Women Writers, Male Historians

To showcase the writing of women, the Folger Shakespeare Library has dedicated an exhibition to female scribes who were active between 1500 through 1700.

Called "Shakespeare's Sisters", the new exhibit is meant to educate us all about the brilliant prose produced by the fair sex, back in the day when life was short and hard. We have to be educated via special exhibit because no one studies this body of work in the normal course of the average education.

You've heard of Shakespeare. Have you ever heard of Susanna Centlivre? She was a star in her day. Why isn't she as well-read as old Willie?

Who decides which authors are worth keeping in current memory and which are to be relegated to the dusty past?

Men.

After Ms. Centlivre's plays were performed, and she passed on to her heavenly reward, who would have decided whether or not to put one of her dramas back on the stage? Who would have included her in a course of study?

There's a bias towards men in writing, but it's men who established the education system and confined access to higher learning, for centuries, to men. With a prejudice against the accomplishments of women, they had no incentive to include the great female authors in the studies of literature or history, and so, the ladies became more and more obscure until we're left here thinking that women didn't do much in the literary world back in the day, before the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen broke through.

So teach the children about Shakespeare, but budget a little time for his quill-pals who were just as skilled and just as talented.....only female, rather than one of the guys.

More, More, More And IPG Doesn't Like It

Should you browse Amazon's e-book shelves today, you won't find anything listed that is distributed by Independent Publishers Group.

Amazon sells so many e-books that they won't feel the sting.

How long can IPG hold out? It's 5% of their business that's been excised, which doesn't sound like a critical mass, but even so....book selling isn't exactly a license to print money these days.

What about authors whose books are distributed by IPG?

Up shit creek without a paddle is where you'll find them.

Publishers and distributors negotiate with Amazon in regard to pricing, commissions, and all things profit-related. Amazon, as you'd expect, wants to make as much money as possible by offering books for sale, books that the publisher pays to promote so that more sales are made.

It's the publishers and distributors who have to finance the operation. They take the risk on a manuscript selling, and then pay to market the product and get the product to market. All of that takes money, which is supposed to come from selling the book.

Considering the fact that e-books cost much less to produce, and can be a profit center for the owner, there's greater incentive for one side to seek more to recoup overall costs, and for Amazon to squeeze a few more drops out of IPG.

IPG and Amazon failed to reach a mutually agreeable rate, so the mighty behemoth said, "See yez!" and closed the door.

IPG distributed books are now off the Kindle shelves, until IPG comes to their senses and yields.

Or enough people complain to Amazon that they can't find Best-Seller Du Jour for their Kindle and what is the problem.

What's an author to do?

Is it any wonder that literary agents are, more and more, helping their clients to e-publish on their own? Use a platform like Smashwords and reach Kindles, Nooks, iPads, iPhones, et. al., and the author can have some control over availability.

Amazon would be happier with such a scenario. Then they wouldn't have to deal with distributors trying to maintain their cut. The authors would have to take what Amazon offers, whether it's 70% or 20% or a few pennies for the effort.

Enter To Win A Free Book

We're giving away five copies of "Lace Curtain Irish" as a St. Paddy's Day prezzie to fans of Irish fiction.

It couldn't be any easier if we tried.

Click on this link, fill in the blanks, and you're entered.

We'll pick names entirely at random....unless you ask for a copy. Then we may be inclined to send it you to commemorate your boldness.

Off you go.

 A free book that sweeps you into Chicago as the first steel beams were being installed for the World's Columbian Exposition would be the highlight of your year. Delving into the lives that were lived behind white lace curtains is an experience not to be missed.

Acceptez-vous Le Mardi Gras?

If you're stuffing yourself with 420 calorie paczki, then yes, you've accepted the Mardi Gras.

For me, it's a Mardi Gras of sending ARCs of Lace Curtain Irish to book reviewers and that means typing up personalized cover letters and signing books and all the rest.

Before long, Newcastlewest Books will (if the webmaster gets it pulled together) have information on how you can get an ARC of your very own, before the book is officially laid down.

Check out the give-aways at Goodreads, where we hope to run a pre-release promotion in which five books will be sent off to some randomly selected participants.

Want to know more about Lace Curtain Irish?

Visit Newcastlewest Books and read the cover blurb, or enjoy the first chapter of a novel that will transport you to the south side of Chicago, where Chicago politics was born.

Getting His Ginger Up

Keiran Folliard has his ginger up.

And it's all because of Pernod Ricard.

The publican is suing the French drinks firm for infringing on his exclusive rights to the name of a tasty cocktail that he invented and served at his Minnesota pub, The Local. A blend of Jameson whiskey and ginger ale, with a touch of citrus, the beverage was a huge seller, to the point that Mr. Folliard was one of the biggest sellers of Jameson whiskey in the world.

Pernod Ricard took note, and the next thing you know, they're promoting a cocktail called the Big Jameson Ginger. Promotions are designed to increase sales, and Mr. Folliard felt that the multinational corporation was profiting off of his discovery, without a drop of credit to his name.

Mr. Folliard holds the trademark on the "Big Ginger" name, so he sees Pernod Ricard in violation of the law as the conglomerate ruthlessly tramples on his rights. Pernod Ricard's legal team will, of course, point out that they've added a new word, "Jameson", into the mix so it isn't the same name at all, at all.

And as for mixing cocktails, is there really anything new under the sun?

While Mr. Folliard wants Jameson to stop using the name, it's likely that the distiller will fight the battle in court until the promotion has run its course, and then drop the name when it's no longer useful to them.

Look for a settlement somewhere down the road. Slainte!

Amazon's Fair Share

Even though Lace Curtain Irish isn't going to be released until St. Paddy's Day (hoping for the saint's blessing here), the book is already showing up at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

So I'm wondering, if I tried to order it, would it ship, or does the distributor realize that we set our lay-down date and we'd like to stick to it, if you please.

But while pondering the infinite there, I noticed a big, big difference in price.

As in full price at Amazon.

While over at BN.com, they're passing the publisher's discount on to you, the consumer.

We've found that most of our books are sold through Amazon, which is the place most people think of when it comes to ordering books, or just about anything else, online.

They must realize it as well, because they don't seem to be keen on sharing the discount with their customers. Newcastlewest Books gets the same cut, whether Amazon or BN or your local indie book seller charges full retail or some other price, which means it's Amazon reaping the financial reward.

Being relatively new to the publishing biz, I can't say if that will change as we arrive at our official lay-down date.

Before then, I hope to have the "Look Inside The Book" feature up and running so that potential buyers can thumb through the opening pages and discover how brilliant a writer P. L. O'Sullivan is. And if those buyers choose to navigate over to BN.com to make the purchase at a lower price, none of us will be complaining.

The Problem Of Big And Fat When Not Greek

Blame it on Nia Vardalos.

She wrote My Big Fat Greek Wedding and celebrated, with sweet humour, her ethnic heritage and all that culture clashes can entail. The film was a hit and Ms. Vardalos became a star.

The title came to mean something, like a bit of shorthand to describe something involving foreign customs that you've never witnessed because you're not Greek or redneck or what-have-you. So when Britain's Channel 4 needed a name for a new television programme, why not go with the tried and true?

Hence, My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.

The cameras follow Travellers in England, shedding some light into a very secretive culture that exists on the fringes of mainstream society. Few people know much about them, beyond the fact that they live on the side of the road in caravans and move about from place to place----hence the term "Traveller".

The children don't spend time in school because they're not in one town long enough for a term. The adult males work odd jobs, and have a reputation as criminals. To say they're not wanted is putting it mildly.

