It’s the second to last day of our time in Northern Ireland, but nobody is treating it like some sort of series finale. We’re simply here with each other, just like any other night we’ve been together. Do you remember the series finale of Everybody Loves Raymond, how nobody died, there wasn’t a wedding, nobody moved to some new and foreign place, how it was just like any other episode in the series? That’s what this feels like right now.

Not to be sappy and sentimental, but I suppose that’s the way it ought to be, considering that these last days in Armagh don’t serve as any sort of finale for anything, aside from the completion of a curriculum. We’re not saying goodbye to writing, inquiry, creativity, sarcasm, and the English language. We’re not saying goodbye to the world outside of America. And we’re certainly not saying goodbye to each other. We may not have this specific set of experiences again, but we will always have these memories, these lessons, and (I’m speaking for everyone here) one of the most special families we’ll ever have. You can bet your bottom goddamned dollar that Sunday won’t be the last time we see each other, and I don’t mean on Facebook.

So we’ll take this piece of our life back with us to our usual mundanity (jobs, school, cleaning) and carry it with us everywhere we go. It’ll be with us when we’re eating an overstuffed Chipotle burrito. It’ll be with us when we’re awake at 3AM, trying to finish another goddamn term paper. It’ll be with us when we set out on our own, change the world, get old, and die. Armagh and the family we created here will always be with us.

This is my last blog post. I’m sorry it was so schmaltzy, but not really. I’m not sorry about anything about this trip.

Thank you for your time. I look forward to speaking to you again one day during ieiMedia’s Armagh Project All-Stars. I’m dead serious. I’ve never been more serious.

Allow me to backtrack..

July 19
As a writer, who is your audience for the Armagh Project? How does audience affect or impact your writing?

I don’t know how to answer this question. Generally, I deeply consider the audience//performer relationship but I did not write “Ma” with an audience in mind. I did have a foundational understanding: they spoke english and understood the connotations of the gestures and language. “Ma” was a piece I needed to get out of my arm. It was a selfish piece that I had to projectile vomit from my system. I was my audience. The dialogue played out in my head. The workshopping process invited the audience in and I was grateful for the clarity, questions, and criticism. Although the suggestions were difficult to digest at the time, audience input ultimately helped shape my story into the product it is. Even after our presentation, I took in audience feedback to further improve.

July 22

Free Blog!! Write something about Armagh – the place or the people or . . .  

CULTURE SHOCKED. Arm Ah!
Extends past histories like
Fingers grasp for breath.

Walls. Accents. White people. Hills. Closed at 6pm. Boring. #hostellife Cathedrals. Religions//Politics. Why Armagh? I still don’t know. But it was nice for what it was. Navan Fort was bitchin’. Chris and I finally climbed to the top of the hill and saw for infinity. The walk was brisk. This town is a bit depressing, like Joliet. They’re both outside bigger cities. Litter everywhere. Green malls. It’s alright. I don’t think I’d return. Can everyone in the Armagh Project come live with me in Illinois? You can bring your family and friends too, and we’ll be together and get to know each other better.

July 23

What was your day like at the Hewitt Festival?  What surprised you?

It was alright. I felt bad for falling asleep during the reading. The Hewitt was not overtly inspiring to me. Nothing jumped out al me, compelling me to create ideas or to write. I felt strange around older people and highly misinformed about literature and the world around me. I notice the way people dress immediately upon notice. This was comforting, aesthetically, I felt as though I fit in well. However, I struggled to converse with such intellect. I did take away Simon Armitage. I bought his book, “Kid.” His poetry was different. It was imaginative and in honest, simple language. It contrasted the flowery explanations of the reader before him. I loved his humility and simple, poetic observations. I’ve collected another favorite.

July 24
What was your day like at the Hewitt Festival? What workshop are you taking and what are you writing about?

POETRY! It was alright. My poetry is the red headed step child of the class. My poetry workshop started out as a slightly chaotic throwing together of papers. The first day, we did an exercise which required us to go outside and look. Just look. Just observe. Which is perfect, because looking is one of my favorite activities. After ten minutes, we returned to class and wrote what we saw. We then workshopped Ben’s piece about Balthazar and partnered up with our observations from before. We shared our lines and underlined our favorite of our partners’ notes. We then performed a makeshift piece out of our two lines by reciting the favorite two in order. Our homework was to bring in two poems to workshop the upcoming days. This was awesome because I usually need a reason to edit my poetry or else they remain suspended on the page. (Which is fine by me, but they usually prefer to land.)

