The embodiment of hearing

An old chestnut

I have an unusual surname, it is not rare, though not common either; It is the spelling and the pronunciation that are rare.

Where I grew up everybody was familiar with it and so there was no issue. But since I ventured further afield, I must deal with, respond to, cope with, people seeing my name and calling me by what they assume it is.

Do I correct them? Often this seems churlish, or unkind or embarrasses people, or irritates people who cannot understand why it makes a difference.

But fortunately or unfortunately for me, I would consider my hearing to be my strongest sense. And so, when my name is said, and it is pronounced in the way I learned it to be pronounced (the correct way??) the sound sits on or in my ear in a particular, welcome way, and I am aware that my body leans slightly into the communication with the pronouncing person; leans into the connection and the conversation.

I don’t know if this is unusual or not. But, if you doubt the impact, please know that when beginning her career, politician Kamala Harris, now destined for the White House, released a video outlining how to pronounce her name.

And closer to home, we have the very talented Zambian-Limerick woman, Denise Chaila with a similar issue!

“Say my name,” Chaila says, in her song of the same title.

“I hear you, Chaila!” I reply!

So, bring this to the stage. In the last blog, I discussed finding your voice––the practice and awareness of this process. Here, I consider hearing your voice.

If I have to navigate regularly the issue of hearing my surname, Minihan not as Minihan but as Meyenihan (note no ‘e’ at the end either, AND in some parts of west Cork and Kerry the surname Moynihan has the exact same pronunciation as we do––go figure!) then what impact does the hearing of your own accent and idiom from a more powerful position have on you as a person? Either by the hearing of it, or by not hearing it, because you are not represented.

That goes for TV and radio presenters, casual and more serious news-type programmes, politicians––and from my perspective––the Arts. I think it applies to film, music, and of course, to theatre. And the argument applies equally to ethnicity, gender, race––issues that are rightly front and centre of the semiotics of our society as we learn and progress.

Theatre examples

I went to see Carmel Winter’s play, Best Man, performed in The Everyman in Cork city, and was surprised to hear south County Dublin accents––I recall being disappointed. Why was that?–-of course we shouldn’t be limited to writing in a particular accent. Universal classic stories––Ibsen, Shakespeare, Miller––can be performed in local accents and work perfectly.

But I had been so glad to see Carmel’s play, B for Baby, on its first run in the Peacock Theatre, and recognising my idiom and turn of phrase; and being really delighted to hear it on the stage of the National Theatre.

I love the Cork accents in Young Offenders and that surreal humour that is peculiarly Cork city like the moniker “fake Billy” and the tableaux of Corkonians singing “After all I really love you …” (after having the Tanora!) in the sing-song scene in the double-decker bus.

These scenes put me in mind of Frank O’Connor’s The First Confession, with the breadknife-wielding grandson under the kitchen table, escaping from his grandmother, or the woman who thought she was a seagull walking down the aisle at Sunday Mass, from Patrick Galvin.

Could Dancing at Lughnasa be performed without a Donegal accent? Or the words of John B. Keane sound as rich without a country Kerry or west Cork accent?

Recently, during the “Play It By Ear” season––the response of The Everyman, Cork to COVID restrictions––I listened to the Four-Faced Liar by Ger FitzGibbon. It wasn’t intended as an audio or radio play apparently, but it worked beautifully in this genre. Rich and various Cork accents from the cast of six Cork actors placed us firmly in the city. In the final podcast in this Series, to be published next week, writer and director, Ger FitzGibbon speaks about what the accent means to him, as a native of Cork city––the variety of accents, the sound of it, and the way words are used.

Coupled with that audio richness in his play is the sense of Cork as a place, the narrative roamed through the streets of Cork with the characters themselves; the city and the river Lee equal members of the cast as the people characters in the play.

I also asked Ger about the sense of place––the importance of that for him as a playwright. I think this is a fascinating question that deserves more than a few lines … another blog post planned!


