A strange introduction to Oakleaf Press… from Jane Buckley

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Studio NI

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Mar 30, 2026, 5:36:14 PM (9 days ago) Mar 30

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It’s been a sore few weeks Studio NI …

I don’t quite know where to start with this one, so I’ll just say it straight. My mammy was buried two weeks ago.

Even writing that feels strange. We knew it was coming; we’d time to ‘prepare’ ourselves, or at least we told ourselves we did. But when it happens, it hits you in a way nothing prepares you for. Everything feels different, the phone is too quiet, and every small thing you come across carries a memory you didn’t ask for but wouldn’t hand back either.

In the middle of all that, I found myself at the Ireland Publishing Show in Co Clare this week.

Now there’s something. Grief on one shoulder, a stack of books and promo material on the other, and me trying to hold a conversation without my brain drifting off halfway through. I met some brilliant people. Authors at all stages, some just starting, some well ahead, all full of stories and ideas. Some are making money and lots of it! There was a real energy in the room, that feeling that no matter where you are in life, there’s always another story waiting to be told.

And then there’s the AI and technology side of things. My head is fried. Everyone’s talking about it, using it, debating it, experimenting with it. Part of me is fascinated, part of me is overwhelmed, and part of me just wants a quiet cuppa and a notebook. But the truth is, it’s here, and like everything else in publishing, you either learn it or get left behind.

I must admit, I was in a weird zone. Making sensible conversation (I hope!), remembering names, and everything. I’m not sure how I feel about that version of myself… It was like watching the world from afar. Still, the thing that stayed with me the most was that, my God, so many people have a book in them, but most don't even know where to begin.

That’s exactly why I started Oakleaf Press. Not just to publish my own books, but to help others do the same. To take away some of the confusion, the fear, and the “where do I even begin” feeling. Because I’ve been there. Sat staring at a blank screen, wondering if I was mad!

And now I’ve written four books. I did it. You can too. Trust me. If you’ve ever thought about writing a book, even for a second, make this your time. Get your story out there. It matters more than you think. If you’re sitting on an idea, or a half-written draft, or even just a feeling that there’s something you want to say…

Start Here

Seriously. Get it out of your head and onto the page because, trust me, life is too short - a fact I’ve been reminded of this month, and well before, in ways I’ll never forget.

Your stories deserve to be told.

Jane

Ps. For any of you who’ve read Turmoil, Book One, this is a wee side story of Tommy on his way to see his sister, Majella, after Patrick’s arrest…

Tommy O’Reilly – A Long Walk

Tommy fought his way up Bligh’s Lane towards Creggan, his head bowed against the wind as the rain lashed at his face and soaked straight through him. His green parka clung heavily across his shoulders, the fur lining of the hood dripping as he gripped it tight, trying to keep it from being torn clean off.

His jeans, once light blue, were now dark and clinging, the cold working its way through the denim and into his skin. It left that damp, crawling discomfort he couldn’t stand, heat from his own body trapped beneath it, making his legs itch and burn.

Christ, he was cold. Tina’s voice hadn’t left him since the phone call. Broken, panicked, barely making sense through the crying.

Patrick had been lifted.

Dragged from the house at first light, no warning, no explanation. Naked. Beaten. Thrown into the back of an army pig like he meant nothing at all. It made no sense. None. Patrick McLaughlin wouldn’t harm a soul. If anything, he’d spent years arguing against the madness creeping into the streets, telling anyone who would listen that nothing good would come of it.

And yet it was him they’d taken.

Tommy pushed on, the hill dragging at his chest now, his breath shortening as the climb took its toll. The smell of coal fires drifted through the damp air, thick and familiar, catching in his throat as he inhaled.

His pace slowed as a memory crept in, uninvited but clear.

‘Mammy, this is Patrick. Patrick McLaughlin.’ Majella had stood there, caught between pride and fear, while their mother stared back without a word. The silence had filled the room, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the ticking of the clock above the electric fire.

Patrick had stood his ground, suited and polished, his hand out, waiting. It’d stayed there. Hanging in the air, until it didn’t.

Tommy felt it again now, that same tight frustration sitting in his chest as he thought of it. His mother had never softened, not then, not after. Cold she was, through and through. He shook it off and kept moving. Blamfield Street came into view, the row of houses all the same, grey, pebble-dashed, built without care, just put up quick and cheap. Back yards scattered with broken toys, old prams, bins, and lines left empty. No flowers. Little colour. People had more to worry about than gardens now.

He stopped at the gate, catching his breath, steadying himself before stepping forward.

‘Right then,’ he whispered, and in he went.

The door swung open with the wind, and he stepped straight into the kitchen, the heat hitting him at once.

Majella stood there, swallowed up in a man’s housecoat, while Caitlin sat at the table, a mug of tea in her hands.

Tommy wiped his glasses with the hem of his jumper and looked at her.

‘Grab us a cloth, Caitlin love, will ye.’

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