Buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels on AMAZON here.

Good few years ago, was looking for funding. Couldn’t find the application forms. There was a contact address for the Arts Officer on the site. Figured that was a good place to start. 

Sent him an e-mail and two weeks later he hadn’t replied. Called the number and he didn’t answer. Left a voicemail. 

Another two weeks and no return call. 

I went to his office and asked: ‘Is he here?’

They looked at me sorta strange, and went: ‘Eh…what time is it?’

’11.30.’

‘Hmm…yeah. He wouldn’t usually be in until after lunch, depends on where he was last night…’

‘Was he workin last night?’

‘Well, he might have been launching something….’

‘Like a Spaceship?’

‘Like a new local project or something…’

‘So you think he’ll be in later?’

‘I don’t see why not. What did you need him for?’

‘There’s no applications forms on your site. Is there any physical ones here?’

‘Oh, you’ll have to talk to him about that.’

‘Can I leave a note on his desk?’

She frowned. Pulled out a contact form, said: ‘Try this. He might be in after lunch.’

I filled it out and left. Lunch came and went. 

No call. No contact. Rang the office again. No answer. Left another voicemail. No reply.

Went back the next day. There was a fella at the counter with a Bluetooth headset on his left ear. It looked like there was something growing out the side of his head. He kept touching it to make sure it was still there, like it was somehow responsible for his balance. 

He looked up and saw me coming, then pretended he hadn’t, and got busy shuffling some papers. There was a bell that said: RING FOR ASSISTANCE. 

So I rang it. 

He looked up all surprised, touched the Bluetooth and asked: ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine thanks. Is the Arts Officer here?’

‘Hmmm…I don’t think so, I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks actually…he’s usually here in the afternoons there, but….let me check.’

He looked into the distance and said: ‘No, see, the light in his office is off…he’s not in.’

‘Do you’ve any idea when he might be?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘He works here, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah….but, depends on the head from the night before, you know yourself. What did you want him for?’

‘Application forms, for funding.’

‘Are they not on the site?’

‘No.’

‘Well you’ll need to talk him about that so.’

‘Can I leave a note for when he gets back?’

He frowned then. Whistled through his teeth. Looked at the wall, went: ‘Note, note….note…I suppose you can leave a contact form?’

‘Thanks.’

Filled it out again. Left my name and number and why I called.

 

Days and weeks passed and heard nothing. Started to think he was dead or sick or didn’t exist. I asked around and got his mobile number. Rang that and he didn’t answer. Left a voicemail and he didn’t respond. 

So I moved on without funding. Produced the Plays myself. 

One night, about a year later, I met him in the pub, surrounded by funded Artists and said: ‘You never got back to me.’

‘Who are you again?’

‘I left contact forms on your desk. And e-mails. And voicemails and…’

‘What were you looking for?’

‘Funding.’

‘Oh, of course. Of course. I remember now. Call in to me on Monday.’

‘What time?’

‘Say around 11….or make it 12 just in case. Are you having a drink?’

‘No.’

‘See you Monday so.’

Monday came. He wasn’t there. Rang him and left a voicemail. E-mailed and he didn’t respond. Filled out a contact form and left it on his desk and never heard anything. 

 

Mick.

 

**

 

 

  

It was raining in Galway. Imagine that. The light rain of morning welcome, caffeine from the clouds. Monday coming fast. Car in Tonery’s car park since Friday evening. Was on the way back from some party in some house, some couch, some estate somewhere. The plan was to go back to Ballinrobe and it was sketchy after that. I’d need to get the car but I’d have to pay to get it out of the car park. Worse still, there was no petrol in it. Sailed her up on fumes and save the money for drink. Great plan at the time.

Now I had €1.80 and a dead phone and no way home. Walked over the Salmon Weir bridge towards town. Some fella asked me for money and I gave him a euro and kept going. Probably thumb down the Headford Road til something happened. Walk out through Woodquay and hitch from Tirellan. Might get lucky. Someone going straight down. Howya, Micky, late one? All that.

