Josephine Galvin is a late starter in the world of writing. She has had varied jobs including travel, education and proof reading – none of which were very lucrative, but which have provided rich material for fiction.
She has three delightful adult children, two of whom still live at home in Denton, Manchester. She only started writing seriously when her children all reached eighteen, at which point she took a risk and enrolled at Manchester Writing School to complete a one-year MA. Since then, she has had many short stories published on literary sites and in anthologies.
Short fiction is a passion. It’s such an exposed art form in which every word counts. Josephine flirts with the idea of a novel, but her tales all seem to come to a natural, and earlier, end.
Q: If you could travel back in time, which of the great writers would you like to meet and why?
A: That’s a hard question. And much as I would be loath to interrupt her whilst she worked, I’m going to say Alice Munro. I am sure she could spare me a day. I feel I have spent a lot of time in her world already. What a talent for observation and detail!
Q: Do you have a lucky writing talisman? If so, what is it?
A: Ooh no. I didn’t know that was a thing? Do I need one?
Q: Is there a book that you keep going back to, and if so, how many times have you read it?
A: A Christmas Carol. Yes – we all know the story backwards, but goodness, the sentences are breath-taking! Dickens is a master class. I’ve read it and taught it hundreds of times. Pupils used to think I knew it off by heart but I always find some new level of brilliance with every read.
Q: Who is your personal inspiration?
A: My father. He was so encouraging about my taking the MA, but didn’t live to see me finish it. He had a writing talent which he mainly used in correspondence. We all treasure his birthday card poetry. He also was very upbeat and funny, no matter what the circumstances. I have a lot of respect for that quality.
‘Clumsy Bitch.’ Struggling with her defeated umbrella, Anita had rounded the corner of Quay Street and collided with a similarly encumbered commuter, his face hardened into a discontent not solely the result of this encounter. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Sorry I couldn’t…’ she offered to his retreating raincoat. Stooping, she retrieved her bag from the …