learnt about how to offer content in order to attract the right people to my mailing list; how to recruit readers to preview my next book; how to utilize publishing services like print on demand, other than Amazon, I've been encouraged and helped, and while the learning curve has been steep, it's been productive.

But it all comes back to one thing; you need to get your hustle on. Create that content, or all the marketing seminars on the internet won't get you one single reader, one single sale of your book. At first I felt like it was an imposition; I'm the kind of author who hides in a corner and scribbles, so even online content making exposes little fragments of my soul in ways that make me uncomfortable.

But there are unexpected side effects to stretching oneself. Case in point: against my own inclinations, I took time away from writing Book 2 in the Caroline Jordan series. I wrote a short story, starring Caroline and some smaller characters from Book 1. Half way in, I had to admit I was enjoying myself and when I returned to writing the book, I had a deeper sense of the world I was writing and the characters. So my next projects will be approached in a less begrudging frame of mind, because I am now more open to the possible benefits.

Another piece of advice was to join Facebook groups and communities that like and read your genre. It sounds obvious, like a lot of good advice, but I had not realized just how useful it could be. A reader in one group pointed out an inconsistency in the text that had skipped past all eyes before his. I received criticism and praise in equal measures that have informed my writing of the sequel and made it a better book. Every plea for a review or advertisement of your book exposes you to criticism, and it can be daunting, but it will help you avoid mistakes in the next one.

I'm learning to talk to my readership in a different way. Now, they feel like collaborators rather than targets for a sale. There are things I can offer them, free content, fun rewards, rather than bothering them with unwanted marketing emails. Their feedback is as valuable as their cash and I feel as if they know they are valued and respond accordingly.

Still, despite my best efforts there are days that feel like I'm banging my head off a brick wall. Days go by and not a soul downloads the book. No one joins your mailing list. You send out content and it sinks. Anyone who tells you it's easy or you'll get thousands of subscribers in three easy steps, or promises you a best seller, is a liar. It's hard work, it takes time, you can't do it all at once, and you might never achieve your top goals. 

But it will help, and if you can approach marketing your book as a chance to learn, as an opportunity to say the things you want to say as an author, if your aim is quality rather than quantity or content for the sake of it, then you may well find it rewarding. And if you reach a few more readers who enjoy your work, then that's a bonus too. 

*for genius, read "adequacy" ;)

1.

The Hidden Jester

Hidden Jester

Grief comes,
in glancing blows
stealing up at tangents -
shards of promise, taut with loss,
might have been, should have been.
Nothing direct or clean;
but sharp cuts and sudden hurts
from shadowed corners.

Strange friend,
thief, despoiler
relying on one saving grace,
one charity of memory, doled out.
Taking more than giving;
a parasite of living;
poisonous flower, spreading
like a weed.

Hidden Jester
laying small traps
that catch you unawares -
the detritus of life, turned enemy
banal weapons that shard the heart
and once you start
you cannot stem the flow
and he has won.

1.

Harp Club and Cauldron - upcoming collection on the Dagda

Delighted to be invited to contribute to Harp Club Cauldron, an exciting and expertly curated collection of writing on the Dagda. As a feminist and poet, my contribution will address the intersection of Faith, Imbas and Science, in the magical, spiritual and creative tradition of our landscape. 

Publishers Eel&Otter Press hope to present this collection in 2018 and have launched a funding campaign. The project boasts Lora O'Brien and Morpheus Ravenna at the helm and the contributors include an impressive array of scholarly and creative voices. 

Books can be pre-ordered at the link below; and rewards for backers of the project are excellent, including access to the creative process, being listed in the book as backers, beautiful artwork and more

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/harp-club-and-cauldron-a-harvest-of-knowledge

1.

Eiru Speaks to the False Kings #rosc #ireland #poetry #feminism #misogyny

As the False Kings attempt to impose themselves on the people Eriu moves from Her seat, to address the assembled crowd.

False speaker, false leader, false man

Born of a woman, unworthy of the honour

Debased by your rejection of Her womb, Her heart

Enemy to half the world

Apostate to the other

Liar and spreader of lies, like mould and decay

Dead among men, unborn among women

Unclean among the pure of spirit

Firenne rejects you

You are false and therefore unable to exist

You are the three marks on a king’s cheek

Your ramparts fall before the anger of the Druids

And the Wise Women will make bread from the fire

Of your roof,

The earth rises against you

The stones and bones and blood of the land

Reject you and your band

Be they born of the land, they are undone

Found them shelter in this land, they are undone

If they visit this land, they are undone

The birds of the air, the food of the earth

The spirit of life, the Tuatha  and their homes

The Tiarna and their laws, the Tír and its being

Turn from you, deny you, fast against you

The root of your name shall be poisoned in the ground

your stem shall be blighted and the ground salted against you

Your tongues fall silent, your limbs weakened, your fruit die untasted on the branch

And you shall be unmourned in the hour of your fall.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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The Gods of Weather #shortstory #writing #ireland #dublin

Happy new year and many apologies for being MIA recently but life sometimes takes over.
Lots of hopefully interesting things coming up in 2016 but to kick off the new year here is a short story I wrote about 15 years ago. Collating and editing a decade or more of writing in preparation for my collection, publishing later this year, I came across this and remembered how much I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it. 