After the second day of workshopping, I was intimidated. My poetry wasn’t like anyone else’s. I don’t use meter or structure or rhyme or whatever. I write simply, what I feel and what sounds best. I was stressed out that everyone would tear apart my product and critique on a nitty-gritty level. But I was pleasantly surprised. I read my untitled work and it was well received. In fact, a few people came up to me later to praise words//methods I employed. I’m performing it tomorrow at the workshop showcase. It’s called “Meters per Second” and I’m dedicating it to Pusheen. Right on. Write on.

Poetry, friends!
Eleven + Eoghan.
Workshop. Read. Write on.

July 25
Congratulations on your presentation!  Tell us about that experience.

I don’t know how to articulate what happened to me at 415 on the afternoon of July the 24th at the John Hewitt Summer School. I am at a loss for words. RAD.

Watching “Ma” being performed. Wowza. It was unmatched. Joan and Alison were exceptional with my text and I am consistently blown away with their interpretation. I still react naturally during the fight scene even if I know what’s coming. Sinead, a workshop classmate, approached me afterward. She said she’d been watching me throughout my performance and that she caught me smiling every now and then. Maybe that encompasses my reaction to my work. A fleeting, contemplative smile.

We were all nervous with positive energy ahead of time. We wanted to move into the space. After performing and competing and what have you, this aura is all too familiar. I love it.:) We listened to “Go The Distance” from Hercules as a group and warmed up. I wasn’t nervous about the presentation itself, I knew we had it down and if anything messed up, we’d improvise. I was anxious about the event itself. The fact that it was happening and would soon be over. We were allowing strangers into our space, which had been so intimate until our arrival at JHISS. Our work was embraced by the audience. Memorably, another fellow poetry workshopper, John, approached me and said my piece really resonated with him. He opened up to me about his relationship with his Mother and his subsequent growth. We quickly found common ground. I thanked him for sharing with me- it meant a lot. Writing grants strangers permission to do that. Open up, relate, tell you things they wouldn’t be as upfront about, honesty. During our talk, why I do what I do was overwhelmingly clear. Sure, I know what I want to change about the piece from here and there are a few lines I want to adjust. But just knowing that John found something to relate to, meant the writer’s world to me.

Feckin rad. Can’t be
live it’s over. We are too close
now. Up to know good.

Driving along the highway and seeing sheep grazing in fields. Being terrified as the double decker bus floors it on a right turn. The constant breeze. The view of the Irish Sea from the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge. The friendly people and their wonderful accent. Constantly being asked if I was from America and how I liked Ireland. The fish and chips. Watching little girls play some type of ruffian sport outside the dining room window. My wonderful new friends. St. Patrick’s bells. How still the nights are. The folk music that turns up in the most unexpected places. And the generally happy feeling I have while being here. It’s very hard to be homesick in Ireland.

I hope all my friends and I manage to stay in touch, if not often hopefully a random like on Facebook to remind me of them. I have never experienced living with complete strangers for so long before and I am thankful to have had such a wonderful experience. I am so fortunate to have met them all, and experience their wondrous talents.

There are so many things I never want to forget.

Until we meet again dear Ireland,

Savanna

At the same time, and this might be my trying to rationalise how badly I really do not want to stop living the Writer’s Dream right now, there are some things I’ll be glad to see again at home. My family, for one thing. Clearly my sister is missing me somewhat, as she’s taken it upon herself to photoshop her own face into my travel pictures. Like you do, you know.

Being able to drive instead of taking public transportation for hours and hours at a time, for another thing. And being able to open the windows without moths and spiders and mosquito eaters crawling through the screen-less space, for a third.

But really? Is it worth it trading in the incredible experience I’ve had here in Armagh for a piece of mosquito netting and the twenty-minute commute to the mall? Is it worth longing for the comforts of the world I’m used to, even if it means giving up the amazing and new experiences I’ve had here?

Fortunately, the way I’m looking at it, I don’t have to.

