There’s a saying about Ireland to the effect that everyone leaves it, but it never leaves them. A few days after my sojourn onto the green isle, I’m having withdrawal. It would be trite to call Ireland a “magical” place; haunting might be more accurate. Colleagues have asked me what I loved most about it. I struggled to express my thoughts. There wasn’t one thing. It was the whole that made it great.

It is nearly 6pm and I have found a seat at a long marble bar in the center of Bailey, a fashionable watering hole just off Grafton Street in Dublin. All the middle management Dubliners journey in, usually in pairs and trios. They place their orders with the bar and engage in good craick, the cherished conversational art of the Irish. The weather is unseasonably warm, in the 60’s, so most of the crowd opts to sit outside at one of the popular cafe tables. I keep my seat inside and watch the scene that develops around me. A group of four older patrons, two men and their wives, I presume, gather in a booth by the window. They are smartly dressed. It is a reunion of sorts and they laugh and toast as they share stories. The men sip Guinnesses while the ladies enjoy gin and tonics.

In the next booth a young couple exhausts a bottle of white wine. He is a dark haired young man in a crisp, striped shirt. She is blond, with buttery skin and pale blue eyes. Her hair is tied back and she wears a conservative blouse and jacket. There is a casual, resigned air to their conversation. Every so often he leans over the table and offers a quiet confidence, perhaps gossip, perhaps a flirtatious love offering. Either way, each time he does she warms with a smile and sometimes giggles. They never touch.

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I sit in a beautiful, open atrium overlooking a garden with tall trees lined with ivy. Inside, the walls are bedecked in mint green draperies and subtle colors that accentuate the view. Perrott’s restaurant, inside the Hayfield Manor Hotel, is a dreamy and delicious way to end a long day.

Sitting across from me is a family of five. The three boys all have rosy, high cheeks and brilliant blue eyes. The eldest, a boy of about Luc’s age, is celebrating a birthday and his parents have surprised him with tickets to a football game on Sunday. He is the envy of his brothers. Watching this unfold makes me homesick for my own family. But I am making great progress on my self-imposed writer’s hermitage. I churned out another 2,500 words today on the train ride from Dublin to Cork. It was a beautiful ride, and I plan to take in more of it on the return tomorrow. I have nearly two chapters complete of my book. Tomorrow, I shall finish up and make a good go at chapter 3. (more…)

The view from my hotel window

I slept soundly Sunday night. All the time spent traveling and working my way up to a Dublin arrival took a toll and I crashed hard. But I’ve learned my lesson from past international travels, and kept myself up to the normal hour when I go to bed. Without an alarm, I woke up around 7am and felt ready to tackle the novel project. I surprised myself. I worried that I underestimated the time and discipline it takes to meet aggressive daily word quotas. Breakfast took forever quickly crept in to my designated writing time. But I still managed to bang out over 2,000 words before lunch and reserved the rest of the afternoon to tour Trinity College, Grafton Street and Temple Bar.
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After 16 hours of flight time, including a four hour layover in Frankfurt, I have finally arrived. Dublin has met me with a cold, wet, gray embrace, and I love every minute of it. What a city!

Getting here was a mostly uneventful experience, although I surprised myself at my own excitement level. I travel all the time. I’m fast on my way to being a million miler with Delta. I’ve also been to Europe more times than I can count. So I found my own behavior odd. I had a hard time sleeping Friday night. I was like a kid the night before Christmas. I couldn’t wait until the morning.

At the airport I was giddy, smiling at everyone I met, chatty and generally showing signs of riding a massive adrenaline rush. There were times on the flight when I found myself short of breath. I haven’t felt this inspired in a very long time. I channeled my energy by preparing to write. On the flight to Frankfurt I found time to refine my outline and sketch out some of the major plot points. The Germans virtually insist that you sleep, so at one point I tried to recline and catnap for awhile. I don’t sleep much on planes, and I found it even harder to do Saturday. My head was either rushing with story ideas for the novel or thinking about Ireland. At one point I managed to dose off for about a half hour until I was awakened by a sudden splash of water. I think the woman in the seat next to me spilled from her cup, but she ignored me. (more…)

Today’s the day. I’m off to Ireland to start my novel and explore my heritage. As much as I travel, I’m actually surprised at how excited I am about this trip. Stay tune for postings.

It is now less than four days from launch time for me. I head to Ireland on Saturday. The objective is twofold: (1) start my next book — a novel, and (2) drink a lot of Guinness.

It won’t take much effort to do the latter. Many have asked how I plan to do the former. Going away to start a big writing project is one of my favorite exercises. I hole myself up in the morning and disallow myself the opportunity to go out and explore until I’ve met my daily writing quota. For this project, I aim to return to the states with no less than 12,000 words in the can. That means each day I will be writing an average of 2,000-2,500 words. I’ve also allowed myself one day to rewrite. Even if you don’t plan to visit a foreign country, the quota system is a great way to discipline yourself and make real progress on a big project.