Photo Description: This is the poster for the next SpeakEasy. It contains all the details you’ll find in the And In Other News snippet at the end. It has a grey-blue background and a picture of a microphone.

This is a bit unusual. In an interview, current Irish Fiction Laureate Eilis Ní Dhuibhne commented that many writers are shy and retiring. From my experience, her remark was not without foundation, but not all of us fit that mould. I am a total notice box and when I perform, I’m in full flow.

When I say I want to write plays, I mean that I want to perform my own writing, or be involved in helping others perform it. Essentially, I want to be Michael Harding. Michael writes books and then creates shows based on his books, and he also hosts a podcast. He inhabits the best of both worlds, the world of publishing and the world of performance.

Overcoming Challenges Through Performance

Performing my writing will help me face up to my biggest fear when it comes to my writing: that my words will disappear, that they’ll turn to ashes as soon as they leave my head. When you perform your writing, you’re creating writing that is designed to disappear.

When the words leave my mouth, or the mouth of an actor, they fly away, but you can see them land with an audience. When you publish them in a book, it can feel like your words are being sucked into a vacuum, particularly given the highly competitive nature of modern publishing.

Using Performance to Promote Writing

Speaking of competition, when writers finish creating their masterpieces, they’re faced with the equally onerous task of promoting that masterpiece. If you want people to read your writing, you have to do this.

Performing your writing can be a fun way of overcoming the cringe factor associated with promoting your work. You can create a show, a poetry reading or a literary event centred on your work, which will be enjoyable for you and your audience. You can hire a room, invite an audience, show them a good time – and they’ll then buy your book.

Performing your writing isn’t for everyone. If it’s true that many writers are introverted, then they’re going to find performing your writing torture. But if you’re more of a flamboyant type, you will thrive on it.

Having said that, being introverted needn’t stop you from performing. You can read a short extract at a literary event, and many of these have a gentle, encouraging atmosphere. Including, dare I say it, SpeakEasy. Cue clumsy segue.

And In Other News: SpeakEasy Is Back for 2026

Our first SpeakEasy of 2026 is taking place on Friday 20 February at 8pm in Phil Grimes Pub, just over a week away as this newsletter goes out. It features Cork poet Dean Browne and jazz musician and pianist Phill Collins. And it features our flagship open mic session, which gives you a chance to sharpen your performance skills. Hope to see you there.

The Salt Path was a huge seller, about Raynor’s walk with her husband Moth along the South West Coast Path in Devon and Cornwall. They took this walk in the face of dreadful misfortune, at least some of which turned out to be of their own making. One of the lies they told was about their names – their real surname, irony of ironies, is Walker.

This is a pic of the cover of The Salt Path by Raynor Winn. There are drawings of birds, waves and fish on it, and it also says. Now A Major Motion Picture.

I’m not going to say too much more about what the podcast revealed, because you can listen to it yourself; the link is here. But aside from the kindnesses they trespassed upon and the false hope they gave to people, the Walkers also brought the literary form of memoir into disrepute.

The Challenges of Memoir

Memoir is a slippery artform, and it has tended to suffer because it’s not seen as entirely truthful. It occupies the space between fact and fiction, giving the reader a sense of what it’s like to live the author’s life. Unlike straight biography, memoir is not accurate, but it is not intended to be.

At its best, memoir fills in the gaps that facts cannot fill. If facts are bricks in a wall, memoir is the mortar. The author uses the techniques of storytelling to bring their world to life for the reader. At its best, a memoir will help you feel what the author felt, experience what they experienced.

But the quality of memoir can be uneven. Some memoirs are proven to be full of lies, like The Salt Path. Others are written by people who have compelling life stories, but who are not writers. Those are the memoirs that tend to attract attention.

The Delights of Memoir

But there is a lot of high-quality memoir being written. I know this because I judge the memoir section of the Write By the Sea Literary Competition. While the quality of the entries can vary, the ones that rise to the top are exquisite.

Last year’s winner was called In Heaven There Are Beaches, and it was about a woman facing a life-limiting diagnosis. I can mention this because it was published in The Waxed Lemon literary journal. The sadness of the subject matter was balanced by the poetic imagery the author used, and by the courage and love she poured into the telling of her story.

If memoir is your chosen writerly form, I hope you will keep it up and not let what happened with The Salt Path dishearten you. We need more memoirs that find their way to the truth, through the power of story.

And In Other News: Two Little Work Boosts

I received two nice little boosts to my writerly ego this week. A man approached me about writing a reader’s report, or a critique, for his novella. And I hit bullseye with my summary of Creative Ireland Waterford’s Good Grief report. They were very pleased with it and required no further adjustments.

I would love to hear your thoughts about The Salt Path, about other memoirs you’ve read or about your experience of writing memoir. Please leave a comment below. I’ll see your replies. If you’ve any difficulty, you can email derbhile@writewords.ie.

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I still hope it’ll come back. But until then there are plays, and they’ll fill the gap nicely. Because I’ll still be using the storytelling skills I used for my novels – I’ll just be adapting them for my plays.

Here’s how I’ll be adapting three core storytelling skills for the stage.

Creating Characters

To make characters light up on stage, they’ll first need to light up the page. I’ll strive to know my play characters as well as I knew the ones in my novel. I’ve always loved exploring the little tics characters can have – a particular way of holding a cup, a way of walking, a certain word or phrase they like to use.

These physical details make a character come to life, and are particularly important for the stage. So, writing a play gives me a great opportunity to explore these small but vital details, which will help an actor to inhabit that character and make them unique.