The Gods of Weather (Dublin Stories)

The gods of weather are fighting it out above the city today. The contest sparked by a row over the glorious spring weather, sponsored in a fit of generosity by Dagda the great Father whose special interest in crops seems to have prompted him to provide the nearest thing to a summer we've seen in five years. Albeit in April.

 But on the other side we have Manannán, undisputed king of the sea, ruler of the western wave and traditional ruler of Dublin, ably assisted by Anna Livia Herself, the great Liffey lover of Manannán.   

"Oh, Anna, " He sighs in the wind, the seagulls driven inwards to the city to act as a chorus to His love poems; "Oh Anna, 'tis too dry, too still, too quiet."

Anna Livia, basking in the unaccustomed warmth and sunshine, rouses Herself with a guilty start, and tries to look as busy as possible. Manannán calls again sadly "O! Anna, sweet Livia, Where are the wild winds of April, the showers of sweet rain, the rainbows the ark like a virgins promise from land to heaven? Where are the last great storms of winter, my last crashing waves against the shore?"

Anna caresses the land as She passes, not wishing to reply, not wishing to fight, wishing only to surrender Herself to the waiting arms of Her lover. But She knows enough to know He'll sulk if She doesn't say something, so She murmurs her sympathy and watches the sunlight through the trees as She croons.

The Dagda smiles down and with a flick of a lazy wrist adjusts the clouds, little wispy summer clouds, hard to conjure out of nowhere in April, soft clouds that adorn the pale blue sky. "come now, Manannán ," His voice is like laughter on the wind, like ice-cream in a pink bowl. "it's been almost ten years since they had a good summer!"

"Who?" Manannán is puzzled. The gods? the Sheep? the fish? The ants?"

"The children," Dagda says casting an indulgent eye over Grafton Street, his favourite street although He knows he should really have chosen Kildare street, for the Politics or one of the Gracious Georgian Squares for a bit of class. 
What can He say? He likes Brown Thomas' and Monsoon. He likes the young women in flighty minis and the boys in trousers that remind Him vaguely of harem pants He saw once on holiday. He quite likes the buskers except the ones who play Van Morrison. He wishes He'd never thought to give "Van the Man" an interest in music - He'd thought maybe the boy would take up the fiddle or even be a music journalist. He really hadn't meant Van Morrison.
But the ones playing Allison Moyet were pretty good. He liked the little colourful stalls and he really liked the smell of coffee from Bewleys, and the little winding streets off Grafton street, they were pretty damn fine if He said so Himself. 

He frowns momentarily: that cheeky Viking upstart taking credit for His winding streets...but no, He smiles again and the sun reappears, the sudden cool shadow cast over the city lifting like gossamer in a summer breeze.

 He'd proven his point, and now all was well with the world: And the spring having gone down so well with the kids, He had big plans for the summer, long hazy days, hot afternoons, impossibly blue skies. It had been ages, ages, since He'd pulled out all the stops.

Manannán growled softly.

"I've told you before, it shouldn't matter what they think" He spread His arms and the waves rose against the shore beating against the rocks in ceaseless rebellion. He tossed His head and the rain spat against the cobbles and assaulted the window panes in venomous sprays.

"Don't be so hard!" Dagda chides. Anna Livia stirs Herself, jealous for Her lovers sake, quick to take offence on His behalf, "Don't you speak to Him like that!" she hisses, undulating in her bed like a lustful snake. And as Manannán stirs the air She raises herself to meet him, baring Her beautiful shoulders and breasts and swelling above the tight marble lines of Her city clothes. "Look" Manannán says proudly. "look. I am the Sea, I am life to these little men. I am the last refuge of the first creatures. I am the loins from which they crawled mewling and gasping, amphibious monsters no one else would tolerate. I fed them, I bore them, but what am I if I listen to them! I am the Sea. I am the Ocean. I am Implacable, Unbridled, Unpredictable. I must roar out the last of my winter blues, I must stretch myself against two continents. I miss the wind, where is my wind?"

At this the four winds hear the call of their master and in their haste to reach His side, alarmed by the rising note of anger and frustration in His voice, collide in mid air and the clouds swirl in confusion, Anna Livia eddies and flows in a whirlpool of movement and the Great Dagda himself is momentarily thrown off balance, a thing He hates. He glares at Manannán and with a click of His fingers restores the clear sky and the sun, the city looking skyward in surprise at the sudden spate of rain and wind, and the as-sudden restoration of glorious unseasonable heat.

"Don't you dare!" Dagda snarls. "It's taken me three months to plan this spring."