When I translated my Monologue Eileen from English into Irish, I was astonished to realise the way I speak English is so influenced by the irish idiom and syntax; the incidental words thrown in for emphasis, the construction of the sentences as I write them in English. While I love Gaoluinn and speak it regularly, my reading as Gaeilge is a fraction of my reading in English, so I would have thought that the influence would not be as great.

Compare these extracts, from Eileen and Eibhlín:

It was the divorce papers this year.  That did it rightly, destroyed Valentine’s Day. Not that I’d been expecting much from Valentine’s Day anyway. In they came, no warning from his Lordship, no sitting down with me like they do in the films to say ‘Honey, I have to do this, it’s for the best’, only a message from the reception desk at work. Can you believe that, he sent it to me at work, half past ten in the morning and I had to go down to receive this letter from a skinny eejit from An Post.

Ba iad na páipéirí colscaradh a fuareas uaidh i mbliana ar lá Valintín. Chuir sé sin isteach go mór leis an gceiliúradh, creidim. Ní rabhas ag tnúth le cóisir, adhmháim, ach éist le seo, tháinig an litir mór chugham ar maidin, gan focal ó mo dhuine. Ní raibh rabhadh uaidh ar chor ar bith ag rá: ‘Eibhlín, a chroí, caithfimíd rud éigin a dhéanamh, níl an rogha againn.’ Ní ná é, ach teachtaireacht ó rúnaí ag an deasc fáiltithe, ag rá go raibh litir domsa ann.  Cuimhnigh air sin, leath uair tar éis a deich ar maidin agus bhí orm litir a bhailiú ó scroglachán amaideach ó An Post. 

They are not the same length, Irish will always have more words, but there’s something about the run of it, the rhythm, that is similar.

Take the final sentence:

“Can you believe that, he sent it to me at work, half past ten in the morning and I had to go down to receive this letter from a skinny eejit from An Post.”

“Ní ná é, ach teachtaireacht ó rúnaí ag an deasc fáiltithe, ag rá go raibh litir domsa ann.  Cuimhnigh air sin, leath uair tar éis a deich ar maidin agus bhí orm litir a bhailiú ó scroglachán amaideach ó An Post.”

It begins with the same little filler clause “Can you believe that,…” / “Ní ná é,…”. (In my head, I use precisely the same tone when saying these two phrases!) … not to mention the English pejorative description “skinny eejit” versus the Irish “scroglachán amaideach”.

Photo of Eileen

Eileen spent a lot of time cleaning her Tupperware in order to deal with the stress of divorce! Photo credit: Julia Zagar


Terri Leiber, whom I chat with in Podcast 3, wrote her one-woman show, May the Force… which we co-adapted for the stage. The play was semi-autobiographical and has a clear accent and sensibility. This story of a child of a “copper” is peculiarly English, in that the policemen were housed together in certain areas and mainly socialized together, keeping to themselves. The voice is of 8 year old Tracey and the accent and words are from Dorset.

The sensibility of May the Force… is different to the upbringing I experienced. And yet, at the end of the day, there is universality in a young child trying to make sense of an adult world: the half stories we hear, the emotions and the vibe, the hippocracies we pick up on, despite not being entirely aware of what is going on, that add to our knowing.

Terri and I both worked on these two Monologues around the same time. It is very interesting to see the similarities and the differences in the sensibility I speak of and the humour. For example, Eileen will never speak openly about sex, or intimacy, and yet, in her veiled way, we know that she and her ex-husband, Jerry, have once loved each other, and that the physical side was important. The coppers’ wives are mainly in each other’s company, so we get a collegiate, female, ribald response to men and authority figures.

Interesting too how that sense of place was so strong for the two female characters. For Eileen––the country village in west Cork in which she has lived as a married woman and is really a ‘blow-in’ and for Tracey––the copper estate and the standard houses that went with that. Moving from estate to estate featured strongly in the play also. (Back to the place of place in writing and theatre!)