Sure, I’ll be heading home on a flight Sunday morning, traveling for about twelve hours before collapsing in my own bed back in Michigan. But when I wake up the next morning (or afternoon) (or maybe on Wednesday), I’ll still have so much of the experience I’ve had here. I’ll have the hundreds of pictures I took across Ulster and the Republic. I’ll have the knowledge I gained of a totally different culture and its rich and controversial history. I’ll have the 50,000-plus words of a novel that I began here, and plenty of inspiration to finish it up and send it on its way.

And I’ll have the people I met here, whether through Facebook or through planned and hoped-for reunions or through just the memories and the friendships that we made.

Terri, Kimberly, Joan, Nessa, thank you all so much for all you’ve done for me. You’ve taught me about writing and about my own limitations and skills. You’ve helped me become an actor when I thought the closest I could get to acting was reading Death of a Salesman out loud in senior year English, and for the confidence that gave me I’m forever grateful. You helped me through the tough times I had while abroad, and you helped me celebrate my successes. Nessa, you called me out when I wasn’t doing my best and helped me find the path in my story I was really looking for all along. And looking back at my writing, I can honestly say I couldn’t have done it without you. Without all of you. Best. Faculty. EVER.

Look, Mom, I’m acting!

Kelsey, Katie, Chloe, Savanna, Chris (had to go meta on you, one last time), Jonathan, and James. You all are the best. I’ve never lived with a group of people in this close proximity for this length of time, sharing one power outlet and one bedroom, and not been seriously annoyed with them by the end of the journey, ready to get home and close my door and not speak to anyone for three weeks. But I can honestly say that I’m having as much fun being with all of you here on our last weekend as I was on our first. If not more. You guys are the best. You inspire me, you make me laugh, you’re always there for me, and you indulge me when I get sappy. I couldn’t have asked for better people to tackle Armagh with.

And I’m going to relentlessly Facebook stalk each and every one of you. Just so you know.

Team Armagh = THE COOLEST.

All in all, (I don’t want to end this blog post because it actually means I’m going to go home soon…) the Armagh Project was incredible. Eye-opening. Amazing. Productive. Mind-melting. Serendipitous. Majestic. Excellent. Righteous.

And I sincerely hope that Armagh Project: All Stars actually ends up happening. Because I’d like nothing better than to come back to this hilly town of two cathedrals in five years, to see this ragtag bunch of Americans I barely even recognised at Dublin Airport a month ago, and which has become like a family to me.

I’ll miss this, and I’ll miss you guys. Keep writing, and keep being amazing. Shouldn’t be hard.

This Sunday, we leave Northern Ireland and return to the States.  It’s as if I’m returning to another life in a parallel universe; everything here feels familiar and yet noticeably different.  When I go home, coins will be disused, debit cards will work more often, I’ll be able to drive, and my own bed will be waiting for me.  I’m trading green fields and rocky cliffs for green trees and blue mountains, a class on playwriting for classes on science, music appreciation, and film and literature, and a brand new family for the one I’ve had for years.  In a way, I’m glad it’s over.  I’ve had my fill of foreign life, I’m exhausted, and I’m ready for a week or two of rest before the school year starts back.  At the same time, I can’t imagine life without my classmates and teachers.  Even though I came to Ireland for the beauty of the land, they’ve managed to wiggle their way into my heart further than the countryside ever could.  It won’t be hard leaving Ireland, but it will be hard leaving them.

I’ve had so much fun on this Ireland.  I’ve had adventures and misadventures, I’ve maxed out my writing output and pleased an audience, I’ve shared living quarters and late-night walks with some awesome friends, I’ve learned so much about the world outside my protective bubble, and I’ve seen some of the most beautiful places in the world.  So will I come back.  Someday, yeah.  Maybe not next year or the year after, but someday I’ll be back.  There’s so much I’ve seen and so much I haven’t seen that Ireland won’t be able to keep me away.  Who knows?  Maybe the next time I’m here, I’ll be bringing a family of my own.

