Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

ÌýisÌýspecial; informal and irreverent,Ìýwith plentyÌýof brilliant acts, musical and literary. I’ve wanted to go for agesÌýso was reallyÌýhappy to be invited to read this year. The festival’s warm-hearted, easy-going identity made for one of the best events I’ve performed atÌý–Ìýa greatÌýconnection with the audience and some very good vibes.

The magic of theÌýweekendÌýis partlyÌýthe romance of the location. The spirit of Dylan Thomas isÌýeverywhere in Laugharne. Signs pointÌýto the boat house where heÌýcosied with Caitlin inÌýthe drizzle-veiled bay and every pub displays a picture of him drinking in situ. The green buildingÌýin the photo is where he wrote Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night as his father lay dying.

I read on SaturdayÌýmorning in a rain-spattered, wind-bellied tent to a curious, clever, and possibly hungover, group of people. I was interviewed by the astute Anna Davis, Managing Director ofÌý. The main act, the established novelist Deborah Moggach, pulled out last minuteÌýsoÌýI was worried things would fall a bit flat. In fact, it was brilliant fun and the hour raced by. Rain flew against the sides of the flapping marquee and there was an attentive and friendly atmosphere, albeit with some shivering and blowing into hands to keep warm.

We talked about family. AboutÌýmy choice to write a book set inÌýAustria, which is linked to myÌýAustrian heritage (my dad’s Austrian). ‘Was it for therapeutic purposes?â€� someone asked. A perceptive question. Perhaps I needed to delve into the silences within my family’s past in order to better understand, to unearth things buried, to ask questions about the hardest times, the hardest truths.

Afterwards, several people shared their thoughts aboutÌýfamily, their own experiences of secrets, loss, severed lines of communication and the need to dig, to discover what no one would tell, their search for openness and honesty.ÌýWe left uplifted, despite the subject matter.

I was rather humbled by it all â€� on a bleary-eyed morning after plenty of pints, this audience were more present than most;Ìýa proper conversation, a willingness to get serious, and also to laugh, and such a feeling of welcome.

PerhapsÌýthat’s what Laugharne Weekend Festival is all about.

Ìý

Have you been to â€� or performed at –ÌýanÌýevent where there was a goodÌýconnection between performer and audience?ÌýWhat was the magic ingredient? Or the opposite: did the two sides fall out? Or have zero chemistry?

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Spring is the most creative time for me. The coming summer is in the cool March sun down byÌýthe Taff, the path striped with tree-shadow, fresh tongues of garlic, birds above â€� their dove-throated rhythms â€� and ideas nudge up likeÌýshoots. I’ve been scribbling scraps towards the new novel in notebooks quickly filling; I’m songwriting with the band again, a album. I’mÌývibrating slightly. Is it spring fever? Fizz in the blood, excitedÌýmelancholy, an agitated happiness.

This exhilaration mixed with uneasiness has been there since my first novel was published last month. It’s been soÌýwonderful but I’ve needed to pause and question before plunging on with the next book, before following the urge that’s getting stronger as spring arrives. Why doÌýIÌýwrite?ÌýIf I didn’t put energy into creating things, where would it go? Towards something more useful perhaps? Something outward looking, political and brave. Like outreach or charity or activism. So much injustice and suffering. Weltschmerz my Austrian dad calls it â€� world-pain â€� I feel it often. Can art really make anything better?

I’veÌýconcluded something similar to the characterÌýMick, from Carson McCuller’sÌýThe Heart is a Lonely Hunter,ÌýstrugglingÌýto understand her creative fervour â€� confused and yet convinced of its worth:

It had to be some good if anything made sense. And it was too and it was too and it was too and it was too. It was some good.

All right!

OK!

Some good!

The new novelÌýfeels just as important as My Own Dear Brother did. It’s ‘glowing in the back of my mind like a full moonâ€�, as Ìýputs it. All of myself will be in it again, like last time. I hope that some of the outward looking, brave and political things canÌýbe in my stories and songs.ÌýIf itÌý·É²¹²õ²Ô’tÌýfor art there’d be nothing butÌýWeltschmerzÌýfor me. No means of connection, and what would that achieve?Ìý

Bloody spring fever.

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It’s ten days since publication of and I’m starting to hear back from readers. OTHER people are now familiar with Felddorf � with Ursula and Schosi!

During the six years it took to write, I shared the book with few. I learned how a novel should be pieced together; I wrote and discarded so much. I read and read about Austria in WW2 and the postwar phase; I moved to Vienna, explored, asked questions, conducted interviews with elderly Austrians who remembered the war’s end. And all the while this imagined world was trying to get out onto the page.

Writing is weird. It’s a fervour � for me, anyway. And it’s dichotomous: solitary but a communicative outpouring; make-believe yet deadly serious; it leads to adventures but also allows me to retreat from the ‘real� world � backing off while simultaneously pushing something forward.

My feelings about being published were mixed, as well, at times. I felt elation but also fear. My innermost would be suddenly outermost.

