Monthly Archives: September 2023

Tuesday Thoughts: Doggone Days

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It’s Sunday evening again, and like a bold secondary school student, I’m sitting down after a weekend of slacking off to try and make my self-imposed Tuesday deadline. This heat, I’m sure every writer will agree, hasn’t been conducive to bursts of creativity. Yet, you might be impressed to read that I’m typing this from my brand-new office! I got a new desk, and have now moved in most of my paraphernalia: the computer and printer, my paltry collection of articles and short stories, and my trusty office chair. And this evening, I added the finishing flourish: a crate with a bed for two of my most loyal friends, Troy and Rupert. As I type, Rupert has made himself at home, whereas Troy is more suspicious of this new layout. (That’s what old age will do to you. Troy turned four on Saturday, 9 September). 

These two furballs are pains in both my arsecheeks, and yet, I can’t imagine life without them now. I had always wanted a dog. We didn’t have one at home until I left for university. He was a sparky Jack Russell. My then-boyfriend, now husband, suggested the name Fred as we already had a cat called Ginger (an homage to Fred Astaire and Ginger Roberts). Fred was an absolute lunatic. He loved his walks, but he was an absolute nightmare, as he would rather drag you around the neighbourhood than walk like a sane dog. Fred was also petrified of the Hoover – it didn’t even need to be turned on, as I discovered when his beloved ball landed within inches of it, and he refused point blank to retrieve it. Instead, he would jump behind the couch, occasionally peering over to make sure the hoover was nowhere near him.  

In 2008, JP and I had a Labrador for two weeks, who we called Lady and, after a visit to the vet’s, Laddie (the woman we adopted him from had told us that she had a pack of female puppies. Obviously, she needed to brush up on her biology!) The same week, I was offered a job with Offaly CIL, which meant that I’d be out of the house for seven hours a day. After many tears, we decided to do what was best for the dog, and so Laddie was rehomed with a lady who loved dogs and had lots of land for him to run around on. It wasn’t easy, and my heart broke doing it. I hadn’t realised it was possible to love a dog so much. I decided that I could never put myself through that pain again. 

Fast forward eleven years, to November 2019. My husband and I had been talking about taking the plunge again for the guts of two years. Our friend recommended a lady who treated her puppies like babies, and so Troy made his entrance into our world. He loved his walks, he housetrained quickly, and soon, we couldn’t remember what our lives had been like before he came along. Troy was our saving grace when the Covid pandemic hit, when everyone was scrambling to get a dog. My husband did four walking challenges (unfortunately, it gave him a bunion the size of a pingpong ball), which kept him going through these lonely times. Troy loves the sun, and relishes the sunny days stretched out in the heat. Thankfully, he outgrew his unpleasant marking phase (my side of the bed was his target of choice), although he will still climb onto the table after meals to see if we “forgot” any remnants of dinner (some of the things he’s eaten include an entire chicken roll, a Crème Egg, an entire bolognese and, most recently, a bowl of porridge).  

Troy as a baby

Troy is a gentleman. Like most dogs, he instinctively knows when you are sad and will curl up on your lap, hoping to distract you. He’ll lick your tears, he’ll jump up to greet you when you come into the house, and he’ll do everything possible to ensure that you know how much he loves you. He’s the biggest softie going. If I’m scolding Alison, he will stand between us to protect her – cute and irritating in equal measure! 

In 2021, we decided to adapt the house to make it more accessible, and thank God we did, given that both JP and I are shuffling around the place like a pair of old crocks at the moment. This meant that we had to give Troy to two dogsitters over a seven-week period. The first lady could only mind one dog at a time, and Troy didn’t know himself, being the centre of attention for the first three weeks. The second dogsitter also minds dogs in her own home, and so Troy spent the rest of the summer with his new best friend, Brid, who loved him so much that she didn’t want to give him back!  

After coming home from Brid’s place, Troy was seriously depressed. He spent the days lying in his crate like a lovesick teenager, and it suddenly seemed cruel to leave him without some canine company. I must admit I wasn’t thrilled at first by the prospect of another dog. Double the cost, double the walking, double the poo. Then my friend sent me a picture of a little ball of ginger fur with enormous brown eyes. I thought he was kinda cute, but my husband had decided that he was ours. His name was Rupert, and he was Troy’s (and our) new best friend. Double the trouble, and double the love. 

Rupert as a puppy

I’d always heard that dogs had their own little personalities, but I didn’t quite believe it until I met Rupert. He’s a nervous little thing, and highly strung. He also loves the sound of his own voice, and barks on walks for no reason whatsoever (although, through training, he is improving). Like Troy, Rupert is a King Charles, but he can run like a greyhound, as we have discovered on the occasions he’s managed to escape from the garden. Because of the barking, passer-bys are often afraid of him, but he is the sweetest thing and rarely sleeps alone, choosing instead to plop his arse on Troy’s head or bury into my knee in the evenings. He also encourages Troy to eat his food. Before Rupert came along, Troy would only eat a bite or two a day, but now, it’s a race to the feeding bowls, which are always empty by twelve noon. 

I know it sounds cliché, but Troy and Rupert are my friends. When I’m sitting here during the day tapping on my keyboard, their antics keep me amused, and I secretly envy their endless napping. We go for regular walks, and after barking at everything that moves for the first kilometre or so, Rupert trots beside his brother, taking in the sights and smells. When he finally quietens down, I enjoy those moments: when I’m alone but at the same time, not alone. 

