Look at me, all adult and everything! Against my better judgement, my wife finally made me get a "smart" phone.
Feh. I didn't see the need to get rid of my flip phone (a friend said I should just flip my antiquated phone right into the trash). I think my wife got fed up watching me pecking away three times per letter to text, then cursing when I screwed up.
So. First thing I did with my smartphone was get on Snapchat, so I could torture my daughter and nieces via pictures of me with a dog nose or as a hot dog or cat. That's kinda fun. And, as far as I can see, the best usage for a smartphone.
On the downside, I have big, ol' fat fingers and am still punching the wrong letter every time I text. Furthermore, friggin' auto correct makes me type things like "What time should we come ovary?" And the voice application wants to "Kill Mom" instead of calling her. I'm gonna have to watch this phone.
The phone's like a giga-pet (wait... Am I dating myself? Quickly I texted my nieces and asked if they knew what a giga-pet was. They didn't and wanted me to stop bugging them.). But just like a giga-pet, my phone's needy as hell, in constant demand of my attention lest it die. I have to feed/charge it pretty much every day. Constant alerts, updates, messages, terrifying warnings, and other ominous distractions keeps me scrambling 24-7. It's a full-time job.
It's a whole new world of discomfort. Where does a purseless person keep their giant phone? It won't fit in my pocket. (The one day I crammed my phone in pocket, I had accidentally turned on the flashlight. After an hour of shopping, I finally realized my crotch was glowing.) Don't even get me going on butt-dialing.
So. What's the advantage of a smartphone? I can find the nearest pancake shop in a jiffy. I suppose I could watch a movie, but, really, who wants to watch a 3" x 4" screen? Granted, it might take the edge off John Malkovich, but still...
The other day, I went to the doctor. While waiting in the office, loud surf music played over the speaker. Much too loud. I said, "Doc, is this the special surf-rock suite?"
She stares at me, then says, "I thought you were playing it." I shook my head. So she tracks down the nurse to yell at her to turn it off, then comes back, and says, "She says it's your phone." Finally, I track the noise down to my coat pocket. Panicking, I couldn't even figure out how to shut it up.
This phone's beating me down.
For the longest time, I've steered clear of diving into the nebulous world of smart phones because I didn't want to become a pod person. I've been to many restaurants where a couple sits across from one another, not talking, but interacting constantly with their phones. Then there're the people walking down the street, head hanging down, nose buried in their phones. It's scary. An epidemic.
Gah! My phone just blurted at me. What now? Dear God, WHAT NOW?
Speaking of all things ominous, my collection of horror tales, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, might just distract you from your damn smartphone for a little while. Just sayin'.
Friday, July 26, 2019
Friday, July 19, 2019
Super Veins!
Last week, I woke up at three in the morning in excruciating pain. "Great," I thought, "I broke my leg while I was sleeping."
Now, I hear you asking, "Stuart, how in the WORLD could you break your leg in your sleep?"
Thanks for asking! First, I'm a very violent sleeper. Second, over the past year-and-a-half, I've broken my leg twice and didn't even know it. I knew I was in horrific pain, but just powered through it. I was even walking on the treadmill with a broken leg. Twice. Anyway...I know what broken leg pain feels like. Yet, this seemed much, much worse.
And here's where my wife got aggravated. She thought I should go to the doctor. Me? I hate going to the doctor. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if you could just get in and out, but for whatever reason, doctors love to make you wait and wait and wait...a sort of mental water drop torture as you wait on the edge of your seat in searing agony to find out if you're gonna die. Plus, wh0 do you find at doctors' offices? Sick people! No thanks.
I told my wife, "Let's just give it a couple of days, see if it'll heal up."
Well. Turned out my wife was right. (As usual, grumble, brumble, grumble...) After three extremely painful, sleepless nights, my wife had had enough and said, "You're going to the doctor."
I caved. Problem was, it was the Fourth of July. So we had to go to the E.R., thus turning what could've been a $40 doctor visit into $40 plus a couple of extra "0's".
At the E.R., we go through all of the million dollar hullabaloo. X-rays are taken (kaching!) and a technician performed an ultrasound on my leg (kaching, kaching!) while dollar signs rolled in his greedy eyes like a human slot machine.