Came around the corner and spotted the Town Hall. Wheels turned, cogs spun. Play in my hard drive, been working on it lately, had it up to scratch. Had sent it somewhere, to someone, been waiting months for word back, word back from who, couldn’t even remember. Dublin maybe, or Belfast, or Cork? Was it London? Didn’t matter because I knew in my heart and soul it wasn’t being read. It was a coffee coaster somewhere, another door jamb, another bitter intern’s early lunch on an unread slushpile. And how are ya passing the time waiting, Micky? Talking to the rain?

Walked up the steps of the Town Hall, pulled back the door. Enquired about putting on a production. Just so happens, man that can help is here today, maybe have a chat, see if there’s some dates.

Got there, he asked: Got any experience? Yeah, worked with some companies, big companies, small companies, courses done, and Masters too. Just cut ties with a fiction agent. Hmmm….there’s a date here. About eight weeks from now. We’ll give ya five nights and a decent split. It goes well, maybe we can do more. What’s the name of the Play?

Sunday Morning Coming Down.

What’s the name of the company?

Thought fast, said: Truman Town. Truman Town Theatre.

Got a cast?

Cast?

Yeah, you need a cast.

Yeah, Cast. No problem. I can find a cast.

Ok. Go find a cast and get back to me.

Back outside, the sky showed mercy. Small mercy, ready to rain again, Needed to find a cast, small cast, six person cast, then maybe a set and try learn some directing. Eight weeks, I’ll have a show on stage. Like that – no more waiting, no more rejection letters, just a date in the future and the will to actualize. Fuck me, I’m going to light to place.

****

Buy Mick Donnellan’s novels in Paperback now! – “El Niño” and “Fisherman’s Blues” available here.
https://mickdonnellan.com/mick-donnellans-novels-now-available-on-amazon-kindle/

Mick Donnellan to Lecture

a

New Creative Writing Module

@

Athlone Institute of Technology

**Wednesday.**

**September 19th**

**7 -9pm**

Duration: 10 Weeks

Course Fee: €160

Register Interest/Contact:

lifelonglearning@ait.ie

Tel: 0906 483050

Or

mickdonnellan@hotmail.com

Tel:(087) 9422942

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mick_Donnellan

Aim of the course:

The aim of this course is to provide students with the tools on how to write, why to write, what to write about and how to get it published. Most budding writers often find they are burning to tell a story, but don’t know how/where to start. Once completed, each participant will leave with the necessary skills to enter the writing industry with confidence and direction. This will include advice/contacts on where and how to send to your work, as well as ways to self promote/produce your writing. An end of course assignment will also ensure each participant finishes with a publishable piece of writing to present to potential agents/publishers. (Students are also welcome to bring existing works in progress to the class to have it discussed, critiqued and developed. )

Course Outline –

• Writing techniques. Styles of writing. Different genres. Thriller? Chick Lit? Crime? True Stories? What language to use. How to pace your story. Plot and suspense.
• The Art of Fiction – Novel/Novella/Short Story?
• Journalism – How to write for the media compared to the fiction market.
• Screenwriting – How to write for film. What format to use. How to think visually. Getting the script produced.
• Drama How to write good drama and dialogue. Developing an ear for the rhythms of speech. Getting your Play produced.
• Poetry – A look at past and contemporary poets and how the art has evolved.
• Memoir – telling your life story. How and why to do it!
• Non Fiction – Historical writing. Biography/Auto Biography.
• Publishing industry – Where to send your work. The right people to send it to. How to prepare and present your Manuscript/Screenplay/Poetry collection.
• Chance for students to have their work openly critiqued and discussed by others in the class, if they wish to do so.

Intended for:

This course is ideal for writers at all levels of their career. It is particularly suited for beginners and those who need a channel to express themselves creatively.

No experience is required as the course will cover the basics of writing and gradually move through the different stages towards publishing success. It will be an enjoyable, stress free course with one assignment at the end. It will also help those writers working in isolation and looking for a constructive environment to share and develop their work.

Previous students have had their writing published locally and nationally and some have gone on to be accepted into prestigious university writing programmes such as the Masters in Trinity College, Dublin and NUI Galway.

