The Irish writer on his new film The Green Fella, the challenges of novel writing versus filmmaking and his fascination with the American Civil War. David McCann, 51, is an author, filmmaker and amateur historian whose books include the coming-of-age novel A Boy Called Yank. Born and raised in Northern Ireland, he lives in the Ulster town of Enniskillen where the controversial Irish playwright Oscar Wilde went to school and the IRA carried out their infamous Remembrance Sunday attack. How would you describe yourself: as an amateur historian, a novelist, or a filmmaker? It’s a tough question because I have many interests. Primarily, I would consider myself an amateur historian, and that passion has naturally led me to pursue both book writing and filmmaking. When did you develop an interest in history and storytelling through writing or filmmaking? My interest in history was sparked in primary school, particularly by the American Civil War. I’ve always had a fascination with history, though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. Back then, I was captivated by the stories of the Union and Confederates, spending countless hours reading about them. Our local library was a fantastic resource, offering a wealth of historical books that inspired me further. Additionally, living through the Troubles at that time added a unique layer to my understanding of history, though I didn’t fully grasp its significance as it unfolded around me. So you grew up during the Troubles in Northern Ireland? Yes, I was born in 1972, which was the worst year of the Troubles. I lived through a war zone for about 25 to 30 years. Despite this, you chose to direct your creativity toward other periods in Northern Ireland’s recent history, such as the 1920s and 1940s. I’m not certain it was a conscious decision; perhaps I subconsciously want to forget the seventies and eighties. There are already plenty of books and films about that period. Instead, my natural curiosity leads me to explore earlier times. Set in 1943 Enniskillen, your novel A Boy Called Yank follows Conor Cleary, a boy whose life is transformed by the arrival of American troops stationed in the town to aid the Allies in their fight against Nazi Germany during World War II. What inspired your interest in Enniskillen during this pivotal time in history? My grandfather lived in Enniskillen during that time, and when I was a child in the 1970s, he would share captivating stories with me. This sparked my interest, prompting me to research the presence of troops in the town back then. I realised there was a compelling tale to be told, especially since my grandfather recounted some unique events he witnessed one night in town. This inspired me to incorporate those experiences into a fictional narrative. Tell us about your latest film project. It’s called The Green Fella and focuses on the Royal Irish Constabulary, with the main character being Sergeant Collins. This film is the fourth and final instalment exploring the partition of Ireland in the 1920s. We plan to film around Tyrone and Monaghan, hopefully in February and March this year, and we have access to several beautiful rural locations that evoke the 1920s. This historical period serves as the backdrop for the Troubles, during which the Royal Irish Constabulary was the police force in what was then a united country. In 1921, however, it was partitioned into two states: the Irish Free State and Northern Ireland. What do you find more challenging: writing a novel or filmmaking? I find filmmaking to be significantly more demanding due to its logistical complexities and the challenges of scriptwriting. When I’m writing a story or a book, I can retreat to a comfortable space, immerse myself in music from that era, and read or watch documentaries to enhance my creativity. It becomes an enjoyable process. In contrast, filmmaking involves a lot of running around—searching for locations, coordinating with cameramen, actors, extras, and crew. Additionally, writing a script proves to be quite challenging for me. I believe I’m better at crafting stories for books than scripts. In fact, for this fourth film, which will be 50 minutes long, I currently have a professional scriptwriter assisting with the script. How long did it take to write A Boy Called Yank? Since it’s a relatively short story, the actual writing process took about four to five months. I had gathered the entire narrative from various people around the town, many of whom had connections to the American Army. It was a rich and compelling story drawn from real life, influenced by accounts from my grandfather and others. Their stories always resonated with me, making it clear that they needed to be captured on paper. While some elements are based on true events, there are also fictional ideas woven in from my perspective. For instance, I included General Patton in the story; although he was in town, I crafted a narrative that linked his time there with the fictional boy and the soldier I created. What else is happening for you in 2025? Apart from filming The Green Fella, we are discussing plans to relaunch A Boy Called Yank in the U.S. and Canada. This includes the possibility of a film adaptation and the development of a prequel. BUY THE BOOK An exploration of friendship and adventure. An unforgettable coming-of-age story of small-town adolescence and universal experience. Thirteen-year-old Conor Cleary lives with his mother in a cottage in County Fermanagh, Northern Ireland. With little contact with the outside world and nothing much to do, life is uneventful. Until one day the United States Army are posted in Fermanagh on their way to fight in mainland Europe during the Second World War, and Conor’s life changes forever. Genre: Historical Fiction/Young AdultFormat: 96 pages, paperbackISBN: 978-1-7393949-0-5 Add to Cart ABOUT THE AUTHOR DAVID MCCANN is a film maker and producer of two short films set in 1920s Ireland titled Sgt Collins RIC & The Green Fella. He has worked as a hospital porter and an Irish Police Officer