After the E.R. doctor examined all of his findings, he came back in. Fairly speechless. He shook his head (I knew I was dying at that point), scrambling for words.
Finally, he mustered, "Well...you have some seriously very impressive veins going on! I've never seen so many, so swollen! Your veins even showed up on the x-rays! I've NEVER seen that before! I was hesitant to give you pain meds at first, but yeah, here, take however many you need. Whatever."
Proudly, I puffed out my chest, knuckles burrowed into my sides like Superman striking a heroic pose. I said, "I don't know whether to be proud of this super accomplishment or to be very, very afraid."
So. My leg wasn't broken. I wasn't dying. But my Super Veins had swollen up on me ("Edema") because I'd over stressed them on the treadmill.
The cure? Stick my legs up on the wall as much as possible. Great $4,000 advice.
What have we learned here?
A) I have super veins;
B) Never seek out a doctor on a holiday;
C) Listen to your spouse;
D) Exercise is bad for you.
Speaking of really, really bad decisions, my protagonist in my new book, Corporate Wolf, has a tendency to make quite a few of them. Which ultimately leads him down the path to lycanthropy and...MURDERRRRRRRR. See how (if?) he gets out of very, very bad trouble.
Now, I hear you asking, "Stuart, how in the WORLD could you break your leg in your sleep?"
Thanks for asking! First, I'm a very violent sleeper. Second, over the past year-and-a-half, I've broken my leg twice and didn't even know it. I knew I was in horrific pain, but just powered through it. I was even walking on the treadmill with a broken leg. Twice. Anyway...I know what broken leg pain feels like. Yet, this seemed much, much worse.
And here's where my wife got aggravated. She thought I should go to the doctor. Me? I hate going to the doctor. I mean, it wouldn't be so bad if you could just get in and out, but for whatever reason, doctors love to make you wait and wait and wait...a sort of mental water drop torture as you wait on the edge of your seat in searing agony to find out if you're gonna die. Plus, wh0 do you find at doctors' offices? Sick people! No thanks.
I told my wife, "Let's just give it a couple of days, see if it'll heal up."
Well. Turned out my wife was right. (As usual, grumble, brumble, grumble...) After three extremely painful, sleepless nights, my wife had had enough and said, "You're going to the doctor."
I caved. Problem was, it was the Fourth of July. So we had to go to the E.R., thus turning what could've been a $40 doctor visit into $40 plus a couple of extra "0's".
At the E.R., we go through all of the million dollar hullabaloo. X-rays are taken (kaching!) and a technician performed an ultrasound on my leg (kaching, kaching!) while dollar signs rolled in his greedy eyes like a human slot machine.
After the E.R. doctor examined all of his findings, he came back in. Fairly speechless. He shook his head (I knew I was dying at that point), scrambling for words.
Finally, he mustered, "Well...you have some seriously very impressive veins going on! I've never seen so many, so swollen! Your veins even showed up on the x-rays! I've NEVER seen that before! I was hesitant to give you pain meds at first, but yeah, here, take however many you need. Whatever."
Proudly, I puffed out my chest, knuckles burrowed into my sides like Superman striking a heroic pose. I said, "I don't know whether to be proud of this super accomplishment or to be very, very afraid."
So. My leg wasn't broken. I wasn't dying. But my Super Veins had swollen up on me ("Edema") because I'd over stressed them on the treadmill.
The cure? Stick my legs up on the wall as much as possible. Great $4,000 advice.
What have we learned here?
A) I have super veins;
B) Never seek out a doctor on a holiday;
C) Listen to your spouse;
D) Exercise is bad for you.
Speaking of really, really bad decisions, my protagonist in my new book, Corporate Wolf, has a tendency to make quite a few of them. Which ultimately leads him down the path to lycanthropy and...MURDERRRRRRRR. See how (if?) he gets out of very, very bad trouble.
Friday, July 12, 2019
Testicle Festival!
So, last weekend we were visiting family. We're all in the pool, four adults and two nephews (12 and 14). Somehow the conversation circled around to the insidious nature of Ikea and how they trap you like a rat in their endless maze of uncomfortable furniture. Someone mentioned their meatballs are worth the torture.
"If you don't mind eating horse-meat," someone opined.
A nephew said, "What's wrong with that?"