But still. The general public wants to know what goes on behind the walls of those mobile homes, and Channel 4 has done well with the series that presents the unique style of wedding in the Traveller community.

Big, over-the-top and outrageously expensive, viewers can't get enough of the preparations, the glitz and glamour in the midst of culturally-approved misogyny. There's a second season coming. Advertising for that second season has caused an uproar in the London Travellers Unit.

Channel 4 offers a series that is bigger, fatter and gypsier, playing on the title. The Traveller support group calls it racist, adding to the prejudice and discrimination that the Travellers face already.

So blame it on Nia Vardalos.

It was her clever title that set the ball rolling, started the whole big and fat and 'insert ethnicity here' business.

Success For Free

Newcastlewest Books author Katie Hanrahan gave away one of her books yesterday.

By all accounts, the free download of The Leaven of the Pharisees was a dazzling success. Rising to #10 on the historical fiction list sounds like success to me.

The author doesn't make anything when those hundreds of copies are downloaded, but when you don't have a huge publicity department behind you, it's a lot of free publicity for an author. Rather like the barter system in this deal. Give a book, get noticed. No money changes hands.

Today is the last day for the giveaway. If you want to read about a period in Ireland that was hidden for decades, only to explode in the faces of the Catholic bishops who protected the institution of the Church rather than the most vulnerable believers, you can download a copy of the novel at no charge before midnight, Pacific Time.

You might wonder, as you read it, if the plot has any truth to it. The answer, sadly, is yes. The Leaven of the Pharisees is a well-researched historical novel that drew from the accounts of survivors of the industrial schools and the Magdalene laundries.

Not all historical novels deal with famous people. For the next several hours, and at no charge to yourself, you can read about the lives of the most ordinary among us, whose extraordinary experiences shook the foundation of the Catholic Church and continue to resonate in the halls of the Vatican.

Welcome To The French Revolution

Have the Wild Geese flown back to Ireland?

To listen to Michael D. "Rockin' In The Dail" Higgins, you'd think you were in France circa 1797.

He's a poet, you see, and his ear is keenly sensitive to words. And not only the sound and rhythm, but the meaning. Words like client fall harshly, and he'd like us all to stop using such terms.

It's just that we in business refer to those who come to us for services as clients. Mr. Higgins doesn't like that when it's those in public service referring to their...er, clients? Service users?

In future, it's Citizen!

En garde, St. Vincent de Paul Society.

You aren't serving the public at large. You are serving citizens of the Irish Republic, and you're to call them citizens when you file your lengthy requests for funding. We won't allow the poor to be thought of as ordinary customers of some cold and calculating business. No, we are to use our hearts instead of our heads and call them Citizen.

Citizen Higgins hears "client" and he thinks "bureaucracy". That's what rattles the tympani of a man who knows only academia and never set foot in an ordinary business office.

In spite of Citizen Michael D.'s belief that the poor will be better treated if they are awash in the language of citizenship, those without are still approaching them what's got and asking for a slice of the pie. Them what's got had to work for their piece, and there's always a touch of resentment, whether the asker is a citizen or a client or a pyjama-wearing lazy sot. Changing words doesn't change hearts. It changes the meaning of the word.

Marie Antoinette became a citoyenne, but everyone still recognized her as the Queen of France. If they hadn't, why did they chop off her head?

A citizen with plenty of free time to spend obsessing over minutiae, Ireland's President is now picking nits in language, as if labeling someone a citizen will bring that person a bounty of hand outs from the government.

Oh, sorry. Bring them social justice.

Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons! Marchons! Marchons! to the social protection office and demand your fair share of the diminishing pie as a citizen of Ireland.

But not for too long.

In time, "citizen" will come to mean "pyjama-wearing lazy sot" and then Michael D. will have to find a new word.

How about...client?

When The Clueless Predict Sales

Publishers have an ongoing dilemma.

Before buying a manuscript, they have to figure out if a book will sell. They have no way to determine that except by sitting around a conference table and discussing, as if their past experience is enough of a guide.

In other words, they take a flying leap of faith and hope they don't land short of the mark.

According to the New York Times, publishers are queueing up for the right to buy Amanda Knox's memoir.

As usual, the suits want to know if it will sell and make them money, and how much money, so how much could Ms. Knox be offered, and how bad does the house want it, etc. etc.

Editors dissect the market, the emotion of the reading public, and try to take the temperature of public opinion. Raging fever or cold interest in the experiences of an American college student accused of murder, only to be thoroughly exonerated? Do potential buyers think she killed her roommate, as alleged by Italy's most whacked-out prosecutor, or do they think she got away with murder?

Giuliano Mignini managed to stir up a whirlwind of negative press against Ms. Knox, and the Italian public believed what they read. In the minds of the major publishers, that means the Italian public is still against Ms. Knox, so maybe she wasn't really and truly exonerated.

Where does the Italian public stand?

Ah, la bella figura.

The publishing houses who back off from the auction of Ms. Knox's memoirs may not understand the concept. The Italian public was humiliated on a very public stage when the world saw their prosecutor as an incompetent fool who spun plots out of thin air, and the more bizarre and reprehensible, the better. They'd prefer to say nothing more, to offer no other opinions on the case.

In short, they'd like it to go away.

That doesn't mean they believe that Ms. Knox is guilty of the crime. They just don't want to be reminded of the fact that they stirred up a huge fuss over a complete fabrication.

So could you please not publish Ms. Knox's memoirs and remind everyone all over again about a prosecutor who was convicted of abusing his office and who completely botched the "Monster of Florence" case before that? 

Any publishing house who thinks the American public, and readers in the EU, wouldn't buy the book because the editors are afraid Ms. Knox might actually be guilty are clueless.

They really should get out of New York City more. Maybe pop into some independent book shops in out-of-the-way places and see what real people like to read.

And What About Those In Steerage

Would you like to sit down and enjoy the same meal as the doomed First Class passengers of the Titanic?

Sorry, but you're too late to the party.

Noel Loughnane of the Galway-Mayo Institute of Technology dreamed up the dinner recreation as a way to raise money for the RNLI Galway lifeboat.

Times being what they are, with so many cuts to so many worthy causes, Mr. Loughnane realized that a fundraiser was essential. As a lecturer in the culinary arts, he also had the creative energy to dream up a remarkably unique theme. Tickets for the March 21st event were priced at E100 each for the eleven course meal (with appropriate wines), and they sold out in days.

Students in period costume will fill the institute's training restaurant with the right atmosphere, while guests will feast on the same bill of fare as those who consumed salmon with mousseline sauce without knowing it was their last meal.

So that's E6,000 for the lifeboat fund. Considering that the vast majority of the First Class passengers made it into lifeboats, however, I might suggest that GMIT expand the night's offering at a reduced price.

Diners could be accomodated in small classrooms, perhaps, to mimic conditions in steerage, where they would feast on whatever swill was dished out to the lower classes. The price of admission would be commensurate with the lack of luxury, naturally, but cram enough bodies into those cubicles and there's untold profits to be realized. The lifeboat station could be subsidized for the next ten years if Mr. Loughnane organized things like a White Star Line executive.

The many steerage passengers who died for lack of a lifeboat would appreciate the gesture.

Mea Culpa With Crossed Fingers

Well played, Cardinal Egan.

A bit of confession is truly good for the soul, isn't it? The man in the red hat has declared that he didn't mean it when he apologized for the sex abuse crisis in his Bridgeport, Connecticut, diocese ten years ago.