Setting and the Senses

The setting of a play is crucial; it acts as the framework for a play. No wonder some playwrights give stage directions worthy of a novel, as Tennessee Williams does in A Streetcar Named Desire.

I can write rich descriptions in my stage descriptions just as I would in a novel, with details designed to stimulate the senses and evoke strong emotion in the audience.

When I took a playwriting course at Fishamble Theatre Company last year, I was fascinated to learn about the role light plays in shaping the atmosphere of a play. The scene-setting stage directions will always give you the time of day.

That tells a lighting director how to light the stage, but it also sets the tone. An early morning scene will have a very different atmosphere to a night-time one; it’s as if the light is guiding the audience towards the feeling the playwriting is trying to create.

Shaping Plot With Dialogue

Ah, dialogue, how I love it. As a playwright, I’ll be telling almost my entire story through the dialogue I create for the characters. I love capturing the way people speak, and I’ll judge a book by the quality of its dialogue.

Dialogue is also a handy way of moving a plot forward; characters can reveal what happens in the dialogue, saving you the need for a lengthy description. I can’t wait to get stuck in and write pacy, sparkling dialogue that will keep audiences hooked.

As with all writing, the words of my play will leave me, and will belong to an audience. With a novel, I have no way of knowing how my audience receives them. But with a play, I hope to feel that hum of energy when you know that your words have landed where they should. That would be a true privilege.

And In Other News…

I’m doing a writing workshop for celebrants again in February with Celebrant Training Ireland in Dungarvan. This time it’ll be a two-hour workshop on how to craft a love story for a wedding ceremony.

I’ll be showing them how to write quirky, fun love stories in the time-honoured tradition of the three-act structure. The fun will be happening on Thursday 19 February. And there’ll be food.

I can blame being busy for the gap in communication. I can blame Christmas. But really, I was figuring things out. And I really was busy, or at least gave the appearance of it. I was finishing off my schools residency and gathering info for Waterford Music’s next season of concerts.

I also decided that I’m going to write plays.

Yes, playwriting is the new direction my writing will take. My one-woman show, People Wipe Me, has been the greatest experience of my professional/writing life to date, and I want to continue in that vein, to become a full-fledged playwright.

There are a few reasons why being a playwright appeals to me.

It Fits My Writing Interests

I am very interested in how people talk to each other. I love studying conversational patterns and the words they use. I’m fascinated by how people navigate space, how they engage in power plays with each other to gain status, and how a lot can be communicated without a word being said. It’s a lot easier to explore these interests in a play, through the movements and voices of actors, than in prose.

Pic shows two masks, one black with a sad face and one white, with a happy face.

Collaborative Process

I am a writer and I am also an extrovert. This can be a contradiction in terms. I really struggle with the aspect of writing where you have to sit alone in a room for hours. When you write a play, you have an opportunity to work with a theatre company, actors and directors. Staging a play is a collaborative process, which is hugely energising and will add sparkle to my writing.

A Cool Way to Edit

It’s not strictly true that there is less editing with a play, more that the editing takes a different form. You certainly don’t have to spend as many hours in that room polishing every word. The whole point of a play is that it is unfinished until it is performed.

I will create a script and do what I can to it, but it will truly take form when actors rehearse it and speak the words aloud. Some playwrights attend rehearsals and edit their scripts based on what the actors do with their words. I reckon that would be exhilarating.

Next week, I will reveal the theme of the play that is beginning to emerge, but for now, I will simply wish you a Happy New Year and thank you wholeheartedly for your support in 2025. I hope you’ll continue to join me on my quest for playwriting success.

And In Other News…

I was honoured to deliver a piece of writing centred on a Creative Ireland Waterford project that explored the link between the arts, ritual and grief. I created a summary of research that had been carried out on the effectiveness of the project. I hope my summary did justice to this beautiful, healing project.

Waterford Music has been staging chamber music concerts in Waterford Music for eighty-four years. I became its PRO in February 2024, a little less than two years ago, and it has been a delight.

I have the opportunity to promote concerts featuring musicians that play to an incredibly high standard, even a world class standard. And I work with an enthusiastic (voluntary) committee of people who have decades of experience, with Waterford Music and with classical music itself. They’re a friendly bunch too.

I create social media posts about the concerts, because social media is where a lot of people gather information. Facebook is a staple for Waterford Music, as the audience profile is older, but I also made more use of our Instagram account this season, and was pleased to see names on the ticket list that I recognised from Instagram.

I send out a newsletter, which is a great way of keeping loyal concert goers updated and interested. And I create listings for the website which are loaded onto our website by our patient and efficient web designer, Stephen Vaughan.

Concert night is fun. I hand out programmes, which helps me get to know our audiences a little. Then I take pictures of the musicians while they’re playing, which go up on Instagram Stories. I flatter myself that this helps people feel they’re experiencing the concert in real time.

Photo Description: This is Finghin Collins at a black grand piano. He wears a black and white suit and he is bent over the piano. One of his hands is on the piano; the other is in mid-air, preparing to touch the keys. (Photo by moi.)

I’m still pinching myself that I’m paid to write about such exquisite music. This season in particular felt special. A string quartet treated us to a haunting new version of She Moved Through the Fair. We heard richly resonant clarinet and sparkling piano. The season finished with a glamorous soprano and a harpist who wore red-soled shoes.

As PRO, I’m mindful that Waterford Music’s concerts can seem highbrow. But in the content I create for Waterford Music, I try to convey the beauty of the music, which is accessible to everyone.

You just need to open your heart, to let yourself feel it, to feel the notes seep into the core of you. That is the sort of music I am honoured to write about.