Naturally, foot in mouth, I said, "Nothing, I suppose, if you don't mind eating horse balls." Quickly (but, too late!), I said, "Wait. That kinda came out wrong."
Which is my long segue into what's really on my mind. Of course, I'm talking about "Rocky Mountain Oysters," aka "calf fries," aka "prairie oysters." And then there's "cowboy caviar", "Montana tendergroins", "dusted nuts", "swinging beef," and "bull eggs." Now let's quit prettifying the item in question with all of those tricky "aka's"; no matter how many ribbons you put on them, we're still talking about BULL TESTICLES!
Good Lord, people actually eat these. And like them. There are festivals--festivals, mind you!--devoted to these so-called scrumptious nuggets. It boggles my mind, especially since those who "claim" to like them are usually the rugged, macho types who I'd think would rather be wrangling bulls instead of chomping into their nards. I've also never met a woman who has said, "You know, I'd really like to scarf down a big steaming plate of bull testicles. Yum."
So our science lesson in the pool continued. I said to my nephew, "Boyo, never--under any circumstances, ever--eat rocky mountain oysters." I explained what they were.
Here's where things really got interesting. It turned out my brother-in-law had tried them. He said, "I ate one once and now I'm done."
I asked, "Were they crunchy?"
The women in the pool scoffed. My bro-in-law said, "No, they weren't, not like you'd think they would be. They were kinda...gooey."
(Which just REALLY makes me want to steer clear of them).
Incredulous, my wife and sis-in-law gang up on the guys, think it's silly that we believe they'd be crunchy. Yet, all four males agree.
Patiently, I explained, "I find it amazing that women don't think they'd be crunchy. I mean, we live with the things after all. Why do you think they're called nuts?"
Our exploration into science came to a screeching halt.
Later, though, I pulled my nephew aside, whispered, "Somewhere, there's a field of poor, depressed bulls without testicles milling about."
All in the name of science, of course.
While we're on the topic of science, I'm reminded of lycanthropy (which has absolutely nothing to do with science and is a shameful segue into plugging my brand spankin' new book). Of course, I'm talking about Corporate Wolf, put out by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press. Think "An American Werewolf in London" meets "Office Space" and you've got a good running start. Available for preorder right about....NOW!
"If you don't mind eating horse-meat," someone opined.
A nephew said, "What's wrong with that?"
Naturally, foot in mouth, I said, "Nothing, I suppose, if you don't mind eating horse balls." Quickly (but, too late!), I said, "Wait. That kinda came out wrong."
Which is my long segue into what's really on my mind. Of course, I'm talking about "Rocky Mountain Oysters," aka "calf fries," aka "prairie oysters." And then there's "cowboy caviar", "Montana tendergroins", "dusted nuts", "swinging beef," and "bull eggs." Now let's quit prettifying the item in question with all of those tricky "aka's"; no matter how many ribbons you put on them, we're still talking about BULL TESTICLES!
Good Lord, people actually eat these. And like them. There are festivals--festivals, mind you!--devoted to these so-called scrumptious nuggets. It boggles my mind, especially since those who "claim" to like them are usually the rugged, macho types who I'd think would rather be wrangling bulls instead of chomping into their nards. I've also never met a woman who has said, "You know, I'd really like to scarf down a big steaming plate of bull testicles. Yum."
So our science lesson in the pool continued. I said to my nephew, "Boyo, never--under any circumstances, ever--eat rocky mountain oysters." I explained what they were.
Here's where things really got interesting. It turned out my brother-in-law had tried them. He said, "I ate one once and now I'm done."
I asked, "Were they crunchy?"
The women in the pool scoffed. My bro-in-law said, "No, they weren't, not like you'd think they would be. They were kinda...gooey."
(Which just REALLY makes me want to steer clear of them).
Incredulous, my wife and sis-in-law gang up on the guys, think it's silly that we believe they'd be crunchy. Yet, all four males agree.
Patiently, I explained, "I find it amazing that women don't think they'd be crunchy. I mean, we live with the things after all. Why do you think they're called nuts?"
Our exploration into science came to a screeching halt.
Later, though, I pulled my nephew aside, whispered, "Somewhere, there's a field of poor, depressed bulls without testicles milling about."
All in the name of science, of course.
