One of the lovely presents my niece Ruth Wynne-Jones gave me this Christmas was a very special biscuit decorated to look like the jacket of one of my novels! (The second paperback printing of ‘Ordinary Miracles’ had this sweet cover with the pink pig.) What a delight it was to receive this fabulous gift! Her very talented friend in the Kaleidoscope Bakery made it and she also created fantastic culinary art biscuits for some other family members. It is so very special I don’t want to eat it. Might even get it framed! You can learn more about the Kaleidoscope Bakery here

Happy New Year and ‘In beauty may you walk’ (Navajo prayer).

Love and sparkles,

Grace x

Wrote an article about the joys of crafting quite a while ago and the other day remembered how I did quite a bit of knitting when I was younger. I remember bringing a large partly knitted sleeveless jacket kind of thing with me when I traveled to Africa. It required a complicated stitch and vaguely resembled a sheepskin rug (the wool was cream coloured). I nearly finished it and then realised I would never wear it. It was strange enough to fit quite nicely into a modern art installation. Still, I probably enjoyed the click click click of those needles. Heaven knows where I found the pattern.

When I was an au pair in Switzerland in my mid teens the nice lady I was staying with was a very keen knitter. We spent loads of time by Lake Geneva with her kids and she often brought her knitting with her. I seem to recall she was constructing some kind of poncho and it looked fab. She whizzed through those stitches like a pro. Because of this I decided I would knit a jumper. It was to be long and black and sophisticated. Sitting by Lake Geneva for many hours most days was very nice but the lovely weather did not seem to induce a wish to knit…in me anyway. Madame P.’s poncho grew at a great rate. I decided that my jumper didn’t have to be that long…and then I decided it didn’t require sleeves either. I added a purple edge to parts of it and it was actually quite nice. I had it for years and enjoyed saying “Yes, I knitted this myself”.

When staying with relatives in Swaziland I got into crochet. I don’t think I crocheted anything in particular. One of the nice things about crochet is that you can make little coloured squares very quickly, even if you don’t know what you’re going to do with them.

In some ways it’s amazing I wasn’t put off knitting completely at primary school. Us kids were asked to knit…socks. Even at that tender age I presumed that socks would be things I would buy. The teacher was critical of the heel I’d knitted. I had to rip it up and start again. This may have happened more than once. The demoralised sock remained unfinished. It was a pleasant blue colour. (That seemingly pointless sock knitting experience snuck into ‘Ordinary Miracles’. Yippee. I found a use for that sock after all.)

As a wee girl I had a nice little knitting set. I think it was in some kind of basket. I may have tried to knit stuff for dolls and teddies but I was far more interested in scampering around outside and playing in the river and climbing the big old oak tree. I liked the look of the knitting set though. And later, when I got into ponies in a huge way, I was thrilled when my Mum knitted me a thick cerise coloured jumper with a horseshoe on the front.

The other day I visited a local arts centre and found they’d just had a knitathon. I was, in truth, rather glad I’d missed it. I know that knitting can be a huge pleasure. Ava, in ‘Ready Or Not?’ makes wonderful jumpers and finds it very therapeutic. I have written about its pleasures in articles. I once even borrowed a book by Kaffe Fassett from the library. I love the idea of knitting. Yes, it would be really nice to knit a sweater one day…maybe. I’ll leave the knitted socks to the experts.

Warm wishes,

Grace

Ordinary Miracles review:

‘Since Rosie [the pig] is not around, I’ve taken to talking to Teddy. My husband’s a liar and my daughter thinks she may be a lesbian, I tell him. My marriage is over and I’m too scared to get involved with anyone else – even though there’s another man who’s probably perfect for me.’