About Mick Donnellan:

Mick Donnellan completed the MA in Writing at NUIG in 2004. Since then he has worked as a novelist, journalist, travel writer, teacher and Playwright. He completed his first novel, El Niño, in 2005 and immediately secured a literary agent. He left Ireland soon after and went on to live in Spain, Australia and Canada. While traveling he worked as a travel writer and Journalist and co-founded the Arts Paper – Urban Pie – in Vancouver. Upon returning to Ireland he went on to work with Druid (2009) and RTE (2010).

Most recently, he established his own theatre company, Truman Town Theatre.

All Truman Town Plays are written, directed, and produced by Mick. The company exploded on to the theatrical circuit in 2011 with their hit Play – Sunday Morning Coming Down. Following a national tour, they went on to produce (and tour) two more hugely successful Plays Shortcut to Hallelujah and Gun Metal Grey. These dramas eventually became known as the “Ballinrobe Trilogy.” More recently, the company toured a fourth Play Velvet Revolution and in 2014, Radio Luxembourg, his fifth Play, was bought by a London Film Company (Dixon/Baxi/Evans) and has been adapted for the screen.

The title for the movie version is “Tiger Raid”. Starring Brian Gleeson, Damian Molony and Sofia Boutella, it had its world premiere at the Tribeca film festival (2016) and was also seen at Cannes and Edinburgh and the Irish Premiere was screened at the Galway Film Fleadh.

El Niño is now published and Mick is currently in negotiations to sell the screen rights. Between that, he teaches writing while promoting his second novel “Fisherman’s Blues.” and keeping Truman Town on the go.

Most of 2017 has been working on the exciting screen adaptation of “Shortcut to Hallelujah” with Florence Films. Hot off the press, the screenplay is titled “Sam” and is based around the gypsy curse supposedly set on the Mayo Football team as they returned home as All Ireland Champions in 1951. “Sam” is set in the present day and deals with themes of Mayo life and the hope of bringing the Sam Maguire home. Drenched in Irish lyricism and modern day dark humour, the script has been been met with keen interest by film producers and actors throughout the industry.

More on Mick Donnellan http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mick_Donnellan

—–
Click here to buy Mick Donnellan’s Novels now!

Soundtrack for the film “Tiger Raid” released today.

Script based on my Play “Radio Luxembourg.”

Enjoy!

Mick.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mick_Donnellan

 

😎

Mick.

 

 

 

People often say – “…I read Fisherman’s Blues and it goes fuckin’ mad in the middle….”

And it does. Initially it had been built around the telesales scam in England but then I came home and said fuck it and went cracked altogether.

I’d been wanting to explore stuff like modern Irish life, West of Ireland madness, nihilist boom time existentialism. This was going great until about page 70. Then it slowed down. Don’t know why. Wasn’t too sure how to proceed. The voice felt like it was getting whiny and indulgent and who wants to read that?

I was driving an Opel Astra at the time. 1995. Great car. Never let me down. Bought it off a couple from Lithuania in Ballinrobe for €650. They were moving to England. Taxed and NCT’d and twenty euro petrol in the tank. Couldn’t go wrong.

Drove a lot. Thought a lot. Drank in between but still no way forward for the book. Amateurs and shite talkers would call this a Writing Block. Say there’s no point continuing until the block unblocks. They wouldn’t write anything at all.

But I always think it’s important to keep the mind going until the moment comes.

So I wrote short stories, had them published here and there. Won a Poetry competition worth 25 English Pounds and spent it on a round of Jaggerbombs. Big Shtuff.

Also worked on some journalism and taught some writing classes. And drove some more.

The break came one evening about 6pm. I’d been editing all day, working on a Play, getting it up to scratch. The voices echoed in my head. The conversations, the nuances, the inflections. Poetic lyricism of the language. The vast ocean of meaning; roaring in the silence of all the unsaid.

Not too sure how I ended up going the wrong way round the roundabout. One minute I was listening to the radio, cruising along, next thing there was flashing lights, lunatics running out on to the road to flag me down. A foreign lad on a bike, paused in disbelief. It was hard to know whether to keep going or try and turn around. Trucks were grunting somewhere to my right and I was starting to get a premonition of cops. I did the sensible thing and hit the brakes but that didn’t help. The roaring and flashing and beeping just got louder. Then I put it into reverse and there was a big tin bang. Cuntish, probably hit something. Hope it wasn’t that foreign fella’s bike. Checked out the rearview and saw the pissed off face of a parking meter. Not too bad. Hope I made shite of the fuckin thing.