While we're on the topic of science, I'm reminded of lycanthropy (which has absolutely nothing to do with science and is a shameful segue into plugging my brand spankin' new book). Of course, I'm talking about Corporate Wolf, put out by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press. Think "An American Werewolf in London" meets "Office Space" and you've got a good running start. Available for preorder right about....NOW!
Friday, July 5, 2019
The (Un)Luck of the Irish with Eileen O'Finlan
SRW: Eileen O’Finlan. Go on. Everyone say it. Get it out of
your system (And I can hear you over the introwebs, using your crappy Irish
accents learned from dirty bar jokes. I do it,
too.).
But, Ms. O’Finlan is also an author. Damn good one, too. Her
first book (First book? Really?) is catnip for historical fiction and romance
fans. I read her epic tale, Kelegeen, of the 1800’s Ireland potato famine and
the effects on the poor inhabitants of said town and was magically transported
and entranced. I had to hit up Ms. O’Finlan (Okay, I’m gonna knock this polite
stuff off right now)—Eileen—for an interview.
Hey there, Eileen, thanks for being a sport and putting up
with my nonsense. It may not be easy, but welcome!
EOF: Hi Stuart.
Thanks for inviting me.
SRW: Alright, before we get to your magnificent book,
Kelegeen, let’s talk about you a bit. I understand you’re a big fan of
paranormal books. A little ghost also put a whisper in my ear that you may’ve
lived in a haunted house. Spill like the wind!
EOF: It’s true.
Between the ages of 2-6 we lived in a house that I’m sure was haunted,
though I think it was really the land, not the house. The house wasn’t old and the houses on either
side of ours had “trouble” too. This was
in Worcester, Massachusetts. Strange
things happened in that house. For
example my mom and I both experienced times when we felt like someone was
standing right behind us, but no one was there.
One evening when my dad was taking night classes, Mom was home with my
sister, Cindy, and me. Cindy was asleep
in her room on the second floor and I was asleep in my room on the first
floor. Mom was reading in the living
room when she distinctly heard footsteps walking up the basement stairs. It was impossible for her to get both of us
kids out of the house in time so she grabbed the fireplace poker and stood at
the door waiting to whack anyone who opened it.
That’s where she was a short time later when Dad got home. She told him what had happened and that she’d
never heard the footsteps go back down the stairs. Dad, being Dad, took the poker, opened the
door (no one was there) and went downstairs.
There was no one in the basement and the bulkhead door was locked from
the inside.
A few other times, I
experienced seeing a woman and a young girl dressed in black sitting on the
window seat in our living room. The
woman said only one thing – “No news.” I
can’t remember what she looked like, but years later when my mom related this story
to me, I vividly remembered the words “no news” spoken in a melancholy
tone. Shivers ran down my spine. Years later, I read an article in a history
magazine that told of how women during the Civil War who had
husbands/brothers/sons/fathers fighting, but hadn’t heard from them in a while
would inquire about them whenever regiments passed through town. The request for information would be passed
down the line of soldiers and if no one knew anything of them, the response
that would come back would be “no news.”
I nearly fell off my seat when I read that! No Civil War battles were fought anywhere
near that spot, but I suppose soldiers could have come through the area. I guess I’ll never know for sure.
As for our neighbors,
they reported such things as objects moving by themselves, rapping noises, and
the like. I often wonder if the people
living in those houses today have experienced anything unusual. There is a hill
behind the house. It’s called Stratton
Hill, but when I lived there we called it Blueberry Hill. There are apartment buildings on it now that
weren’t there when we lived at the foot of it.
I wonder if they’re haunted.
One might think that
after such an experience I would not want anything to do with the paranormal.
To tell the truth I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with it. I’m fascinated by it, probably because I want
to know what was really going on in that house, but at the same time I don’t
want to personally experience anything like that again. It was VERY scary. So I enjoy reading and writing about it, but
would rather not repeat the experience.
I think.
SRW: Man, if only I could have the luck of the ghosts. (But,
truth be told, I’m sure if I experienced a haunting, I’d probably renege on
that wish). Anyway…let’s get on to your assured debut, Kelegeen. Tell everyone
what the book’s about. And make it an enthrallingly short, yet hooky
description. Bonus points if you can do it in verse. (Beatboxing is encouraged
as well).
EOF: Verse or beatboxing…umm, no.
