The Old Ground

Here's what's fantastic tonight. Today I was in the same pub that W.B. Yeats frequented when he was alive and becoming one of Ireland's brightest literary lights. The Old Ground pub in Ennis. Creaky pine parque' flooring, dark smoke-stained woodwork, old photos of past masters like Yeats, and Shaw, and Wilde. Just walking into the place was inspirational. It fairly glowed with the patina of literary excellence. For the pub and the Irish writing tradition to go on and on for so many hundreds of years is humbling. In this modern age of digital expression, I sometimes wonder if all the works I and Savage Press are creating will be wiped out in an instant with a single EMP, thus erasing all the hard drives on the planet. If I were guaranteed that such a disaster was certain, I'd still write. And so should you.

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