Until then, Isle of Erin, may the road rise to meet you, may the wind be ever at your back, and may you be three hours in Heaven before the Devil knows you’re dead.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Now, of course, when we got into the space where the performance would take place, we all melted into big puddles of nervous muck, performing yoga and throat exercises and spinal reconstructions. Well, most of us were nervous mucks. I wasn’t. This isn’t a bragging point (seriously), I just wasn’t. There was no knotted sensation in my gut. My fingers didn’t jitter or tap. My breathing was steady and natural. I was simply there. Joan Weber said (paraphrasing here), “It’s good if you’re nervous. It means you care.”

Did I not care about what I was doing today, then? Certainly not. I cared about enjoying myself out there. I cared about not hurting myself when I threw myself off of my barstool. I cared, probably most importantly, about delivering the proper respect that ought to be afforded to the work of my fellow writers who allowed me to perform their pieces. But I didn’t care about the audience of strangers or the lights or forgetting my lines one bit. And since I was supremely confident in my ability to realize the aforementioned elements I cared about, I was not nervous in the slightest (and in two of those three circumstances, my confidence was completely founded).

So, if this were a story, this would be the point where the hero, who is handsome, but too arrogant for his own good, is confronted with his comeuppance as a result of his hubris and learns something about himself in the process (and, this might be a bias here, doesn’t die or tear out his eyes like some sort of tragic Greek figure). But my confidence in my acting didn’t matter in the end, as far as this story was concerned. I was an arrogant rich boy chasing a life he won’t allow himself to embrace. I was a great bull sea, beckoning my lover back to the sea. I was a Zyrkonian in a man’s body, confessing his love in the most cheesy way possible and only injuring himself superficially when falling from his bar stool. They went well (I’ll leave it at that for the sake of maintaining this well-established façade of modesty) and I thoroughly enjoyed myself during my performances.

No, my downfall came in a way that I did not consider: that my play would not be successful. It’s no fault of the cast; Kimberley, Joan, Kelsey, and Savanna all performed admirably and memorably in their respective roles. But, despite their best efforts, the audience, as consensus, laughed fewer times than it would take two hands to count. My comedic farce of a play scarcely inspired a chortle from the audience.

I was assured after the fact that my play served as the opening act to a surprisingly tough crowd, some of which plainly stated things like, “I came in not expecting much. . .” That my play was a necessary warm-up for the crowd and that it got the audience geared into that suspension of reality that is so necessary for theatre. We all told each other that we had done a fantastic job.

But I know better. I know that nigh everyone after the show that spoke to me during the talkback had endless praise for my turn as the seal and the alien, that I had embodied those words and emotions fully, that I was a natural actor, and no words for the piece I actually created. One person spoke to me about my play: her criticism was that the surnames of the reverends were not strictly accurate, that they were most likely Catholic names rather than Protestant. My explanation that the names were an obscure reference to two ancient Celtic tribes that warred over control of the Drumsaillech, which would eventually house St. Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, 1500 years ago were not enough to assuage her concerns. My play did not seem to leave an impression on the audience, at least not a big enough one to draw them to me. It was not funny enough to inspire a consistent chuckle in the audience. It was not insightful enough to force conversation, at least from my analysis. Despite how much I love everything about the play, I see it for what it is: a failure.

So what did I learn from this experience? In brief, I learned that I am simultaneously a terrible and terrific writer. I’m a terrible writer because my work was not as inspiring, effective, and insightful as I wanted and needed it to be. I’m a terrific writer because I care.

So how does one out-meta Chris Warman?  This is the challenge I issued to myself.  Or is it how does one out-Warman meta Chris?  Or out-Chris War Meta-man?  Out-Man Chris Meta-war?

Whatever the question, the answer is simple: link the stuffing out of everything you can.

First, one must of course link to Chris Warman.  To save time, I have linked each word in this sentence to one of his spectacular blogs.  Take that!

I should also link to the one who inspired this little linking crusade: the lovely and talented Allison Epstein.  It was her life goal as stated at the end of this blog post that first planted the seed.  And I must say, she’s one heck of a writer.  Her blogs are always worth reading, whether they’re Egyptian nightmares, insight into Belfast and Dublin, a eulogy for her grandmother, or just some time to brag on her swag.  When she’s not putting the rest of us to shame by writing a 50,000+ word novella-ish type thing, she contributes to the body image site Adios Barbie and self-publishes books like Na Zdarov’ye on Amazon.  I plan to check out that book when I get back to the States, and I recommend you do the same.  And yes, I’ve spent a lot of time on Allison for a blog devoted to out-warring meta Chris-man, but I get carried away sometimes.  So I’ll end by linking to this quote and by hoping it doesn’t imply she’s going to turn into this guy.