Terri Leiber as Tracey. I was utterly convinced by her as an 8 year old. Photo credit: Julia Zagar

Why Theatre? Why Now?

As our world globalises and we embrace technology, I believe it is more important than ever to be sure of our own voice. In general, I have no worry for our confidence in that voice … those voices. Our record of book writing is superlative, and in films and TV we are having a wonderful period of creativity, with efforts being rewarded on the world stage, and further projects (films, TV series, animation) happening here in Ireland.

What of the stage? Why theatre now?

COVID has given the theatre world an opportunity to consider their practices. While devastating in its impact financially on many and psychologically in respect of worry for the future, it has also allowed a compete re-evaluation of the way theatre communicates. There is serious work being undertaken to stream live or recorded theatre productions, to adapt work for the screen. I know this is not always a positive experience for theatre-makers, many do not wish to embrace this means of communication (just as there are many teachers who do not wish to go online with their offerings.) But, as I have said to many artists this year, COVID and the changes that have come about because of it, has allowed me access to institutions and colleagues that I would otherwise not experience. While living in the most beautiful region, we are quite a distance from the Dublin-centric theatre world. And this is a view I have also heard expressed by artists with disabilities.

Theatre-makers are worried that audiences will lose touch with that experience and stay with the other types of entertainment that have featured during lockdown. But I believe that we are missing live performances. Theatre is a unique art form for the intimacy and connection that being in the same room with many others and being moved by the words and the embodiment of an actor, hearing stories over a longer period of time, where there is opportunity to develop it and where you see the impact physically of the acting on the actors.

I am hopeful that we can provide material that will excite and engage audiences in the future, and have every confidence in our ability to tell stories and be creative in that telling. And I think there is room for more voices to be heard, all the diverse groups and people mentioned above. As the final blog in this Series, it is appropriate I think to leave on a positive note! The final podcast will be published next Thursday, 3rd December, 2020.

Podcast 4: Chatting with Jeremy Massey, writer of novels and screenplays

With twenty-five years experience in the film and writing business, Jeremy Massey gives an oversight of his creative process in working through many screenplays, one novel, published by Penguin US, The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley, an historical novel in writing, Isolato and another in progress, Paddy Buckley’s Dance with the Devil.

He discusses his use of structure and form; how he came to the different voices for his characters; how his career in writing has evolved over time; working in collaboration with others, particularly on a documentary addressing child sex trafficking; and how to write with a plethora of ghosts for company. He generously speaks of the writers he revers, for their ability to bring the mind of a reader on an incredible, unexpected journey.

As the interview progressed, we moved from sunlight to darkness, and it seemed like this was metaphorically how the interview progressed also. Hence, the ‘dark’ photograph that features at the top of this page! As the son of a funeral undertaker and having worked in the business in his early 20s, themes of death permeate Jeremy’s writing and we discuss how these present themselves to the viewer.

In choosing to listen to the podcast, you might note that, while the conversation is never depressing and is always entertaining, the language is regularly very colourful!

Finding your voice … Finding a voice …

We read to know we are not alone.

Often attributed to CS Lewis, but written by William Nicholson for the screenplay Shadowlands, which was about Lewis; words that resonate.

Finding your voice

It was one of the hardest things for me to figure out what my voice was. I didn’t understand what was meant by the word or the concept. It was only after many years of practicing that I realised the meaning: that the way you write must be yours only.

Although here I break apart my thoughts on finding a voice, I believe that, like most things to do with writing and creativity, we do it without thinking. Not everyone has to analyse in this way before they set out to write something, but rather do it instinctively. This brings me back to the work I do in theatre, on collaboration and collective creativity, where I seek ways to understand how people work instinctively and use that in the rehearsal and creation of plays.