For feck's sake, it was just because he had to say it or there'd be such an outcry that he'd never have been elevated to cardinal. We can all understand that level of cynicism among those with ambition.

As the Bishop of Bridgeport, he was brilliant. His parishes needed priests of any sort to minister to the flock, and by God he provided them. How dare anyone criticize his decision to protect the pedophiles and not turn them out for public prosecution. Who'd say the Mass, eh?

What's a few damaged juveniles psyches anyway, as compared to the greater good of protecting the Church's image?

Honestly, what was he supposed to be doing with Laurence Brett, the serial abuser, besides follow orders? Cardinal Egan had his pedophile priests under control, and if Father Brett abused other boys when he was cycled out of Egan's diocese, well, it isn't the bishop's problem when he's gotten rid of a pervert.

When you get right down to it, it's the fault of the press for reporting this stuff. Everyone was happy when the abuse was hidden.

Can't we just get back to pray, pay and obey?

So the apology is officially retracted and Cardinal Egan can bask in the glory of his tenure as the Bishop of Bridgeport. He did so much good. Can't we just sweep all that bad back under the rug like good little sheep?

A Time To Write And A Time To Refrain From Writing

Before Lace Curtain Irish can land in sales catalogues, I have to approve the galley.

That means reading every single word, searching for typos and various other mistakes. I have to read very carefully, word by word, to be sure that pages or sentences or paragraphs weren't missed when the manuscript was transmitted across the Internet and its digital image turned into real paper and ink.

As much as I'd rather be working on the edit of another manuscript, my business partners are counting on me to get the proof-reading done in a timely manner.

Today I won't get a chance to put some fresh words down, to re-work sentences and edit out large chunks of sloppy narrative.

Instead, I'll do my bit so that we can set up our book give-away and send copies off to the book reviewers and the book bloggers who'll have us.

Are There Even Any Children In Paris?

To make urbanites even more guilty about their pathetic parenting skills, we now have Pamela Druckerman piling on.

Due to her extensive experience as a mother in Paris, the New York Times journalist has penned an entire book that heaps praise on the French maman while raising an eyebrow at American (that would be New York women) and their horrible offspring.

Her book, Bringing Up Bebe, is a collection of Ms. Druckerman's observations as she compared her maternal instincts to those of the natives. Of course, she found the French to be superior in raising respectful children but that might be because the French are actually parenting, and not trying to be Junior's best mate.

After spending nearly a week in Paris, however, I'm inclined to wonder if there are actually children in the nation's capital.

They weren't in the restaurants, that's for certain. Not once did we see a miniature human being at any one of the bistros or brasseries.

No surprise, of course, that there were no wee little ones at Sunday Mass. If it weren't for the tourists, the churches in Paris would be largely empty.

Not until New Year's Day, as we strolled along the Champs Elysees, did we spy any miniature French people. I'm left to wonder if the Parisians send all their children away to school immediately after birth, to be trained in polite manners and dining etiquette.

Is that the real secret?

Being tough, taking the role of the heavy, is the unpleasant part of parenting. You can't control your children if you're more concerned with them liking you. What better system than to have someone else do the dirty work, while the parents go out for dinner with adult friends or linger over a croissant at Paul?

That's why God invented nuns and the Catholic school system, isn't it?

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

No, Ernest Hemingway never said that his home town of Oak Park, Illinois, was a burg of broad lawns and narrow minds.

What might he say of them now that the village is suing a former property owner for failing to make repairs to a home that the Oak Park Fire Department caused?

James Bogard hopped on the real estate investment train just before it derailed. Stuck with an investment property he couldn't flip, he took an offer from a developer and thought he'd gotten out from under without too much damage to his fiscal health.

Alas, the developer bought it for a tear-down and promptly turned the empty house over to the Oak Park Fire Department so that they could use the house for training purposes. The building was coming down anyway, so why not let the firemen get some much needed practice in venting, rescue, and the rest.

Double alas for Mr. Bogard. The deal fell through---after the fire department had put gaping holes in the roof, punched holes in the walls, and filled the place with smoke to replicate a fire.

As proof that no good deed goes unpunished, the Village of Oak Park sued Mr. Bogard, insisting that he as the homeowner had to fix the place up. And not even a letter of thanks from the firemen who reaped the benefit of trashing the place.

The case has been dragging on for the past three years, with Mr. Bogard pointing out the fact that the fire department is at fault for the damage. Shouldn't they have run a quick title search to verify that the developer who gave them access to the house was actually the owner before taking an axe to the roof?

Mr. Bogard is suing the Village, seeking compensation for the damage and a removal of the fines that the Village levied against him for those same damages. He'd like the Village to make good on his losses, which include the inability to rent the house when he couldn't sell it. Considering the fact that the fire department made the structure uninhabitable, it's a fair claim.

Village officials aren't talking, but what can they say after pulling such a bone-headed manuever?

How about, sorry, forget the fines, please go away and stop calling attention to a case of bureacracy run wild. It distracts from the town's elite position as the birthplace of Ernest Hemingway.

Hit The Road, Mac

Writers are able to foster a sense of belief in their readers.

With the right collection of words, an author can make a reader suspend their instincts and inclinations to not believe whatever plot device or character quirk the writer has devised.

If you were on Twitter and found a tweet from @CormacCMcCarthy, you might allow yourself to believe that the reclusive writer had actually gotten himself a Twitter account.

Author Margaret Atwood believed it to be so.

Alas, all good fiction must come to an end, and the fake Cormac McCarthy has hit the road. Michael Crossan, an unpublished writer from bonnie Scotland, admitted that it was him who set up the account and started tweeting.

From the start, the account took off to a degree that Mr. Crossan never expected. He sent one tweet to Ms. Atwood, as Cormac McCarthy, and she excitedly proclaimed to all her followers that Cormac himself was out there in the Twitterverse. Then Twitter's own Jack Dorsey added further support, by proclaiming to the millions that the recluse was on Twitter and doesn't Twitter have all the great authors sending off those short bursts of characters.

All along, it was only Michael Crossan.

Three days into his literary exercise, he was found out and his Twitter feed is no more.

Mr. McCarthy's publisher has stated that the real author of The Road doesn't so much as own a computer. The man doesn't even write short stories, so to believe that he'd be tweeting is a bit ridiculous.

Pity Mr. Crossan hadn't taken a page from the Columbia College professor's on-line masquerade as the fake Rahm Emanuel during the Chicago mayoral race.

At least he played it for laughs.

And got a nice book deal out of his tweets.

Beloved Toys Meet The Disposable Society

The result of said meeting is a fatal collision, in which the beloved toys have lost.

Melissa Nolan is closing her doll shop and hospital because there isn't enough business in Dublin to pay the bills.

It's more than that, you'd expect.

Once upon a time, little girls were given dolls as toys to play with. If they were judged mature enough to exercise great care, they would receive a fanciful confection of porcelain and elaborate costume and real hair. Such items were cherished forever, and brought to the doll hospital for repair.

The closest we have today is the American Girl series, but those pale in comparison.

Girls aren't limited to domestic-themed toys these days. The future women of the world enjoy video games, and they're as likely to be out on the soccer pitch as they are to be found playing house.

Yet there remains a fascination with dolls and all their paraphernalia. Witness the financial success of the American Girl and the Cabbage Patch Kids before that, to say nothing of all things Barbie.

What's particularly sad about the loss of Ms. Nolan's shop is the fact that a doll store has occupied those premises on George's Street since the 1930's. The Great Depression didn't kill it then, but the Great Recession has done its worst.

