Cloister. I like to say the word aloud and dream about a sanctuary in autumn; a simple white walled room with an ample window for sunbeams to pour in so thick, dust particles form into tiny fairies that slide down the beams. The only sound I hear is birdsong, wind song, or ocean song. A writer requires this kind of room to be shut away in, sheltered, and quieted; a place to withdraw from the world to create new worlds with words and storytelling. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction,” Virginia Woolf said. Yes, please! I can imagine a sequestered luminous and peaceful writing room, but in reality, I have never had one. I can also picture myself in one of the private writing rooms at the New York City Public Library, or perhaps squirreled away in a cozy cottage at The McDowell Colony where one fortunate artist described the person delivering his picnic lunch basket as the Angel Gabriel. Oh, the freedom to create in uninterrupted time! I yearn for unadorned and easy days to meander deep down into the abyss of the past and dig out story relics to restore to some original shine. I pour over Poets & Writers’ magazine’s conferences and residencies section and dream of a studio in a rustic medieval village in Italy, or being on an idyllic Greek Island only accessible by boat. I especially like the Brittany writer’s rental with the setting in a 19th century stone house with five fireplaces and only a few miles from ocean beaches.
I dream of these places, but I have never had my own special writing room. I have always written stories in the sundry places available to me. The office, bedroom, parlor, living room, dining room, kitchen, public libraries, bookstores, diners, cafes, bed and breakfast inns, beaches, cars, buses, trains, airplanes, the back porch, friends’ homes, hotels, and even in the woods. I know there must be more rooms where I have taken my yellow legal pad or lap top and then put one word in front of the other. Sometimes choosing a room to write in reminds me of putting one feeble step in front of the other, like after I had major surgery and was forced to walk the next day. Alas, I have learned to write without the one unique charming room of my own. I’ve learned to capture my undisciplined mind that flits and flies around ideas and worries, and cage it temporarily so I can hear it sing a story to me.
When words aren’t hunted, honed, and placed on a page, I can write in my mind and heart. Ideas and outlines for stories form when I am showering, walking, cleaning, exercising, baking, and working on a painting in art class. I also write when I dance, the music infusing my brain with visions of grandeur. It happened that the entire premise for my first children’s book came to me while I was Irish set dancing in a pub. Writing for me can’t be condensed into one small room with a shot of light, but if it comes that way, like a much needed vacation to the tropics, I take it and splurge. Mostly, my writing experience isn’t like the narcissus bulbs forced to grow in January. I do require time for the right light for the right story, whether in my head, home, or a public place.
But a favorite room to write in is when I am in my kitchen and my hands are stirring, kneading, and molding. I call this writing love play writing because it can be a prelude to a story, acted out in measuring cups and spoons. It is the preferred room for when I write without my laptop or legal pad. The act of baking is full of unique and often simple ingredients with the potential for something delectable to be shared with others. Likewise, fiction writing is full of characters coming together in plot and suspense, culminating into a story that satisfies the hunger of readers. Story ideas, chapter scenes, plots, and endings often form and rise in my head while I mix, shape, and bake scones, breads, and pies. I can create magic in the kitchen because in no time at all, I whip up a pie, a cake, or cookies. And while doing so, I’m

A few nights ago, I dreamed of babies crying from hunger. Often, I can dig through the memory of my day to find the seed that was planted for the dream, i.e. a movie, news headline, or an NPR program. But not for this dream, except to say that in the subsoil of my conscience the issue of hunger always exists and it must have been stirred up and mingled with my mind’s protective topsoil. My husband and I were planning a culinary walking tour in Portland, Maine and I was eagerly looking forward to a large cone of french fries fried in duck fat at a favorite restaurant. Was I feeling guilty for this indulgence, and for eating too much in the last week when cool weather arrived?

Hunger is not only about too many people and too little food. It’s about the inequalities in accessing resources. Famine often happens not because there’s a lack of food, but it is about who has access to food. At the height of the Great Hunger in Ireland, An Gorta Mor, a New York City newspaper wrote, “In 1847 alone, three hundred thousand of the Irish people perished from starvation, or from diseases incident to the lack of food. And during that very year, 73,000 cattle, 43,143 pigs, and 26,599 crates of eggs were sent into England from the very districts where the famine raged with most severity.” By the end of the famine, which indeed lingered till after 1850, over a million people had perished.

Bread for the World site gives these statistics:

The world is facing a hunger crisis unlike anything it has seen in more than 50 years.

925 million people are hungry.

Every day, almost 16,000 children die from hunger-related causes. That’s one child every five seconds.

