Ghosts and Psychics In Ireland

When I began my novel, A Cry From The Deep, I had no idea that my characters would includ ghosts and psychics. It was the land that spoke to me, as well as my protagonist, Catherine Fitzgerald, a scuba diver on assignment to cover a treasure hunt, who took me in this direction.

I’be been blessed with much travel, so it’s not surprising that the places I’ve been end up in my stories. My husband, Rob, and I visited Ireland in 2006 and to say that I was blown away by its beauty is an understatement. 

Ireland is so much more when you see it for yourself. I tried to capture what I saw in my novel, A Cry From The Deep, when Catherine Fitzgerald sees the land for the first time.

“As if the drive wasn’t challenging enough, she also had to contend with the distraction of the picture postcard scenery. Though the skies were grey, the greens of the landscape were unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was as if God, the artist supreme, had selected every green paint available on the market and then some. There was kelly green, avocado, forest, willow, apple, lime, and mint. One green flowed seamlessly into another as it marched over the hills and into the beyond. She passed thatched cottages behind old stone fences, neon coloured pubs by the roadside, and new mansions set back on large properties. She even welcomed the times she had to stop to let farmers cross the road with their flocks of sheep. The gentle landscape was a welcome contrast to the frenetic pace of New York.”  from A Cry From The Deep

Because A Cry From The Deep, is a time slip story of a love so powerful it spans several lifetimes, it had to have ghosts and psychics. When Catherine Fitzgerald, about to join an underwater hunt for one of the lost ships of the Spanish Armada, buys an antique Claddagh ring, she is troubled by nightmares and visions that set her on a path to fulfill a promise of love made centuries before. Set in Provence, Manhattan, and Ireland, this romantic mystery exposes not only two women’s longings, but also the beauty of the deep, where buried treasures tempt salvagers to break the law.

Thanks again,  Siggy. I know you love Ireland as well. 

Diana Stevan 

For more about me, please visit me at http://www.dianastevan.com; 

https://twitter.com/DianaStevan, or my Facebook author page at https://www.facebook.com/dianastevan.author  

The link to my book title is http://amzn.to/1Lmx7nq.

When Truth Hurts: The Nonfictioneer's Dilemma

Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.

~ Franz Kafka

Kafka, you haunt me.

Whenever I read these words, I am divided. One half of my heart swells in awe of your insolent wisdom, at your unabashed defense of the artist's impertinence. You forbid us to whitewash, to pretty-up the ugly corners of life. Do not tread lightly on reality, you insist, but delve deep, and without apology. Show life with all of its thorns, no matter who objects. Where inspiration leads, the writer should follow with frenzied passion.

The other half of me spits at you.

I don't believe my heart was made for fiction. It goes against everything that has made me a writer -- a love for daily life, a quiet belief that every "normal" person, including myself, has a story. The little struggles we encounter each day say much more about our humanity, I think, than some grand, fictional misadventure. The truth is, I long for nonfiction. I long for its contemplative nature, its ability to find meaning in the mundane. Most of all, I long for its potential to highlight reality, and say, "There's no need for fiction. Life is dramatic enough on its own."

But I need fiction, Kafka. I need it terribly.

With nonfiction, there comes a risk. There are many things in our lives that contain all the elements of a good story -- a mother's coldness, an uncle's cancer, a best friend battling alcoholism. If we stop to look around, we realize that the people we interact with everyday have tales begging to be told. But this fascination with the trials of others is dangerous. It requires us to investigate and speculate about people's private lives. The nonfiction writer must intrude -- often without permission -- upon someone's darkest, most intimate secrets.

What is wrong with us, Kafka? Why is it the darkness in people's lives, that which makes them most vulnerable, that inspires us most? We are sadists and parasites. Our work thrives upon the draining of others for our own gain. We delight in their shame, their injury, their deformities, exposing them for general entertainment and "the sake of art." We cannot see someone's wound, and leave it be. In our sick fascination, we pick at the scar, peek beneath its stitches, until it bleeds. Because as a writer, as an artist, we must know what’s inside.

