You might be saying to yourself, ‘How can I write a story? I’ve never written anything before.’ But everyone has a story locked inside of them. It may have been beaten out of you, by school, by well-meaning family and friends, or by life itself. And this workshop will help you tap into that story and bring it into life, whether you want to weave a fictional tale or share an event from your own life that has moved or inspired you.

So how does the magic happen? Here’s a breakdown of what you can expect.

Breaking the Ice: For the first hour or so, you’ll get into the writing mood with activities designed to awaken the senses and the imagination. You’ll be playing with words, creating wacky images and discovering how much material there is for stories in one ordinary day of living.

The Three Ingredients: After a well-earned tea or coffee, with a sugar hit if required, you’ll learn about the three ingredients that go into all good stories: plot, character and setting. You’ll be doing fun exerecises that will help you come up with the plot, character and setting for your own stories.

Structuring the Story: Once you have your ingredients, it’s time to plan and write your story. I’ll give you some hints on structure and then you’re on your own. You’ll find a way to combine the ingredients you’ve gathered and weave them into a three-paragraph story, with a solid beginning, middle and end.

Sharing the Story: This is the part people most often dread, but in fact, it’s a celebration of your creativity. You’ll be reading your story in front of a warm, supportive crowd and will bask in the wellbeing of knowing that you have created a completely original piece of work.

I’m happy to run these workshops with any group, whether they’re beginners or people who have been writing for a while and are a bit stuck for inspiration. If you have any enquiries, contact derbhile@writewordseditorial.ie

My first workshop will be in Waterford on Saturday February 11th and here’s a flavour of what you can expect.

Two are for writers, two are for community groups. Here’s the lowdown.

For writers

A Space for Writing

Have you got a book in mind, but can’t get your thoughts together? Would you like to do a creative writing course, but haven’t got the time to commit? Our one to one consultancy service gives you the space you need to develop your ideas and improve your writing.

Prepare to Publish

Hiring an editor can be costly, but our Prepare to Publish service helps you avail of top quality editorial advice without breaking the bank. We will edit and evaluate your first three chapters, your synopsis and your covering letter and give you our honest verdict on whether they’re suitable for publishing. If your book is at an earlier stage, we will edit your first three chapters and give you advice on how to move your story forward.

For Community Groups

Communications Workshops

Public speaking is more feared than spiders or death. Our communications workshops help to break down the fear barrier: our fun games make it easy for people to speak in front of a crowd. This gives a huge confidence boost to people and helps them to feel that they have a voice.

Social Media Campaigns

With limited funds, it can be hard for community groups to make their voices heard. Social media enables you to communicate your message for free, to the people who most need to hear it. We will provide you with interesting, relevant posts for Facebook and Twitter and advice on how to spread the word.

We may have introduced new services, but creating content is still at the core of what we do. That’s why we’re continuing to offer blog entries, web content, press releases and editing services. To find out about our new and existing services, please contact derbhile@writewordseditorial.ie

Here’s my answer. I can help you find the right words to achieve your goals.

Here’s how it breaks down. Whether we realise it or not, everyone has a story. And I help people tap into the power of their story. Our stories make us who we are. Because they come straight from our hearts, they have great emotional resonance. And because they’re our own stories, they help us to stand out in an increasingly noisy world.

The trouble is, you’re too close to your own story to see that power. So I help people to figure out what their story is?  Why would you want or need to do this? After all, everyone pays more attention to pictures than words? But you still need to know what to say.

If you know what to say, you can say it consistently, in all your communications. This will help the people you want to reach get the message. And because not many people take the time to do this, you’ll have the edge when you’re persuading other people to buy your book, use your services or donate to your charity.

We’re living in an increasingly noisy world, with a lot of different media clamouring for our attention. Whether we like it or not, if we want to be heard, we have to sell ourselves. And telling your story is a great way to sell yourself. Because you’re sharing your experience, your passion and your knowledge, you don’t feel like you’re selling at all. And because you’re making a real emotional connection with the person you’re talking to, they don’t feel like they’re being sold to.

There are three groups of people who would particularly benefit from defining and refining their story.