The Nolans hope to find someplace else to re-open, some other storefront where the rent is in line with the shop's limited income. Surely there will always be a market for dollhouses and miniatures and clothes and a custom-made doll that's like no other in the world.

Business As Usual Isn't A Good Thing In This Instance

Romance authors seeking publication could once try their luck at Dorchester Publishing, a small house that cranked out bodice rippers and, one would assume, turned a profit.

Then things turned sour.

Authors reported missing royalty checks, or not getting paid at all. Dorchester had excuses. There was some shifting in strategy, suggestions of turning entirely to e-books. All along, they insisted they were still a going concern.

How can a publisher be operating when the editorial staff is close to non-existent?

With the departure of Chris Keeslar, there are five people left running Dorchester, a few of whom hold editorial staff positions.

Oh, and there's still a marketing and publicity coordinator. Ms. Hannah Wolfson put out an announcement on the heels of Mr. Keeslar's departure, claiming that it's all "business as usual". The usual, of late, isn't so good, when authors don't get paid. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it's probably fairly accurate.

Dorchester is reorganizing and trying to re-invent itself, searching for a niche that's in need of filling when book sales are down. By the end of February, according to Ms. Wolfson, a plan will be in train.

That plan must not include a blog for the Dorchester community, because it's been put to sleep. Submissions have been closed for some time, but it only makes sense. Who would want to submit to a house that has acquired a reputation of short-changing its authors?

Do not go gentle into that good night, and Dorchester is clearly raging against the dying of the light. The problem is, when the patient is terminal, there's no amount of medicine that can save it.

Shorting The First Communion Money

There's an old phrase that's used to describe someone who acts is if you're crushing the life out of him when you remind him it's his shout at the pub.

He's still holding on to his First Communion money, it's said of the tight-fisted. Never parts with a penny.

Now it's the government's turn to become tight-fisted about the money it doles out for the needy about to make a First Communion or a Confirmation.

Joan Burton is taking a long, hard look at how much the Exchequeur is giving to social welfare recipients to cover the cost of the Big Day.

The State is suffering from empty pockets, and those looking to cut back on expenditures are wondering if the government really needs to give a family E242 to pay for clothes for the kiddies.

In Ireland, the whole Communion/Confirmation business has gotten out of hand, becoming occasions for lavish and over-the-top spending. Fine if you've got the cash, but for those on the dole, it's the taxpayers' cash funding a religious event that wasn't ever meant to resemble a miniature wedding.

Community welfare officers are going to reduce the stipend to E110. It's enough to buy a new set of clothes for the guest of honor, which falls into line with the Church's take on the explosion of expenses related to the religious observance. In other words, quit worrying about putting on a holy show and concentrate on God.

Those with the ready cash, however, will continue to try to out-do one another.

And those at the bottom will complain mightily, that they can't have what someone else has.

Those would be the Sinn Fein supporters.

Reverse Evolution, or, Planet Of The Chimps

You think it's funny, do you?

Those chimps that represent every doofus you've worked with, they make you laugh every year when Careerbuilder.com runs the ad during the Super Bowl game.

Admit you. You are guilty of finding humor.

There are those who aren't so much as chuckling. Maybe it's because their collective heads are lodged firmly up their collective asses.

Chicago's own Lincoln Park Zoo wants Careerbuilder to pull those ads AT ONCE and NEVER RUN THEM AGAIN!!!

The head of the zoo's Fisher Center, home to many primates on display, is beyond upset when he sees the noble chimp used in such a fashion, as an object of ridicule.

In Dr. Steve Ross's mind, showing chimps in suits will make us less likely to want to preserve and protect the species. Using chimps in such a frivolous manner will only result in a further erosion of chimp populations. At least that's what he's gotten out of a study from Duke University that claimed use of chimps in commercials takes away our concern for the fate of chimps in the wild.

Dr. Brian Hare, who led the Duke study, is worried that all those Africans watching the Super Bowl will be led to believe that chimps are in high demand as advertising stars, and they'll all go out and try to capture every last wild chimp.

Those of us who live in the real world, well beyond the boundaries of the Ivory Tower, find that concept almost as funny as the commercials themselves. Desperately poor people in Africa, watching American television? Do they train chimps to pedal bicycles attached to generators to create the electricity to power the 52 in. plasma screen?

The two professors have cited statistics that show the ads are less effective than those that employ scantily clad female humans or cute little jingles, but Careerbuilder.com has found that the ads are highly effective at boosting business and creating brand awareness. They aren't about to drop an ad campaign that's working for them.

So that means the college profs have nothing left but the instillation of guilt, in the hope that the public will feel their outrage and turn on Careerbuilder.

That's not likely to work, either, but it's a whole lot easier to create a tempest in a teapot than to actually put together a public awareness campaign that rides on Careeerbuilder's coat tails. Less troublesome to call for a boycott than to teach the viewing public about the threats to chimp habitat and population, about the realities of wild animals that cannot be turned into household pets.

But then again, these are college professors we're talking about. They're not accustomed to doing the dirty work, like teaching. Isn't that what the T.A.s and instructors are for?

Are We There Yet?

Hope this one's a keeper.

It's one thing to be creative, but it's another thing altogether when that creativity butts up against the foreign language that is a computer program.

Are we on track with our publication date of March 17, 2012?

Damned if I know.

At any rate, if there's no more technical problems and glitches, Newcastlewest Books will put together a lovely pre-publication ARC give-away and let's not forget sending ARCs to reviewers and book bloggers and anyone else who's interested in historical fiction arising from the Irish diaspora.

Lace Curtain Irish is set in Chicago and takes place in the area near the Union Stockyards. It's the home of the Chicago Way, of Irish politics and influence and a lingering scent of power arising from money. It is a story that takes place in the past, but could just as easily be told in the present tense.

We All Could Use A Room Of Our Own

It was Virginia Woolf who famously noted that female authors need their own space in which to work.

We writers need the peace and quiet...and the NOT GETTING INTERUPTED...in order to create. Not only the women, but all writers need to focus their thoughts on the words bouncing around inside their heads.

Her adage about having money applies to all equally well. To write is to not earn a living, and if you have bills to pay, you know you have to be doing something with your time that brings in an income.

I tried to fix the cover of Lace Curtain Irish today, and for someone not accustomed to using Adobe's fabulous software, it takes every brain cell to figure it out. I'm not to be allowed to focus any brain cells on the project that needs to be finished, and very soon.

Maybe later? Maybe after the family's gone to sleep, and assuming I'm not nodding off myself?

A room of my own, and money. What an impossible dream.

From Deserter To Hero In Sixty-Five Years

Perhaps Eamonn de Valera's greatest legacy is one of incomprehensible idiocy, as evidenced by the sympathy he extended to Germany's ambassador to Ireland following the death of Adolph Hitler.

When World War II broke out, he loudly proclaimed that Ireland was neutral while the rest of the world fought to put an end to fascism and wholesale murder, although there are those who don't think Dev was sincere in his declarations.

But he was adamant about the appearance of the whole "neutral" business. Any Irish member of the Defense Forces who took it upon himself to join the fight, making a mockery of Dev's decree, was labeled a deserter.

When all those men came back at war's end, they were treated like what Dev had labeled them: deserters.

Those who dared to defy the neutrality stance that he ordered were made to pay for many long years. Who'd want to hire a deserter, after all? Such men were blacklisted, to be denied employment for the very grave sin of showing up Eamonn de Valera.

The Irish State is finally getting around to pardoning those whom the rest of the world considers heroic. Sixty-five years on, however, it's rather late in the game.