I’m Done

It’s hard to say how different boys are from girls when it comes to writing. I confess I thought they were less interested in writing, but that’s not true. I do feel though that they have short attention spans, and aren’t very interested in adding detail to their writing. As a result, you’ll very quickly hear them say, ‘I’m done,’ during writing activities.

I try and expand the activity by letting them draw, but about two minutes later, they’re saying, ‘I’m done,’ again. This week, I moved them away from worksheets where they fill into the blanks into writing full-sentence descriptions of characters and objects. It slowed down the pace just enough to ensure that the activities filled the whole session.

His Name is Hamood

The first time a boy told me he’d named his character Hamood Habibi, I thought, that’s clever; where did he get that name. When a few of his classmates used the same name, I had to ask, ‘Is that from a meme?’ and they said it was.

It’s hard to persuade the boys to move away from the memes, especially when their friends are using them. The teachers and I encourage them to ‘be inspired’ by memes, films and video games rather than copy them. And I tell them if they can change a few details of the meme or video game character, they can make that character their own.

The Handling of Christmas

The boys in this school are from various cultural backgrounds and not all of them celebrate Christmas. So, in this week’s session, in which we started to put together the Christmas story the boys will write, I told them they could change the details of the story to suit the winter or Christmas festivals they celebrate.

I’m not sure if anyone took up this invitation, but I felt it was important to know that they had permission.

Last week I was searching for a picture to use as a prompt for a disgusting Christmas recipe. The only images I could find were of Christmas puddings with flames licking around them. After some thought, I decided not to use those. Talk of setting fire to food, and of using alcohol to do so, might not sit well with the boys’ parents and teachers.

I can be careful when I need to – there’s nothing like children to put manners on you.

But mostly, our sessions are full of laughter, mischief and imagination, with kind, friendly boys who, despite the technology-soaked world they live in, remain quite unspoilt.

PS. I came across a helpful resource just before I started this residency. Children’s Laureate Patricia Forde has put together a book called Making It Up As You Go Along, which is packed with useful creative writing techniques and exercises for children, along with advice from some of Ireland’s top children’s authors. Here are the details if you’d like to purchase the book.

Patrick will be well known to poetry enthusiasts as the director of the Munster Literature Centre in Cork. Music on the night comes from Cilian Jacob. We were bemused to discover that his name is spelt with only one L, but we hope he will deliver one L of a performance.

After MCing for author Orla Mackey, then missing a SpeakEasy, I will be back in my happy place, MCing the open mic section. This is the centrepiece of SpeakEasy and a chance for writers from near and far to share a poem or a short piece of prose.

Each open mic is a kind of reunion of all the writers I know and admire, as well as a chance to hear some new writing voices. There’s plenty of banter, but also plenty of respectful listening.

Of course I enjoy the glory of standing before a crowd, but I also try to make each writer feel special and feel heard. It’s an honour to MC an event that produces such a high standard of writing.

Photo Description: This is the SpeakEasy poster, which has a grey and blue colour scheme and an image of a microphone. It contains the details included in this Substack post.

The SpeakEasy events are the highlight of my year. Our little meitheal (Irish for community) of five writers works hard to bring SpeakEasy into being, and we have a delightful time doing so.

I’m not going to lie; the chance to hobnob with some of the country’s top writers is part of the attraction of SpeakEasy, and I have enjoyed some delicious meals and equally delicious conversation with poet Micheál McCann and novelists Orla Mackey and Patrick Holloway. Not too shabby.

We are very lucky to have such a supportive arts officer, Margaret Organ, here in Waterford. The Arts Office, Waterford City and County Council, is SpeakEasy’s main sponsor, and the support of Margaret and her team helps us to bring the cream of Irish writing talent to Waterford. We also receive support from The Granville Hotel, who accommodate our writers and their plus-ones.

We plan to be back next year with SpeakEasy. Don’t know when; we do know where – Phil Grimes Pub. Because they give us a free room. And we also know we’ll have mighty crack bringing you SpeakEasy in 2026.

I promise you that when I do finally produce writing that’s fit to be seen, you’ll be the first to know. And there’ll be no more chopping and changing; I promise. Here are a few nuggets of news for you.

Schools Writing Residency Has Begun

On Tuesday last I began my writing residency at a school in Waterford, working with boys in fourth and fifth class (aged around 9-11.) They were delightful: funny, creative, sweet and kind. The first session was an introduction, but each week, we’ll be building towards creating a Christmas story, in which a heroic character must save Christmas.

By the way, when I was with the boys, I couldn’t resist asking them about this new phrase six-seven, which has attracted a fair bit of media attention because no-one over the age of twelve knows what it means. They told me that it means nothing; it’s just designed to irritate grownups. Fair enough.

Creating A Report Summary for a Special Project

A while ago, I was reading about a project developed by Creative Ireland Waterford about helping people who are grieving to find an artistic outlet for their grief. The link between grief and the arts fascinated me, as a writer and a qualified celebrant. But I thought my chance of being involved in the project was gone, and shrugged it off.

But then I received an email from one of the coordinators at Creative Ireland Waterford, asking me to submit a quote to create a summary of the report written by the project’s main researcher. I’ll read through the report and create a summary that’s easy to read, and that the graphic designer can use to create graphics and pull quotes. I’m looking forward to getting stuck in.

Save The Date: Sean Dunne Writers’ Weekend

I’m delighted to tell you that we’ve already started planting the seeds for next year’s Sean Dunne Literary Weekend in the Lafcadio Hearn Japanese Gardens in Tramore. Tuck these dates into your diary: Friday 12 June to Sunday 14 June 2026. The Great Gathering of Writers will take place on Saturday 13th. We’re so grateful for your support and we look forward to seeing you again next year.