Put her in first again and inched forward, trying to avoid the white Mazda that was after braking six inches from my headlight. Your man inside was looking out the window pure thick, like I was doing this on purpose, or his ignorance was going to help.

I played it cool, gave him the one finger salute off the steering wheel and moved forward. Behind the Mazda was a queue of incredulous cars parked in a zig zag dramatic fashion. Worse still, it was raining and it was dark. People were rolling down their windows and shouting things like: ‘You’re going the wrong way!’ And: ‘This is a fuckin roundabout ya clown!’ Can’t bate Irish people for sound advice in a crisis. It took a few minutes but eventually we all got unjammed and the cops didn’t come and I got home.

And I knew how to continue Fisherman’s Blues

Mick.

Buy Fisherman’s Blues directly from Amazon here.

The blinds were closed, the doors were locked, and Crimewatch were outside. They were investigating reports of a bogus time share company in the south of England. Sharon said it was all hype, orchestrated by a few disgruntled customers, and it would all blow over. It usually does.

Meanwhile, the plan was to keep selling, keep doing your job, don’t be distracted. They got the phonebook out and “…organised new leads….”, further away, where the news hadn’t reached. By now, most of the other reps had been fired or left. They couldn’t handle the pressure, weren’t happy with the media attention, or the increasingly aggressive groups hovering at the front door.

The crux of the customer problem appeared to be money. More specifically, a deposit paid for an apartment in Spain. I read this some time later when the story eventually broke.

The people we’d been calling had been awarded a free night in a hotel down the road. Once they accepted, they were given dinner, some wine and a complementary plastic watch. A condition of accepting the overnight stay was they attend a seminar on some investment opportunities. Once there, they were presented with a dream story on Foreign Property. New developments. Get in early. Mutual funds. Pooled resources. All they had to do was commit £4,000 today and wait for it to quadruple in six months time. They were also given exclusive access to the apartments – pending availability.

However, it turned out the apartments weren’t available. A problem exacerbated by the fact that they didn’t exist at all. The whole thing was pure fabrication – A photoshopped pyramid scheme. £4000 for a short night in a cheap hotel and a free plastic watch. How are ya fixed?

Worse still, the cheques started bouncing. Which meant we weren’t getting paid. Sharon said they were having accounting problems with the bank and it would all be resolved soon.

Time to hit the road here, Micky. I was about to hand in my notice when Frank arrived. The man above it all. He was from Northern Ireland. The others spoke of his reputation in morbid tones. Had I looked him up on Google? Did I not know this was how it worked? It was simple. Set up a company under Limited Liability, run it to the ground and claim bankruptcy. Then set up again the following year under a new name. New entity. Everybody wins except them that got burnt outside.

I met him in the back office. He wanted to talk to me because I was Irish and had been selling well, and he heard I was leaving. He was sitting behind a desk scattered with paper punches and biros. Black hair, paunch. White vest. What did I make of England? Where was I from in Ireland? All a joke isn’t it? Am I getting paid alright?

I told him my last cheque bounced, anything he can do there?

He said he can of course, and how much was it. I told him the figure and he took out his wallet and counted out some cash and handed it over. He asked if that was alright. I told him almost, he was three pound short but it be grand. No, he said, not at all. And he reached into his pocket and took out three pound coins and handed them to me. Will that do, he asked? Twill, I said. What about the rest of them outside, waiting to get paid?

Fuck them, he said. We Irish look after each other. Let me know if you’re looking for work again any time.

Mick.

Buy Fisherman’s Blues directly from Amazon here.

 

Jamie and Amanda announced they were having a baby. Everyone clapped, oohed and ahhed over the scan, and then they were brought into the office and fired. Not hitting the target. No job, folks. Been coming for a while. Pressure from headquarters. Pack up and get the fuck out.

They came back from the office and she was crying and he was trying to comfort her and then they left and everyone got back to making phone calls.

We were given a sheet with a list of leads, but it was fairly obvious they were photocopied from the phonebook. The job was to call to numbers and make appointments. Four appointments a day was the target. Evening shift – 4-8pm. I was hitting ten a night, so no worries there. Making good dusht. Polite English people loving the Irish accent. The others struggled, asked me for advice, listened to my pitch.

