Trish MacEnulty's Blog
August 12, 2022
My New Genre: Historical Fiction!
Most of my books so far have been closely related to my life experiences, some of which were difficult, including addiction and incarceration. I'm proud of the books that came out of the period of my life, but I also have been ready for the past few years to change lanes and apply my craft to a different genre.
Two things I love: crime fiction and history. So I've put them together and written a series of historical novels that feature two women solving crimes and getting in some pretty sticky situations as they do so.
The first book in the series, The Whispering Women, will be available for pre-order in early September. If you love historical fiction, I hope you'll join Louisa and Ellen as they find out what an unscrupulous doctor and his society friends are up to.
Two things I love: crime fiction and history. So I've put them together and written a series of historical novels that feature two women solving crimes and getting in some pretty sticky situations as they do so.
The first book in the series, The Whispering Women, will be available for pre-order in early September. If you love historical fiction, I hope you'll join Louisa and Ellen as they find out what an unscrupulous doctor and his society friends are up to.
June 7, 2016
20 Minutes Can Last a Lifetime
This past week I’ve been working on transforming my first novel Sweet Fire (published in 2001 by Serpent’s Tail Press) into a memoir, entitled The Hummingbird Kiss. The process has been rewarding for the most part though describing my mother’s rape when I was seven years old set my hands to shaking. While I kept the recitation of that event short and sweet, I wanted to get the idea across of the lasting emotional impact it had.
I was reminded of that lasting emotional impact a few days ago when I read the letter written by a young woman who was raped while she was unconscious after getting drunk at a Stanford frat party.
The rapist’s father told the judge that the young man in question should not get a harsh sentence for “20 minutes of action.” What that father fails to realize is that those twenty minutes have utterly altered his victim’s life, as well as that of her family. The letter writer told the rapist, “My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable.”
When my mother was raped, she could not shut down and grieve the way she needed to. She was offered no emotional support. She had to suck it up and go on with her life. She had her work and a child to take care of. Because there was no help for my mother to deal with the fear and anguish she suffered, she was haunted by it for the rest of her life. Decades later she’d still have nightmares, crying out in terror.
My mother was not the only who’s life was changed in one dreadful night. This is what I wrote in my memoir: “And what did it mean to that seven-year-old child, who had woken up to hear her mother screaming, ‘Fire! Fire!’ to the operator because she thought that was the only way to get help? Or when the kid who lived across the street said, ‘My parents heard your mom screaming but they didn’t do anything because they thought your dad had come back.’ You don’t need a degree in psychology to understand the rage that was born in my heart that night. That night the girl junkie who was willing to destroy herself as long as she took someone else with her was born.”
When I worked with women in prison in the 1990’s I discovered over and over again the emotional devastation caused by sexual abuse and assault. Before many of those women became criminals, they were victims. A single act of violence has ramifications that can last a lifetime. Twenty minutes of action? Hell, it only takes twenty seconds to kill someone.
On my website: www.trishmacenulty.com, you can order a signed copy of my most recent book, The Pink House, inspired by my work with women in prison.
I was reminded of that lasting emotional impact a few days ago when I read the letter written by a young woman who was raped while she was unconscious after getting drunk at a Stanford frat party.
The rapist’s father told the judge that the young man in question should not get a harsh sentence for “20 minutes of action.” What that father fails to realize is that those twenty minutes have utterly altered his victim’s life, as well as that of her family. The letter writer told the rapist, “My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable.”
When my mother was raped, she could not shut down and grieve the way she needed to. She was offered no emotional support. She had to suck it up and go on with her life. She had her work and a child to take care of. Because there was no help for my mother to deal with the fear and anguish she suffered, she was haunted by it for the rest of her life. Decades later she’d still have nightmares, crying out in terror.
My mother was not the only who’s life was changed in one dreadful night. This is what I wrote in my memoir: “And what did it mean to that seven-year-old child, who had woken up to hear her mother screaming, ‘Fire! Fire!’ to the operator because she thought that was the only way to get help? Or when the kid who lived across the street said, ‘My parents heard your mom screaming but they didn’t do anything because they thought your dad had come back.’ You don’t need a degree in psychology to understand the rage that was born in my heart that night. That night the girl junkie who was willing to destroy herself as long as she took someone else with her was born.”