Small and medium enterprises: As a business owner, your first priority is to grow your business. And words can help you achieve that goal. Words are your secret weapon in marketing your business. If you take the time to define your message, you’ll have the edge over your competitors. This isn’t just pie-in-the-sky stuff. You can actually measure the impact of your words using Google Analytics and other analytics tools supplied by WordPress, Facebook etc.

Writers and Artists: Artistic people struggle with the concept of selling themselves. But how are people going to know about the wonderful work you’re doing unless you tell them? All you have to do is let them know about what you do, through tools like social media, blogs and traditional media. If you’re a writer looking to be published, it helps to be able to get to the heart of your story, so you can persuade publishers of its merits.

Charities and Community Groups: These groups are lucky. They have a treasure trove of powerful stories at their disposal. They can tap into the life changing experiences of their members and beneficiaries to get their message across. People will be drawn by these uplifting stories and be encouraged to dip into their pockets, or to avail of the services the offer.

Next week, I’ll be outlining the services I use to help you tell your story. If you’d like to find out how I can help you, drop me a mail, derbhile@writewordseditorial.ie.

To all the people who bought and read The Pink Cage. And then said nice things about it. It means the world. Special thanks to Lorna Sixsmith, who put the book forward for her Bloggers’ Book Club.

To my publisher, Book Republic, for bringing the book to life, especially to Karen Hayes, who dealt patiently with all my queries.

To all the people who came to my launch, two signings and readings. Again, your support gives me wings.Particular thanks to Suzanne Power, for launching my book and to all those people who travelled or who made an extra effort to find a hole in their hectic schedules to come.

To all the people who spread the word about the book on traditional and social media, including Orla Shanaghy, Sian Philips, Nadine O’Regan and Liam Power.

To my creative writing students, who lapped it up and clamoured for more, who were brave, imaginative and full of compassion, especially Pauline Bracken, Gillian Harpur and Mary Cranitch.

To my regular business clients, especially Kanchi, Conrad Howard and David Hegarty, for their ongoing support and for being a pleasure to deal with.

To all the people who have used my services in various forms throughout the year. It was great to make new contacts and I hope I can be of service to you again in the future.

To all the people who referred my services to others, especially Samantha Clooney, John Tierney and Mags Durand. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

To all the people who gave me advice throughout the year, especially Karen Frampton, Fintan Power and David Rogers. I’m going to make sure I put it all to good use.

To the people who trusted me to edit and evaluate their manuscripts, especially Paddy Connolly and Stan Philips. Thanks for taking the leap of faith.

To all my regular correspondents on social media, especially  Jamesie Heaney, Michelle Moloney King, Louise Philips and Derek Flynn. Nice to know I’m not making a leap in the dark.

Merry Christmas to you all from the person known variously as WriteWords, writerlyderv, ThePinkCage, or just plain Derbhile.

If you or anyone else would like to come along, here are the details.

When’s it all happening? It starts on Thursday January 12th and will run until March 11th. Classes last for two hours, from 7.30 to 9.30 with a break for tea, munchies and top-quality conversation.

Where will I find it: In St Mary’s Pastoral Centre, Irishtown, Clonmel, in a room with a beautiful big wooden table that has plenty of space for writing and is surrounded by comfortable chairs.

Who should go: Anyone who loves words and has always fancied scribbling. Or people who have started to write and want to develop polished, full-length pieces.

What will happen: Good writing requires both thought and action. So the classes will be a mix of practical exercises designed to strengthen craft and workshops where people will discuss each other’s work and give feedback.

And then there’s that other little niggle.

How much is it? €80 for eight weeks.

How do I book: Call me, Derbhile, on 087 6959799 or email derbhile@writewordseditorial.ie

The maximum number of people for the class is 15 and a few places have already been taken by my eager students, so book now to avoid disappointment.

Well, no it isn’t.

Creative writing classes have been mushrooming all over the country in recent years. And every so often, people speculate as to whether they’re really necessary. After all, a lot of today’s best-selling and award-winning authors never darkened the door of a classroom.

