I got a critique for a short story I wrote

So I wrote a short story recently called 'A lullaby for Bosco Sweeney' - and submitted for consideration to a big Irish short-story competition. The Fish Short Story Competition is a bit of a hero-thing of mine, so it was great to hear back from them.

One point though - the character of 'Val' is supposed to be a man...just saying haha


"The direct appeal to the reader/listener in the opening paragraph succinctly creates a sense of immediacy and orientates the reader swiftly within the narrative, raising expectations and creating ample space for the unexpected. No explanation about who the narrator might be is necessary as the writer has trusted the reader to find the answer through the language presented which in turn motivates us to ask all the right questions essential to propelling the story forward. The anecdotal and informal voice of Johnny draws us to his story with ease and peppering the prose with unique word choices and syntax works well to render his voice distinct and credible however the repetition of the phrase “I mind” is overly intrusive. Phrases such as these, (I felt, I saw, I remember, it seems) tend to distance the reader from participating imaginatively in the story and notably in this work, fractures the tension in pivotal moments of the plot, in particular in the passage: I mind taking Bosco into the toilet.... where the character of Bosco is revealed both physically and emotionally before the climactic fiddle playing scene. Reducing the frequency of this phrase will mean the prose is stronger and slicker. The author has skilfully guided the reader’s interpretation of Bosco through a compelling and well-observed selection of detail. This is the story’s strength; the creation of this three dimensional and complex character that the reader is compelled to invest in emotionally. This astute attention to detail extends to the setting and the writer has created a vivid living that serves well to engage all the senses and convinces us that we are surrounded by this fictional universe. The narrative arc is crafted and consistent, building in a structured and suspense-sustaining manner and the shift from the “story” to “real time” marked by the inclusion of Val the bar maid propels the plot forward, apart from the interjection beginning “No, he didn’t show up at all, Val...” where its length causes this traction to waver slightly. This aside, the subject matter, structure and narrative perspective work successfully in producing a tender and insightful short story where all the elements of story-telling have been satisfied"


I can tell you, after years of rejection letters, this sorta stuff is like tuna-flavoured crack to a ghetto cat. Huzzah!

The Rules of Writing - Kurt Vonnegut

One of my favourite pasttimes is reading interviews with writers I love, especially when they impart advice rules or advice on the process of writing. Sometimes they can say ridiculousy pretentious and fucktardly things (eg "you have to be true to the child in your soul" etc) but some of the real heavyweights have fascinating insights into their craft.

At the moment I'm trying to write, but find that I'm lacking the motivation to sit with my notebook and beat my head until something comes out. Watching youtube and reading interviews of my favourite writers is really refreshing and I find it helps get you in the right frame of mind to write

Anway,


I've been a huge fan of Kurt Vonnegut since reading 'Cat's Cradle' a few years ago, and he imparted eight rules for writing short fiction:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
   
6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

So there you go, thems the rules.

I'm writing non-blog stuff at the moment, so I'll just post a lovely song

Telegram from the Queen.

Aaah, my 100th post. Also, my 50th follower. Also, my 23rd birthday.

I am satisfied. Feeling like I've just eaten a big meal that I can still taste, hours after, with every burp. I'm sitting in my bed in my pyjamas and a Law Society t-shirt, smelling like mint after a very long hot bath and listening to my playlist. I just talked to my lady Lopez and I'm contemplating bed.

I imagined getting a tweet or a Follow Friday from the Queen, but alas...

QEtooooo : One wishes @conordarrall congratulations for his 100th blog post and for still being alive after all this time. Pity he's a bloddy Paddy lol :P #FF #Blogs

Plus, I hate her and her stupid punchable face, so I SO would have unfollowed her.

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The last 24 hours have been eventful.

I went out for dinner with an old friend Emma last night. I stayed with her while looking for the Uberflat last summer and we hadn't seen each other since Christmas. She didn't know it was my birthday, so when I told her (after a while) she was mortified and took me drinking.

This bar wouldn't be my favourite in the world, but it does have a barmaid, Chess, who is ridiculously pretty, and who I've never had the courage to ask out. Emma and I chatted and drank, and when she stood up to leave, she looked at the barmaid and said, 'You should totally ask her out' extremely loudly, so that in the wake of her exit, Chess was looking over. We eventually got chatting, and getting quite drunk, I asked her out. It was smooth...

