The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

“…that’s what influenza means, she said. Influenza delle stelle- the influence of the stars. Medieval Italians thought the illness proved that the havens were governing their fates, that people were quite literally star-crossed.” (pg 147).

The Pull of the Stars is a novel that takes place over 3 days in a “Maternity/Fever” ward at St. Lukes hospital in Dublin, Ireland. It’s 1918, and the Spanish flu has grabbed hold of the country, leaving death and sorrow.
Our main character is Julia Power, the lone nurse on the ward tending to incredibly sick women who are about to give birth. Thankfully Julia is joined by Birdie Sweeney, a volunteer who, although incredibly naive about how the human body functions, is brave and tireless and a quick study who proves her usefulness.
The story centres around three patients who will eventually give birth while suffering from the ravages of influenza. True to life, each delivery is be different, resulting in different outcomes for both mother and child.
As if by some miracle, Julia and Birdie are eventually guided by Dr Kathleen Lynn, a member of the Irish Citizen Army wanted by the police.
Dr Lynn is my favourite character. We only get glimmers of her back story, but I was mesmerized by her words and actions. She was brave, confident and ultimately, a woman who knows who she was and what she stood for and, interestedly enough based on a REAL Dr. Lynn who practiced medicine in Ireland.
Be warned that the author does not hold back when describing complicated childbirth and other traumatic medical procedures. It is a gory story.


The Pull of the Stars is a bloody read with strong female characters…my favourite kind of book.

Covid Conundrum

I wanted to read.
But I couldn’t
I wanted to write.
But I didn’t.
I am at a time in life that is opaque, where there are no bold lines,

only shadow and shades.

So I have begun to redefine myself.


On the cusp of retirement, a time when I aspire to hone my passions and strengths (without being guided by a paycheck) I take solace in the fact that there is one thing I will always be-

a reader.


It has only been in my later years, where I have become confident enough to identify as a writer. To claim that I am one.

And as I begin to wind down in my career (after 30 years), I have full intentions to read more, and write more

and grow creatively and profoundly in voice

and in imagination.

I aspire to be the embodiment of a sentient library where those seeking stories can come and confer. Suggestions of titles would trip off my tongue like water over rock.

To read.
To write reviews.
To write short stories.
To finish that novel.And then…

A global pandemic.

Oh, I thought, now that my life is limited in both act and engagement, I will have copious amounts of time to read and write and create.

But alas, I have yet to take advantage of the circumstances in which I find myself.
Instead,

I check updates,
And outbreak patterns,
And my temperature.


My concentration is non-existent. Sadly I can scarcely focus long enough to live in another world if even for a minute.


And all of this has been heartbreakingly disconcerting.


So not only has my identity been challenged, but the one place where I used to be able to claim respite from reality has slammed the door without giving me a key.

I long to wander freely in fiction where I can think of nothing else but plot points and protagonists.

Soon.