Kelegeen is the story of a peasant village during the time of An Gorta Mór, the Great Hunger, (aka the
Irish Potato Famine). Father Brian
O’Malley is pastor of Saint Mary’s Parish in the town of Kelegeen. It is his job to shepherd his people through one
of the most horrific times in Irish history.
One of his parishioners, Meg O’Connor, is eagerly awaiting her upcoming
marriage to Rory Quinn when the blight hits destroying the food supply for the
entire village (as well as the whole country, as it turned out). Instead of marriage, their focus and that of
their families, turns to survival. At
first they are able to help their families survive by using their skills of
sewing and wood carving, but a costly mistake and a devastating accident end
those means and they are forced to turn to more dangerous ventures. As the Great Hunger continues to churn
through Ireland, starvation and disease form a deadly combination. In the end, Meg must make a choice that will
either be their salvation or separate her forever from all she knows and
loves. Along with all that, there is
some good old Irish paranormal activity such as Meg’s mother’s eerie
premonitions and Father O’Malley’s visitations by his ghostly long lost love.
SRW: Thanks to my professional research assistant (Ms. Google),
I discovered Kelegeen isn’t a true town in Ireland. Is it based on any
particular place? Have you visited Ireland for research?
EOF: Ms. Google is correct. Kelegeen is not a real town in Ireland. In fact, I employed Ms. Google to make
certain it wasn’t before going ahead with the name. I didn’t want to have to stick to the true
history of a real place, preferring some fictional leeway. It is, however, loosely based on the real
town of Skibbereen, which was one of the hardest hit towns during the Great
Hunger.
Oh, how I wish I
could say that I’ve visited Ireland, but alas, I have not. Not yet, anyway. I sincerely hope to get there someday. I am tremendously gratified whenever someone
who’s read Kelegeen tells me how much it reminds them of Ireland, especially
those whose parents or grandparents came from Ireland. It’s good to know I got the feel of it
right. Phew!
SRW: Things are pretty grim going for the folks in Kelegeen.
The starving residents are eating tree bark. Surely, this isn’t that
nutritious. (I asked my wife—a medical professional—about the nutritional value
of tree bark; she said it’d be nil and people would probably have a hard time
digesting it; no wonder Euell Gibbons died at an early age). Did the starving
Irish actually do this?
EOF: Sadly,
yes. They also ate grass. And
seaweed. And whatever else they could
get their hands on. I suppose that when
one is in that severe a state of starvation, they aren’t stopping to think
about nutrition. Just to have the
feeling of something in the belly is a relief of a sort to the gnawing pain of
starvation.
It’s my understanding
that there aren’t many trees in Ireland today. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I’ve
heard it’s because of the bark that was stripped and eaten from them. Stripping a tree of its bark kills the
tree. I guess the trees didn’t fare much
better than the people.
SRW: There are a lot of words I’d never heard before, Irish
terms, but now I’m an expert thanks to your book. That’s all it takes. For
example, after watching a couple seasons of the Olympics, I can tell when a
perfect Sowkow is landed. Anyone care to guess what a Scalpeen is? Eileen,
please explain what that word means and if it’s specific to Ireland during the
famine.
EOF: A scalpeen is a three-sided structure (two
walls and a roof) built by the Irish during the Great Hunger. When the cottiers couldn’t pay their rent
they were evicted and their homes torn down or burned. With nowhere to live they built scalpeens,
usually hidden in hillsides to escape notice.
Often they could use some of the scraps of their torn down homes. It was the “lucky” ones who could build a
scalpeen. Many lived in a “scalp” which
was simply a hole in the ground.
Here is an image of a
scalpeen in Donegal:
(Image from Donegal Generations by Tom Gallen)
Not much, but a
better option for living in than a scalp as seen here:
(Image from Donegal Generations by Tom Gallen)
SRW: Along the same line of query, what I couldn’t
understand is these evil, Trumpian landlords would evict the suffering,
starving families from the cottages they own, and then tear them down. Um,
doesn’t that go against good ol’ fashioned capitalistic goals of constantly
making money by renting to another family?