It's nothing more than a gesture for the few still alive and the families of those who paid the price for taking action, contravening the man who crowned himself king of Ireland.

No one can repay those who lived in poverty because they couldn't find work, and there's no mention of re-instating Defense Force pensions that were denied because the recipients were considered deserters.

That's the problem with correcting a wrong long after such a correction could repair the damages. It never comes out right.

Get Out Of Bed, Get Dressed

You're only going to the social welfare office.

They know you're not working. What do they expect you to be doing, so, beyond sitting around indoors? What's the point in getting dressed?

In future, those arriving for interviews at the office will be expected to make a slight effort at appearing presentable.

Pyjamas, in spite of all the hype by fashionistas, are out.

At the Damastown office in West Dublin, they've posted a sign that bans the wearing of jammies. If you're meeting with a counselor, you have to turn up in real clothes.

Looking like you've just climbed out of bed isn't sending the right signal, especially when the counselor wants to know how you're progressing on your job search. Sitting there in P.J.'s, it's pretty clear that you're not searching and you're quite content to pocket your allowance and remain on the dole into infinity.

Then again, you might be signalling severe depression and before you know it, someone from the mental health services is clucking over you as they bundle you off to the psychiatric ward. You'll be free to wear jim jams all day long, but it will hospital-issued apparel and there's no fashion sense to those items whatsoever. And the barred windows tend to be rather confining.

Who would have envisioned a dress code at the welfare office? How times have changed.

Increased Price, Reduced Content

We're all still reeling from sticker shock, courtesy of the Chicago Tribune.

Of course we know that prices go up, just as the cost of producing products goes up. In the case of the newspaper, however, the jump in a home delivery subscription was more than anticipated.

Some of us cancelled, unable to bear another expense on an item that is becoming increasingly a luxury.

I admit I swallowed hard and wrote the check, not yet ready to confine my news gathering to the Internet and the Tribune's free website. I'd miss the crossword puzzle too much.

The price boost isn't enough for the Tribune Company, however. While I'm paying more for my daily paper, the suits in the corner offices are going to extract the book section and expect me to pay even more if I want to continue reading it.

How's that for a sound business model? Raise prices, reduce content, and expect the readers to keep right on dipping into wallets that are depressingly thin.

There are loads of other places to get free book reviews if I'm interested in new releases.

I already know what's coming out before it's released, thanks to Publishers Marketplace and their weekly round-up of publishing news. The New York Times has some free content yet, and their site holds plenty of book-related info that I don't have to pay extra for.

So, as much as I love books and reading, I'm not going to sign on. There's a limit to how much I can spend and still keep a roof over my head.

Besides, there's always the public library if I absolutely have to find out what Julia Keller thinks about all things literary.

Saved For Future Re-Gifting

Grandparents across the world are sending thank you notes to their offspring, adhering forever to the notion of good manners.

Those Kindles that they received for Christmas? Still in the box, in spite of the warm words of gratitude for such a lovely and expensive gift, you shouldn't have, really, it's too much...

Really.

You shouldn't have.

Nearly a quarter of the Kindles purchased for the holidays have yet to be turned on.

Why turn it on, when there's no books downloaded on it? Granted, it has to be turned on to start the download process, but do you honestly expect those without technological experience to even consider tackling something as complex-sounding as a download?

Our frugal relations won't let those expensive gifts go to waste, however. Somewhere down the days, after a suitable cooling off period, the offending Kindle will be passed along to someone else. It could be a wedding or a bridal shower. It could be a birthday of someone not directly in contact with the original gift giver. But someone else will end up with the Kindle, and no one will be any the wiser.

If you're one of those donors, however, you might want to look around in Gran's box room to see if she's really as grateful for your prezzie as she made out to be on Christmas morning. Especially if she has various hard copies of books scattered about the place. There's no converting some people.

Multi-tasking In The Digital Age

Besides the above-average press of work, there's some formatting that needs correcting on Lace Curtain Irish that desperately needs to be done yesterday.

A French publisher is interested in taking a look at the manuscript, but that means putting together a summary and manuscript into a downloadable file. And, of course, sending it along.

Bills are due in a matter of days, however, and it's up to me to make the payments. Must be that stack of things to do over there at the far right corner of the desk.

Can't keep clients waiting much longer for the return call, either. Those tasks are represented by the call log book, which is in danger of being buried under the collection of paperwork that I must get to the acountant immediately.

How I envy you, Kali, with your physique designed for multi-tasking. Even in this digital age, in which I have a smart phone and a computer and Wi-Fi access throughout my home, two hands just isn't enough to manage it all.

A Vacation From Writing

Not only was I cut off from the Internet (cheap lodgings will stretch the vacation euro, but there's always a down side), but I never had a free moment to gather some literary thoughts and write something.

Overwhelmed with the need to recall the cupla focal of French that I learned in the age of the dinosaur, my brain didn't even spin yarns as I waited in a long, long queue to visit the Tour Eiffel.

This unintended vacation from writing has left me disoriented as I sit down to return to an edit barely begun before my departure, and a short story that's little more than a hazy outline.

Where can I find some incentive to fix the formatting errors on Lace Curtain Irish so that publication can proceed on time?

The vacation is over.

The memories are stacked up in my mind, waiting to be filed away for some future use.

Like jet lag, this return to a writing routine will take a bit of time, but it won't be long before I'll be right back where I left off.

It's Official

As featured on Publishersmarketplace.com:

P. L. O'Sullivan's LACE CURTAIN IRISH, a family saga set in Chicago that encompasses the conflict between Irish immigrant parents and the first American born generation, to Cian O hAnnrachainn at Newcastlewest Books, in a nice deal, for publication in March 2012.

That makes it official. I'll have ARCs to hand around as I like, and Newcastlewest Books will no doubt have more info at the website when the time comes.

But for now, it's a fine start to a new year. My words are on paper....eventually appearing on e-reading screens everywhere. Can't wait until I'm holding a copy in my hands.

A Second Look At Digital

Lucky me, to have received an iPhone from Santa.

It's the old model, far less expensive than the latest fad, but it works just the same. It has the same features, by and large.

It has iBooks.

When it comes to reading on a screen, I'm not a fan. I like the feel of a book, the smell of the paper and the sound of a page being turned.

Clever little devils at Apple. Their reading app acts a bit like a book with an imitation of the visual aspect of page-turning. Then there's the screen on the phone. The letters are clear, and it's fairly easy on the eyes. I can't say how it is for extended use, but the few pages I've read haven't caused any strain.

The convenience of having a book with me at all times is making me reconsider the whole digital book thing. Right there in my hand is a book I can pick up when I'm stopped at a railroad crossing, or sitting on the train commuting to the city.

Any time I feel like reading, I can.

Sooooo.....maybe e-books aren't as unpleasant as all that. They serve their purpose, fill their niche. God help me, but I think I'm being converted. Not fully. Not completely, I'll never abandon the print book. But I might download a novel every now and then, to enjoy the pleasures of reading when I don't have a trade paperback at hand.

The Distiller Should Be Jailed

A young man broke into a home and then proceeded to elude police. He was found hours later, sleeping on a couch. He was not, it should be noted, at home at the time of his arrest.

Howard Brundage has no idea what happened, or how he got there, or what he did.

His alibi?

He took a few swigs of marshmallow vodka and the rest of his night was a blur.

Marshmallow vodka? Honestly?

Whoever would distill such a disgusting product should be put behind bars and made to perform community service for inflicting such tripe on the public.