I was always aware that some times it was easy to write. Like, in the olden days when we wrote letters, there were times when the writing swirled out of your hand, a certain flow occurred, words came easily, you were in that certain frame of mind (what is now called a ‘zone’?). It was a pleasure to write and know that this letter was heading to another person who would receive it after a few days, and they would pick up on your mood and excitement. 

We are all influenced by what we have read, what we are exposed to as we grow up: the books, the plays, the talk, the TV, the films. One evening about twenty years ago, I was travelling over the county bounds from Kerry back home on a summer’s evening. For the Book on One slot on RTE 1, the reader started Alice in Wonderland and, I swear, I was transported back to my childhood bedroom in Clonakilty as I read that hardback book, with a green colour with the sketch of Alice on the front cover. It felt like I was seeing the exact same images that I saw in my mind as a child, like that file had been retrieved from the back of my computer mind where it hadn’t been opened for a long time. It was quite a weird experience … though joyful too.

My mother never throws anything out …


It is only very recently that I am aware of what resonate means … it’s one of these over-used words that, again, I haven’t quite understood. But, when a word or words really mean something to you, really make you stop and take note, really explain something that is almost impossible to put into words, then, that’s it, that is the resonance, in my view. Of course, because of my interest in music, I see resonance as relating to vibration, and my imagination takes me to the place where my body is responding to the words on a physical level … vibrating electrons–– if that’s any help to you!! In relation to the music analogy, it also reminds me of those songs where you are listening and one note that comes in an unexpected place will make you stop, or hits somewhere within you.

She was a summer dance at the crossroads.

She was a card game where a nose was broken.

She was a song that nobody sings.

She was a house ransacked by soldiers.

She was a language seldom spoken.

She was child’s purse, full of useless things.

Exerpt from Death of an Irishwoman by Michael Hartnett.
The words in this poem have always resonated for me…in me.
Is it the words themselves that make this poem so appealing?; or the images created?; the understated loss that permeates the writing?

One of the earlier lines in the poem is ‘I loved her from the day she died.’ That is a relief to me as a reader … especially since I have come to know the value of a ‘child’s purse, full of useless things’!

The parts involved in practicing …

It was always said of the uilleann pipes that it took twenty-one years to learn to play the instrument: seven years to get the basics, seven years to practice and the final seven to play and become proficient. I think that may be true also of writing. As you continue to write, to ‘show up to the page’ you become more confident of the words and arranging them in the way that is best for you. 

Part of the practice is copying the work of others, unknowingly, and certainly as you start writing. The style of a Frank O’Connor or Seamus Heaney. Can we help that? I don’t think so. It’s that resonance again. How they speak to us, what these favored authors choose to write about. All in that writing we respond to must be tried and splurged out. 

Part of the voice is the tone in which you write––how you put the words on the page, how you order them, what feeling you will convey. A piece of writing by Bredan Behan will be very different to James Joyce, not only in its subject matter but in its tone.

In relation to the matter of tone, part of the figuring out in my own writing has to do with the tone of the particular piece of writing I am working on at any time. That could be the more serious version of ‘Eileen’ or the more caricature version when she appeared in the comedy / cabaret shows. I think part of my difficulty has been that I have a variety of tones I use. For example, how and when I write poetry is utterly different to my other writing, it’s far less playful and far more serious.

So too the lexicon you use becomes part of your voice. Of course, we need to work on making the writing clear, and often this can be done simply, with words that are familiar and unchallenging. But I also believe in working and reaching for the best possible sequence of words. Sometimes one must find the precise word to convey what it is you are saying. Unless you know the words how can you find them?

Apart from the trusty Dictionary, Thesaurus and Mr Google for synonyms and antonyms, writerly friends with great vocabularies, I’ve now come across The Emotion Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Expression. I don’t have it yet, but Christmas is coming!!

Similar to that is this Writer’s Emotion Circle.

An internet image, uncredited.

Also included in this area of practice is the question of timing. Does it comes from my interest in music that I note the timing of the words, the sounds of them as they run––on the page––as they are read aloud. Reading your writing aloud to yourself (or through a computer program for this purpose) is recommended by most writers, to hear how it is outside of your brain.