‘Wynne-Jones’s novel gives us a hilarious, exhilarating and sometimes poignant insight into the life of Jasmine Smith in her forty-first year, whose husband Bruce satisfies his lust in the marital bed with a family friend, and then begs forgiveness. Jasmine moves out of the family home into lodgings, where she finds a sympathetic ear in Charlie, her new landlord, and a pig called Rosie. Supported by her friend Susan, Jasmine experiments in widening what she feels was her mundane lifestyle. Daughter Katie, who has left home to study and do voluntary work in a dog’s home, gives Jasmine further problems to consider. Susan and Jasmine take an ‘alternative holiday’ to Ibiza. On their return home, Jasmine at last realises what and who she wants to share her life with, and it is certainly not Bruce. There are few who will not empathise with the characters within Ordinary Miracles; an excellent read and eloquently written. Norma Penfold A review from www.gwales.com, with the permission of the Welsh Books Council.

Ordinary Miracles

Found some bargains in the supermarket today. Yippee. It’s great to find fancy food for half its usual price because it’s near the sell by date thingy. Had some lovely chicken samosas for lunch because of this. It’s a somewhat damp day. Loads of fallen pretty leaves in the local park. Glad that I have an open fireplace. One of these days must light a nice fire. It’s so cosy to sit beside it with a cuppa. I watched the X Factor results show last night and I took a break from it every so often to watch Stephen Fry help very rare rhinos on the BBC. This was a pleasing combination. Not one of the rhinos attempted to sing and they looked cute and so full of character in their own dear rhino way.

Warm wishes and sparkles,

Grace

Here’s a great quote:

‘There is only one trait that writers have in common….They watch for the extraordinary magic that lies in the everyday….Not willing inspiration but just being open to the world. This quiet looking and thinking is the imagination. It’s letting in ideas. It’s trying, I suppose, to make some sense of things.’ Joseph O’Connor

Warm wishes,

Grace

Did some decluttering yesterday, which felt nice, though of course it was a bit boring to trawl through various papers and wonder if I should keep them. For example I doubt if I need aged utility bill receipts. Of course I also found some things I’d forgotten about and that might come in useful.

Went through my wardrobe the other day with a friend. There were a number of items in there that felt like ‘discoveries’. For example I have a number of fairly swanky jackets. Should wear them more often. And I have a large collection of scarves. Also found a nice pink top that seemed like a newcomer. I think I last wore it when I was an extra on a TV programme and was sitting with a very handsome French man in a makey uppy restaurant.

As I’ve mentioned before in my blogs I love animals. I adored a pony called Merrylegs when I was younger. Was also very fond a poodle called Tinkie, a pug called Zoe and a Yorkshire terrier called Scut. Animals often feature in my novels.

I really miss having a cat and here are some jottings about a wonderful feline called Puddy.

Puddy

Puddy was black and white and opinionated. He was brave too. Sometimes howls rang out in the night when he encountered a mean streets tom. There were evenings when he sat for a full five minutes before leaping through the cat flap like a feline action hero. He knew how to ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’. Though he was neutered he had not lost his va va voom.

He once returned home with a large fish. Where had he got it? Unanswered questions such as these were part of his mystique. He was a big cat. I admired his strength. The heavy, surrendered weight of him on my lap…the deep vibrating purrs. . We sometimes snoozed together. It is extraordinarily therapeutic to have a cat nuzzled into your armpit. He had strong preferences about food, its brands and flavours. He was his own cat. I lloved that about him too.

At first this love was most inconvenient and completely unsought, or so it seemed. I felt I didn’t need this kind of anthropomorphic sentimentality. Puddy’s mother, a stray, brought him and his small siblings to my patio garden. The other cats eventually wandered away but Puddy stayed and, gradually, I began to learn why cats can inspire such devotion.

Hemingway, for example, shared his Key West Home with more than 30 cats. Dr. Samuel Johnson had a pet cat named Hodge whom he fed oysters to and other treats. Mark Twain revealed “I simply can’t resist a cat, particularly a purring one.” And who would ever have guessed that the august Sir Isaac Newton is often credited with the invention of the cat flap. He cut a hole in his study door so that his pet puss could come and go.