There were 1.4 billion people in extreme poverty in 2005. The World Bank estimates that the spike in global food prices in 2008, followed by the global economic recession in 2009 and 2010 has pushed between 100-150 million people into poverty.

At my book talks, I often quote from the book, Irish Hunger, Personal Reflections on The Legacy of the Famine, Edited by Tom Hayden. Hayden writes in the Introduction, “We have not healed from these repressed horrors; it is as if unmarked Famine graves are in each of us.” There is also an essay titled, “The Need to Feed,” about a Famine descendant who has always wanted to feed people. I relate to this because I went to India with visionary stars in my eyes many years ago…to feed the hungry and save souls, I thought. This was well before writing about The Great Hunger. And I baked for friends as a teen and wanted to pass out brownies to all the neighborhood children (as my mother did). These kids weren’t undernourished at all, except perhaps from eating Wonder bread and marshmallow fluff. I once had a Victorian tea catering business and created teas with a bountiful table of scones, tarts, and cakes. All you can eat at my teas for $15.00. And I create cakes and all kinds of pastries for our Irish dances we host in our home. It’s not just a love of baking, but also a driven sort of thing whereby I feel empowered to be able to have bounty for myself and to share with others. I fear sometimes I won’t be able to obtain fresh produce and goods…I hope that isn’t a reflection living in New Hampshire without Wegmans (look that grocery store up…it’s the best in the world…and they give to community hunger and world hunger). I have given, as we all do…and I often give a percentage from my books sales. I don’t share this to garner praise and to pat myself on the back. I am humbled, but I am also immensely grateful.

I don’t know what to do about the dream. I have been quieted in my soul in prayer for the children I saw. I must do more. I say this after just baking an apple pie and working on a book of essays with recipes today. I give thanks. And I will do more.

“Much is

A determined icy wind flew through the doors and up my skirt, attacking my most vulnerable parts. My entire body shuddered and I looked at my watch. I should have worn warmer clothing, but the glow of summer was still on autumn…during the day. My fingers were stiff. My stomach gurgled, for I hadn’t eaten dinner. No one offered me a cup of coffee, and although the doors were continually opening with people streaming in, I felt invisible. I was alone, tired, hungry, and cold. I was at a book signing at a major bookstore.

Oh, wait! Someone is coming through the door, heading my way.
        “Hi, do you know where the children’s department is?”
Oh, wait! Someone is grimacing and coming through the door, heading my way.
        “Hi…you must be cold…have a good evening.”
Oh, wait! Someone is smiling coming through the door, heading my way.
        “I love the cover…who did your cover?”
I answer, but then stay quiet while she reads the back of the book, not wanting to appear eager.
        “Interesting…hmmm…have a great evening.”
And most annoying,
        “Do you know how I could get my book published?”

The store manager had forgotten to order my second book, Hope in New York City and so I sat with copies of my first book, The Irish Dresser. At 9:00 p.m., I packed up my books and fairy dust and drove home. I had sold one book for $7.95. Car tail lights, street lights, and signal lights turned into giant shimmering Christmas tree bulbs as I gripped the wheel. It wasn’t a celebratory visual because the disappointment sitting in my heart at the bookstore was now perched precariously in my eyes. I was swerving sharply to avoid the potholes of discouragement, and feared if the tears spilled out, I would crash.

After some publishing experiences and receiving numerous rejections, my first book, The Irish Dresser, was published in 2004. There were a few good reviews and a few good book events and then my second book, Hope in New York City, was published. There were more good reviews and many more good book events. One never knows. At some events, I will sell twenty, but at other events, just one or none. Twice, I have had a long line with the store manager holding the book open for me to sign. On this particular chilly evening, I wasn’t really thinking about The Irish Dresser and Hope in New York City. I was expectant with my third book, NORAH, The Making of an Irish-American Woman in 19th Century New York. This baby was well past due date, or I just felt this because there was another story imploring to be conceived. I was exhausted and weary from caring for the two older children and burdened with the gravid full term work that is over 400 pages. These were some of the responses I was receiving from publishers:

Dear Author:

• “Thank you very much for your query. Unfortunately, your project is not right for us at this time. We wish you the very best of luck with your work.”
• “Although this seems to be an interesting work, it is not quite right for our current needs. We wish you luck with this book.”
• “…I’m sorry to say I won’t be pursuing representation at this time, but I wish you all the luck…”
• “We were intrigued by this premise, but due to our extensive client list…we are unable to offer you representation at this time. Our best wishes for your good luck…”
• “We were especially impressed with the historical accuracy and the delightful, colorful dialogue, but we are sorry to say that we must pass on this project…I wish you the best of
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