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Celebrate the Emerald Isle: Must-Read Books for St. Patrick’s Day
Looking for a touch of Irish magic in your next read? Here’s a bevy of books that celebrate the Emerald Isle. You’ll find classic works of fiction that delve into Irish identity and culture. In addition, you will discover nonfiction tales that explore the island’s rich history and highlights its sense of humor. From heartfelt family sagas to gripping historical accounts, these stories are perfect…
SPINDLEFRECK: 21 novella-length episodes available here: Table of Contents
Witches, warlocks, necromancers... and that’s just the kitchen staff.
Check out this too #coolcover from @noexit! This 2-books-in-1 #policeprocedural has us flipping out 😄😱What follows: two tales of policeman Pat Coyne—a Dublin Dirty Harry. Headbanger: Garda Pat Coyne is a Dublin policeman who is passionately devoted to sorting out the world's problems. He sees cars, crime, pollution and golf as ominous signs of a disintegrating society. Coyne's principal mission is to deal with crime, Ireland's biggest growth industry. Though only a cop on the beat, he decides to take on the notorious gang leader, Drummer Cunningham. Sad Bastard: Garda Pat Coyne, aka "Mr. Suicide," is back. Injured in the line of duty, and living alone, he's become more obsessive and volatile, developing a fetish for women's knickers. When a body washes up on the docks, the prime suspect is none other than his son, Jimmy. Both Coynes are notorious for their spells of self-destruction. Coyne's estranged wife blames him, his mother-in-law berates him, and his therapist labels him psychotic. But when a duo of criminal thugs try to kill his boy, Coyne decides to straighten things out. #readcrime #favoritecover #coverreveal #mystery #crime #fictionaddiction #noexit #irishfiction #readmore (at Chicago, Illinois)
Back On Old Ground
Back in the apartment and remembering a lot of bad choices. Holy ground, where different versions of the same person, or the same problem, walked in bare feet, late at night, early in the morning. I wonder if their skin cells are still there, settled in hard-to-reach corners.
During the pandemic I woke up and realised that time had passed. It was startling. I did not like it. All of the stories I had embarked on seemed very embarrassing. And I had told people about them, people knew. That was really embarrassing.
If the brain “in love” is similar to the brain on heroin, then what is my brain like when it’s procrastinating? I did not make those choices out of a need for love or as an attempt to feel like I was complete. I made them to keep myself away from my responsibility to myself, from the blank page or the blinking cursor. I did it to fill up the empty space looking back at me with other people’s tedium. Choose someone extra-ordinary and build flimsy expectations around them like a cowboy contractor and before you know it, you’ll have wasted so much of your finite energy on being annoyed with them, there’ll simply be nothing left to put into worrying about what you should really be doing. Easy.
There’s a part of my brain that’s waiting for the morning when I wake up and discover that it’s all ok, I am in fact still 26 and there are vast expanses of free time stretching out ahead of me, no need for accountability anywhere in sight. Thank God!
Day 23 and I’m flagging
Day 23, only 5 days left in this self-imposed 28 days of posting challenge, and I’m flagging. There’s a heavy tiredness on me, like iron filings in my veins, making it hard to move or think. The last few days I’ve left it too late to write and post. Various Addictions and Horror & Fantasy were a real slog to smash out and shape up into something presentable. I quite liked Horror & Fantasy but felt nervous posting it. Porn is a subject that really divides opinion, and I didn’t want to give the impression I’m some kind of puritan evangelist.
What shall I write about today? The writing process, maybe? This challenge/experiment has been energising for the most part. It’s made a number of ideas much clearer and brought me closer to developing them with the detail they deserve. There have been plenty of moments of doubt along the way, too, especially after repeated re-reads (I haven’t forgotten about Francine Prose and Reading Like A Writer), which have left me questioning the fluency of my expression. So why post writing I’m not 100% happy with on the internet? As an attempt to move past restrictive perfectionism, to train my editing muscles and to impose the obligation of a schedule on myself, rather than being happy to dream about such and such a cool story I’ll write some day in the indistinct future. The benefits have so far outnumbered the growing pains.
Let’s see what the next 5 days bring.
Various Addictions
Julian is typing.
I haven’t felt this way in such a long time.
It can’t have been that long since he felt “this way”. I turn it over in my head, and it’s not attractive, this blowing hot and cold. He’s too old to say things like that, all that awful, untrue gush. But there must be something in all of this for me, this preoccupation with another person’s behaviour.
A week later, I’ve given up suggesting we meet. He’s refused twice in a row and suggested no alternatives. I feel lighter at the thought of not seeing him again. I’m lying in bed texting some other guy.
Andrew is typing.
I haven’t yet realised that it may not be a healthy sign, to get this much enjoyment out of spending the evening alone in my room, texting a guy I’m essentially making up, a character in a story. I lie looking at the ceiling, forcing myself to wait for five minutes before responding. My phone goes. Getting keen, Andrew, double texting me? But it’s not Andrew.
Hey gorgeous, what you doing?
Julian.
It’s unbearably predictable. When I was making an effort, it was no-go. I shut down, and here he is. I’m writing a story about a new character now. But soon enough familiarity tugs. I dig my heels for half an hour.
Hey, what’s up?
Straight away, Julian is typing.
Nothing. Was just watching porn.
Oh what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Some kind of weird provocation, an attempt to assert power? As though I’m already in the bag, conquered, familiar and boring, he’s not even bothering to pretend. I don’ t have the patience for this.
I let the line go cold.
A week passes, and he messages again. Tentative plans to move away have become an itinerary. I only feel a vague excitement at the prospect of total freedom again. I see him twice more. We don’t kiss, we don’t touch, we just sleep in the same bed, this strange sexless dynamic I don’t question. On the last morning, he kisses me, and it’s tepid, unsatisfying, salival. The burst of wanting is there, but not the skill to carry it off. Then he’s gone, and I’m relieved.
What does it mean, when you keep going back to such tedium, such lack of give-back?
Love for Kenny Hickey
The shape of his face, slightly feminine, very symmetrical. The black hair framing it just so. Slim, in good shape, but not exaggerated, not over developed. I’m not a fan of pecs, of too much muscle. The black tank top cut down low over the flanks, the skin lit up with health. Peter Steele was every goth girl’s dream lover, but I’m more of a Kenny Hickey girl. Black-booted, in those black jeans that aren’t skinny but aren’t boot cut, that a lot of musicians in the metal scene wore in the nineties, he flips his hair forward over his face and back over his shoulders and it falls easily into a soft mass. Back and forth across the stage, the guitar on his shoulders light as a piece of cardboard, hands forming the well-practised shape around the neck. A fluency of movement, a mastery of both body and object I’ve often envied, since at sixteen I decided I’d never be able to play guitar.
(The nineties seem to be the sweet spot in Metal Cool. I remember a boyfriend of mine getting really into the 00′s emo look, skinny jeans, black hair plastered over one side of his face. It really was the least edgy of all the alternative looks though bested now by hipsters with their perma-beanies and rolled up jeans.)
Kenny Hickey swaying on the waves of Type O Negative’s green vapours is a vision of masculine beauty, the product of a hand that knew just when to stop chiseling. The simple black clothes hang from him like they had been cut to flatter his frame. He walks the line between butch and fem with poise. Nostalgia for a time I didn’t experience swells in my chest, a white mist of longing.