Someone once remarked that “having a dog is like a marriage, but having a cat is like having an affair”. Maybe that’s why ads for cat food sometimes resemble Mills & Boon novels as glamorous career women embrace their purrfect partners.

“As we see animals more as equals we like the fact that cats see us as inferior” one cat lover told me. “I find it rather funny that my cats order me around.” A psychologist who has studied feline charisma added that the human-cat relationship is quite an egalitarian one that may appeal to feminist instincts. Thankfully Puddy was only haughty when he felt the situation required it. But he never quite forgot forgot his wildcat roots. Strangers made him dart for cover,

“There is a time for departure even when there is no certain place to go” Mark Twain once wrote. When I left Ireland for some years I had to rehome Puddy. I wish I could have brought him with me, but his new home in the countryside was wonderful. He could roam freely without fear of bullying toms and his new human companion showered him with care and affection. After a bewildered while he settled. I received photos of him looking extremely contented.

Quite a while ago I bought a bag of catnip and sprinkled it in a corner of the kitchen. Puddy passed away before I returned to Ireland. I wanted him to know that even though I cannot see him he is welcome to wander through these rooms. The cat flap is still in the kitchen door. Sometimes a gust of wind makes it sound as though he has popped through it. Dropping in for a while before setting out on bigger and more satisfying adventures. Bravely exploring his great elsewhere and sleekly slipping into its mysteries.

Lots of love,

Grace

I must admit that I have sometimes felt a deep disappointment about this. There are many mornings when sashaying around my garden in the south of France seems far preferable to less sultry endeavors. But I don’t own a garden in the South of France…not yet anyway. And if I did one of its pleasures would surely be sitting in the sunshine and enjoying a large cup of Earl Grey Tea surrounded by the uplifting aroma of lavender.

The great thing about simple pleasures is that I can at least partially replicate this sensual scenario in wintry Co. Wicklow. I have the Earl Grey Tea and I have the lavender aromatherapy oil. And on a sunny morning golden sunbeams pour through my large kitchen window. Why wait for Provence? Life is here and now. As the Buddhists say ‘wherever you go you are there’.

In thriftier times simple pleasures become even more important. However it’s best not to get too happy clappy about this. Soaking in a seductive bubble bath will not, for example, fool you into thinking you are at a Caribbean health spa even if you surround yourself with scented candles. But a little pampering can go a long way and at least you don’t have to worry about mosquitoes. And curling up in front of an open fire with a good cat can be as delicious as coiffing cocktails in Park Avenue. That deep fortissimo purring is a concerto in itself.

Sometimes simple pleasures can be very small indeed, but no less important. One of my brothers loves Kimberley biscuits, but not the chocolate coated variety. For him to put chocolate on a Kimberley is to dilute the purity of the Kimberley experience. Vienetta has added vavavoom to many a family meal time. …And eating succulent toast smothered in butter and jam in bed has a voluptuous late night night feel about it…especially when it’s accompanied by cocoa.

Love,

Grace

‘This may sound like Bridget Jones territory but Alice is less spikey,
certainly drinks less and makes more effort to make a life for
herself…The writing is full of quirky wit and energy.’ ‘Book of the
Week’ THE EXPRESS (‘Wise Follies’)

‘…..Grace Wynne-Jones has written an entertaining, intelligent and genuinely funny story….this is a great read, especially for commuters…guaranteed to shorten any journey.’ THE IRISH TIMES
(‘The Truth Club’)

Found this quote (partial) from book posted on tumblr.com. in a blog. Thanks kind reader for posting it!

‘…this is one of the best Irish novels this year…The trip to Greece is steeped in olives and jasmine, cicadas and sunshine…readers will love the local gigolo, Dimitri. Grace writes with great humour…On a more serious note, her portrayal of friendship, commitment and the complexity of relationships is very real and most enjoyable.’ EVENING HERALD re. ‘Ready Or Not?’