EOF: What you need to understand, Stuart, is
that the British hated the Irish, mainly for reasons of religion. It’s too long to go into here, but Ireland
had been taken over by the British going all the way back to the 1600s. The British had outlawed Roman Catholicism,
the predominant religion of Ireland, taken the land and most of the rights from
the Irish people (unless they converted to Protestantism, which most refused to
do) and made them tenants on what was once their own land. All sorts of
restrictions known as the Penal Laws had been inflicted on the Irish by their
British overlords and had been in force for centuries. By about 16 years prior to the famine some of
the worst of the penal laws had been repealed and Catholicism was tolerated (barely),
but the Irish people still didn’t own their own land. Nor could they vote, carry a gun, own a
horse, hold political office, etc. They
were considered by the British to be an indolent, lazy, filthy people who did
not deserve any better. This
discrimination had been drilled into the British psyche over centuries. Though the British did not cause the blight
or the Great Hunger that ensued, they did see it as a blessing from God – a
punishment on the Irish for the sin of Catholicism (or “popery” as they more
often called it) and thought of it as a perfect way to rid the land of the
Irish so that it could be re-inhabited by English and Scotch Protestants. They also wanted the lands the Irish peasants
lived on for pasturing their own livestock.
The Great Hunger
lasted six years. As it continued to
worsen, many people tried to escape by leaving for other countries. A small amount of British landlords paid for
the passage of their tenants, more to get them off the land than to help them,
though most were not that generous.
Proposals for government-assisted emigration from Ireland were denied by
Sir Charles Trevelyan, the Director of the British government’s so-called
“Irish Relief Measures.” Trevelyan
stated that, “the great evil with which we have to contend, is not the physical
evil of the famine, but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse, and turbulent
character of the Irish people.”
The London Times
referred to the Famine as “a great blessing” and a “valuable opportunity for
settling the vexed question of Irish discontent.” The Times advocated replacing
evicted Irish by imported English and Scottish farmers who would, in their
eyes, be thrifty, loyal, and Protestant.
Given all this, it
would not have made sense from the British landlords’ point of view to replace
one evicted Irish tenant family with another.
SRW: Alright, enough history blather! Let’s get into
specifics. Eileen, I have to ask… Are you a closet sadist? You certainly put
every character in the book through the ringer until few are left (barely)
standing. Pretty much one small victorious step forward, three deaths back.
Evil, I say, evil!
EOF: LOL!!! No, I don’t think I’m a closet
sadist. I’m right out in the open. (Just kidding). You try writing a story about something like
the Great Hunger and see how upbeat it is!
All joking aside, I’ve had some thoughts about that. People do tell me that though they loved the
book it was hard to read. I get that,
but what did they expect? There are many
books set in concentration camps during the Shoah (aka Holocaust). (I’m reading one right now – The Tattooist of Auschwitcz). These books can be brutal to read, but the
reader expects that, don’t they? Yet, Kelegeen sometimes gets castigated for
being so grim. What gives? I think I might have figured it out. If I’m right, it comes from the fact that people
know a lot about the horrors of the Shoah, having learned about it in school
and seen many movies and read many books about it. I can’t count the times readers have said to
me, “I’d heard of the Irish Potato Famine, but I had no idea what it was all
about. I didn’t know it was so awful. I didn’t know how much people suffered, what
they endured. I learned so much from
this book.”
To me, that is very
telling. Why hasn’t An Gorta Mór been
given a greater presence in American classrooms? My suspicion is because it doesn’t reflect
well on the British who are long-time American allies whereas the Germans were
our enemies in two World Wars. Also,
when Irish immigrants began arriving in America, they weren’t exactly
welcome. Remember the “No Irish Need
Apply” signs? The Know-Nothing political
party which was strongest at the time of the arrival of the Famine Irish was
extremely anti-Catholic, anti-immigrant, and anti-Irish. I think the lack of teaching about An Gorta
Mór is a hold- over from times when Americans would prefer not to lay any blame
at the doorstep of the British or their descendents. I could be wrong, but that’s my
suspicion.
I also think it’s
time that changed. I’m not out to make
the British look bad. In fact, I worried
about that when I was writing Kelegeen. Despite the reality of the situation, I
didn’t want to make the British people look like monsters and was careful to
include some balance in the good and bad to be found within both the British
and the Irish. However, when I brought
up this dilemma to one of my writing mentors, she reminded me that the British
did not build one of history’s biggest and greatest empires by being nice. I guess no one does. I don’t feel Kelegeen is a reflection on the British people of today or their
descendents. It’s just a piece of
history. American history certainly has
its own share of misdeeds, to put it mildly.
