In March 2012 a dozen of us gathered around a table in a Waterford hotel, the room thrumming with that energy that happens when a group of writers get together. I was there with two women from my writing group, excited, and a little nervous, to be taking a workshop with Nuala O’Connor, whose work I admire hugely. During the workshop, Nuala gave us a prompt as part of a writing exercise. We each chose an object from a bag, and I got a piece of broken pottery, chalky around the edges, small enough to sit in the centre of my palm. I didn’t know it then, but I was holding what would become, over time, The Art of Falling.
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