When I worked with women in prison in the 1990’s I discovered over and over again the emotional devastation caused by sexual abuse and assault. Before many of those women became criminals, they were victims. A single act of violence has ramifications that can last a lifetime. Twenty minutes of action? Hell, it only takes twenty seconds to kill someone.
On my website: www.trishmacenulty.com, you can order a signed copy of my most recent book, The Pink House, inspired by my work with women in prison.
May 24, 2016
Lovely Review! Thanks!
Thanks to author Bonnie Braendlin (Love and Death in Venice) for this great review:
Trish MacEnulty writes in the tradition of the female bildungsroman, depicting the self-discovery journey of Jen Johanssen from anger and self-loathing to a new awareness of her worth as a caring person. Along the way we are introduced to other women, her ailing sister Lolly and several inmates of a women’s prison in particular. The fascinating and varied stories of their life journeys as they confront the debilitating memories of past lives and learn to live productive lives in the present make for a very entertaining and thought-provoking read. Buy it for yourself, give it as a gift, introduce it to your book club. You’ll be glad you did!
Trish MacEnulty writes in the tradition of the female bildungsroman, depicting the self-discovery journey of Jen Johanssen from anger and self-loathing to a new awareness of her worth as a caring person. Along the way we are introduced to other women, her ailing sister Lolly and several inmates of a women’s prison in particular. The fascinating and varied stories of their life journeys as they confront the debilitating memories of past lives and learn to live productive lives in the present make for a very entertaining and thought-provoking read. Buy it for yourself, give it as a gift, introduce it to your book club. You’ll be glad you did!
May 19, 2016
Great Read: How My Dog Saved Me From Myself
When the cover of a book prominently features a dog’s soulful face, you might justifiably make the assumption that the story is going to be a familiar one: a dog enters someone’s life, transforms the person through a variety of adventures, the dog dies and you cry your eyes out. But as anyone who has loved a dog knows, all dogs are different, and every dog story is unique.
Dog Medicine: How My Dog Saved Me From Myself by Julie Barton is a skillfully written, deeply touching, honest, and provocative memoir. It’s about much more than a woman’s love for her dog because her dog really did save her from herself after she sank into a depression that nearly killed her.
Barton’s depiction of her mortal combat with depression is harrowing and eye-opening. For Barton the depression descended on her after a nasty break up. She was in her early twenties, fresh out of college, and trying to survive in Manhattan. When she fell apart, she literally fell on the floor and could not raise herself up.
But this dark cloud had been seeded many years earlier -- in childhood in fact, and that’s one of the things that makes this memoir a bit different from so many others. Barton was not abused by her parents. In fact her parents loved her and provided a comfortable life for their only daughter. No, in Barton’s case, it wasn’t abusive parents that derailed her happy childhood. It was an abusive older brother; her well-meaning parents simply had no idea how to keep her safe.
Sibling abuse isn’t something one hears much about. As Barton said, “Sibling violence is one of the last sanctioned forms of domestic abuse.” The emotional toll that the constant fighting and name-calling left on Barton resulted in a life-time dependence on anti-depressants and a narrow escape from suicide.
Although Barton explores the unhealthy relationship she had with her brother, she doesn’t dwell on it because this is a story about a dog, a remarkable dog named Bunker that she loved enough to learn how to live again. As soon as she sees the dog, she knows he’s the one who will save her. And he seems to know that she is the one who will save him as well.
Not to get too sappy, but this is a story of a miracle, the miracle of dog medicine.
And it’s not really an “Old Yeller” story either. You don’t have to worry about having your heart wrenched in a million pieces as the dog dies. The parts where I cried were in the moments when things finally worked out for this poor kid, who screwed up everything she touched -- except for the dog. That she knew how to do. And that’s what saved her.