SRW: As an author, personally I’m curious as to who you see
as the main protagonist: Meg or Father O’Malley…
EOF: Meg.
Definitely, Meg. It’s funny
because when I started I would have said Father O’Malley. The genesis of this book began with an
assignment given to me by my Irish history professor when I was working on my
undergraduate degree in history. He
proposed that I keep a diary as if I were a parish priest during the time of
the Great Hunger. A priest was the
perfect character for this because he would have known what was going on, had
the confidence of his parishioners, was very involved in trying to alleviate
their spiritual and physical struggles, and had a bigger picture of the overall
workings of the parish territory which he shepherded. I loved that assignment. When I completed it, I realized I had the
skeleton of a novel. That’s when the
idea to create a novel from the fictional diary was born.
However, as I wrote
the novel, Meg grew into a powerful character who captivated me. Somehow, I was able to put myself in her
place more readily than that of any other character. Father O’Malley is a great champion for his
people, but Meg O’Connor, a simple peasant girl, is a force to be reckoned with
for sure!
SRW: To me the highlight of the book hit at the midpoint;
the wake for a lost loved one, done with love, care, religion, and bare means.
The details are fascinating, the atmosphere riveting. Particularly how loved
ones are supposed to rise above it and prepare a mangled body for a decent,
God-shipped send-off. All truth?
EOF: Yes indeed.
The Irish wake is the stuff of legends.
Of course, as the starving dragged on, it was more and more difficult to
keep up with these customs and rituals.
People no longer had the strength for it so often had to reluctantly
forego it. The American wake was very
real, though, and was held whenever possible.
SRW: Actually, it seems that more importance was put on
giving proper Christian burials rather than feeding the living at times, at
least in regard to little money spent.
EOF: Yes.
The Irish of that time were a profoundly spiritual people. They believed whole-heartedly in an afterlife
– one that was far more important and better than the earthly life. I don’t find this at all surprising for a
people who spent centuries enduring unending cruelty, hardship and
degradation. What else had they to look
forward to with great longing but a glorious eternal life? So it was important to make the send off
worthy of it.
SRW: SO… It’s nothing new, particularly with the state of
the world right now, but there’s a lot of hatred between the imperialist
invaders and natives. Sigh. Nothing seems to change, even though we should know
better by now.
EOF: You got that right! As I work on the research for the sequel,
most of which will take place in America (Worcester, Massachusetts to be
exact), the more I find that history is once again repeating itself. In the 1800s it was the Know-Nothing party
causing the most trouble. They referred
to themselves as “nativists” or “native Americans” and they did not mean by
that what we mean today by Native Americans. They meant people whose British
ancestors colonized the northeastern part of this country. They truly believed they were the only people
entitled to live here. (Apparently, they
forgot all about the true Native Americans who were already here and who their
forebears displaced or wiped out.) Many
of them wanted to send the Irish and other non-Protestant immigrants back to
their home countries. They spoke of
being afraid of immigrants overrunning the country and of America being taking
over by the Pope. They also used the
term “America First.” They may have been
the originators of that term, but I’m not sure.
SRW: Let’s talk about “magic realism,” a subgenre of fiction
made popular particularly by Latin America’s most famous authors. It’s a
realistic narrative touched by elements of magic. I would say Kelegeen falls
into that category. Am I off-track, Eileen?
EOF: No, you are not off-track. I love magical realism. Considering the “unusual” experiences I’ve
had in my own life, some so-call “magic” seems quite real to me. I’m far from
the only person who can say that. So it feels to me like it’s simply a part of
life. To quote the Bard, “There are more
things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your
philosophy.” I totally believe that to
be true.
SRW: We have the ever-appearing comb and the spirit of
Siobhan lingering over the entire proceedings. It’s kinda magical, don’t tell
me it’s not! Don’t make me come over there!
EOF: Stuart, you can come over anytime you want,
but I’ll never tell you those elements aren’t magical. With all the grimness of the famine, those
things brought in some lighter moments – what my awesome editor and fellow BWL
author, Eileen Charbonneau, referred to as “the grace notes” of the novel.