When she was a child, the nuns in her school tried to tempt her with warm, curranty bread. But it went back home in her schoolbag, uneaten. The nuns made concerned phonecalls to the child’s mother. But still, she did not eat the bread, because there were currants in it.

In later life, the woman developed an eye condition that nibbled away at her central vision, the vision we use to read and write, to watch television, to drive. The condition is linked to the nutrients found in brightly coloured vegetables.

The woman could have eaten a rainbow of vegetables throughout her life and still developed the condition. Still, she decided to retrofit nutrition into her life.

‘I found a way to swallow those horrible vegetables,’ she told me. ‘I smoothie them.’

I met this woman when I joined a hillwalking club. While we both had wonky eyes, she still had good depth perception, that handy tool that helps you judge the steepness of slopes and steps. She helped me tramp up and down many a hill, and a friendship soon formed.

Her infectious giggle lit us all up, on the walks and afterwards, as we all enjoyed post-walk tea and cake. She drank the tea, but didn’t eat the cake. Her abstinence felt like a reproach.

I went on a holiday with a group of hillwalkers and the woman who ate nothing came too. While the walking formed the centre of the holiday, we still needed to eat, so we went out in search of food. And the woman saw golden arches.

‘They’ve lovely chips,’ she said. ‘And the chicken nuggets are gorgeous, real crispy.’

But we bypassed the golden arches, in search of more exotic fare. We found a restaurant that served a wide-ranging menu. Including chicken.

‘Look, it has mushroom sauce,’ I coaxed her.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want mushrooms in a sauce,’ she said.

When the staff came to take our order, she said.

‘I’m grand, thanks. I’ll just have a Coke.’

‘Ah, go on,’ I said. ‘Otherwise they’ll charge you rent for the space you’re taking up.’

‘I’ll have the chicken so,’ she said.

She sounded weary.

The food arrived. A silence fell, then we settled into a steady flow of chat. The food on our plates slowly disappeared. Except for the plate of chicken in mushroom sauce. Every so often, we threw glances at the untouched plate. The woman did not lift her knife and fork.

‘Are you not going to eat that?’ said the group’s resident foodie, unable to mask his exasperation.

The mushroom sauce was congealing, the chicken drying out. Her knife and fork, on either side of the plate, were pristine.

‘Ah, I’m grand,’ she said.

We shook our heads and returned to our food. The chat flowed on, but the woman’s plate nagged at us, like a loose tooth waiting to fall out. Her full plate was an act of protest.

Last week, I went to a meeting that wasn’t boring. I sat down with three teachers to organise a schools writing residency at a primary school in Waterford for boys in fourth and fifth class (age 9-11.) The residency is called BLAST and it pairs artists with a school, often in a disadvantaged area, to give children access to the arts.

Photo Description: Three boys sit at a light-brown table. There is paper in front of them. One holds a yellow pencil. The second boy is looking over the shoulder of the third boy.

Being a fan of Christmas, I’m excited to be helping the boys create Christmas stories. I’ll be working with the boys every Tuesday after midterm break, with a double helping in the last week before the school descends into Christmas madness.

An RIP of Sorts

Three years ago, I gave my first performance of People Wipe Me, my one-woman show, at a place called Cluain in Clonmel, a social enterprise that included a café. I was saddened to hear that Cluain is closed now. The challenge for artists in finding venues is ongoing, and it is imperative that governments and local authorities support new and existing venues so that both venues and artists can flourish.

‘I bet none of the writers will go to that chipper,’ I said to my friend.

‘Aren’t you wicked presumptuous, Derbhile,’ he replied.

Guilty as charged.

For I am a fierce food judge. I judge other people for what and how they eat. If you can bear to read on, I will confess to my worst food judgements, on the understanding that I’m not looking for absolution.

Photo Description: This is a bronze statue of Lady Justice, who holds a scales of jsutice in one hand and a sword in the other.

People Who Eat Very Fast

I have restaurant companions who are very dear to me, but they eat at the rate of knots. Himself and I once ate in a hotel by the sea. I ordered mussels and they came in a giant pot, with garlic bread and chips. I sank into them with delight.

When I looked up two minutes later, Himself’s plate was sparkling clean. I continued my feasting, but felt the weight of his waiting.

I don’t eat excessively slowly, but I do like to savour my food. When people eat fast, I feel conscious that they are waiting, even if they don’t say anything. Why the rush, I think. We’re not on the clock. The meal ends up finishing faster than I would like, and I feel as though I have eaten it alone.

People Who Eat Very Little

I once ate lasagne in a café attached to a bookshop. You could not wish for a more perfect marriage of the literary and the culinary. I tucked in, as I am wont to do. My companion and I both declared the lasagne delicious. But while I finished my plate, like a good little girl, she pecked at it. The squares of pasta were almost intact.

There are people who dance around food. They nibble, bird-like, or they deconstruct the food, taking fish out of its batter, or hollow out a sandwich, eating the filling and leaving the bread to flop on the plate. And I think, didn’t your mother teach you not to play with your food? These are people who can’t allow themselves to surrender to the joy of food, and thus render the experience of eating joyless.

Judging Menu Choices

I’ve developed a notion that people’s menu choices reflect their personalities. I have decided that people who eat red meat are earthy and up for a bit of fun and that people who eat fish are refined and sophisticated. It just so happens that fish and red meat are my first choices on a menu, hence the positive personality traits I’ve given them.

I reckon people who choose chicken and pork are a touch bland and unadventurous. And as for vegetarians and vegans, well . . .