When I arrived there, aged perhaps five or six, I had left another house. Another big rectory in the Irish countryside. I remember scampering excitedly through the new rooms with my brother Vere.. There was a bell in what we came to call the ‘Morning Room’. Had it been used to summon servants? Once we’d settled in its imperious buzzings were used to alert family members that an interesting programme was on the telly. For it was a big house. We could wander far from one another.

When I was little and had to go to bed before the others I sometimes felt I was almost in another country in my bedroom…so distant from the gathering in the Morning Room around the new contraption with its exciting black and white images of elsewhere. Dad kindly checked behind curtains and in the wardrobe. Under the bed too before he left to join the others after we’d said prayers together…he was a Church of Ireland clergyman. At one point a goat was included in my blessings.

I loved that home before I had given a name to love. When I was not versed in its arithmetic, though now the numbers seem more like stanzas. I was not always happy there. I remember sitting under a large writing desk and gazing solemnly out a window as I listened to a grown up argument…worrying about the shape of the words, their angles and velocity. I probably worried a great deal more than I remember. When my parents disagreed with each other it could become quite operatic. I didn’t understand the passion of it. The small histories. The infuriating compromises. I was young. And the house understood that. It asked nothing of me but to simply live there. To know its rooms and its eccentricities. Its spacious lush grounds. Its tall sheltering trees.

I have written about the house before, but not in this way. Not with with a wish to stop writing. To flee. And yet writing from the heart sometimes requires you to do this. To sit with the discomfort. To find out what needs to be known. To grieve. To reconstruct. To love again what seems to have been lost.

The house had a blue front door at the side of the building. I don’t remember how many stone steps…perhaps eight. The yale key was usually in the lock during daytime. There was a time when I had to stand on tip-toe to reach it. The house was surrounded by woodland. There was a gate at the top of the long driveway which was straight when seen from the road but curved and branched out closer to the house. During winter, when the trees were bare, only the rooftop could be glimpsed from the top gate. The white gate marked the inner territory of the house’s ‘grounds’. I sometimes used to swing on it, back and forth. It creaked companionably.

There was a walled garden which was largely overgrown, but still contained many apple trees. gooseberries, raspberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants. A golden pheasant lived there in a large aviary type cage accompanied by less flamboyant members of his species.We had hens and bantams too kept overnight in various outhouses. I became acquainted with the smell of the fox and the need to rush out and shoo him away when the hens squawked for assistance.

My father kept bees even though he was frightened of them. Anytime he visited them he tended to sprint across the lawn shortly afterwards because a bee had found its way into his astronaut type headgear. It wasn’t one step for man. And it was many steps for my father. But we got nice honeycombs. Usually not the type you buy in shops. Partly filled but very satisfactory.

I loved the Morning Star river that flowed nearby. I spent a great deal of time paddling. Exploring. I remember constructing small dams in it with my brother Vere. Completely absorbed in our constructions like little beavers. He was the youngest of my four older brothers. Our raft never floated on the surface but was partially submerged…up to the ankles. I think it had once been a large wooden door. We enjoyed watching the river’s creatures. I was particularly impressed by the blue flash of the kingfisher.

These notes are so different in tone to the perky little messages I sometimes place in my blog. Notes about novels. Interesting websites. Cappuccinos savoured in cafes with a friend. Life seems to require a certain elasticity of us. Just now I am tempted to write that this is the true Grace sharing these words with you because they come from a deeper, dappled almost raw place…and yet we are all many selves. A writer soon discovers that. In many ways we are like music with its low, high and medium notes…our moderattos, flippancies and necessary spaces.

Even as a little girl in love with the old rectory and its lands, I began to dream of living abroad. I perused the Readers Digest and the National Geographic. Time magazine also found its way to us. It was, it seemed, a very big world. We had watched the moon landing in the Morning Room. One day I brought my pony Merrylegs in to watch a bit of telly too. Perhaps he might also want to know about the larger world. He was a black and white beauty given to me free gratis. I’m glad I didn’t know about his colourful past. He was a gentleman with me.

