Stephen Jaques

The trouble with template English. One man walks into the sentence. A small crowd walks out.

I visited an independent bookstore last week to discuss my new novel. The owner asked if any ‘AI’ was used when writing it. I disclosed honestly, I had used it to help source some historical dates and as a spellchecker. The owner respectfully declined hosting my book. I respectfully understood - It's a shame though - given all the endorsements I have been receiving.

'Bollox to it. Bollox to them all'

I just couldn't put it down.

Sod it, I'm going to say it. Me: I'm actually pretty good at this writing thing. Me: No, you're not, you're delusional. Me: 'Reads UK best seller Richard Osman' Me: Hell, I'm better than I thought... 🤣

I can't play the trumpet. So sharing this instead - 🎺 5 out of 5 stars A Truly Great Novel Reviewed in the United States on August 16, 2026 Format: Kindle I’m honored to write the first review for this breathtaking novel. This. Is. Phenomenal. One of the best books I've ever read. I accidentally found this book by an accidental novelist, and it’s the kind of experience I live for. You should too. Seriously. Read this. Then read it again. Craft-wise, it’s stunning. The land in both settings is as much a character as the people, and I’m all about that. Somehow, Ireland has always held something for me: a longing for a place I remember, but I’ve never seen. That is conveyed in this book in the most elegant, eloquent way. Repetition is used as skillfully as I’ve ever read. Most of the time, it’s the author “reminding” the reader of something, but Stephen Jaques uses it like a reverberation across time, a bell calling you to Mass, a path retraced. I never found it tiresome or unnecessary, and that’s an amazing feat. It’s an elegy, a song, and a triumph. The pace is like taking a walk on a country road. The book description is accurate to the story, and you know something of what is coming and can’t wait to READ it. Structurally, it’s sophisticated. The descriptions are spare but satisfying. I especially enjoyed that the characters are good people who have bad things happen to them, instead of the more common not nice people who . . . well, you know. There is a certain quality here that is languid and comforting and gives the words a tone of remembrance and respect for the people of Ireland. Clonfert bears witness to the suffering of the famine and to loss in all its forms. I read this on KU and ordered a paperback so that I can have it on my shelf. Thank you, Stephen, for this lovely novel.

I'm going to accept this has become more than a cathartic hobby now - Three books and a Chino. (name of daughter's cat) - Chino blatantly exploited to get your attention. 😀😀

Perhaps I should accept this has moved on from a cathartic hobby....

That yummy feeling I get when waking up to page views. For me, this is better than sales. Clonfert - Out now. amzn.eu/d/0dupLSHQ

A small step for those looking to conquer the world. A giant leap for little old me… My latest novel is a dual timeline historical fiction. One half of the book is set in 1845, in a factual town called Newmarket in County Cork, Ireland. The other is set in a small factual town called Paxton, in Illinois, USA, in 2025. This week, I made contact with the libraries of both places. Both have agreed to host me for an afternoon later in the year. I am so looking forward to it.

Writing about an event without mentioning it. ‘The Barn Door Stayed Closed’ - Prologue. In November 2024 I sat down and began writing my second novel. This wasn't planned. Context for why I wrote it. In October 2024 the UK government changed agricultural property relief in its autumn budget. I knew what that would mean for family farms and I knew people who could be part of the fallout. I was so bloody angry. I wanted to rage about it, join the protests. Instead, I created a twelve-year-old boy called Alex. The structure arrived in under a minute: it would open with a prologue describing an event I was not prepared to name. Not once, anywhere in the book. The novel would then begin eight months prior to the prologue and work towards it, arriving there as a mid-book chapter. I'd really welcome thoughts on both. Writing about a subject while withholding the word for it, and putting the worst moment first. CONTENT NOTE: (The prologue is a child at the edge of a suicide he doesn't understand) The Barn Door Stayed Closed - Prologue Grandad never let the barn door stay shut. Not even the time when the snow was that bad Dad said to close everything up tight. “A closed barn is no use to man nor beast,” Grandad said, doing that thing with his hands when he learns me important farming stuff. This morning the door is closed. Proper closed. Padlocked closed. My wellies make sucking noises in the mud. They’re my new ones, but I’m not bothered about keeping them clean now. My breath’s all steamy like the cows’ should be, only the cows aren’t steamy this morning cause nobody’s fed them yet. They’re making angry noises in their winter shed. Wrong noises. Everything’s making wrong noises. Mum grabbed the phone. She never grabs at stuff, tells me off when I do it. And Dad’s boots on the stairs in the dark - not his normal clomping down to do feeding, but running boots. Scary boots. The yard’s gone funny. No tractor coughing awake by the grain store. No Grandad’s whistle that always comes before you see him, like he’s letting the farm know he’s coming. My heart’s going too fast and there’s this siren getting closer and closer. Dad squeezed my shoulders proper tight. “Don’t open the barn door, Alex. Promise me.” His hands were all shaky. Dad’s hands never shake. Not even that time the big bull bust out last summer. The police car’s lights are making everything go blue then normal then blue again. It’s bouncing over the tractor ruts in our track - the deep ones me and Grandad measured once, proper old ones he said they were. Another vehicle’s coming, big and white - like an ambulance, but not.” Like the one that came when Mr. Peterson died and made his wife go all screamy. I can hear Mum crying in the kitchen. Window’s open like always cause the steam from cooking needs to get out, she says. But it’s not her normal crying. Not like when the feed lorry got Lucy our sheep dog, or when the bank man came and made everyone go all quiet. This crying sounds like everything’s broke. Yesterday, me and Grandad were checking the winter wheat. He showed me how to find the little green shoots under all them leaves. “Life always finds a way, lad,” he told me, all serious like proper farmers get. “Been that way on this farm since before your great-Grandad was even thought of. Will be long after I’m gone.” The padlock looks wrong on the barn door. All shiny and new like them pound coins Grandad does his tricks with. The siren’s stopped now. People are talking in them voices grown-ups use when they don’t want kids hearing but we do anyway. Words I know but don’t: “inheritance,” “tax,” “pressure,” “couldn’t see another way.” In the covered yard, the bullocks are going proper mad now, smashing at their feed barrier. Clang-clang-clang like angry bells. That noise always gets Grandad running with his bucket. Always-always-always. But his feed bucket’s still hanging on its nail. And the barn door stays closed. Best wishes…. Steve

I always knew I would be an author. How my sisters actually looked in 1969. Compared to how I saw them. Whoops...

Herman Melville was dead over thirty years before anyone noticed Moby Dick was a bit of a masterpiece. I'd love to be still breathing when people notice that Clonfert is really rather good.

Newsflash — CLONFERT has been published this week. £8.99 in paperback, £2.99 on Kindle. Now. Those prices represent a drive-thru McCrappy meal for the paperback, or a cup of Crapsta coffee for the Kindle. Clonfert is far better value than both. Clonfert will not give you stomach cramps, and it will not leave you wondering exactly where those coffee beans came from. So, my sales pitch, in full, reads: This book won't give you the shits. amzn.eu/d/0e1aSfxT