Beth owns two cats. Beth owns two cats, and every morning, once she has fed her cats she gets the 8:21 bus to work. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: A Yellow Raincoat in The Sorrento Sunshine
Build it. Break it. Build it, break it.
I exercise control in the small mannerisms I have adopted over the years. The minor, domestic cogs of my life, turning in perfect succession. Succinct, and ritually executed. These are the private domains of my psyche, the charts and the crosses, the changing of bed linen and the calculated hoovering of square spaces. Each chart is built of boxes, and each room possesses borders. The hoover head stops at skirting boards. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Charge and Control
It is late December in a pub in Dublin. Poised behind the bar, a barmaid watches her customers buzz between velvet bar stools, and neglected coats. There is a plastic clock on the wall behind her, as she waits posted in front of the array of liquors, spirits and bottles of wine. The bottles are lazily draped in pound-store tinsel. Pine needles rest upon the floor with a certain authority; the endless cycle of hoovering is no match for the green pins. The air outside turns cheeks pink and skin chapped. The bar has become a haven for restless sets of boots, and men’s frozen fingertips. A sign reads, ‘Our mulled cider is a must’. Drawing in a deep breath, she marks the beginning of her shift upon the shiny surface of the clock. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Bar Flies
Each year, more than two-thirds of graduates with degrees in media are female, and yet the media industry is just one-third women, a number that only decreases for women of colour. The ‘personal essay boom’ of the early 2000s seemed to be a viable way for women to make their voices heard on a public platform, writing on subjects that were authentic and relatable, but often exposing and intimate. Personal essays cry out for identification and connection, but what authors sometimes experienced was distancing and shame. Should women feel like they must bare their souls in order to have their voice heard, and what can be done to tackle inequalities that might be fuelled by this? Continue reading How can the Journalism Industry Respect the Personal Essay?
Two days after the Queen died, they sent for me. I was sixteen. Barely more than a child. Father and Mother could do nothing. News of my supposed beauty had reached the capitol, so they came, they saw me, and they took me. Dressed in a great fur coat and a long, velvet dress trimmed with white ermine, I was bundled into a carriage and never saw home again. Mother and Father’s faces grew distant, like clouds, until they were as indistinct as clouds, and then they were gone. Continue reading ‘Poisoned’
As a writer, journalist, poet, editor, consultant and literary entrepreneur, Cathy Galvin has a long list of accomplishments. Slightly star struck, I was fortunate enough to catch up with her over the phone. Classily sat on my bedroom floor, we chatted about the gloom of the dark winter weather. Continue reading Interview: Cathy Galvin
Angie was slow my mother used to say. She told me she was ‘out of it’, and needed Adderall to help her focus. I was the younger daughter, by five years, so this gave me an internal feeling of superiority. I used to get called bright in comparison. I was naturally focused, but Angie didn’t seem to envy me, so she resisted the prescriptions my mother pushed for. Continue reading The Life Chronicles: Blinkers