Chess "Oh I don't usually date customers, I'm sorry"

Me "Oh no, it's alright, I never drink here if I can help it"

-awkward silence

Chess "Okay, so where should we go?"

Me "Um.............the zoo?"

So yeah, I asked a beautiful women to go on a date with me to the zoo. Perfect work, maybe next time that happens I'll see if she wants to go visit a recycling depot. The good thing is that I got the date, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was because it was my birthday and I was (technically) drinking on my own so she took pity. We'll see...

She is VERY nice though.

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TODAY, I woke up a bit hungover (read: very hungover) and stumbled into work, bleary eyed and useless. I didn't tell anyone that it was my birthday apart from a few of the guys who I've made friends with and my buddy Sean whom I got a job for. At about 3, the Big Guy came over and stood right next me.

Oh shit, he can smell that badness seeping out of my pores and wants me to clear my desk

"I've got a problem sunshine"

"Um, you do?"

"Yeah, I don't like it.........when people who work here don't tell us it's their birthdays and make us check Facebook!"

"Wha-"

He pulled out a few bags from behind his back, he had bought muffins for everyone in the office to celebrate. It was lovely. I was a bit embarrassed but hell, it was such a nice gesture. It's little rays of sunshine like that that make the place eminently bearable.

Also, another little ray, the Prohibitively Mean Secretary (PMS) got fired today. She's a compulsive liar, and had been causing a lot problems by lying and not doing any work. I'll miss her 8-hour-long monologues that chart her real-time thought process. The absence of that tinnitus buzz of shite that pours out of her mouth will be sorely noted.

ANOTHER little ray of sunshine. My ubercool uncle/godfather/musician Brian called to wish me a happy birthday and tell me he likes this wee blog, was thrilled to hear it. Then Mamo, my granny, called and we spent 20 minutes chatting about blogging.

It was surreal: in the meeting room, stinking of stale booze, the shakes, exhausted, on my birthday, with PMS leaving for good, holding a muffin, chatting to my gran about blogging. She thoroughly approves of it, but I've warned her off reading. My description of things and post titles (think HGFLMcP and the Work Life Skullfuck for example) do tend to have a bit of swearing in them sometimes. She wants me to collate all my posts together and try and make a book out of it. I'd love to do that, but the writing needs to improve I suppose.

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I write a little notebook on the commute to and from work. It's like an old fashion version of a blog that is in a little book made of paper that you type in by using a pen. I keep my notes in Irish so the nosy cunts can't read over my shoulder (and it's also private, and looks vaguely intellectual) and I just found the last thing I wrote, without thinking, as my train pulled up to the station

Is fíorr a rá go dtéim ar strae in ámanna, ach in aineoinn na crúachtáin a thiteann ar an bhóthar anseo agus ansiúd, ag déanamh iarracht mé a bhrú as an slí, tá an t-ádh orm go bfhuil mé in ann léim thart orthú agus leansaint ar aghaidh.

I think that's true, but only a handful of you will ever know how much you've done towards this, or what it means to me. Most of that handful aren't allowed to read this blog, and the others are too polite to stop reading :)

So, not the best of 'Century's and hardly deserving of my lovely 50 followers, but frankly the best you could expect after 23 years of baths and pizza. Maybe age brings wisdom; I know for a fact it brings grey hairs, a beerbelly and obscene levels of rage.

Perhaps the next hundred will see me finally get to punch my beloved racist, let's hope so.

Con
xx


ps - this is what I'm listening to as I try to go to sleep, it's such a beautifully mysterious piece

Clockwork Spraytan and my Family Folk

So I've had this piece of music playing in my head all day.



It's called the Funeral of Queen Mary by Purcell, and is used in the classic Stanley Kubrick film A Clockwork Orange, based upon the blood-chilling epnumous novel by Anthony Burgess. The book and film tell the tale of Alex, a psychopathic teenager, and his gang of Droogs as they nightly wander around on drug-laced milkshakes in an orgy of 'ultraviolence', rape and burglary. The book caused a sensation when released because of its violent and sexual language, its graphic depiction of rape and murder, the invented argot (a mixture of slavic, pigdin russian, gypsy and street slang) of the main character, and the perceived strong anti-societal message. It is obviously one of my favourite books. Alex, the charming psychopath, reminds me of a younger (albeit less murder-n-rapey) version of myself.