You’ll be delighted to know that I got my comeuppance for my menu judgement. On one of my ski holidays, I did choose a vegetarian dish, and considered it so worthy of note that I announced:

‘I’m the only one who ordered the vegetarian dish.’

No response. They mustn’t have heard, I decided, so I said it again. Still no response. After about the fourth time saying it, one of the ski guides eventually said:

‘You’ve said that. Quite a lot.’

‘Well, maybe if you’d answered me the first time, you’d have shut me up.,’ I wanted to say, but didn’t. Because I hadn’t a leg to stand on. I had committed that most grievous of sins – being pass-remarkable

Clearly I have a little reforming of my own to do before I point a fork at the express eaters and the foodpeckers.

I was right about the chipper though.

Photo Description: This is our SpeakEasy poster, with its trademark microphone and blue-grey colour scheme. It contains all the information you’ll find in this post.

This delightful stew of words will be washed down by music from French Connection, who will play warm, friendly jazz.

If this tickles your fancy, then come along to Phil Grimes Pub at 8pm on the 24th. Entry is €5 on the door. This event is part of Waterford Writers’ Weekend; take a look at the schedule of events here.

‘Hellooo!’ Auntie Rosemary cries, as she jumps out of the car.

Today she is wearing a pink suit with a cream blouse. A pink and green scarf is knotted around her neck. She steps back as Amy’s brothers crowd around her.

‘Mind those hands,’ she says, laughing.

Amy’s mother comes out, but her father doesn’t. There is a smear of gravy on her mother’s cheek, which she wipes off with the back of her hand. Strands of her mother’s hair are escaping her ponytail.

‘Hi Rose,’ she says.

They kiss on the cheek. Then Auntie Rosemary turns to Amy.

‘Look who we have here?’ she says. ‘The birthday girl. You’re after getting so tall!’

Amy can feel the lipstick imprint of Auntie Rosemary’s kiss. She usually wipes it off when Auntie Rosemary goes into the other room with her mother. But today they don’t go into the other room.

‘Amy, Auntie Rosemary has a treat for you,’ says her mother.

Amy’s stomach fizzes.

‘Well, it’s a special birthday because you’re ten, so I thought I’d take you to Café Marie for a treat,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

Amy has pressed her nose against the window of Café Marie on her way home from school, watching the waitresses balance plates heaped high with cake, delicate cups and saucers. She has never been in there. It would cost a lot of money, to bring all of them. And her father says only ones with notions go in there.

But now Amy is going to go. And she’ll get a spin in Auntie Rosemary’s car too.

* * * * *

The café is hot. Amy’s dress sticks to the back of her legs. Her mother made her change into it. It belonged to an older cousin and it hangs from her.

Auntie Rosemary chooses a booth with a marbled table and benches with black corduroy seat coverings. Amy rubs it; it feels like her favourite slacks.

‘Now, what would you like?’ says Auntie Rosemary.

Amy can see the cakes up close now. They come in many colours. She sees a long cake, golden-brown dough with cream spilling out over the top and a squirt of jam running along the middle, like the lines you can see on the road. Sugar glistens on the dough. She’ll ask for that cake.

‘The scones look edible enough. We’ll have those,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

When the waitress comes over, Auntie Rosemary orders the scones.

‘And I’ll have tea and she’ll have a glass of Club Orange,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

Amy likes Club Orange, the way you can feel all the bits of orange in it. She’s glad Auntie Rosemary ordered it; she would have ordered it anyway.

‘So, how’s school?’ says Auntie Rosemary.

‘Grand,’ says Amy.

She never knows what to answer when grownups ask her that.

Rosemary asks her lots of questions about school: what’s her favourite thing about school, who she plays with. Amy feels the questions rain down on her. She does her best to answer, but she sees the smile fade from Auntie Rosemary’s face. Amy hears the tap-tap-tap of Rosemary’s nails on the table. They are the same colour pink as her suit.

‘You’re a quiet little one, aren’t you?’ says Rosemary.

Amy doesn’t know how to answer that. But she doesn’t have to, because the scones arrive.

‘Now, there you go,’ says the waitress.

The waitress doesn’t go after she sets the plates down. She looks at Rosemary.

‘Wasn’t I in school with you?’ she says to Auntie Rosemary.

‘You were indeed,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

She smiles, but her words don’t sound smiley.

‘And what are you up to these days? A travel agency, I heard.’

‘That’s right. I took over there ten years ago.’

‘Isn’t that fabulous,’ the waitress said. ‘I bet you go on great holidays. You’re looking well on it anyway.’

‘Oh, thank you very much,’ says Auntie Rosemary. ‘Now we’d better get stuck into these before they get cold.’

‘Well, it’s great to see you anyway. Tina’s still here, isn’t she?’

‘She is, yeah. That’s her eldest little one I have here.’

She points to Amy but doesn’t introduce her. The waitress leaves. Over her shoulder she says.

‘See you next time you’re in.’

Amy lets the conversation flow over her head as she looks at the scones. Big, fluffy scones with currants all around the edges. There are small dishes of butter and jam to go with them, and a bigger dish filled with cream, just like the cream on the long cake she had wanted.

‘They’re a grand size,’ Auntie Rosemary says. ‘They’d want to be, for the price of them.’

‘They look lovely,’ says Amy. ‘I’ve never had scones in a café before.’

‘I suppose you wouldn’t have. Aren’t you spoilt rotten?’

Amy’s belly begins to tighten. She butters the scone, watches the butter melt into it.

Auntie Rosemary starts talking again. She’s talking about the travel agency, where she helps people go on holidays. As Auntie Rosemary talks, Amy takes sips of Club Orange.