But looking at creative writing classes in terms of whether they produce published writers is too narrow a viewpoint. After all, no one expects children playing underage hurling to turn into DJ Carey, or people taking an evening art class to eventually become Vincent Van Gogh.

Creative writing classes are really about the two Es, escape and expression.

Escape: Creative writing classes give you a chance to step outside the humdrum of everyday life and recapture the magic of being alive. One of the great skills of a writer is to find the extraordinary within the ordinary and creative writing classes show students how to do this. It’s like a holiday from life.

Expression: Students have a chance to share their innermost thoughts in a safe environment and to let their imaginations run free. This can have a powerful effect, as they often don’t have these opportunities for expression elsewhere.

If you help your students achieve those goals as a creative writing tutor, you can safely say you’ve done your job. Anything further than that is a bonus.

A lot of students are avid readers and will be interested in getting a behind-the-scenes look at how their favourite authors create their stories. And particularly in more advanced classes, they’ll be interested in honing their craft as much as they possibly can.

Creative writing classes can help you get published – but only if you want to. A good creative writing tutor will give you the tools and the confidence to develop your stories and point you in the direction of places where you can send your work.

But if you want to be published, you’ve got to carry on by yourself. It’s a bit like Frodo in Lord of the Rings when he realised only he could bring the ring to the Cracks of Doom. You’ve got to put your bum on that seat.

And if being published is what you want, then a creative writing class could just give you the prod you need.

The Visit

I was wearing my new dress. It was supposed to be for Nicola’s party. But I was wearing it for William instead. I spread the dress out across the seat, to stop it from creasing. When Mummy and Daddy went to visit William, I stayed behind with my aunt Miriam. But not this time.

“Why do I have to go?” I asked, as we pulled out of the driveway.

“I told you. He’s feeling much better,” Mummy said. “It’ll do him good to see you.”

I didn’t think that was true.

The dress was yellow, with white lace on the edges and a white collar. It was the same colour as my hair, the colour of butter. Mummy gave me a white hairslide for my hair and washed it with special shampoo to make it shine, like hers.

Daddy drove the car like it was the tractor. He held the wheel tight and looked straight ahead. And all the other cars on the road passed him out. We drove past Nicola’s house. Her mother was in the garden, filling the paddling pool. She waved at us. Everyone in the class was going to the party. A hot, sour ball squeezed my throat shut. I chewed my bottom lip.

“Don’t do that, Abigail,” said Mummy. “You’ll destroy your lips.”

Mummy could see me through the mirror.

The air in the car was hot and tasted of dust. Mummy didn’t like the windows open, because the wind messed up her hair. And there was no sound, except for the engine. Mummy let me hear stories in the car, but not when Daddy was there. Daddy needed to concentrate on the road. I pretended I was splashing with the others in the paddling pool. My legs swung back and forth and hit the back of Mummy’s seat. She turned her head.

“What’s the matter now, Abigail?”

“Are we there yet?”

“In a little while.”

That was what she said every time I asked her. So I stopped asking.

*

The hospital didn’t look like a hospital. It looked like a house. Like our house. There was ivy all over the walls, with bits of cream paint underneath. The car made crunching sounds when it went up the avenue. I liked that. When we got out, my legs were stiff and sore. I made them go backwards and forwards until they straightened out. The sea was at the back of the hospital. The sun made little sparkles on the water.

“Can we go swimming?” I asked Mummy.

“Maybe later.”

Mummy took a handkerchief out of her bag and rubbed Daddy’s suit with it.

“There, it’s gone,” she said. “Just a bit of grit from the car.”

“It’s too hot a day for this get-up.”

Daddy put his finger under the collar of his shirt.

“It won’t kill us to make the effort.”

There was a crinkle in the space between Mummy’s eyes.

“Sure, it’ll be grand, Caroline.”

“Of course it will.”

She didn’t sound like she meant it.

The door opened and two people came out. One was wearing a nurse’s uniform. The other one wore a white shirt and grey pants. His hair was the colour of sand. It was William. I forgot how tall he was. He stood right in front of me. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

“You’ll be all right now, won’t you, William?” said the nurse.

William’s head jerked up and down. Mummy clapped her hands together.