Recently, my sister-in-law gave me Silence by John Cage. Remember, he was the composer who gave you 4′ 33” of silence! It’s just another way of thinking entirely … his ideas on his processes, written as he would compose a piece of music. But, it makes sense, somehow. I read them with the pauses that he has created with space and punctuation.

Did you see the title of this piece of writing from Silence by John Cage––’Lecture on Something’??

Speaking of punctuation, this blog is just not long enough for what needs to be said about the joys of the comma … not to mention the semi-colon!

And I am curtailed also in looking at space and spaciousness, these too need a longer space in order to set out the thoughts. Another blog!

Finally, I come to structure. looking at the overall frame of the writing or the piece you are working on. And through the work of writing again, rewriting, honing, shaping, editing, reviewing, receiving feedback, accepting and trying again, you find that voice

I presume others find it more quickly. For me, it took a long time to process and understand. 

Finding a voice

And then, when you have all of this figured out, what your voice is … you have to turn to each of your characters to find a voice for them, you have to find an overarching voice for your piece of writing.

This comes from understanding your characters deeply–-doing the work to ensure that you do know them. I think it also comes from the practice of writing, as you build your understanding of the craft, the skill of writing and confidence growth. And then you know … somewhere in your body, that it is right. As you mature in your writing, you have a greater sense of confidence that the aim will work, you have certain tools or techniques to help you get there, or you just set it aside, knowing that this will not have been a wasted effort, but any practice brings you forward in your learning and understanding.

For example, Jeremy Massey speaks about his fantastic character, Paddy Buckley from the book The Last Four Days of Paddy Buckley and the difference moving from the 3rd person to the 1st person point of view changed the book for him. From being removed from Paddy, he as the writer, and consequently the reader, is right bang in the middle of Paddy’s mind and his thoughts, we are intimately with him as he moves through his crises and the decisions he makes.

Hearing your voice

It’s another matter entirely to consider hearing your voice. I mean by this, how important it is to hear your story, your accent, and your interests reflected back to you in word. I mean in film, on the radio, on the TV, from journalists, reporters, in books. And if you don’t hear it, then what impact does that have? And what does it mean for your viewpoint and your perspective?

There’s an issue of responsibility for me, on the part of those making the decisions and in positions of authority and power. But this is a discussion for another day … I’m just planting the seed!

Can I just make one political point here please?? I note in writing these blog posts that the greater portion of the literature and other art influences were male and masculine. I am searching for the feminine as I write … I have mentioned Edna O’Brien and Lady Gregory. Nell McCafferty too featured strongly from a political viewpoint, and Maria Callas, a beloved soprano voice in our house, with Mary Black coming later, but there weren’t too many female playwrights, or writers. Thankfully, that is now being redressed.

Podcast 3: Chatting with Terri Leiber, writer and actor (actor and writer) about co-creating

A long-term co-creator with me, this chat with Terri Leiber is the third in the Series, and the final conversation with the PlayActing Theatre team. As well as acting in classic plays where I was the director, we have collaborated as writers and actors since 2011 in The Eileen and Marilyn Experience on six different comedy / cabaret shows and other one-off performances. We were ‘big’ in west Cork!

This podcast links to blog post 3 in this series, Close connection and understanding…and the text.

With this podcast format that is new to me, I consider regularly the delicate balance of interviewer and contributor to the conversation. In this chat, because of our longstanding working relationship and the particular chemistry between us, I believe that this podcast has far too much of me in it and far too much laughing! I apologise now!!

Terri speaks about being a creative person as a writer / actor, and as a teacher and director, she talked about writing novels and the pleasures of collaboration (especially with me!!).

Terri Leiber as Tracey in May the Force…

(Photo credit, KM)

(Opening and closing music features Camilla Griehsel, Singer and Justin Grounds, Violinist.)