You did well to choose the word "mercilessly," my dear Kafka. To write directly from reality, we have to adopt a kind of indifference. We can't care too much about our subjects; otherwise, we'd always feel guilty, and never write anything for fear of violating their privacy and soiling their reputation.

This is why I write fiction. It was never because my life was uninteresting. My family life has been rocked by death and mental illnesses. My friends have been torn by scandal and abuse. There are always things to write about. But my conscience is my weakness. I don't have the stomach for trespassing onto others' lives, for being an invader. For you see, the greatest danger of being a writer is not the lack of things to write about. It is the risk of someone getting hurt.

Did you ever love anyone, Kafka? Or did not loving give you the freedom to write?

 

Image Courtesy: Emma Moser

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emma Moser is a lifelong New England resident currently balancing her lives as a college senior, local musician, and emerging writer. Her writing pursuits include blogging, poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming at several national venues, including Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, Zoomoozophone Review, Thoreau’s Rooster, Sweatpants & Coffee, and Fuck Fiction.

For more articles, links to publications, and information about the author, please visit her blog at: antiquedwriter.blogspot.com
Find me on Twitter

[Image courtesy: author, google, and  haaretz.com]

Cricket, Films and Love

 Anu Lal

Warning: This article is fictitious enough to appear real. Read it with a pacifist. 

One day in a classroom…

 When I mentioned reading books in front of the first semester students, they laughed at me and asked; “Last week a student broke his neck by reading a book, sir.”

I enquired what happened, actually, and they said the student had fallen asleep while reading from his textbook and that caused a cramp in his neck. It became a college legend and the student was revered as the wise one, the nerd, the intellectual with a broken neck. Although his neck was not broken really, this metaphor stuck. I tried to tell them that I was not talking about reading textbooks alone. Reading indicates a constant interaction with any book. It could be a textbook, or a novel, or poem, or short story collection. It was a pity how narrow their understanding about reading was.

However, right then, I observed their drooping eyelids and suddenly changed the subject to movies. From my experience, I knew this could energize them and wake those who fell asleep with renewed enthusiasm. Films have magic, indeed. “How many of you watched Harry Potter movies?” Yeah! Most of them did! I was happy. I moved on to books and made the shocking revelation that Harry Potter is actually a book. The movie was made out of a story written by a writer called J. K. Rowling. For this, the class responded with exclamatory OH!s and AH!s. Grand!

Another classroom candy is cricket. Suppose, as an English teacher, one has to teach ‘Critical Thinking’. Well, to tell you the truth, there is nothing to suppose in it, ‘Critical Thinking’ is part of the common course in one of the universities in the Northern part of Kerala. English teachers are pitted against the task of scrambling the pieces of quasi-critical thinking strategies from a poorly edited and misguiding textbook and puke it all in front of the poor students. So the matter is thus. I was teaching Critical Thinking, and had to tell them about ‘questioning attitude’.

At first, I explained the idea, and substantiated the whole concept. “You see…umm…when someone asks you to do something or teach you something do not blindly accept their words. A mere acceptance of what others say, without questioning the ideas or concepts, should be intellectual irresponsibility. In order to be an “intellectually responsible adult”, one has to question ideas, concepts, people and thoughts.”

For a moment, I forgot myself under the impact of the words I was delivering. Man, I was rocking!

That was when I noticed, a boy in the backbench was nodding heavily. I thought, in the beginning, that he might be enjoying my class. That was the reason even after noticing his behavior I kept quiet. Watching his demeanour for a moment carefully changed my perspectives. He was not exactly nodding to my class, he was nodding at the fairy of sleep, and he was dozing off.

I changed the gears once again. Cricket is insanely popular in India. Even though, the recent spot fixing frauds in IPL (Indian Premiere League) has caused some damage to the ‘gentleman’s’ appeal of the game, the game of millions, still survives. So I said, “When a batsman gets LBW, what do you do?”

The boy, who was dozing off a moment before woke up suddenly, and shaking off his lethargy,started getting curious about the class. I was laughing internally, but showing any of my whims in expressions would be disastrous. Therefore, I managed my countenance at an emotionless angle. “When an Umpire is reluctant to give OUT sign to the batsman, the bowler and the other members of the opposing team would appeal to the Third Umpire. This is how we should be in life too. We should question others, but without being hurtful.” They all nodded in understanding.