As I sat in work today, back hunched and sweating towards my targets before the quitting hour, a message popped up on my screen and I was informed that all my work for the day (finding, interviewing, referencing and taking documentation) with a candidate - about 7 hours worth - was now ENTIRELY useless because his safety tickets were expired. I felt a bit like Alex. I wanted to go on a bit of an ultraviolent rampage myself (again, without the old rape part) and kill lots of people. I can see how people go on killing sprees. The problem is though, that my psychopathic side (and it does exist) doesn't have the stamina for relentlessness. It's only good in short bursts or periods of mania. Not always and forever. Therefore it's a fake clockwork orange I am. A clockwork spraytan.

When I got home however, I had received a card from my granny and granddad. They're the best old people in the world, and it cheered me up completely to get it. My granny (Mamo you can read about here) is a wickedly funny and cruelly intelligent person. She once gave a police officer a dressing down when a bomb was suspected to be near her house, just because she hates the Po-lice. My grandfather is a writer, and he's written a lot, over 100 books at this stage (the links only shows some of his publications apparently) in his own name and with psuedonyms. I'm not sure how many, but's it's LOADS! He calls himself a hack, and told me all about the story of Ned Purdon when I was younger, the character of the Oliver Goldsmith poem:


Here lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll ever come back


He's an amazing man, and a phenomenal writer. Every time we chat we talk about writing and he always tells me that to keep as busy as possible is the key. When he asked me how much I write, I told him that it could alternate from 200 to 2000 words in a day, depending on the day. He told me that the best trick was to polish off 500 words that were almost perfect if you could. It cuts down on the edit, and makes for a speedy process. Of course when I seriously get down to writing, I'll try to do double that, but it probably wont be near as good. He also tells me that no writer worth his salt is published before he has a collection of shoeboxes filled with rejections slips. He's not wrong, I fear.

My grandad - Séanie, we call him (sha-nee) - can also sing a song for almost any word you can ever come up with. When he was a teacher he used to write librettas and musicals for the boys he taught. His office, in my grandparents place, is like a museum. The entire house is full of books, and his study has a huge bureau, with wall to wall bookcases and two huge cabinets stuffed with the pieces he's written. We've all had dedications I think; mine was in a book of childrens verse that he compiled and dedicated to my broheim and I, and it's such a source of pride in the family. Him and I are very similar in ways, and we have this running joke about the books I borrow (he has 1000's of them!) from him and never give back. All books in his house are 'our' books, so I can take them at will.


So now I'm going to go to bed thinking of the many stories and words he's written, and dreaming of those that I'll write myself someday.

Goodnight folks, keep writing.
x

Quost about London so far.

Yes, quost! My internet is so precarious that I barely have time to write full words, so they run into each other. This is a quick post.

So, the last time I blogged, I was a pathetic cripple. Now my back is all fine, and I have a lovely apartment. The only problem is that my internet is not yet set up and I have to rely on the unintentional altruism of 'homa', the only wifi that my computer can freely pick up on. Homa is only available from about 6pm - 9pm, so I wait, all day, eagerly trying not to refresh the useless Firefox startpage, counting down the seconds til I can productively procrastinate. Homa also does not allow me to upload photos or videos...so any 80's doing-up-the-house montages will have to wait til we're set with our own hub.

I've been job-hunting. Like flat-hunting, but with less self-esteem. So far, the only luck with the search has been for some really random ones. An example of the type of mental jobs that I only seem to be fit for:
-Lollipop man,
-Shop Assistant at a military surplus store.
-Doorman at an experimental theatre.
-Male escort (disn't really look into that one, just saw lots of ads...)

I was told that I couldn't be hired at one place (despite the ad saying 'Help Wanted') because I wasn't "a hot girl innit?" which was rather a blow to the old self-image.

Damn body fascists.


Anyway, tomorrow is another day, and I can go print off a million CV's and be a bloody job-hunt fairy.

As soon as I get the internet for true, I'll definitely put up some videos (or vlog posts, as the kids call them) for all to enjoy.





ps - I had a date last night. It went well. Possibly more to come.

Man Adventures with the Boys

So...France, aye?

I had intended to write a very detailed account of my time in the France, but to be honest, it would take faaaaaar too long. Instead, what I might do is just write down some of the notes that I took during my time of travel. Ah, the travel. Before I left, my friend Ste (whose house we were staying in) and I met at Beckett's in Derry for a pre-departure-to-the-unknown pint. Obviously that turned into four pints. Just an indicator as to how the week began...and continued. There were five of us on the trip: Stephen, Mark (Sparkle), Christy (Crystal), Eoghain (aka -OJ, Crystal's big bro) and I. These are all guys I went to school with, so I've known them since about 1998, and they're like my brothers. The main purpose of the trip was to give Ste and Eoghain a chance to get a lot of rock climbing done.