“Well, this is very nice, isn’t it? All of us together again.”

Her voice was different: slow and loud.

“Say hello, Abigail,” she said.

She pressed down on my shoulder, a bit too hard.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Abby,” said William. “Your dress is pretty.”

He used to call me Abby. He was the only one who did. The only one who was allowed to.

“Right, we’d better get going,” said Mummy. “We’ve to have you back at four. What would you like to do, William?”

William didn’t say anything. He just looked at the ground.

“Are you deaf?” I said.

That was what Mummy said to me when I didn’t answer her.

“That’s enough, Abigail. We’ll get into the car and then we’ll decide.”

It was always Mummy who decided.

*

We drove away from the sea, towards the town. William pressed himself against the door. He put his hand on the handle above his head.

“Are you comfortable, William,” Mummy asked.

“Yes.”

“We’re going to have a lovely afternoon together.”

As we drove, William’s lips started moving again.

“Who are you talking to?” I asked him.

He whipped his head around. He looked surprised that I was there.

“No one,” he said.

Mummy said William was in the hospital because of his headaches. But maybe it was because he talked to people who weren’t there.

*

In the village, we passed a big white building.

“Oh, there’s the hotel,” said Mummy. “We’ll have our lunch there. It’ll be nice and quiet. Then we can go for a drive later.”

“That’ll be grand,” said Daddy.

There were tables outside the hotel. They were made of iron and each one had its own umbrella. The umbrellas were yellow and white, like my dress. I bounced up and down on the seat.

“Let’s eat at the tables, Mummy?”

“It would be better if we ate inside. Not so much noise.”

“But I want to eat outside. Why can’t we eat outside?”

“Don’t whine, Abigail.”

*

The dining room was big and full of echoes. The floor was made of flat stones. We sat at a table in the middle. There were only a few other people in there. I sat beside William. He sat very straight; his back didn’t touch the chair. A man in a suit glided up with menus. Then he glided away again. Mummy opened a menu.

“What’ll we have?” she said.

“Bread,” I said.

“You’ll have the chicken. You’re a growing girl. And what about you, William?”

William shook his head.

“You’re not hungry?”

“No.”

He said it in a whisper, in case someone might hear.

“Well, you have to eat something. You won’t be having your supper for hours. Why don’t you try the chowder?”

The waiter came back and Mummy told him what we were having.

“And to drink?” said the waiter.

“Just water, thanks,” said Mummy.

“Maybe the young lady would like some homemade lemonade?”

“Can I? Please?”

“Certainly not.”

Mummy didn’t like me to have sugar.

“Oh but I want some. It’ll be like the party.”

“Ah, let her have it,” said Daddy.

Mummy looked startled. Daddy never talked unless people talked to him.

When the waiter went away, William started playing with his napkin. I played with mine too.

“Stop fidgeting, Abigail,” said Mummy.

She didn’t give out to William. I pulled a face at him. He didn’t see.

When the food came, I saw why Mummy ordered the chowder for William. It was white. William only ate white things. I remembered now. When Mummy made roast lamb for Sunday lunch, he threw it on the floor.

I took a sip of my lemonade. The lemonade was pink, with bubbles that went up my nose. William swirled his soup around, but didn’t lift the spoon up to his mouth. It rattled against the side of his bowl. All the time, he kept talking to the people who weren’t there. I chopped my chicken into little pieces. Mummy was too busy talking to eat much of her food.

“The Galvins are always asking for you.”

The Galvins were Nicola’s parents. Mummy always told them William was away playing at concerts.

“And the O’Reillys. You played so beautifully at their garden party. They have a new conservatory now.   Andrea’s at university and Michael is planning to join the army. You used to play such games with him, didn’t you?”

William stared at Mummy. His eyes were round.

“You don’t remember? Oh, never mind. It was a long time ago now.”

The waiter opened the window. Mummy was right. The garden was full of noise. People were talking and laughing. And there were violins. William sat up straighter. He started to shiver, even though it was hot outside. William didn’t have a violin any more. He smashed it one night. I heard it in my sleep. When I ran to the window, it was half bright outside, so I was able to see the wood splintered all over the patio.