Read an extract from The Blood Coast by Jason M. Kennedy – A GRITTY SPY THRILLER FROM A FORMER INTELLIGENCE AND PARAMILITARY PROFESSIONAL. In an adrenaline-fuelled ride along the Cornish coast, Peter Krane, a world weary MI6 agent, comes into contact with a rogue Government agent that he thought was dead, and beyond that into the secret world of weapons testing and a shocking family revelation. 1. ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place. It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’. The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure. *** The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit. But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood. Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of
If you are ‘lucky’ enough to get accepted by a so-called traditional publisher (less than four per-cent of new writers are), then your difficult journey as a writer may be about to become even more bewildering. Of course, it’s always wonderful to make this breakthrough as a writer and nothing can take away from the moment you receive that dream letter. It is something to be immensely proud of. What follows next, however, can be, and for most usually is, something of an anti-climax. What authors receive when a traditional publisher buys their book is far from the dream of the unpublished author. The simple, hard reality for many of them is they receive little, or nothing at all. They may get an advance (against royalties, which are usually less than 10%), but the amount you receive for a lot of hard work (usually several months or even years work) often works out at pennies per hour: not the kind of return on investment a hard working writer deserves. And it gets worse. The sales and marketing support you thought you would receive, is negligible (the author of this article spent several frustrating years chasing his then publisher (one of the most well known in the whole world) to do more to promote his books). And then, even more disheartening, are the royalties that follow; the scraps after the publisher has taken the lion’s share (usually 92.5 % on a paperback). Of course, most writers never even get to the stage where they can be shortchanged in such a shocking way. Because most traditional publishers demand you get an agent before they will even look at your work, and it’s arguably more difficult to get a decent agent than to get accepted by a traditional publisher: a circle of frustration. Yes, it can be incredibly frustrating indeed having your beloved book (months or years of hard work) rejected by traditional publishers, or not even given a chance to be rejected. And so… what happens next, for a writer beset by despondency, is that people will tell you that what you really need to do is self-publish: take the other (well-travelled) road to the land of (Amazon KDP) dreams; (they don’t mention that what you are about to do is cast your work, like a pebble, into a vast ocean of work). Despite (Amazon) royalty rates of 70%, I think self-publishing is a terrible idea for serious fiction writers. For starters, if you self-publish your book, you are not going to be writing for a living. You are going to be marketing for a living. Self-published authors should expect to spend only 10% of their time writing and 90% of their time marketing. Secondly, good writers need even better editors. They need brilliant cover designers. They need imaginative marketers and well-connected publicists. All these things that are not provided by Amazon. Of course, one can publish for ‘free’ on Amazon, but you usually get what you pay for. Paying some cheap freelance £25 or knocking up a DIY design on Canva will not result in a distinctive, professional-looking cover. And don’t get me started on the value of good editors, copyeditors, and proof-readers; they are the difference between professional and amateur books. Editing, proofreading, cover design, ISBN, printing, publishing, and marketing costs money. Why not do it all under one roof with a ‘one stop shop’ to save time, energy, and risk, instead of searching for separate service providers? At Foreshore Publishing we do all this and more and try to make it as easy as possible for good writers to get good novels into print and into bookshops. We offer instalments to help spread the cost and we even offer a full refund if your book is not physically on shelves in bookstores within 12 months. We also have the same, if not greater reach than traditional publishers and agents. With access to proper distribution networks, we can get physical books into real bookshops. We can also represent you at the major book fairs and sell your books to international markets. For those who value their work, who want to go beyond Amazon KDP, get into bookstores and build fanbases, and would rather write novels than social media posts, self-publishing is not the answer. Contact us today and chat about how we can help you to make a positive impact as an author. 0800 099 6689 or contact@foreshorepublishing.com.