Rupert lies everywhere that Troy does – Troy has the patience of a saint!

I honestly think my heart would rip in two if anything were to happen to either of my precious furballs. They’re not just pets – they’re family (Alison refers to them as my naughty sons). I love them to bits. And for all the words I’ve written here, everything I feel can be tied up in just two lines of poetry, by Richard A Bilby: 

“So the next time you hear the phrase ‘just a dog,’ 

Just smile, because they ‘just don’t understand’.” 

Tuesday Thoughts – A Successful Writer

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Today is Sunday, and I’m finding it difficult to find the motivation to do anything. Truth is, I’m tired and have fallen into slovenly habits of late: not writing, choosing instead to watch reruns of Taskmaster on Netflix. Is this what award-winning authors spend their time doing? Of course it isn’t. That’s why they’re more successful than you. 

Success. Let’s ponder that concept for a moment. It’s something that many of us thrive to achieve, yet it’s a tricky thing to define. It depends on how you measure it, for a start. For some of us, namely writers, it’s about holding our precious words in our hands, and sharing them with those we love best (or our sworn enemies, depending on the mood). For other writers, success is landing that regular writing gig in a newspaper column or magazine. The most dedicated writers, those who are decidedly disciplined, toss out a book or so every year, leaving me seething with jealousy. Jealousy is not a healthy emotion for a writer. In the past two years, especially since being on the Play It Forward programme, I’ve come to understand what being a writer truly means. 

One major shift in my thinking was how I define myself as a writer. While I must admit that publishing Conversations about Activism and Change was the most validating moment in my career, now I feel the pressure to brush myself off and ask, “What’s next?” Logically, that would be finishing my novel, having the courage to share Rachel’s story, but somehow, I still don’t feel qualified. When will I feel good enough? What will it take to be able to work through the relentless torture of imposter syndrome? 

When the public thinks about writers, they might think of the likes of Stephen King or JK Rowling, whose work has been quite successful commercially. The rest of us know that writing isn’t a lucrative career choice. Many of us, including yours truly, are constantly hustling for side gigs such as proofreading or teaching a creative writing course, just so we have enough money to live on. Others must take on work that is completely unrelated to their true passions.  

I started back writing in 2014 because, in my view at the time, it was the only way I could see of salvaging my fragile mental health. My mind swam with a thousand intrusive thoughts that I knew I could never have the courage to vocalise to anyone. Yet, if I didn’t find some way of getting those intrusive thoughts out of my head, they would eventually have destroyed me. As I typed out those first awkward words, I was reminded of my Leaving Cert English class, and how I felt a warm glow inside every time I wrote a personal essay. That feeling of accomplishment, of pride, was how I wanted to feel every day. (One of my many writing mentors, Maria McHale, has said that this feeling is fundamental to a writer’s mental health). 

When I decided to forge a career in writing, I had visions of several books, penned by me, piling up on my desk. I thought it was as easy as sitting down every morning and playing around with words on a screen. In truth, it’s that easy, and that hard. Joanne Harris says that the first thing you need to do as a writer is to give yourself the permission to be one. It’s a difficult thing for me, as I often feel guilty for my life choices. A few years ago, while in the midst of a midlife-crisis-type thing, I studied for the Certificate in Disability Studies, aiming to get a better job in the sector. Turns out, that wasn’t what I wanted. And after spending a few years in a job that made me miserable, my husband told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t do that to myself again. 

Writing is not a glamorous choice. It’s a hard old slog. It’s solitary, with only a keyboard or a pen and paper for company. At least, that’s how it must appear to people looking in from the outside. Those who understand know that it’s so much more than the desire to communicate. It’s about making a difference, touching your readers in ways that they never thought possible. Writing means always being true to your real self which sounds romantic. but in reality can be messy, painful and heartbreaking. For every one of these blogs that I’ve penned, there are another five or six attempts languishing on my hard drive, never to be seen by a soul. I’ve written two whole drafts of my novel. And, as much as I strongly believe in sharing my authentic self, my desktop folder is crammed with stories, musings and draft posts that I could never have the courage to share. 

Therefore, my view of success in writing is so much more than having my name on a byline or printed on the spine of my own book. It’s being able to write crap and accept that not every creation is destined to be a masterpiece. It’s having the courage to come back to the screen, stare at that blinking cursor and say with confidence, “You’re not getting the better of me.” It’s finding the strength to stare yourself down, to say that you are worthy of praise and respect, that you truly deserve the title of writer. I believe that any writer who doesn’t feel the need to do this every once in a while is either a robot, or a psychopath, or a liar. 

Finally, as I reflect on my career cholce, I must admit to feeling a little sad that I and other writers must suffer at the hands of this wretched imposter syndrome. Many of the ways in which we unwind (or procrastinate writing), from reading books and newspapers, to listening to ‘90s classics or bingeing on Derry Girls, simply wouldn’t be possible without the work and genius of the writers who created them. The Arts is the foundation of our very existence, and this has always been the case, from those early cavemen etchings to Ogham (a form of communication in Irish during the fourth century, chiselled on stones). During the pandemic, books and boxsets became our lifebuoys, offering us solace and respite from the relentless negativity of the media. There are so many options available that didn’t even exist twenty years ago: audiobooks, podcasts and of course, personal blogs (the best place to go to for a quick read in my unbiased opinion). 

In my darkest days, I cling to the fact that my words bring comfort, even if it’s only to one person. And if that is the case, then I think I’m as successful as I ever need to be.