Curl up with your dog and read this book. You’ll love it.
Dog Medicine: How My Dog Saved Me From Myself by Julie Barton is a skillfully written, deeply touching, honest, and provocative memoir. It’s about much more than a woman’s love for her dog because her dog really did save her from herself after she sank into a depression that nearly killed her.
Barton’s depiction of her mortal combat with depression is harrowing and eye-opening. For Barton the depression descended on her after a nasty break up. She was in her early twenties, fresh out of college, and trying to survive in Manhattan. When she fell apart, she literally fell on the floor and could not raise herself up.
But this dark cloud had been seeded many years earlier -- in childhood in fact, and that’s one of the things that makes this memoir a bit different from so many others. Barton was not abused by her parents. In fact her parents loved her and provided a comfortable life for their only daughter. No, in Barton’s case, it wasn’t abusive parents that derailed her happy childhood. It was an abusive older brother; her well-meaning parents simply had no idea how to keep her safe.
Sibling abuse isn’t something one hears much about. As Barton said, “Sibling violence is one of the last sanctioned forms of domestic abuse.” The emotional toll that the constant fighting and name-calling left on Barton resulted in a life-time dependence on anti-depressants and a narrow escape from suicide.
Although Barton explores the unhealthy relationship she had with her brother, she doesn’t dwell on it because this is a story about a dog, a remarkable dog named Bunker that she loved enough to learn how to live again. As soon as she sees the dog, she knows he’s the one who will save her. And he seems to know that she is the one who will save him as well.
Not to get too sappy, but this is a story of a miracle, the miracle of dog medicine.
And it’s not really an “Old Yeller” story either. You don’t have to worry about having your heart wrenched in a million pieces as the dog dies. The parts where I cried were in the moments when things finally worked out for this poor kid, who screwed up everything she touched -- except for the dog. That she knew how to do. And that’s what saved her.
Curl up with your dog and read this book. You’ll love it.
May 18, 2016
Writing about the body
A colleague of mine was telling me about her daughter’s body issues. Her daughter had hit puberty and decided she no longer liked her body.
“Do you like any part of your body?” the mother asked.
“My arms,” the girl said. “I have great arms.” So, my colleague continued, she had asked a group of women friends which part of their body they liked the most. To her surprise, most of them said there was no part of their body they liked. One of the women had had a boob job, and those were the only thing about her body that she liked.
When I heard that story, I was astonished. How could they not love their hands, I wondered. Or their feet? Where would you be (literally) without your feet? Forget the fake boobs, how could anyone not love her lungs -- those two faithful cartons for the life-breath? And the heart, that’s a pretty lovable little drummer. Do I need to mention that pleasure factory between the legs? Personally, I’m fond of my colon and whole lower digestive tract for making sure I’m not always full of shit. And the skin! It may not be as soft and pretty as it once was but, good grief, we’d be a mess without it.
The body is where it all happens: the roiling emotions, the love making, the wine drinking, the fried pickles on the tongue, the dancing, the laughing, the tears, and most importantly, the spiritual awakening. The mystics remind us that being present in the body is key to recognizing the divine light within us.
It's also key to getting into your characters. Here's an early scene in The Pink House where I was able to use the body to introduce one of my main characters:
Sonya lay face down on the cold tile of the bathroom floor in B dorm of the North Florida Correctional Institution for Women with Magna, a strawberry blond titan, astride her back. Magna’s hand, fleshy but powerful, was wrapped around Sonya’s neck.
“You see this, Gypsy bitch?” Magna asked, waving a pack of Newports in front of her face. “These are mine. I marked this package ‘cause I knew there was a sneaky little thief taking my shit. You better keep your dirty hands to yourself or I’ll break each one of your fingers.”
With the hand that was not wrapped around Sonya’s neck, Magna dropped the cigarettes and twisted Sonya’s pinky finger out of its socket.
Sonya’s eyes bulged. She tried to kick her legs. She’d never been a fighter, but she knew how to take a beating. Then again, no one had ever tried to outright kill her before.
