I’ve been back a couple of days now and only just about recovered enough to write about the time I spent at the Frank O’Connor Festival in Cork. I guess that means that I did it right! The festival started on Wed 17th Sept; I arrived late on the 19th. The full programme is here — usually the line-up comprises the shortlisted authors and as there was no official shortlist this year, I like to think that the people who read would have been on it (certainly, they deserved to be). I met so many people, heard so many stories, saw so many fantastic sights, it’s difficult to condense it all. But hopefully the following account gives you some idea of how it all went.
Friday, 19th September:
Today our short story author Charles Lambert travelled up to Cambridge and came to visit us in the office. What a treat it was for us and I’m only sorry we couldn’t spend longer with him. We did a quick video recording of him talking about his work for our website and then it was a case of rushing off into Cambridge to start my journey to Cork. I am rather ashamed to admit that this was only my second trip to Ireland, with my first one being in 1989 when I brought the New Year in in Dublin after a U2 concert (my memory of that is rather hazy), so I was greatly looking forward to being in Ireland again, as well the festival.
I was met at the airport by Eva from the Munster Literature Centre, who organise the award and the festival. She took me to my hotel, I had a quick shower and then made way way to the reading venue, The Triskel Arts Centre, which was a rather pleasant 15 mins walk through Cork city centre. The sun was setting, casting beautiful light on the painted buildings of the city, the streets were busy as shops were still open and on every lamp post down the main shopping street were banners advertising the festival, which I must say was a thrilling sight. I found my way to the alley opposite the art nouveau cinema and sat down at the back of a packed auditorium to hear the end of Mary O’Donnell‘s reading (how I wished I’d heard the beginning!). Then there was a break; folk filed out into the pub across the alleyway and I was pleased to finally meet Pat Cotter, festival director, as well as Salt authors Vanessa Gebbie, Carys Davies and Tania Hershman. Tania had read that afternoon as part of the Southword journal showcase – I was sorry to have missed her. A quick drink and catch up and then back in the hall to sit back and enjoy readings from Cork-based novelist Mary Leland and San-Francisco-based Wena Poon, who is originally from Singapore. Wena performed for 40 minutes and I wished she’d kept going – so lively and refreshing.
Far from being the end of the evening, it was sort of the start of it: in true Gaelic tradition, off we went to the pub and stayed until the wee small hours. Declan from The Stinging Fly walked me back to the hotel at some ungodly hour and just as we’d stepped out in the street told me that the last time he was out late away from home ended up in A&E. Glad he warned me, and gladder that he didn’t repeat it.
Saturday 20th September
My wedding anniversary. Called home and was rather touched (and surprised) that husband wished me a happy anniversary immediately, without any prompting. At breakfast I remembered how grumpy I am in the mornings before a decent caffeine hit and later felt the need to apologise for my bad behaviour (example: Q to me: “Do you write, Jen?’ Me, looking aghast: ‘When would I have the time to do that?!’ Grr). Vowed that the next morning I’d try to avoid happy, awake people.
Did a quick spot of shopping for children’s presents and then back to the Triskel Arts Centre to hear who had won the Sean O’Faolain Prize, which was judged this year by Nuala Ni Chonchuir. It was New jersey writer Julia Van Middlesworth, who then read her winning story ‘Daddy Dead’ — so wonderful and moving in every way; a worthy winner and a wonderful reading and end to morning.
I had to rush my lunch and couldn’t eat much of it for the next session was the panel discussion on ‘The State of the Art’, which I was taking part in, alongside Rosalind Porter, Senior Ed at Granta, Declan from the Stinging Fly and Lucy Luck, Literary Agent. It was a lively interesting discussion that could have gone on much longer. Hopefully the audience were left feeling that the short story has a future and that there are people out there supporting it and getting it out into the world, and even trying to eke out a living from selling them.
This was followed a series of mind-blowing, gut wrenching readings, packed with emotion at every level. Salt authors Carys Davies and Vanessa Gebbie kicked off. I have read their stories many times but despite knowing every word they still affected me. Carys’s voice was a bit croaky and she gave the occasional sniff – she denies that this was her being emotional, but whatever it was, it was very effective and I swear there wasn’t a dry eye on the house. After Vanessa’s reading, people were in need of a swift one in the pub before the evening session (for all the right reasons!). Alison McLeod gave a stunning performance of her story ‘Dirty Weekend’, which honestly took me a walk around the block to recover from, followed by Simon Robson (one of last year’s shortlisted authors) — he has the most wonderful voice and I could listen to him reading out a telephone directory. Julie Orringer‘s story was next, which haunted me that evening, infiltrated my dreams and I still felt the horror of it when I woke up in the morning. And lastly, Bernard MacLaverty read ‘The Clinic’ full of wit, which I must admit, I was grateful for.
We left for the pub full of every emotion possible, on a high, pumped with passion for the short story in all its wonderful forms. I went to bed at 3am.
Sunday 21 September
I woke up at 8am, head swimming, and made it down to breakfast for about 9.30. Carys and I went out into the town: she signed copies of her book in Waterstones and I had some more caffeine. Then we headed back to the hotel for lunch with Jhumpa Lahiri, winner of the Frank O’Connor Prize. It is always a pleasure meeting new authors in real life and I was pleased to get the chance to exchange a few words with her. After lunch, Vanessa and I decided that rather than go to our rooms for some sleep (which others were doing, I don’t know, some folk can’t take the pace), we’d go for a walk into town to see if we could find the City Hall where the prize ceremony was to be held that evening. The sun was shining (don’t believe the story that it rains a lot in Cork – it’s a vicious rumour designed by the people of Cork so that they can keep the place to themselves) and it was good to get a breather and stretch our legs, use our eyes instead of our ears, and take in a bit of that fine city. We stumbled across a peace festival in a park and spent an hour or so listening to music, having a bit of a jiggle and looking around. Just what the doctor ordered.
The grand finale was the awarding of the prize to Jhumpa Lahiri in the Cork City Hall by the Deputy Lord Mayor. She then read a piece from her winning book and was interviewed by Eileen Battersby. All wonderfully interesting!
I had an earlish night that evening (though it was still after closing time – I hate to miss out on things) and was up before the crack of dawn to catch my plane back home. The taxi driver asked where we’d eaten – I told him and he said, ‘oh you’ll get a good sandwich in there: nice thick bread.’ What a wonderful parting shot – how I love Cork!
I’ll put together a slide show of some of the wonderful people I met, too many to mention here. Thank you to Pat and everyone at the Munster Literature Centre for such a fantastic event and for looking after everyone so well.
It was a treat for me too!