As for Mr. Brundage, it's not very likely that a judge will buy his "the vodka made me do it" excuse.

Lucky for him there is no marshmallow vodka in jail, which is where he will most likely end up for some time. He'll get a chance to clear his head....and his palate.

You Should All Stay Home

If you had some notions of being out and about on St. Stephen's Day, Iarnrod Eireann settled your hash this year.

They simply didn't run the trains. If you couldn't walk to your destination, you were out of luck.

There was a time when the day after Christmas was meant to be slow. You were supposed to do some visiting, walking all the way if your family couldn't afford a car.

Ah, nostalgia. Irish Rail has brought it all back.

The State can't afford to run all the trains it once did, and that's a large part of the problem. It costs money to send a train from Cork to Dublin, and if there's only ten people on board, it's money lost.

Until after the first of the new year, there's to be reduced services, under the assumption that unemployment is high and there's few in need of rail service to commute to non-existent jobs. That's my take on the situation, at any rate.

As for the retailers asking for more trains to bring in more clients for the after-Christmas sales, can you believe their optimism? Does anyone have a euro to spare on the 26th of December?

If you really have to get somewhere, climb out of bed at the crack of dawn and take a bus. That's the only option that's left.

Changes Coming As 2011 Is Going

Even though Monday is the official, legal holiday, it seems as if everyone's taking off today as well.

Christmas being such a huge day, it requires as much additional preparation time as possible. We're shopping far into the night, searching for bargains or searching for some sort of merchandise at all. The shelves weren't stocked to capacity this year, as the vendors recognized the decline in consumer spending.

I'm off, so.

We're taking a vacation and I'm not allowed to be using electronic devices that twitter or blog or e-mail. And then when I get back, there's the matter of a new computer to be dealt with. The current model is slowly expiring, struggling to load every URL and wheezing through its accounting tasks.

I don't expect to be back in the digital world until the middle of January, 2012. Upon my return, I expect I'll be faster (upgraded to Windows 7 from XP) and loaded with RAM and gigabytes aplenty, stuffed full of USB 3.0 ports.

Behave yourselves while I'm away.

One Hundred Years After Writing To Santa

It's been one hundred years since Annie Howard sat down and wrote a letter to Santa. She was ten years old, residing in Dublin in 1911, and likely unaware of the turmoil that was soon to explode into bloody rebellion.

Like any other girl of her time, or indeed of our own time, she wanted a baby doll. Living in Ireland, she also wanted a waterproof coat with a hood and a pair of gloves to deal with the rain.

Oh, and don't forget the candy. Little Annie asked Santa to bring her a toffee apple and a gold penny and a silver sixpence. She then tucked her letter up the chimney where it would magically make its way to Santa, and who knows but that she received the much desired gifts on the 25th of December, 1911.

That letter sat in the same spot until John Byrne was re-doing the heating in a home he'd bought in Terenure, Co. Dublin. He kept it for a charming memento of a simpler time, but made his find public as this is the one hundredth year since Hannah penned her missive.

Hannah's son Victor read about the letter in the newspaper and it's hard to imagine how shocked and surprised and delighted he must have been to gain access to his mother's view of her world as a ten-year-old child.

We never meet our parents as children, but this was as close to such an encounter as anyone could have. There is no more unique Christmas gift than that.

Lean, Mean, Synergy-Realizing Machine

It's McGraw-Hill's turn to realize some synergies.

That's MBA-speak for giving people the sack.

In books, it's all about the digital as publishers see their sales climb in e-books while hard copies sink. There's nothing complex about what's happening. E-books are cheaper than hard copies, and people who love to read will find a way to feed their addiction in whatever way they can afford.

And when you say e-book, you're saying affordable, just like the paperback when it was first introduced. With e-books, you can download one to just about any device, from a phone to a computer, and access to these devices is surprisingly common.

So McGraw-Hill doesn't need such a large sales force to drag hard copies around the country, plugging the wares. A sales rep can sit at home in rumpled jammies and fire off e-mails with excerpts attached, fully ready to download to EPUB or PDF or whatever format applies.

Buy this book, all ye indie book shops, and there's the rep reaching all of them at one go. Highly efficient. Highly lacking in the need for many reps to perform such a simple task.

As for the shop owners who enjoy face time and discussing what's on offer, well, there's FaceTime on Apple's iPhones, isn't there?

And don't keep the rep on the line for long periods of time. They're doing the work of three or four in this future world of publishing, in which every publisher must be a lean, mean, synergy-realizing machine to stay competitive.

Value Added

When you hire an interior decorator to tart up your digs, you wouldn't know what said decorator is paying for your new furniture.

You assume that there's a considerable mark-up. It's how the decorator makes money. And you know full well that the person advising you on color schemes isn't actually cooking up the paint in their kitchen, any more than they are joining the panels for the doors of your new cabinetry in their shed.

You pay for the designer's creativity. The furniture company gets what the market will bear for the physical product.

What if you were only getting decorating advice? Are the decorator's ideas any less valuable if they don't put a physical product into your home?

Not quite the situation that author Michael Chabon sees in the publishing industry, but there are some similarities.

He's the writer of several novels, a few of which Open Road Integrated Media will be publishing in digital format. These older works were published before anyone heard of digital rights, and Mr. Chabon was thus able to market those rights to whoever would give him what he felt they were worth. Open Road.made him the best offer he was likely to get, not unlike the desperate souls in High Point, North Carolina when they set a price with an interior decorator.

It's just that Mr. Chabon is the one possessed of the ideas, but unlike the interior decorator, he doesn't get to set his price and reap the rewards of his creativity.

For his works that are still controlled by Random House and Harper Collins, he had to accept their royalty on e-books. The publishers don't have to run presses, buy paper and ink, or ship crates stuffed with books. There are no such costs to be recouped. Yet the royalty rate for Mr. Chabon's e-books is the same as that for a hard copy.

E-books sell for far less than hard copies, but when an author gets the same 25% regardless, it's essentially a discount on the author's ideas. The publisher then reaps the rewards of a popular author, in the form of larger profit margins on electronic editions.

Little wonder that Mr. Chabon is less than pleased with the deal. But unless he teams up with his agent to publish on his own, he's stuck with a reduced pay-out.

Shouldn't be so surprising, then, that more and more literary agents are entering the e-book field.

Adjusting The Itinerary

Piano, piano, we've been told. Going to Italy means rolling with the punches. Don't put too much stock in an itinerary.

Even the Pope is going slow, rolling down the aisle on a moving platform.

Reports are that His Holiness is very much showing his age, and it's more than the motorized contraption that ferries him for short distances. He's worn out, they're saying, without the spark he once showed in audiences. And with all the pomp of Christmas services to deal with, we're figuring the old man will be totally spent by the Epiphany.

With that in mind, we're skipping the Papal Audience. We'll be sure to took a long look at the Vatican Museum, at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and the magnificence of St. Peter's basilica.

The only risk there is if the Italians go on strike and the trams aren't running and the taxis are idle. And considering how angry the Italians are with their politicians who live like princes while the commoners tighten their belts, it's a pretty good bet that someone will walk off the job in the first week of January, but there are ways to work around wildcat strikes here and there.

On the other hand, it seems like a pretty reasonable assumption that the Pope will be dragging that same week. You wouldn't expect much in the way of stirring sermons or inspirational messages from an elderly priest who really should be taking a nap to conserve his limited strength.

Following suggestions from friends who have been there, we're keeping most dates open on our vacation, ready to roll with the punches. That's going to include Wednesday.