SRW: Alright, are you continuing Meg’s adventures in America
(belated spoiler alert!) and her trials to reconnect with her family? Damn well
better, that’s all I’m sayin’.
EOF: Absolutely!
I was always planning a sequel to Kelegeen,
though I had thought of writing a different story first. However, so many readers have been after me
for a sequel, I realized it would have to be my next novel. Everyone wants to know what happens to the
characters that survived. I am currently
deeply immersed in the research for the sequel and have begun the first draft. I’m on Chapter 3 as of this writing. I am greatly enjoying researching and writing
the sequel. I promise it will be much
more upbeat than Kelegeen. The focus will be on the characters that come
to America, but readers will get to find out what happens to those who stayed
behind as well.
I’m having a blast
writing this novel. It gives me such
pleasure to improve the lives of my beloved characters who have been through
such horror and devastation. Not that
everything is perfect for them. After
all, if there’s no conflict, there’s no story.
But it’s a different kind of conflict and they have better resources at
their disposal. There are plenty of new
characters in the sequel, too. I’m
enjoying getting to know them and I hope readers will, too.
SRW: Can you dance an Irish jig?
EOF: I don’t think
I’ve ever tried. I was a gymnast and I
took ballet, tap, and jazz when I was in middle school and high school. Had I tried then, I probably could have done
it. Now, not likely or at least not well.
SRW: Do you like Lucky Charms? (Sorry, sorry, a thousand
sorries…)
EOF: You should be! But you’re forgiven. I did when I was a kid. Nowadays, I’m into the organic scene.
SRW: After your Kelegeen sequel, what’s up next for you,
Eilleen?
EOF: Hopefully, I’ll get to that book I was
going to write next, but had to put aside to work on the sequel. It will be set in 1830s Vermont with the New
England Vampire Panic as the backdrop.
So that there’s no confusion or dashed hopes, I’ll say right now that
there will not be any vampires in it.
But it will be dark, eerie, and historically accurate. For those who wonder what on earth the New
England Vampire Panic was I encourage you to check out this Smithsonian
article: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/the-great-new-england-vampire-panic-36482878/
Since I was in middle
school, I’ve been fascinated with the Salem Witch Hysteria so I’d also like to
write a novel set during that time.
I have a plethora of
historical fiction novel ideas swimming around in my mind. I just hope I live long enough to write all
of them!
By the way, I also
have ideas for contemporary fiction, so that may come at some point. Historical fiction is my favorite, though, so
I’ll be focusing on that for the foreseeable future with one exception. I have been working for a few years on a
story featuring my two cats, Smokey and Autumn Amelia. In this story, there are no humans at all,
but all the animals are highly anthropomorphized. Smokey is an architect with Fluffington
ArCATechture and Autumn is a savant baker and chef. I amuse the heck out of myself writing this
story as well as the few people who I’ve let read early drafts. It’s got a serious theme, but is written in
what I hope is a hysterically funny manner.
My biggest problem is I have no idea what genre this story falls
into. It’s kind of Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit meets Orwell’s Animal Farm. Someone told me it might be a modern day
fable. Maybe, but that doesn’t sound
very exciting to me. And I’m telling
you, anyone who likes animals (think crazy cat ladies, here) will get the
biggest charge out of it so I hope it will eventually find a publishing home.
SRW: Finally, where can interested readers/fans/stalkers
find you on the world-wide introwebs?
EOF: My website is at: https://www.eileenofinlan.com/ If
you scroll down on the homepage you can sign up for my monthly newsletter to be
kept up-to-date on everything going on with Kelegeen,
the sequel and, everybody’s favorite section “The Cats’ Corner” written by
those two wacky felines of mine.
You can also find me
on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/eileenofinlanauthor/
On Goodreads at: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17762333.Eileen_O_Finlan
On Bookbub at: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/eileen-o-finlan
On BWL Publishing,
Inc. at: http://bookswelove.net/authors/o-finlan-eileen-historical-fiction/
Purchase of Kelegeen
can be made on:
You can also go to
the buypages on my website or BWL Publishing, Inc. page listed above for places
to purchase.
SRW: Hey! There you have it, folks! If you’re a fan of
historical fiction, I encourage you to get on Kelegeen stat. That’s an order.
Thanks so much for being a good sport and guest, Eileen.
EOF: My pleasure, Stuart!
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