From my notebook: France Trip 2009 AUG.

Fri 7th: Leaving Derry-Pints in Beckett's with Ste before lift to Belfast-Drunk man on street while smoking - called us 'Lovely Boys' - shudder - Met OJ - drove to Claudy - picked Crystal en route - C has broken elbow "One Wing" - Drive to Belfast - party - mischief - Corona - sofa 4ft long - backache

Sat 8th: Woke up w/ hangover - Tongue like Ghandi's slipper - Hiking gear at Cotswolds - Bought book about Mongolia - fast-food breakfast.

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embarrassing story - Whilst hungover in KFC and feeling like I was still a little drunk, the lovely Asian lady behind the counter was short of change. She asked me did I have a 5. I fished in my pocket. Produced a 5 with a flourish and the phrase "I think I can make your dreams come true". She blinked politely. Felt awful, very 'colonial'. Friends looked at me like I was insane. NB: don't try to be swashbuckling with a hangover

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cont: car to airport - lots of security - difference between UK cops and NI cops = machine guns/pistols in NI - Burger King meal - hangover flight - awful turbulence - Ste hates flying - turbulence makes me giggle - won't sit together on way home I think. Toulouse - late for train - hotel for the night - area populated by drug dealers and hookers - expensive meal - wine - weird mafia bar - early night - shared a room with one wing - free porn in hotel - dancing girls on channel 8 - bizarre

Sun 9th: Early wake-up call - Breakfast (4 shot coffee) - Train to Perpignan - wait around in the sun - Ste's uncle pick us up - 5 boys, all 6'1'' and taller - Renault Clio - 4 free seats exc. driver - Clown car - 40 minute journey - one-wing in the front seat - lucky cripple - squash - arrive - cops next door to house - next door neighbour dead - balloon body - decomposed - 6 people emerge from the clown car - gun-toting gendarme looks confused - quick climbing session - return to house - 16 litres of wine - drunk - Ste shows climbing skills out window - third floor - pile-on Ste - booze - 1.30 am bed

(NB: Holy Fuck!! 16 litres of wine between 5 people. Not good.)


Mon 10th: Hangover - woke up with a fuzzy head - Ste and OJ went off climbing - Crystal/Sparkle and I stayed by the pool - Lilo wars - Sun Sun Sun - Factor 30 - no colour - C and M burn - me still pale - wasted day - built a BBQ - wood fire - felt manly - big big meal of meat (sausage and beef) - late night glow of BBQ with 10 litres of wine and a crate of beer - found Ste's brother's pellet gun - Sparkle passed out - shot Sparkle several times - sang lots of rebel songs - smell of dead neighbour still about - 3.00 am sleep on sofa

Tues 11th: Hangover - big salad for breakfast - BIG WALK - left St. Paul for Gorges De Galamus - swimming hole 3 miles from town -diving from road into a waterfall pool, 20 ft jump- lost hangover - more walking - took Hemingway-esque mountain track- formerly used by resistance Maquisards during WWII- approx. 6 miles, all uphill - 37 degrees C - scrabbling on rocks - glad of anklesafe boots - got to the Gorge - "vent violent" 100mph - road carved into mountain, gorge far below - walked another 4 miles, found route down to the river - scrambled through the rockpools and streams down the gorge - One-wing did okay for most of it - did a 25ft jump into a cold-pool - made for home - down the dirt path - detour to 'Love Making Spot' - most beautiful place ever - trees/waterfall/small bridge/ swimming - walked home - dead tired - ate grapes from the vine - collapsed into the sofa - went out for a meal "Le Soleil D'Or" - worst fucking meal of my life - boudain antillaise = dogshit in a condom - too expensive - ruined the evening - got drunk in the house - Ste and I did our usual wrestling thing - apparently got out of hand - more singing - late night


Wed 12th - BAD Hangover, Tautavel (for climbing), Crystal and I sat by the water side while OJ and Ste climbed, Sparkle and Ste's family in 2nd car - Me and C drank Heineken, drinking all day - watched OJ/Ste climb - larked about - deep convo - lots of sunbathing/jokes/chat - went hill walking - drunk - met some archeologists - excavation - tautavel = earliest human remains in Europe - caveman nonsense - still drunk. Beautiful views - very very happy with the day - spent the night drinking - last night in St. Paul - had a great time


