This evening I attended the biweekly Irish American Writers and Artists salon. A couple of writers in my writers’ group are members, and there’s always at least one good reading, if not more.
Tonight there were readings of novel excerpts, a couple of poets (one very funny), a singer-songwriter with possibly autobiographical songs, and haunting photographs of dancers in their 80s and 90s. The salon was held at an event space in a local restaurant, with quite good bar food. When the waiter or busboy didn’t fully close the sliding door, one or another attendee had to close them to block the hum of diners' conversations in the rest of the restaurant.
The Irish American Writers and Artists was cofounded in New York City in 2008 by Malachy McCourt, Frank McCourt’s brother. (You may have learned much about Malachy’s early life if you’ve read Frank’s Pulitzer-winning book, Angela’s Ashes.) Malachy has had a varied career: part owner of a couple of bars in Manhattan, a stint on a TV soap opera playing a bartender, and co-hosting a radio show on publicly funded WBAI. The New York Times recently ran a profile, possibly to publicize that while he had entered hospice care in summer 2022, a few months later he was removed from hospice; he did not behave like a dying man. Malachy usually attends the salon and closes out each session. Tonight he noted that he was now 91, and fully intended to live to 100. And then, he said, “I will hand in my notice.”
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I’m participating in the 16th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 21 of the 31-day challenge. It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about. Join in!
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