*

The chicken made me thirsty. I put my hand out towards my glass. William put his hand out at the same time. It bumped off my elbow. The glass fell out of my hand. The lemonade flew out of the glass and made a pink puddle on my dress.

“Look what you did,” I shouted at William.

“I didn’t mean…I don’t know.”

“You spoil everything. I hate you.”

William stood up so fast, his chair fell over. But he didn’t pick it up. He walked away. I waited for him to turn around, but he didn’t. He just kept going, taking little rushing stops, like he was walking on hot sand. We stayed sitting in our chairs and watched him go. I tried to dry the puddle with my napkin.

“Aren’t you going after him, Brendan?” said Mummy.

“But sure, I’ve to get the…”

“Don’t worry about it. Let me sort it out. We’ll wait for you at the car.”

“Mummy, I need to clean my dress.”

“Not now, Abigail.”

Mummy hated it when my clothes got dirty.

*

On the way out, I told Mummy I needed to go to the toilet.

“Fine. I’ll wait for you outside. Don’t dawdle.”

I knew where the toilets were. They were in the hall beside the dining room. There were black and white diamonds on the floor. I hopscotched across them. The door of the men’s toilets was open. There was a person crouched on the floor. It was William. Daddy was standing over him.

“Are you all right?” Daddy said.

William’s lips were moving again. This time, sounds came out of them, louder and louder. The words all ran into each other, like prayers at Mass. Daddy looked frightened. I never saw him frightened before. Not even when the bull charged at him.

“Will we bring you back, to, y’know?”

William didn’t answer, but he stopped making the sounds. Daddy reached down, put his hands under William’s armpits and lifted him up. William lifted me up when he came home from violin school. He twirled me around on his shoulders, so I could see the world. When William and Daddy walked out of the bathroom, I saw that they were the same size.

*

On the way home, my eyes kept opening and closing. I stretched myself out on the seat. There was a big stain on the front of my dress. But it didn’t matter any more.

Gone

Cool air caressed Esther’s face as the doors closed behind her. It smelt of damp and car oil. To her, it smelt of freedom. She broke into a run, a glorious mess of limbs. The wind whipped her hair across her face; her bag banged against her hip. But she didn’t notice. She was free of the yellow bedroom, the glugging noises Daniel was making. The yellow bedroom tried to be normal. It had sunshine walls, a wooden bedside locker with flowers on it and an armchair in the corner. But it still smelt of antiseptic.

*****

The railings slapped into Esther’s belly. Fire spread through her ribcage, expelling the air from her chest. She bent over, gulped lungfuls of air, held it in. Breathed it for both of them. When she looked up, she saw a clumsy pile of bricks and glass. A black and white sign told her in block capitals that this was a library. Daniel loved libraries. ‘Repositories of knowledge,’ he called them. ‘Windows on the world.’

She pictured him sitting at a big wooden table, reading an encyclopaedia. Daniel’s mind was an encyclopaedia. But he couldn’t give her any answers now. He wore the red hoodie she bought him, with jeans and a Bob Dylan T-shirt. His spider-legs stuck out; one of them jumped to the rhythm of his latest song. Even now, in the yellow bedroom, he couldn’t stay still.

*****

Esther lunged at the door and it caved, pushing her inside. The high ceiling made her dizzy. The library clattered with noise: feet on polished floors, bleeps from the issue desk, paper rustling, voices murmuring. The noise of people. There were too many people now. Every day, they came in a procession. They clustered around him as he sat in the armchair, wrapped in the sunburst quilt from their bed. He entertained them with anecdotes about the doctors and nurses, eloquent rants about the health system. Their attention and laughter brought a hint of the old crackle back into his voice. They ruffled the fuzzy cap of hair that clung to Daniel’s skull. Chemo chic, Daniel called it. It never failed to make them laugh. But Esther didn’t get the joke. She was the one who had to break up the party. They left him hollowed out. She had to help him back into bed, tuck the sunburst quilt around him. It clashed with the walls.

*****

Some thoughts on creativity from Eat, Pray, Love author Elizabeth Gilbert. She says all you have to do is show up – good news for lazy writers!