It would be just too depressing, to see a shadow of a clergyman and realize that he's running the show, a show that's losing audience share at a startling rate.

In Memory Of Hitch

He knows now.

Author Christopher Hitchens knows if there is a God or not.

The writer has succumbed to cancer at a young age, and if there is a God, he's met Him. If not, he's none the worse for his atheism.

At the end, did he regret his lifestyle with its abundance of drink and cigarettes? Or was he glad that he'd enjoyed himself to the full, rather than yield to the guilt inflicted on us all by religion.

Did he have another short story or essay working itself up in his brain? Was he sorry that he'd not be able to write it down and thus the last thoughts were lost?

None of us can say with certainty, because no one's come back and told us what death is like and what it's all about....what happens after the last breath is drawn.

Certainly, Mr. Hitchens never held back his opinions on anyone or anything. He never feared making enemies of those he felt were worthy of his scorn. His writing was enough to get many to purchase a copy of Vanity Fair, whether to be outraged or incensed or delighted by his rhetoric. He was far to the left until he went to the right, but wherever he wandered, his prose was always well-crafted.

The man has left us, but his words are left behind.

Whether there is or is not a God, Mr. Hitchens has found a level of immortality.

On Becoming Scrooge

I'm aware that the time I steal for writing means there's less time I spend with family and friends. It's the nature of this obsession that drives me to put words on paper.

Now that the holidays are upon us, I find that I can't steal enough of those precious minutes to suit me.

Christmas cannot be postponed or pushed aside for a day or two until I can fit it into my schedule.

I resent Christmas.

At the moment, I'm trying to put together the cover art for Newcastlewest Books' upcoming release, and the last thing I want is to have to go out shopping for prezzies.

I'm not interested, not in the least.

If not for Christmas, I'd be happy with my computer and all its fonts and clip art. If not for Christmas and all the required family time, I'd get the cover art done in a more timely manner.

Hurry Christmas. Hurry up and get over and done so I can get back to my project.

Bah. Humbug.

An Analysis Of Water Volume And Pond Capacity

There was a time, and it may still be going on somewhere, when the local fire department would connect their hoses to the nearest hydrant and flood the baseball field or the tennis courts.

Large volume, high pressure, and that worked out to a short time needed to create an ice rink for the local kiddies. Sure, the rec department could have gone out with garden hoses, but it would have taken hours to accomplish the same task, and at pay rates of time and a half, it could get to be expensive.

Tony Nelin and Timmy Ryan clearly have some understanding of the physics of water flow. The enterprising lads skipped the garden hose step and went right to the fire hose when they wanted to create a hockey rink for them and their pals in Tinley Park, Illinois.

Physics they understood, but as for the law----well, that's another matter. They were caught filling their skating pond when someone followed the hose that was illegally connected to the fire department's hydrant, through woods and straight to the site of a soon-to-be-skated-upon rink.

Tony says one of his relations gave him the loan of the hose, a relation who happens to be a fire fighter. A relation who, by the way, is complicit in the theft of water and tampering with public property, but we can only hope that the fire fighter relative explained how to open and close the hydrant without creating an air hammer that would rupture the main.

The two young men are due to appear in court to answer charges on the hydrant tampering, and they'll be made to pay for the water they used. All of around $125, which isn't much to spend when you want a place to play hockey without a load of little kids getting in the way of flying pucks.

Here's hoping the weather turns cold so all that water freezes up to a smooth, hard surface. There's nothing better than hockey played outdoors, in the cold.

Shortening The Distance Between Agent And Publisher

Literary agent Emmanuelle Morgen, nee Alspaugh, has moved chairs once again. Formerly with Judith Ehrlich's crew, she will hang up her coat in the offices of Stonesong.

Sorry, with who? A literary agency, you say? But they say they're also a publisher.

Several literary agencies have branched out into e-book publishing for their clients. There are countless reasons given, usually having something to do with money or control of an author's catalogue. No matter why it's done, it has blurred the boundary between literary agent and publisher.

Stonesong not only blurs that line but seems to have done a fine job of erasing it. How can a firm that publishes on demand also act as a representative for authors seeking a publishing contract with a major house?

The Association of Authors' Representatives is concerned with ethics in their industry, and agents becoming publishers is often considered a violation. It's a bit of a conflict of interest for an agent. If they can't sell something, do they then publish the manuscript through their own company? So why would they want to work really hard to sell something?

To date, Stonesong has been largely dealing with non-fiction, and judging by their on-line listings, they're big in the cookbook world. Ms. Morgen plans to continue representing women's fiction and all the other genres she's familiar with.

That means Stonesong is looking to expand, but are they more interested in doing more representing, or more publishing?

The industry is surely in flux. Who can state with certainty where it's going, or where it will end up?

May The Dew Glisten Again In Tullamore

The whiskey was named for the town in which it was first distilled, but there is no distillery in Tullamore, County Offaly, these days.

Like so many other iconic brands, this one was bought out and then moved away to a more modern, convenient location.

Sipping Tullamore Dew is to quaff little more than a memory, a wee drop of nostalgia that sets it apart from John Jameson's brew which comes from the heart of Dublin.

And it's Jameson's Irish whiskey that the tourists observe being made, because the distillery is a popular attraction. What does Tullamore Dew have to offer beyond a guide pointing to the spot where the liquor used to be made?

All that may change soon.

New owners William Grant & Sons, Inc. are in talks with Offaly County Council to find a proper site on which to construct a distillery. They control the heritage center where the brand was founded, but that doesn't exactly resonate with the potential buyer of Tullamore Dew.

With their brand at Number 2, they'd like to take it to Jameson's, and what better way than to get some face time with a distillery tour and tasting room?

The firm has plans to develop the heritage site and bring in people, which is all to the good for the little town. Everyone would like the tourist dollars (and it's largely Irish-Americans who make up the audience) and a town needs a reason to be visited.

You can bet that the council will be very, very amenable to anything William Grant & Sons cares to do.

It's not only the influx of tourists that will help, but the distillery will require employees to run the place and bottle up the water of life. A thriving distillery, back in the soil from which it sprouted, is the answer to many problems plaguing the Irish economy, at least in County Offaly.

More important to those who enjoy a wee drop, a distillery in Tullamore will be using the local water, and it's the water that makes a huge difference in the taste. And being able to market a product as a genuine import, a direct competitor to Jameson's, could make all the difference in sales figures going forward.

A Little Secret Between Friends

Archbishop McQuaid & his pal Dev

It pays to have friends in high places.

Like if you're the Archbishop of Dublin and you have a fondness for abusing children...it would be good to have Eamonn de Valera at your side to ward off those pesky accusers.

Funny how those friendships linger long after both mates are dead and gone.

An allegation of child abuse levelled against Dublin's former Archbishop John Charles McQuaid in 2003 should have been reported to the Murphy Commission that was recently charged with revealing all that had been hidden, but somehow or other, HSE forgot to include so prominent a clergyman in their report until the Murphy Commission was all but finished.

In 2010, another complaint was lodged with the archdiocese, and current Archbishop Diarmuid Martin reported it to both the gardai and the Murphy Commission. Clearly he has been cooperative, aware of the fact that the Church must make a full confession if it is to be taken seriously by the faithful whose faith has been weakened.

Sadly, but not surprising, the allegations were never investigated. The Department of Justice has apparently had enough of the child abuse issue as well, because they have no intention of investigating HSE to find out why it failed to investigate.

There's not much to examine, actually.

Like so many of his colleagues, the Archbishop was more interested in protecting his priests than worrying about a bunch of children. Sure Ireland was full to the brim with the wee little ones, but there were never enough priests.

