I’m writing this at the kitchen table of my thatched cottage in Tipperary, somewhere I didn’t expected to find myself at this point in my life. Writing historical fiction novels is something else I never would have foreseen.
The inspiration for my debut novel came from the cottage itself. It was built about 300 years ago but its origins were long forgotten, its records lost or destroyed. The old place deserved a fitting history so I resolved to invent one. The popular trend towards Irish misery books is something I was never able to identify with. After all, my mother hadn’t given me away to the nuns and my father wasn’t a drunk who beat us daily, twice on Sundays. Neither had I any interest in jumping on the Forty Shades of Shite wagon, softcore porn under the guise of romance. What I did have was a thirst for history, a penchant for classical books with a bittersweet ending, and a distinct leaning towards dark Irish humour. It was a start.
I began writing on April 1st, 2013, the irony of which I’m sure is not lost on the reader. A month later I found myself with 300 pages of manuscript. Now what? Learning origami offered itself as an option but finding an agent seemed eminently more pragmatic. I bought a book and began my research into how a new writer might get published. I soon came to a chapter which proffered advice on how to construct a query letter.
Quite frankly, the prospect of grovelling to a stranger on bended knee, with cap in hand, smacked to me of arse-kissing but I stuffed my principles and my dignity inside the aforementioned cap, puckered up and made about 20 agent submissions. Many didn’t respond and those who did declined my offer, explaining: “your project is not one that we think would be right for our agency at this time”.
Self-publishing was the other option and it made perfect sense to me. Feedback from a book’s readers is surely the best indication of whether the story is a good one and, if my book received a positive enough response, then perhaps an agent would find me. I referred back to my book on how to get published. It strongly advised against any attempt to design my own cover and, again, I disagreed. After all, I knew the story and characters better than anyone, so I pulled out a blank canvas and painted my cover image.
By mid-July, The Journeyman was available on Amazon. The story is set at the dawn of the 18th century, during the penal years. The main character is based on someone I knew well, a Jack-of-all-trades whose self-doubt was often mistaken for aloofness; a man who, although painfully introverted, was confident in his own abilities. Liam Flynn becomes an accidental hero when a village priest convinces him to register the local townland in his name, in order to avoid its confiscation by the Crown. My antagonist is a rich farmer's son, with a sense of entitlement and a dark secret. He sees this "blow-in" as a threat to his affections for Roisin, whose father owns the village pub. A sinister and enigmatic character completes the line-up and provides a bridge to the second book.
Reviews of The Journeyman soon started to come in and they exceeded my expectations. Flushed with gratitude, I embarked on my second book, Safe Home. The story jumps forward 25 years now and, as an in-your-face action adventure yarn, is somewhat of a departure from The Journeyman. I wanted a true villain this time, rather than a mere antagonist. Safe Home tells what happens when you pit a psychopathic priest hunter, with a license to kill and six Prussian jaegers under his command, against a young, sociopathic Corkman. I drew my inspiration for this book from Frederick Forsyth's Dogs of War and a film entitled The Naked Prey.
My third book, The Devil's Own Luck, has more twists and turns than the Gordian knot. Another 20 years have gone by and Gortalocca, a village now familiar to the readers, is in its dying throes. My favourite amoral character returns, having struck it rich in the New World. He sets out to seduce the village over to the dark side and there will be deadly consequences as a result. The tale is strewn with nefarious characters and corrupt civil servants, each on their own personal quest for wealth and riches. Most are destined to go down in flames before the curtain falls.
For me, writing has something of the nature of a spider. I set out to weave a web with credible characters around its periphery, then devise a plot which draws them inextricably towards the centre, where I sit waiting. My intention is to portray an insight into the gradual decline at that time in Ireland of traditional, pastoral values into a chaotic society, marred by ever-increasing violence.
I was born in Brooklyn, New York, first generation Irish-American. Although most people assumed I would follow in my father’s footsteps and become a fireman, I became a doctor. After 30 years in practice, I took early retirement and my wife and I moved to Costa Rica. We bought a house in the mountains and life seemed idyllic. After only three years, Carol died suddenly of a heart attack. One thing that can be said about hitting rock bottom is there’s nowhere to go but up and I made another life-changing decision, to spend my remaining years in Ireland. Through an Irish-interest Facebook page, I found like-minded people, one of whom would restore my faith in life, edit my work and become my best friend. She is asleep in the bedroom of our cottage as I pen this. If I was to write a story like my own, no one would believe it.