On the off chance one is not Chris Warman, one should link to oneself as often as is humanly possible.  Therefore, here are some of my favorite blogs: my persistent nightmare, my discovery of Ireland, the absurd legend, a particularly mushy post, my encounter with the natives, and a metaphysical discussion on the human condition and on writers that would do Chris Warman proud.  Also, because that bit of shameless plugging isn’t enough, here’s my blog, The Nerd King, featuring such segments as Based on the Trailer (The Wolverine will be featured tomorrow) and Overanalysis.  And here is the blog of the literary publication I edited last semester (and am still involved with in a lesser capacity).  And then of course there’s this lovely article on my literary accomplishments.

Finally, because I haven’t quite out-man-Chrissed war-meta, I must now link to various sites that have to do with motifs of our plays, as well as random objects because I can.  Let’s see how that goes.

And all of this means that I am up way too late and I should go to bed now.  Goodnight.

These were the main emotions I felt today. In approximately that order. Now I’m not saying I can outdo the mushball in our group but I am going to give it a try.

Thank you so much Terri, Joan and Kimberly for not falling into my trap and letting me quit when I said I couldn’t act. You guys believed that I wasn’t hopeless and genuinely cared and worked with me to mold me into the character that was Briana. And it was fabulous. I read in a slightly too-long blog post yesterday that all great writers need validation. And you three definitely provided me with that and will help me become a better writer in the future. (And if not I’ll shoot you an email and you can knock me back into shape.) So long story short thank you for helping me not humiliate myself, and do my best to present a beautiful piece the best way I could. I truly appreciate and love you guys for it. 

So the presentation. I can’t even describe how I felt before the show. It wasn’t a pukey sensation, but I was relatively positive that no words were going to come out of my mouth and my first word “AYE!” was going to be completely lost. Minutes before walking out I was panicking. But it was okay. Better than okay actually. I was clear, I didn’t mess up any of the lines, and I didn’t knock over the 100 wine glasses sitting on the table next to me when I stomped out the door. It was fabulous. 

I want to take a minute to appreciate all the writers that presented today. Out of all of us my piece presented the least work to show. All we had to do was push a button and my video played on the big screen. Besides my computer bursting into flames there was no way I could have messed it up. But the playwrights and novelists, they are fantastic. I don’t know if I would ever be able to present something as elaborate, humorous or intense as my fellow swagmasters did today. Each piece was so creative and to anyone who approached me I gushed as much as they did about how awesome the works were. You guys are awesome.

Not to leave out my journalism partner and fellow sassmaster Katie Bratcher. She presented a piece on doors today that was wonderful as well. I still laugh at her pun about the doors and their roots. (It’s funny because they’re made of trees, haha)

So all in all a wonderfully spectacular day, but I’m afraid I’m not ready to quit my day job…just yet. 

We gathered with an audience of about fifty people in a little box of a theatre (thank God it was one of the only air-conditioned rooms in Armagh) and sat all in a row, staring back at the risers where our compatriots and our critics perched.  Our scripts were in hand, our laptops were hooked up, our voices and bodies were warm and loose.  If we weren’t ready, there was nothing more we could do to fix it now.

At first, I watched with a decent amount of interest, invested but not tied up in the performance.  I did notice that Chris Warman’s comedy wasn’t getting as many laughs as I thought he deserved.  Maybe the audience was still warming to us, or maybe they were still trying to understand our accents.  Or maybe American humor doesn’t translate into Irish humor.  It’s a thought I’ve had before; I’ve known other comedians who’ve had trouble getting their jokes across to a foreign audience.  And if that’s the case here, since I wrote a comedy too . . . I’m in trouble.

The rest of the performances flew by.  My friends fought past their nerves to do their very best, and each story seemed better than the last.  I managed to focus on my part in Siren’s Call with almost no nerves; letting loose and acting for a bit was a nice distraction.

But then at last we came to my play, Cuckoo in the Nest.

“Breathe,” Joan Weber whispered in my ear.

Oh, yeah.  That’s a thing that’s important, right?