I left for boarding school at twelve and my pony was given back to his owner. Shortly afterwards he was put down. This was because he had Laminitis and could not be left out at grass for long periods. I mourned him and the rectory felt different. I was only there sometimes. There was much packing and leaving. Adjustments. The rhythm of belonging had altered. I did not want to miss the rectory too much. I did not want to love it anymore. I used hint of a tint shampoo and Badedas.. I was very keen on blue eyeshadow and the ads for Martini. I was an au pair in Switzerland one long hot sultry summer and had a romance, in French, with a young man called Serge.

When I said my goodbyes to the house before my parents left it I was living in London and in love. The house was sold and not long after that burned down. If you visited the place today you would never guess it had been there. There is no woodland, not a trace..the house has gone and the driveway. The top gate is still there leading to a field. I seem to recall the stable is still there. Has the walled garden gone too? I don’t remember. I revisited it briefly. But of course the river is still there. Flowing onwards as before.

What do we do with loss….where do we place it? Sometimes it is tempting to feel it will go away if we ignore it. If we arm ourselves with projects and plans. Lists. Workshops. Service. The world is a big place. Love is a huge word. This moment is where we live. And yet what we have loved and still love sometimes calls to us. The need to honour that tenderness. The habits of the heart.

My parents died some years ago. And the boy I played with, Vere, died in 2006. We shared a house together once. A home. We watched Wimbledon in the Morning Room.. He really liked Nastase. He sometimes listened to Top of the Pops on the transistor…walking through the fields with it.. And when I was a little girl he held my hand during a thunderstorm…he told me it was the angels singing.

I have rarely written about him in recent times. Not typed recollections anyway. I didn’t know what words to use. Instead I sometimes lit candles and stared at them. A little ritual that helped. For a while I almost forgot that I am a writer. And writing is a kind of home too. A place where you can take your sorrow and joy, your memories. And make something of them, like a builder.

I wonder who built our old home. The rectory. Who carefully placed those bricks and that mortar. The plasterwork. The floorboards. Who installed the huge windows with their wooden shutters. Thank you for the blue front door and its key. In memory it seems as real as it used to be. I can almost smell the baking in the kitchen. A dog curling itself affectionately around my legs. The gumboots near the door. The country coats on the stand. My father at his typewriter…tap tap tap…intent. His words somehow sailing forth to dance with these ones. In love…and with gratitude. In a place where all cherished things remain.

Got a lovely comment from a reader recently who said that ‘Wise Follies’ had really cheered her up and made her felt understood…I’m so glad the book felt like a friend. I got a number of letters from readers of ‘Ordinary Miracles’ saying that they felt I had been spying on their marriages (in a nice way of course). Someone once described it as ‘Victoria Wood meets Shirley Valentine’.

You can read summaries of my books and some lovely reviews on the thingys at the top of this page.

Some quick advice for new authors seeking publicity in papers, on radio and the like. I’ve found that the fact that one has written a novel often simply isn’t enough to send a journalist scampering off to interview you. I’m also a freelance journalist myself. Those features editors really like their ‘hot’ angles. If your book is about something unusual, or you wrote it on a desert island or are currently dating a well-known footballer etc then there’ll be lots of interest. Another way to gain interest is to have something else to talk about. For example when I wrote a big article about women and cats for The Irish Times various radio stations contacted me to discuss it…and I naturally mentioned the new book and said that intriguing animals frequently appear in my novels. A highly personal article about self-esteem led to an interview on one of Ireland’s most popular radio shows (yes I bought a bottle of Rescue Remedy). There are many other examples I could cite. For example an article about ‘BookCrossing’…do look it up on Google…also led to radio interviews.

And if you want a boost Google ‘Elizabeth Gilbert Ted Talks’. Bracing words!