Manannan gives a mocking little mince. "Ooooooh, three whole months! I've only been at this game a few hundred thousand years, myself. I suppose you think they'll be grateful do you? think they'll be planning a feast like the old days? Oooh, dear Dagda, thank you for the decent weather and could you keep it dry for the bank holiday? At least I still get the occasional offering, Old Boy and do you know why? because I don't pander to them, me. They respect me."

Dagda turns his dark eyes upon the defiant Manannán, the indomitable Sea-lord, who stares into those dark stars without a trace of fear or awe. Anna Livia thrills with excitement....a storm, a storm...perhaps even some lightening. Already the rain begins to fall softly at first then in great teardrops splashing dark against the pastels and tans of the fashion conscious. It takes all of the Father's concentration to hold the spring together: the rain and cold howling in the outer darkness, banished but resentful, probing for a weak moment so they can roar back into town, take over once more, play with the citizens as they were used to do. Hold off, threaten, hold off, threaten, wait for it, wait for it, she's got a new hairdo, he's not wearing a jacket, wait for it, NOW! rain at will!

Dagda swears in annoyance and throws a small blast of anger at the Sea-Lord. "Now look what you made me do, " he grumbles, "It'll take all afternoon to round them up again. You've ruined today."

Manannán roars in pure anger, dwarfing the Dagda's kindly grumbling or the bitter spite of the rain and cold, summoning up the memories of great storms, hurricanes, tidal waves, continental shift, shark-fins at night, icebergs scraping against iron, lifeboats floating forlornly. "I am Manannán Mac Lir, King of the Sea. I will not cease to roar so that they may have a picnic on my beaches!"

The winds regroup and spin in harmony around His head, a halo of wiry sprites, cheeks puffing and huffing with the desire to blow and wail. The fish settle nervously on the sea bottom, the sharks of the Atlantic take a sharp left away from the west coast, the three headed mutant fish colony of the Irish sea dance their mad dance of glee, too stupid and too crazed to know when to hide.

The sky grows dark. The winds rise. The city holds its breath, staring at the sky anxiously, willing the weather to stay good, just few more days, o don't break now, don't let us down!

And the sweet sound of the Mother Danaan soothes the air, her voice like honey pouring from a silver spoon. "be quiet" she sighs, and raises her head from its slumbers. Her hair spread like red-gold across the Dublin Mountains, her profile raised to the stars, noble in its matronly beauty. She smiles and the sun forces its way through the gathering storm, shining its rainbow across her brow, His love for Her in every hue. She winks at Him, her oldest friend and admirer and then looks reproachfully at the quarreling Gods.

"I was having a nap"

Dagda looks sheepishly at His feet and Manannán almost bites off his own tongue in His haste to excuse Himself. His wife Fand smiles up at Danaan, enjoying Her husband's moment of embarrassment. 
"Hush, now" Danaan says, languid and redolent. "Dagda, I agree with you. The children deserve a little good weather. but Manannán must do as He pleases at sea. He has always ruled the sea."

Her voice caresses the city like the smell of chips at dusk, when you're hungry and tired from the play of long summer day, like the memory of childhood, like the feel of warm sand between your toes. The rain dies down, fades in the face of Her wish, and the Sun makes His triumphant return to the loud applause of the citizens. "I hear, " She smiles at the Sealord, "I hear there is room for a storm out in the Atlantic. I did enjoy that storm you did there last November. I always think they look so much better out there, out in the open. I can really appreciate the subtleties of your craft when I can see the whole storm on the big screen, you know?"

Manannán brightens perceptibly. "We-ell," He says diffidently "I might as well get a bit of practice in, I suppose" He turns his chariot and raises His whip but pauses to ask somewhat suspiciously "You will be watching now, won't you?"

Danaan smiles their special secret smile...."Of course I will." and Manannán races happily across the waves. "Humpph" Dagda settles himself again, to look at the city. "I suppose I had better try to get this sorted....a whole day ruined though. Pity." Danaan leans gently across His shoulder and looks at the little city, now slightly bedraggled, the puddles gleaming like jewels in the smug rays of the reinstated afternoon Sun.

"No, I think it looks nice. You should do another sunset, last night's was beautiful." The Dagda grinned involuntarily. "I wondered if you'd noticed!" He exclaims. "It was quite some job getting that orange-red shade at this time of year, I can tell you. And the Shaded Violets and Indigoes took hours to perfect!"

"Lovely" Danaan says hastily, "Well, one just like it then!"

"Oh, yes, okay," She looks at the great shoulders of Her kindly husband, His earnest good nature showing in every line as He poured over the city streets, trying to catch at the perfect shade of afternoon to suit its mood. His beloved Dublin, his Crossing at the Ford, His Baile Atha Cliath. She smiled at Him, the helpless affection of ten thousand years.

"Here" she says plucking it from her perfect brow and handing to Him. "You can have my rainbow."

copyright Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 2001

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