For a few minutes, the audience was way too quiet.  Sure, I was getting a lot of chuckling out of Terri, which was nice considering she’d heard all the jokes repeated until they shouldn’t have been funny anymore.  But barely a peep out of the audience.  They do realize I wrote jokes into this part, right?

But slowly, like water seeping through cracks in a dam, laughter started to flow through the risers.  They were laughing at my jokes.  They liked my play.  I could barely control my smile.  And I had to allow myself a fist-pump when the entire audience laughed at the line, “What if I told you the Slurggians were plotting to take over the world by cloning Princess Kate?”  They laughed at my Princess Kate joke.  No one has ever laughed at my Princess Kate joke.  It’s about time I got some validation on that one.

They laughed at nearly all the right places, thanks in part to the wonderful delivery by my actors and some great sound effects and physical acting by Chris Warman.  And at last, there was applause.  True, it was for everyone’s performance, but some of that was for me, and I was okay with that.

At the informal talk-back afterwards, we were all approached by individual members of the audience offering compliments.  Some told me how much they liked the jokes, especially the bit about mandibles and losing lips at the end.  One woman said the play reminded her a bit of Douglas Adams, then went on to say how well I worked in themes about Northern Ireland and relationships between Catholics and Protestants.  And best of all, the head of ieiMedia himself came up to me and said, “That was d–n funny.”

So yes, I’m very happy right now.  And yes, I think I’ve earned the right to gloat a little.  And yes, tomorrow I’ll probably do something incredibly stupid that will bring me back down to earth.  C’est la vie.

I’m considering getting business cards just so I can put it next to my title: Allison Epstein, Swagmaster Novelist.

If you can’t tell, I’m still riding the writers’ high after presenting.

That’s not to say, of course, that I wasn’t nervous beforehand. My fellow writers and I did all we could to calm our nerves beforehand, from deep breathing and sun salutations to sing-alongs with the a capella version of “Go The Distance” from Hercules. But no matter how hard we tried to convince ourselves we weren’t nervous, there was no use lying. It’s a nerve-wracking experience, taking something you’ve been slaving over for a month in the private quiet space of your mind and your laptop and then presenting it to people whose names you don’t even know. What if they don’t like it? What if they tear it to pieces? (Don’t forget, they’re allowed to come up and talk to you afterwards!) What if, worst of all, they just get up and leave?

Needless to say, this did not happen. Our presentation, to put it lightly, was ONE OF THE GREATEST MOMENTS OF MY LIFE. I’ve heard of and experienced the runner’s high, but the writer’s high is almost even more fun. I got in The Zone as I stood up to read the part of my novel that I’d selected, and it didn’t feel like I was taking too long or people weren’t listening. I got into the story, and I think the audience did the same. Nothing else mattered.

And then there was the equally amazing experience of being able to speak to the audience after having finished our presentation. They had listened to our words and watched our plays, cringed and smiled and considered at all the appropriate times, which should be enough for any performer. But what I hadn’t even anticipated was how genuinely enthusiastic they were in the talk-back performance. My writer’s high spiralled out of control. People from the summer school from my historical fiction workshop came up to me and said they thought my story was excellent. My fellow students and I were complimented left and right. One of the women said she never even looked at her watch once (we presented for about an hour and fifteen minutes). Another asked me where she could buy my novel I’d read from!

I felt a little guilty admitting to her that it wasn’t done yet. Maybe someday, ma’am. Here’s hoping.

As writers, I find that we’re all junkies for feedback. I’m constantly foisting my work on unsuspecting friends and family members, pouncing on them the moment they put down the page and asking, “Well? What do you think? Be honest!” But the people at JHISS were not only more than willing to give feedback, but it was the nicest, most genuinely enthusiastic and supportive feedback I’ve gotten in a long time. After performing, all my nerves were gone. I genuinely felt like I could go out and take over the world.

Of course, “taking over the world” in this context meant “get some chips and a half Guinness, then go listen to an awesome a capella group sing traditional Irish folk music, and then collapse in bed to blog and watch Netflix.” Because my energy really can only sustain me so long. And would you believe there’s still two days of this wonderful madness to enjoy?

Don’t worry, though. Your resident Swagmaster Novelist can handle it.

Too much swag to handle