It’s in a tall glass, cloudy on the outside. A slice of orange is wedged at the top of the glass. Amy takes a few sips. She feels bubbles burst in her belly and puts the glass down. Her fingers rub along the ribs of corduroy. They make the sound her father’s records make when you put the needle in.

Auntie Rosemary gives Amy a sharp look.

‘Stop fidgeting now,’ she says.

Amy straightens up and sips her club orange again. The bubbles are going out of it. Auntie Rosemary leans towards her.

‘You know that waitress who served us there?’ she said. ‘The one I was in school with.’

Amy nods.

‘You know what she used to call me?’

‘What?’

‘Big-Nose Rose.’

‘That’s horrible,’ said Amy.

‘But there’s no way she’d call me that now. You know why?’

Amy shakes her head.

‘Because I’m my own woman.’

‘What does that mean?’ says Amy.

‘I decided who I would be. And how I wanted other people to see me. So, I got rid of the big nose as soon as I could. You see, I knew that if you want to get anywhere in this life, it’s all about how you carry yourself, how you turn yourself out. You won’t get anywhere if you turn up in places like this in a hand-me-down-dress, with nothing to say for yourself.’

Amy looks down at her dress. Her mother had ironed pleats in the skirt.

‘You’re a clever girl, your mother tells me. I can help you get ahead if you want. If I did it, so can you.’

Amy douses the second half of her scone in cream.

‘But it’s up to you. You can’t expect your parents to help. Your father is useless and your mother runs around after him.’

Amy feels Auntie Rosemary’s words land in her belly with a thud.

‘I think it’s time we were going,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

A silence falls. Auntie Rosemary is looking at her.

‘Well?’ she says.

‘Pardon?’ says Amy.

Her mother has told her to say this if she doesn’t understand something.

‘Are you not going to say thank you?’

Amy feels herself redden. She tries to say it, but the words won’t come out. She can feel the scone and Club Orange churning around inside her.

‘I’m guessing you take after your father for the manners,’ says Auntie Rosemary.

Amy follows Auntie Rosemary out to the car. She notices that Auntie Rosemary’s hair doesn’t blow in the wind; it stays still. Not like her mother’s hair, which is always escaping from her pony tail.

* * * * *

From her bedroom, Amy hears the sound of Auntie Rosemary’s car driving away. Her mother comes in.

‘Did you have a lovely time,’ she asks.

‘It was grand.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah. I think I ate too many scones, that’s all.’

‘I’ll bring you up a glass of milk.’

Her mother bends over to kiss her. Amy breathes in her flour-and-gravy smell. When she hears the door close, Amy lets the tears fall.

Last Sunday I gave a creative writing workshop for Celebrant Training Ireland, to help budding celebrants craft meaningful stories for weddings and funerals. It’s always a delightful experience, working with pleasant people who have a great sense of fun who are willing to learn. Dare I say it; it almost doesn’t feel like work.

This is Aodhnait Flynn, founder of Celebrant Training Ireland. She holds in her hand a red book, which doubtless contains a carefully crafted love story.

Tribute to Two Great Authors

In the past week, two authors have died whose writing made a great impact on people. Manchán Magan and Jilly Cooper came from totally different backgrounds, one a posh British countrywoman, the other a son of the soil steeped in the Irish language.

But both brought light into people’s lives. Manchán connected people to a bigger, richer world, beyond the everyday. And Jilly’s books were simply marvellous fun, a quality not to be underestimated.

The restaurant was in a converted church, with a steepled ceiling, sturdy stone walls and stained-glass windows. The tables were covered in thick, creamy cloth. Each place setting was fanned with napkins in a matching creamy cloth. I could see my face gleaming back at me from the surface of a knife.

Photo Description: This is a drawing of a church-like building in sepia tones. The name of the restaurant, Chez Hans, is in the bottom right hand corner. The picture is taken from the website of Chez Hans restaurant in Cashel.

The first dish that appeared in front of me was a bowl of mushroom soup. I had never seen mushroom soup like this before. Mushroom soup to me was brown and grey. This soup was almost navy, a colour that may have been off-putting to some, but it was intriguing to me. I lifted up my spoon and I tasted earth, sunshine and rain.

After that, the fish arrived. I was in Ring College as a boarder at the time; the fish there came with thick batter and chips. This fish was white and came in a delicate, creamy sauce. It was soft and flaky, and when I tasted it, I tasted the sea.

The people who served us wore white shirts and black trousers. They balanced eight plates on one arm, with minimal effort; their movements were a form of ballet.

As we ate, I talked to my parents without a cast of thousands around us. The contents of the conversation have slipped away, but I am left with the warm memory of feeling grownup, feeling special.

For dessert, there was ice cream. In Ring, the pinnacle of our week was watery ice cream served in metal bowls. This ice cream was creamy, and it was topped with a rich dark chocolate sauce, which made a pattern on my face as I savoured each spoon.

The restaurant that we went to has been in existence for many decades, and it has been the scene of big-ticket family occasions throughout my life. And every time I go there, it feels grown up; it feels special and it feels intimate.

Fine dining in the way we did it then feels like a fairytale. It harks back to a time before food because weighted with price tags, both literal and moral. These days, going to a fine dining restaurant, with all that the world is burdened with, can seem like fiddling like Rome burns.

But for me, fine dining is a portal into a time when my own family was more carefree, when we delighted in food and delighted in each other.

I’ve had many creative writing students over the years and I’ve gotten on well with all of the, but some of them creep under your skin. Pat was one of those.