But I needn’t have worried. It’s been nothing but brilliant. I love the feeling that the book doesn’t really belong to me any more. It’s intensely pleasurable hearing Ursula’s name on other lips and readers saying they couldn’t stop turning the pages. Yes, I think when I hear this. That’s how I felt, too � about that village, those people. I never lost interest.

I’ve got an exhilarating sense of being understood, of being heard as I hoped to be.

I’d love to hear your thoughts and impressions. Where you’re up to (without giving the game away!), your favourite characters. And, if you’d like to support the book, I’d be grateful if you rate it on or Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. It’ll make all the difference to My Own Dear Brother.

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Depending on my state of mind, I think of the imminent publication of my debut novel, My Own Dear Brother, with soaring excitement or gut-bludgeoning fear; the 11th February 2016 is a shimmering mountain peak that I’ve climbed towards so long, where I will surely be able to stand at last and indulge in some yodeling (won’t that feel very fine? Won’t I be permanently grinning?) But then, when a wave of self-doubt hits me, it transforms into a more shadowy shape, a siege engine maybe, rumbling my way, teetering and loaded with God-knows-what kind of weaponry. I scurry nervously on the ramparts, trying to strengthen my defenses.

To stop myself from being so melodramatic, I’ve been getting on with preparation for my book launch. It’s time for a proper party and I’m chuffed to say the venue (Little Man Coffee in Cardiff) is now full. After all these years and all that work, I want to celebrate with everyone who’s supported me. Gathering stupid Austrian-themed raffle prizes has been fun (e.g. The Sound of Music/The Terminator) and finding some willing individuals to dress up as Krampus (my brother and my dad, who is a real Austrian, so beware). The bar will be stocked with schnapps and Austrian beers. But best of all has been rehearsing the performance itself.

I couldn’t resist the idea of a collaboration with some of my band-mates from and . I’ve missed music over recent months, when there’s been so little time amidst book-related busyness. This seemed like a great chance. So, we’ve devised a half-hour performance of readings from the novel with live soundtrack and I’m really excited about it. The compositions are carefully arranged to accompany the scenes I’ve chosen. There are a lot of mesmeric piano patterns reminiscent of Philip Glass, ominous electric drones, and delicate sound-scaping. We’ve all been pleasantly surprised by how well it works. I’m really looking forward to doing it for real.

Today is one of the days when I gaze ahead at the mountain peak that is 11th February and grin. Having the launch the day after will really make the experience personal and memorable for me. I’ve just finished a Skype conversation with my Austrian relation, who’s flying here especially (amazing!).Ìý She approved all my choices for the Austrian snacks I’ll be providing, and she has busily made a list of ‘essentialsâ€� that she ‘mustâ€� bring: oval paper plates and red and white napkins traditional for serving würstl (frankfurters), about ten tons of dark rye bread, and a fresh horseradish sauce that will ‘really be Hellâ€�. Perfect.

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At the deliveryman’s knock I thunder downstairs. I follow him out to the back of his lorry to help with the boxes. Unsmiling, he hands them down to me. There are four and they’re heavy.

‘It’s books,� I say to him, grinning, unable to hide my excitement. ‘My book � that I wrote.� Sixty hardbacks of MY OWN DEAR BROTHER to sell at the launch party.

‘Are you a teacher or a lecturer, or something?� he asks, deadpan, standing in the doorway as I deposit the boxes in my hall.

‘No, a writer.�

‘Sign here, please.�

I manage a deformed squiggle. My hands are shaking slightly. ‘It’s my first novel.�

‘Oh, yeah?� His face splits into a wide grin. ‘What’s it called?�

‘My Own Dear Brother.�

‘What kind of book?�

‘Historical fiction, set just after WW2.�

‘Is it?� He’s beaming. He looks about twenty years younger. He gets out his pen to write down the title. ‘Where can I buy one, then?�

I tell him. We chat for a bit about what it’s like to write a book; he’s very curious. After a few minutes, he shakes my hand, wishes me luck, and hops into his lorry.

Lots of people react like this when I tell them about my novel being published. It always surprises me. It always feels great.

I shut the door and survey the stack of boxes barricading the foot of my stairs. My heart’s kicking; I feel a bit high. What if I don’t like it? Nervously, I think of all the copies stacked in the warehouse, waiting to be distributed. I decide to hang on till my partner gets home. It feels only right to share it with him; he’s been involved since the start and deserves to be part of the pay-off. But secretly, I also want moral support. Somehow, I distract myself until his key scratches in the lock.

Together, we slit the boxes, lift out the protective packing. Something glints: the title, MY OWN DEAR BROTHER, written in gold. The dust jacket is smooth under my fingers; the spine creaks as it opens. There is the fresh scent of glue.

We put it on the tabletop; we stand it upright, take off the dust jacket to admire the white and gold hardback beneath.

‘That’s a bit nice,� he whispers.

No matter how much I stare, it remains disembodied from me. A magical object � complete.

‘Well,� I say, dazed � bedazzled. I have the confusing sensation of both ending and beginning.

I go to get the LIDLs £4.50 cava from the fridge. This warrants lavish celebration.

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