Chris spent most evenings up top calling back the clients and confirming their appointments – today’s version of a Quality Check. The essential thing was to book them in for a free night at a hotel down the road. Tell them they won a prize, selected from a pool of lucky winners, filled out a questionnaire at the local Supermarket and here we are now returning the favour.

Most of the customers were delighted. Can’t believe this, just got married, now a free night at a hotel? Wow, just gets better and better. The ideal clientele, according to Chris, were the retired. They had money, no mortgage, looking for an investment, a night away, lonely at home, some trust left in the way the world used to be. You call them up, said Chris, and if the husband answers you tell them the wife filled out the questionnaire, and if the wife answers you tell them it was the husband. Sometimes the wife or husband had died years before, but other than that it worked out ok.

Above Chris, was Sharon. Super bitch altogether. Did all the firing and loved it. Well in with the big knobs. Pants suit and predilection for chocolate at her desk. Take too long advising the new lad beside you and she’s shouting down, wondering what’s the story. Calls recorded, see. Time spent on presentations, numbers of calls made. Leads used, divided by sales should = x amount of conversions.

Conversions were calls made that resulted in booking an appointment (free night at hotel) and approved by quality check after.

As far as I could tell, they were selling something else down at the hotel when the guests arrived. Some other crew down there pushing new properties abroad or something. Not much more information divulged for now. Take your cheque, make your commission, don’t ask questions.

Soon people starting turning up outside. Randomers peeking through the window, hands cupped and squinting to see what was going on. Sharon had to lock the door and only allow people in or out that worked there. When asked about the gathering crowd she’d shrug and reply the were unhappy customers. After a while an odd journalist started to arrive, asking us questions as we came in. And one or two big lads with tattoos were looking for managers to go throwing slaps. Not the best atmosphere really. Wasn’t long before there was cops asking questions and Chris and Sharon would spend most of the evening answering questions or making statements. Mostly they’d defer to the headquarters, and a man called Frank.

Have you met Frank? Asked Charlene.

No, I don’t think so.

Oh, you’d know if you had, she said. You’d certainly know if you had. You’re a writer, aren’t you? She asked.

I am, I said.

Good, she said. You’ll get a book out of this place for sure.

Mick.

Buy Fisherman’s Blues directly from Amazon here.

 

 

Hard to know where a book really starts. The longer it goes on, and the more experiences you have, the more likely you won’t finish it. It’s because you’ll keep putting in new stuff that happens, that you experience. The tone of your book will change, relative to your life experience and it’ll eventually feel like a mishmash of nonsense. I was thinking this with my second novel – Fisherman’s Blues. I knew if I didn’t finish soon, I never would. The story would be too old and jaded, having gone through too many drafts, like a shirt washed too many times. It be soon time to throw it out.

The novel began when I was living in England. I needed a job, fairly handy one, cos I didn’t have any proper credentials. I suffer greatly from Formophobia, see. A unique Irish condition. It means I feel physically sick in the presence of all forms, excel sheets, application procedures, bureaucratic questions and phone calls from Private Numbers. When someone hands me an envelope over a desk and says to fill out these forms, and get back to me, I know I’ll never be back.

But now here there was a lot of talk about Job Centres and uploading your CV. The first place I went was superbly air conditioned. And there was machines that spat out tickets with numbers on them. The plan was to wait until you number was called and talk to the polite Englishman at the desk. When I got there he asked for my details – Employee Number, Address, Utility Bill, I.D., Bank Account Number, CV, Phone Number and what kind of work was I looking for? After a pause, punctuated by Vertigo, he said: ‘You don’t have any of this stuff, do you?’

‘I’m working on it.’

Ok, sir, he said softly. I’m going to give you a bunch of forms to fill out. You’ll need to pop up to Poole and get them stamped, then have a quick chat with the Immigration, go down to the Job Centre in town and get them signed, don’t lose any of them, make sure they’re filled out properly in black ink only. Once you get that sorted, we’ll get you set up and registered here and have you in for an interview in no time at all.

‘How long do you reckon before I could start working?’

Not long, he smiled, six weeks or so.

