I was only 2o and not much of a drinker, but I had heard that one of the best sessions in the west would be at that particular pub on that particular night, and I wasn’t going to miss it. My own fiddle was stashed by my feet; I wasn’t going to use it, but staying at a hostel meant carrying my valuables with me everywhere I went.
The fiddle turned out to be a conversation starter for the old men sitting by me, who were tickled about the girl with long red hair and American accent who came into a pub on her own and ordered nothing but tea. With a few pints to wet their whistles, these old men were more than willing to wax philosophical about anything— life in Clare, music, art, the literary history of Ireland.
I was smiling and nodding and enjoying the craic when one of them said something that has stuck with me ever since.
“This,” one of the old men said with a sweep of his arm to indicate the packed room, “music, and storytelling. It has always been our winter fodder.”
And it still is. It’s what feeds me, at least, on cold days of the flesh and dark nights of the soul. So this blog is my nod to his wise words. Writing is such a solitary activity now, done in front of a computer in a room with a closed door. It’s easy to forget the intimacy of storytelling, and how the companionship of a good tale can feed up a soul that has grown wan and thin. While I write and research and worry over plots on my own, this is where I will open up about where storytelling takes me— and hopefully start a conversation about where yours takes you.
Welcome in from the cold. Welcome to Winter Fodder!