I could not have explained ‘questioning attitude’ any better with any other example. There was an inherent possibility that the students might misunderstand the ‘questioning attitude’ as an aggressive stand against ideas and towards people.

“You see, it is all like falling in love with a mannerism in thinking, just like we fall in love with people, in real life.” I said. I was pushing my next strategy to keep them interested—Love. A hand went up. One of the students stood up and asked, “Sir, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Well, I am afraid that question is out of purview with our current topic. We can talk about it on another occasion,” I said.

“No, sir, my question is…uhmm…uhmmm…that why don’t we use strategies of critical thinking in this matter?”

“Ha!” I got the point! Love is another magnetic idea among the young adults we teachers deal with, in graduation classes. This is not just limited to the Indian cultural context nor within a particular age, it seems. Everyone happens to be in an urge to get intoxicated by love’s sweet tendrils.

Anyway, I am sure my students understood the point I made, as they successfully derived the idea that critical thinking can be applied in every aspect of life.  

NOTE FOR HOTHEADS****

Every event, person, university, idea and place mentioned in this article is either fictional or the conjuring of the quirky mind of the author. Consider him inflicted with a serious bout of insanity and spare yourself the pain of filing a petition for libel against him or this blog page.

 Anu Lal
My author page:http://www.amazon.com/Anu-Lal/e/B00DQRP0QI/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1   
my blog: http://anu-lal.blogspot.in/
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Choose love, lust like winter.

by Deena Tunstall 


 Never forget your worth.
 Don't give your time to someone who doesn't want you madly.
 Isn't excited to see you, every. single. time.
 First and last.
 You are intriguing and baffling in your own sense.
 You are like a puzzle, only certain pieces fit.
 Pieces that you have to find, try and test.
 Kiss only the lips that electrify you.
 Want the people that want you unconditionally
 and not just for now.
 Fall for the mind,
 it never changes.
 Feel honestly, sincerely.
 Act with the intentions in your heart,
 truly.
 As regardless of whether anyone finds out your indiscretions,
 you are still being judged.
 If not by others by yourself.
 Find beauty where it is never looked for.
 Be more than just a physicality,
 be a mindful entity.

  

 Deena Tunstall 

http://deenascribbles.wordpress.com/
 
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Pay it forward

 
Deena Tunstall      


A wise heart never opens for an insincere suitor.
   Intuition never falters for a fool.
   The mind can wander through a hundred scenarios,
   heart sinking and desperately cruel.
   Love as you wish to be loved,
   think of as you would like to be thought of.
   Feel as you would like to be felt,
   lust the way you wish to be sought of.
   See the way you wish to be seen,
   listen the way you want to be heard.
   Find wonder in all the blessings
   most would find absurd.
   Shrug off the trivialities that anger you,
   your energy can be utilised anywhere.
   Fail to care what others think
   as their minds are always busy elsewhere.
   Encourage happiness,
   like attracts like.
   Don't waste time dwelling,
   over hindsight.

Deena Turnstall's blog is www.deenascribbles.wordpress.com 

Find her on Facebook as well as Twitter @deenascribbles.

A Tuck of Me

Especially written for WGT (This is a first!)

By Christy Birmingham

You tuck me into a file you mark The Maker

And I wonder if you mean to call it The Marker

Because you put spots all over the visions that

I have of everyone else. They don’t compare to you.

You tuck me into your pocket square and you

Tell me to hold tight until you have enough

Money for the ring. You don’t realize how tightly

I hold you in my heart already.

I dance within the folds of the file,

While you choose the daily pocket square, and

We take some time for the circle that appears

As we wrap our arms around one another.

The ring is a far second to your lips on mine.

Christy Birmingham is an author, poet and freelance writer who resides in British Columbia, Canada. To read more of Christy Birmingham's poetry, check out her book "Pathways to Illumination," available exclusively at Redmund Productions. Also, connect with her at her blog Poetic Parfait and on Twitter.