Thanks, I said, I’ll be back to ye, and I walked outside and fucked the forms in the bin. They wouldn’t fit so I had to stuff them in. After, I felt relieved and concerned at the same time.

Not good, Micky. No Dusht. No hope of getting around them crowd. It was a hot day, with reggae music playing somewhere and lots of noise coming from busy traffic and people talking in shops. There was a smell like liquorice from the melting tar on the road.

I took a left towards the snooker hall. A 24 hour place with cheap drink. Figured everything would look better after a few Kronenberg and a couple of frames. Next thing I spotted a sign on an office window. Hiring Now. So I went for the Paulo Cohello vibe and followed the omens.

The place was called Serendipity. Figure that. Your man inside was called Chris. Wanted to know if I could speak English, had any sales experience. I told him I used to be a top sales man in a Media Company in Ireland. Which wasn’t technically a lie – I used sell Irish Catholic Newspapers for the Legion of Mary when I was a kid. Sold 20 one morning after last mass. Record at the time.

Chris asked when was I available to start, he’d pay in cheques, cashable at the shop next door. No need for forms at all. You came to the right place. I told him I’d start tomorrow and we shook hands and I left. Celebrated at the Snooker Hall. Big dhrink.

Years later, Chris became one of the main characters in Fisherman’s Blues, as did the sales office, and many other things that were to subsequently happen.

Mick.

Buy Fisherman’s Blues directly from Amazon here.

Most days in Madrid I spent checking my e-mail in the Internet cafe and playing online poker. When the publishing deals didn’t come and my four kings were getting busted by regular Royal Flushes, I’d hit the pub. €1 wine, see. Compare that with €5 a glass in Ireland and you feel like it’s a free bar and act accordingly. That’s the problem when you write a book. You get a notion in your head that you can’t move on to the next one until this one is published – like, who came up with that idea?

Eventually it was time to get a job, money going low, all that.

Walking up the stairs, into a TEFL school, thinking – how are ya going to handle this now, Micky. The interview had come fast, within an hour, the demand was high, see.

Everyone wanted to learn English, hire English speakers, a plethora of students roaring to spend money. Sound, says I, sure I’m after doing a watery TEFL course online. They sent me out a cert and everything. Couple that with the Degree and Masters and sure I’ll be sound.

The dominant colour in the office was green. The woman there wanted to know my background in teaching. I gave her the outlines. She seemed impressed. And could I start Monday?

I pretended to think about it. Then said Okay. The money wasn’t great, but it was a job. In Spain. In Madrid. How cool was that?

TEFL turned out to be great for the brain, got the neuro-plasticity going and kept me thinking about language, and linguistic identities, and meaning. The hours were mostly evenings which meant you could write all day. So, I pulled out an old story I’d been working on. It was originally called Last Chance Cafe, but I’d eventually retitle it Fisherman’s Blues and it became my second novel.

El Niño had been heavily influenced by American writers and genre. Some of the conversations and settings were said to be similar in style to Elmore Leonard and James Lee Burke and Anthony Bourdain. Influenced by them. The publishing houses often said they were looking for something more Irish. But when I thought of Irish I kept thinking of emigration stories and more horseshit about what the church did. There was enough of that and more coming. Safe Irish guilt roaring off the shelves.

Teaching forced me to think about how Irish people talk. The way they say and describe things. The job meant a constant examination of form, sentence structure, and idiom. There was a unique poetry in the language of West of Ireland that other cultures found fascinating. It’s a show don’t tell vernacular that I reckoned hadn’t been properly explored in modern Irish fiction – or theatre. When I lived in Ireland I didn’t notice its value, because everyone talks and thinks this way. But when abroad, and learning the intricacies of all languages, it became something worth writing about.

Like Alchemy, what seemed like lead and useless in Ireland, became gold when looked at from an international perspective. Writers make this mistake all the time. Trying to sound so unlike themselves in a quest for absolute fiction – where it’s actually the opposite. The more true the better.

So I opened Fisherman’s Blues with the most Irish, some say controversial, modern phrase I could. It alienated a host of traditional readers, but engaged plenty more. And that was the plan. That’s always the plan. Break new ground, less about what’s already been done.

Mick.

Buy Fisherman’s Blues directly from Amazon here.