Thurs 13th - Worst hangover ever - woke at 8 after 4 hours - got bus at 9 to Perpignan - train at 11.20 to Toulouse - Train from Toulouse to Pau - Arrived in Pau at about 3 - went on Funiculaire (olde worlde tram for going uphill) - Pau to Biarritz - arrive Biarritz @ 9.30 pm. Exhausted. Spent day playing 20 questions and trying to sleep off hangover - Annual saint's festival in Biarritz - biggest event of year - no hotel/hostel/beds/gites etc - obvi not booked ahead - sat at cafe until 2 - camped on beach - no camping gear - lit small fire - fantastic summer evening - Biarritz = most beautiful women in world - people having sex all round - bit porny- made a wagon circle with rucksacks on beach, lay in relaxed contemplation as the night fell away - gently nodded to sleep at 3am with balmy seabreeze in the company of my beloved friends


Fri 14th: woke at 5 - freezing cold - no cold weather gear- lunatic with tractor combing beach - tried to kill us - OJ and I decide to camp on a cliff = no seabreeze - sit for two hours - felt frozen - sun rise/morning/SUN - dying for bathroom - 36 degrees - walk about Biarritz for present for Ste's girlf - OJ and I give up and go to airport. Eat/Wash/Change/Bliss - give up smoking because of sketchy post-hobo sickness - look and feel like shit - feeling compounded by arrival of 2 full professional rugby teams - feel a wee bit scrawny. Others catch up - flight - all sitting together - ridiculous turbulence - giggles etc - arrive Ireland - run for bus - miss bus - get other bus to Belfast - get back to Crystal/Ste's/Sparkle's Belfast house - load up OJ's car - say bye to Sparkle - drive home - awful weather - late night driving with friends = amazing - home for midnight - been travelling for 40 hrs - bath - bed - snooze. Fucking great trip.



That's it, that's the holiday, and I think I've given you more than enough of an idea of the type of fun I had. Here's some photos to give you a wee visual:


St. Paul de Fenouillet from the mountain trail


Me sitting at a sheer 300ft drop with 100mph winds lashing me, really beautiful (if terrifying) spot at Gorges de Galamus



Tautavel, where Crystal and I srank beer in the water while the other boys climbed (the fools)


Sparkle having a rest on the floor after some wine.


l-r: me, OJ, Ste, Sparkle, Ste's Uncle, Crystal Mc One-Wing



All in all it was a fucking amazing week away, but for the next wee while, I think I'm happy to stay in Ireland for a while. At least until my liver heals.

Writer's Block

So, I've somehow walked headlong into the biggest case of writer's block I've had in months. It's fucking killing me. I'm trying to plough through a book that I'm writing, and now that I've got the time to do it, I can't think at all. It's not so bad for blogposts, which are short and easy to come up with, but's it murder when I'm trying to slowly tell a long story.

I've been living the soft life for a few weeks now; devoid (mostly) of drama, stress and even the vague hint that there may be any exams, breakups or any form of conflict. This means one of two things.

1) I've become a boring shite, and have no life, or
2) See option 1.

So, if any of you would be so kind, I should very much appreciate being set some homework. Basically, if any of you could suggest a topic/theme/plotline that I could write a very quick few hundred words about, I think it would fire up some of the comatose neurons and encourage me to write about what I actually (without currently knowing it) want to write about.


Either as a comment to this post, as a msg on 20sb or even as a tweet @conordarrall I will be your best friend.

Thanks
Con


ps - I accidentally sent out the 20sb email about this three or four times. Mea Culpa, my connection didn't let me know when the msg had been sent.

The Conor(s) Show

This is a recording of my old show, The Conor(s) Show.

Initially, it started out as The Conor Show, on WLUR 91.5FM in Lexington, VA. Then, when I returned to Ireland, Conor McQuillan joined and we became The Conor(s) Show, broadcasting on Trinity FM 93.7.

A cross between a music show and a comedy news show, it ran for five months from October to March this year. This recording was our entry for the 2009 Smedia Awards, where we were runners-up in the News and Current Affairs Category.

Download it here.

Written and presented by Conor Darrall and Conor McQuillan, I am the one who speaks the most, and Conor McQ is the funny one. ENJOY!