Lots of love,

Grace

Lots of love,

Grace

P.S.
From R. Griffith on Amazon called ‘Chick Lit With Depth’: ‘I have now read all of GWJ’s books and have been utterly impressed by every single one. I had never heard of her before I spotted one in my local market town shop and bought it on impulse. As with all chick lit (and all genres, let’s face it) there is always a formula somewhere but she writes with such feeling and insight…Certain elements crop up in all her books (windsurfing, budgies, biscuits and hands being just a few) but they flow beautifully, the settings are eloquent and the characters richly realised. Relationships are explored with genuine depth and humour and even if you’re not a fan of love winning out in the end you really wish you were….These will remain on my book shelf and I will send them to others as newly purchased presents. Beautiful and more please. ‘

Have joined Twitter. Didn’t think I would but I want to find out more about social media since it is clearly…well…very modern and that sort of thing.

Spent the weekend in a lovely old country house. I was on a Shamanic training course. The house reminded me of my childhood home. I often really miss the leafy eager secluded days I spent as a little girl in a rambling rectory with big grounds in County Limerick. The river and big lush fields that became as familiar to me as friends. I remember staring at a part of the river where stones gathered and formed a sweet small waterfall…sitting by it…putting my feet in the water…the cold clean splashy feel of it. Memorising the shapes and textures of the day. Wonder if I would have known that river as well if I had owned a laptop and had broadband.

Heard a wonderful interview with Leonard Cohen on the radio this morning….such wise delicious words.

Lots of love,

Grace

Jasmine Smith: forty next month and not ready for it; married to a man she likes and not prepared to give up on love; smothered by life’s mundanity, and yet drawn towards its mystery. She wants the sort of love that makes her feel more alive, she wants wild sex in stalled lifts with film stars. She wants something else….
Jasmine Smith is in desperate need of a miracle. And with the help of an adventurous school friend, a man called Charlie and a pig called Rosie she is about to find one.
A sharp, funny, moving novel and an exhilarating invitation to step out of quiet desperation and re-discover the magic in life and in love.

ISBN 1905170645 / 9781905170647 price £6.99 February 2007

Purchase from
Amazon.co.uk from February 19.

COMING LATER THIS YEAR…

Wise Follies ISBN 1905170637 / 9781905170630 Price £6.99 April 2007
Ready or Not? 1905170653 / 9781905170654 Price £6.99 June 2007
The Truth Club 1905170661 / 9781905170661 Price £6.99 August 2007

see the Press Release from Áccent Press (PDF file)

PRAISE FOR ‘ORDINARY MIRACLES’

‘Wonderfully dry…I really enjoyed it.’ Catherine Alliott

‘Beautiful, tender and funny, written with great perception…a remarkable novel.’
Katie Fforde

‘The belly-laugh being a rare enough commodity on this planet, this promises to be one
of my favourite novels of the year…very very funny.’ In Dublin

‘Funny, heartwarming and special.’ Marian Keyes

‘Grace Wynne-Jones writes up a storm of wit in her first novel…a fine
new writer.’ RTE GUIDE

‘Ordinary Miracles has that rare combination of depth, honesty and
wit…and all of this backed by a deliciously soft, gentle and loving
humour…If you try one new author, try Grace Wynne-Jones.’ OK MAGAZINE

‘She has an assured style and a wonderful insight into the separated
lady’s lot…I couldn’t put it down. I literally read it from cover to
cover.’
Muriel Bolger, ‘No Jacket Required’ RTE RADIO ONE

‘A delight of love, laughs and starting again…which is very far from
ordinary.’ Yvonne Roberts

‘Ordinary Miracles is about relationships and love and sex and a little
bit of guilt. Jasmine is a worried and witty heroine…an engagingly
high-spirited and perceptive debut.’ THE IRISH INDEPENDENT

‘Wynne-Jones’s sense of humour and the self-mockery of her heroine makes it both funny
and touching.’ TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT

‘I really enjoyed it.’ Shakti Gawain, bestselling author of ‘Creative Visualisation’