Emerging Writer Member Profile
As a child, I was a scribbler. I let my imagination run wild and wrote ghost stories and dog stories, poems and plays and protest letters about animal rights. I attempted to write a novel many times, but knew I didn't have enough life experience. Until now.
With a degree in journalism, completed courses at the Irish Writer's Centre and a working blog, I am advancing my debut historical fiction novel and will have the first draft completed by the end of summer 2015.
You can read about my progress at www.ladynicci.com or follow me on twitter at www.twitter.com/ladynicci
I love to chat with other writers, to learn about published authors and their work and to get to grips with the publishing industry and the business of writing. I am also a storyteller. Because who doesn't love a good yarn?
The following is the prologue of my debut novel.
The sea was grey and the sky line missing. A whiteness had descended along the east coast. The leathered boat, dipped up and down, the small waves lapping and dashing as they rowed. The rough granite sat squat in the boat, steadying the small currach, as they made their way slowly through the sea.
They sailed from the sea to the Boyne, floating over dark water, fronds waving from below. It grew still as they rowed upstream, past the rushes and the marsh. On land, rough ropes pulled the square stones from the boat to the oiled logs, lined up on the shore.
They rested that night, sleeping beside the stones, their fire smouldering in the spring dew. The weak sun warmed their arms that morning and as it rose in the sky, beads of sweat dripped form their brows, down their necks and flowed freely from under their arms and torsos.
They sat when the stones reached their resting place, ready to be carved and formed into their passage tomb. Some lay their bodies against the stone, feeling the warmth, the scratched surface and the spirit of the stone. They smelled the granite, breathing in its air and thought of the great tomb the stones would build.
The warmth was a gift. The stones were a sacrifice. A delivery from the Gods to the sun.
And this was the beginning of Dowth.
Inspired by a true story of a family who are evicted from their home in Dowth, Co, Meath, Ireland in 1880, my novel follows the story of Molly Molloy who is forced to overcome losing her home and family and carve out a new life for herself in the nasty streets of 19th century Dublin and London. Throughout the novel, the spirit of the ancient stones of the Boyne Valley weave in and out of her life, and ultimately decide her forever fate. Can Molly avenge the wrongs done to her?
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