Whether or not Archbishop McQuaid was a pedophile will never be determined. The Church can safely sit back and claim it's all conjecture and rumour and idle gossip, while the parishioners will grumble under their breath about the powerful taking care of their own and ignoring the damage left behind.

Archbishop Martin didn't care that his predecessor was a friend of Dev. He did what he was supposed to do to clear up the issue. It doesn't help his quest to clean up the mess if the Irish State won't follow through on their end.

Flying Too Close To The Sun

Icarus made the fatal mistake of flying too close to the sun with his wings made of feathers and wax. If only he'd been more cautious, the poor lad would have soared on into eternity.

So, too, falls Garrett Kelleher, a man once wealthy by his own hard work and sacrifice.

He left Ireland in the 1980's, along with thousands of others who couldn't find work. In Chicago, he went into the trades and with a bit of luck, managed to land in the middle of the property boom.

With his skill, he was able to rehabilitate old buildings in gentrifying areas, and then flip them at a profit.

And what profits he made.

He lived in style in Chicago, owning a mansion in an area equivalent to Dublin 4 on steroids. His property portfolio grew, encompassing parcels in the States, Ireland, England and Europe.

In Chicago, he went about developing the tallest residential building in the world, an enormous spiral skyscraper designed by starchitect Santiago Calatrava. He borrowed even more money to finance the project, a structure that would fix his name in the firmament.

Like so many other high flyers, Mr. Kelleher leveraged properties so that he could fund more development ventures. Flying high, and then the property market burned up and his wings melted away. The land wasn't worth so much anymore. The rents were insufficient to meet expenses and interest due and loan payments.

His Chicago mansion is in receivership, with millions owed on the mortgage. His Chicago Spire parcel was taken over by the banks when he failed to make those payments.

Now his Irish branch, Shelbourne Development Group, is on the verge of being placed into receivership. Bank of Scotland is owed E200 million and they'd like it back, one way or another.

At the moment, the only way appears to be confiscating the assets and selling them for whatever the market might bring.

Once worth E500 million, the Irish developer is rapidly falling back down to where he started as an emigrant in America with little more in his possession than his own two hands.

Mr. Kelleher is in talks with the bank, trying to salvage something on which to rebuild his melted wings.

If he comes out of this disaster with something on which to build a future, you can be sure he'll never fly so close to the sun again.

Something Old, Something New, Something Plagiarized, Author's Blue

Publishers Weekly said "This is an impressive, original work that illuminates its subject."

Jeremy Duns says it isn't hardly original at all. In fact, he's found several passages that are pure plagiarism.

Publisher St. Martin's Press says it isn't plagiarized. Those passages that seem to be almost word for word? Coincidence.

Lenore Hart, author of The Raven's Bride, says she did extensive research and gave a list of sources to her publisher as proof. She also says she didn't read The Very Young Mrs. Poe by the late Cothburn O'Neal until after she'd submitted her final manuscript, so she couldn't possibly have lifted whole passages from Mr. O'Neal's book and put them into hers.

Except that Jeremy Duns, who outed plagiarist Q. R. Markham, has posted some matching copy on his blog and it's hard to suspend disbelief, so similar is the wording.

It's not just the prose, as Mr. Duns has pointed out. There are things that Mr. O'Neal made up that appear in Ms. Hart's novel, and fiction isn't exactly historically accurate research material.

Perhaps Mr. O'Neal's estate will make a fuss, and it's certainly possible that St. Martin's Press will pull The Raven's Bride from its catalog. The anguish of the literary community will fade, as it did in the wake of the phony memoir scandal that passed through a few years ago.

For the author struggling to land a literary agent or a publishing contract, it's another drop of bile to flavor the latest rejection letter for a manuscript of entirely original prose.

New Skills, New Direction

As we move forward with our publishing venture, Newcastlewest Books, we've all had to develop new skills to meet the challenge.

We are all skilled in writing and editing. We can handle manuscript formatting. There's a team member who's got a handle on writing flap copy.

It will take all of us working together to create an eye-catching cover.

Photoshop isn't part of anyone's skill set, yet it's critical to the development of cover art. Unfortunately, the learning will take valuable time, which means publication of our second novel will be delayed until after the new year.

Better to take the time and do it well than rush.

Newcastlewest Books will be going with a new distributor in future, to better reach the reading public around the world, and we aim to give that reading public a product that is excellent, from cover to cover and every page in between.

If only one of our partners were an artist and a writer, but alas, it's not so. We can only put our minds together and be as creative with pictures as we are with words.

Don't Cry For Me, Italian Pensioners

No need for tears, those of you collecting your old age pensions. Italy's welfare minister has shed them for you.

Elsa Fornero could not deliver the harsh news with an impassive face. This is Italy, after all, where passion is a way of life.

Having spent itself into penury, Italy must now cut back or go under, and the government has found ways to cut back that are going to hurt. After such a very long free ride, the carousel has ground to a halt.

Old people accustomed to an annual cost of living increase in their stipend will have to get by on less.

Ms. Fornero has good reason to weep. It's quite likely that the additional burden of higher taxes needed to get the budget out of the red will lead to price increases, and that means those who are retired will have to make their payment go further.

Having gone into retirement with government promises at their back, it's unlikely that the pensioners have a comfortable cushion in the bank to fall back on. For those not yet retired, they'll have to wait until they're 66, and even then, it isn't likely that they'll be able to afford to stop working.

So Ms. Fornero gave in to her sorrow, that the government can't afford to keep promises that were made for the sake of garnering votes. She may weep again, when the first stories of nonnas surviving on cat food hit the newspapers.

All she will have to give are tears. The Italian coffers are empty.

Where Are You Mark?

The advert was placed in the Corkman News, but this urgent message needs to reach as large an audience as possible.

We have to find Mark.

Not just any Mark, of course, but the Mark who went to the GAA match on 26 August 2010.

Is there any man who would remember that he was in a particular pub after 18 months have gone by? Especially if that man had been drinking. He'd likely have no memory whatsoever.

Why does classifiedadvert120511 need to find this man so urgently?

That's what everyone's speculating about.

Why is the petite lady with dark hair and skin and brown eyes, who apparently took Mark home on the night in question, why does she urgently need to contact the man?

She's HIV-positive? She's looking for child support?

Or did a fortune teller inform her that she'd met her soulmate already and had let him get up in the morning and walk out the door without leaving a forwarding address?

So if you're Mark, or you know Mark, contact the poor woman and put her mind at ease.

And then let us know what all the fuss has been about.

Keep Your Lips Off

How did it come about, that tourists keen to do all and see all in Paris must include a lip-planting?

Why is it de rigeur to leave a lipstick stain on the tombstone of Oscar Wilde?

Visitors to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery have left so many imprints on the stone that the grease in the lipstick caused severe deterioration to the stone itself.

Starting today, with a massive restoration project completed, your lips will no longer touch anything but a glass covering put in place to protect the monument.

Pas de s'embrasser, s'il vous plait.

The Irish government paid for a good portion of the repair work. While they might not have loved the man in his lifetime, the nation has embraced the troubled playwright in death.

The gravesite was re-opened, so to speak, by Dinny McGinley, the Minister of State for the Arts. He was joined by Oscar Wilde's grandson, Merlin Holland, who had first approached the Irish government about fixing the grave marker.

The sculpture is restored, and now it's under glass, to preserve it for all time and protect it from a bizarre fad that may or may not die out, now that lips will no longer meet cold stone but shiny, easy to clean glass.