Photo Description: The words Rest In Peace appear in an old-fashioned script, white writing on a shimmering blue background.

He was quirky, mischievous and highly intelligent, and wrote exquisite pieces of memoir with a light touch. I was honoured to work with him and play a role in bringing his book of memoir to fruition.

Josh hovers at the woman’s elbow.

‘Some menus for you there,’ he says.

They don’t answer; most people don’t. They are busy inserting themselves onto the stools; all the tables in the café have high stools. The woman perches at the edge of the stool; her legs barely reach the middle bar.

It is midday, and the first lunchtime wave has begun. Josh lopes around the café, his long legs navigating the space between tables. You have to move quickly here.

It is ten minutes before he can return to the man and woman. The table is covered in pieces of paper; their heads are bent towards each other. The menus are where he left them, untouched. Annoyance flickers in his chest.

‘Are you ready to order?’

They look up.

‘Oh, sorry,’ says the woman vaguely.

They point at items on the menu, then return to their pieces of paper.

It looks like they’re filling a diary. They talk in low voices. He hears a few words above the hiss of the coffee machine: ‘kids,’ ‘coparenting’ ‘amicable.’ He shrugs – old people’s stuff.

He returns with the food and hovers with the plates; the table is covered in papers, and he doesn’t know where to put them.

‘The pulled pork bap?’ he ventures.

‘If you take them on Saturdays, Aoife won’t be able to go to horseriding,’ the woman says.

‘Sure, I can collect them afterwards,’

‘But then I’ll have to wait with Sean.’

You can give him to me when you’re bringing Aoife for her lesson and I’ll wait with him.’

‘That’s grand.’

Josh gives up, slides the dishes in front of them.

‘Thanks,’ the man mutters.

Rude, thinks Josh.

The lunchtime trade reaches its height; people are starting to queue for tables.

‘Make sure you ask them was everything okay,’ his boss tells him. ‘Basically, you’re telling them it’s time to go. Most people get the hint.’

He approaches the table; the food is untouched, the coffee cold in the cups.

‘Was everything okay for you?’

‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ says the woman.

The customers like a bit of banter, his boss says. And it’ll get you tips.

‘The food wasn’t that bad, was it?’ says Josh.

The air is thick, with more than the heat of the café.

‘Sorry, bud, we’re in the middle of something here,’ the man says.

It’s then that Josh sees the tears on the woman’s face, and the man’s hand laid on top of the woman’s.

* * * * *

Josh no longer if everything was okay. No-one ever answers, and if they did, his boss wouldn’t be interested. It doesn’t bother Josh either. In a couple of weeks, he’ll be off to college.

SpeakEasy is happening tomorrow night, Friday 26 September, and I’m the MC for debut author Orla Mackey. Hope to see any Waterford heads at Phil Grimes, 8pm tomorrow night.

The following day, Saturday 27 September, the good people at The Poetry Lounge are putting together a reading from 2-4pm in the Waterford Gallery of Art. It will feature D’Or Seifer, Luke Morgan and John Noonan.

Then the next day, Sunday 28 September, I’m off to the Write By the Sea literary festival for the day. I was given a free ticket as part of my payment for judging the memoir competition, and I am delighted that it gives me the opportunity to hear the likes of Christine Dwyer Hickey, Eimear McBride and Marian Keyes.

Thanks to Koluachain for subscribing, another recommendation from Margaret Galvin.

Just a final word: I took off paid subscriptions last week. Some of you were kind enough to pledge support despite this. I greatly appreciate this, but for now, I’m happy to make my writing free for all to read.

I have decided to compile a dictionary of the language used in cafés and restaurants, and what these words say about the atmosphere of the place. Or the ambience, if we’re feeling fancy.

Style of Greeting

The style of greeting in Irish restaurants and cafés now closely resembles that of an American diner. On approaching a table, a server will ask, ‘What can I get you?’ The use of ‘get’ in this way is uniquely American. It is the language of grabbing, of acquiring. It is the language of a country that tells you that what you want is yours for the taking.

On this side of the pond, we say, ‘have,’ as in, ‘what will you have?’ But ‘what can I get you’ has now largely replaced this.’ In turn, customers are more like to say, ‘Can I get a cappuccino? Can I get a beefburger with fries?’

This is a word cloud containing some of the words in this post, in various bright colours. The biggest word is Atomic, which has lilac lettering.

When the food or drink arrives, or is handed to you, the server will say, ‘Enjoy.’ I am baffled by this. Enjoy what?’ The word ‘enjoy’ hangs in the air, a sentence begging to be finished: enjoy your meal, enjoy your drink, even enjoy that.

Collective Nouns for Customers

I’m fascinated by the words servers use to address groups of people that they’re serving. Their choice sets the tone for the place.

Guys – a brash Americanism, an attempt to be cool which grates on my nerves. It probably fits best with tables of young people or men.

Folks – this is an Americanism too, but it sounds warmer and friendlier.

Lads – I’m fond of the down to earth tone of this word. There’s a sense that you know what you’re getting, that this place isn’t pretending to be something it’s not.

Ladies vs Girls. Lets face it; restaurants and cafés are largely populated by pairs and groups of women. Addressing them as ladies feels courteous and respectful. Addressing them as girls feels patronising.

Once we are past a certain age, we are not girls, and you would not address a table of men as ‘boys.’ Some women are flattered when male servers in particular call them girls; I reckon they’re fishing for a tip.

The best solution is simply not to use any collective noun at all, but simply say, ‘What will you have,’ or ‘Are you ready to order.’ We’ll know you’re addressing the whole group anyway.

Do you notice this type of language yourself? Do you even care? Please share your thoughts.

Leave a comment

The Language of Menus

There is an art to writing menus as well, to make the food sound appetising, and customers do form opinions of a restaurant’s food based on the words that they choose.

Dirty – this word is often used to convey the sense of an illicit treat, such as ‘dirty fries’ or ‘dirty burgers.’ But some people will read the word dirty and take it literally.

Their mind will conjure up a picture of a dirty kitchen. ‘Naughty fries’ would probably work well in the UK. In Ireland, depending on the restaurant’s branding, ‘bould fries,’ could be a good alternative.

Atomic – atomic burgers were being offered on a menu I saw recently. One woman wondered whether this meant the burger would be really small, like an atom. She didn’t order it. I had a vague notion that an atomic burger would be spicy.

I did order it, and it was indeed spicy. I am not sure what atomic properties made it spicy. Simply describing it as a spicy chicken burger would have been more transparent; then people could decide whether they wanted it.

The Comma – this is a technique used by expensive restaurants to convey the worth of their ingredients. Rather than describing the food, they simply list the ingredients of the dish, separating each one with a comma: smoked duck, cherry, foie gras. This ensures each ingredient carries sufficient weight in the mind of the customer.

On a bed of – this is a technique used by less expensive restaurants who want to imitate expensive ones. They over-describe the food; their meat and fish rest on a bed of leaves. And they use French sounding words like ‘darne’ and feuilletine.’ Perhaps these words are intended to create an air of refinement, but really they’re just confusing for customers.

The Closing

The Code – servers have code words that they use when they want to move customers along, when they’re busy or they’re closing. If they say, ‘Can I get you anything else?’ or ‘I’ll just take those out of your way for you there,’ that’s code for, ‘Time to feck off.’

That’ll Be – when you pay for your food or drink at a café, I’m told, ‘That’ll be €6.50.’ To which I long to answer, ‘Why, how much is it now?’ If I were to ask that question, I might well receive a bargain, but I suspect I’d be more likely to get an eye-roll.

Was Everything Okay For You – it is my belief that restaurants and cafés do not expect an answer to this question, and that it should only be asked if the server means it.

It would be interesting to consider what would happen if the server was one day to receive an honest answer to that question. Indeed, I have witnessed people giving honest answers to this question, and the results have not been pretty.

The Best Language

After a whole piece spent indulging my inner pedant, it’s high time I told you what language I believe works well. There is no one phrase that hits the spot, but I love places that use plain, simple language, that describes exactly what you’re getting. Language that is sincere.

All a server has to do to soften this grammar grouch is say a friendly hello and goodbye, steer clear of the American diner script, and spice their words with humour and banter. If they can do that, I might even leave a tip!

I gained six new subscribers last week, four of them with thanks to a recommendation from hugely loyal newsletter subscriber Margaret Galvin. Many thanks to Sarah Langan, Ray Lucey, Wexford Susan, Lucy Moore, Lorrielysium and Pierce Ruane.

The marketing gurus tell you to give a consistent theme to your writing. I have always been drawn to cafes and restaurants as backdrops for charged conversations and moral dilemmas, big and small.

So, for the next while, all my pieces will be set in cafés and restaurants. Some will be fictional, some non-fiction, and others will blur the lines. To reflect the new direction of the writing, I changed the name of the newsletter to Café Society.

Why I'm Doing This

I'm not entirely sure of the wisdom of this; I may end up publishing pieces before they're fully formed. I'll also be writing and marketing at the same time. A wise person once told me, 'You can't ride two horses with one ar$e,’ and that is what I'll be doing.

But I'm motivated by a deadline. I'm motivated by knowing there'll be eyes on my pieces. I'll be inspired to produce the best pieces I possibly can, to create pieces that are enjoyable, but will also give you food (sorry, bad pun) for thought.

Moving Forward With My Writing

I also know from my time in journalism that there's no point in being too precious about my words – just get them on the page. Writing these pieces will help me face one of my great writerly fears, that my words will disappear.

I'll follow the natural writing cycle; words rise, go onto the page, are polished, sent out, and then disappear. This is how it has to be if you want to make it as a writer.

I've wallowed in a comfortable swamp for some time, which features much loitering in cafes. I'm now going to put that time spent loitering to good use, in the hope that it will waken up my sluggish subconscious. I'll be inspired by all the characters I see in Tramore's colourful cafés.

Substack is a valid form of publication in its own right, and I'll be a self-publisher, committed to producing pieces that are of a suitable standard for publication. Aside from anything else, it will be nice to have an answer to the question, 'What are you writing?' I can direct people to this newsletter.

My Writing Plan

You can expect a fresh new café-themed piece of writing every Tuesday. Then on Thursdays, I'll post up a snippet I call Second Helping, which will give you a piece of news from my writing life.

Hope you'll stay with me on the… I would say journey, but as you may know, I don't like that word, so I'll call it a quest for writerly success. Thanks to you all once again for your support.

Second Helping: SpeakEasy

I'm starting with a second helping, as it's Thursday. This is like starting with dessert, but anyway…

Photo Description: This is the poster for SpeakEasy, which has a blue and grey background. It contains all the information that you'll find in the paragraph below.

SpeakEasy is back on Friday week, 26 September, at 8pm in Phil Grimes Pub. Orla Mackey will read from her debut novel, Mouthing, and Aine McCarthy Kent will be playing her harp, if she can fit it up the stairs at Phil Grimes. The open mic is also back. Hope to see you there.

Thanks to you all for continuing to subscribe. If you'd like to join my list of subscribers, put your email into the box below and hit Subscribe.