Mercifully, Magna dropped Sonya’s finger and unwrapped her other hand from around Sonya’s pinched neck. Sonya gasped for air. The big woman pushed herself off Sonya’s back, jabbing her ribs with a swift kick as she did so. Sonya grunted. She heard the bathroom door open and close as Magna walked out with the pack of cigarettes. Sonya rolled on her back and tried to breathe.
Some exercises for writing to, about and for the body:
1. Write a love letter to your body.
2. Write a dialogue with a body part. (I recommend reading Lynda Schor’s short story “Lips” from her collection The Body Parts Shop if you can.)
3. Write about a wound, an injury, or a frightening moment. How did your body react?
4. Give one of your characters a wound or take away a body part. How does that change the game?
“Do you like any part of your body?” the mother asked.
“My arms,” the girl said. “I have great arms.” So, my colleague continued, she had asked a group of women friends which part of their body they liked the most. To her surprise, most of them said there was no part of their body they liked. One of the women had had a boob job, and those were the only thing about her body that she liked.
When I heard that story, I was astonished. How could they not love their hands, I wondered. Or their feet? Where would you be (literally) without your feet? Forget the fake boobs, how could anyone not love her lungs -- those two faithful cartons for the life-breath? And the heart, that’s a pretty lovable little drummer. Do I need to mention that pleasure factory between the legs? Personally, I’m fond of my colon and whole lower digestive tract for making sure I’m not always full of shit. And the skin! It may not be as soft and pretty as it once was but, good grief, we’d be a mess without it.
The body is where it all happens: the roiling emotions, the love making, the wine drinking, the fried pickles on the tongue, the dancing, the laughing, the tears, and most importantly, the spiritual awakening. The mystics remind us that being present in the body is key to recognizing the divine light within us.
It's also key to getting into your characters. Here's an early scene in The Pink House where I was able to use the body to introduce one of my main characters:
Sonya lay face down on the cold tile of the bathroom floor in B dorm of the North Florida Correctional Institution for Women with Magna, a strawberry blond titan, astride her back. Magna’s hand, fleshy but powerful, was wrapped around Sonya’s neck.
“You see this, Gypsy bitch?” Magna asked, waving a pack of Newports in front of her face. “These are mine. I marked this package ‘cause I knew there was a sneaky little thief taking my shit. You better keep your dirty hands to yourself or I’ll break each one of your fingers.”
With the hand that was not wrapped around Sonya’s neck, Magna dropped the cigarettes and twisted Sonya’s pinky finger out of its socket.
Sonya’s eyes bulged. She tried to kick her legs. She’d never been a fighter, but she knew how to take a beating. Then again, no one had ever tried to outright kill her before.
Mercifully, Magna dropped Sonya’s finger and unwrapped her other hand from around Sonya’s pinched neck. Sonya gasped for air. The big woman pushed herself off Sonya’s back, jabbing her ribs with a swift kick as she did so. Sonya grunted. She heard the bathroom door open and close as Magna walked out with the pack of cigarettes. Sonya rolled on her back and tried to breathe.
Some exercises for writing to, about and for the body:
1. Write a love letter to your body.
2. Write a dialogue with a body part. (I recommend reading Lynda Schor’s short story “Lips” from her collection The Body Parts Shop if you can.)
3. Write about a wound, an injury, or a frightening moment. How did your body react?
4. Give one of your characters a wound or take away a body part. How does that change the game?
May 17, 2016
One Person's Evil
The landscaper who is trying to help me revive my poor lawn came over the other day just after I got home from yoga class. We got into a conversation about yoga and he went on to say that he’d been meditating for years. We both agreed that meditation and having peace in your heart were important — “especially now.” And we both shook our heads at the current craziness of the world.
“It just seems that there’s more evil in the world right now,” he said. Immediately I thought of the program of rape that ISIS is alleged to be conducting, I thought of the racist violence fomented at Trump rallies, and I thought of the young black men shot by poorly trained and over-equipped police. But the landscaper was thinking of something entirely different.
“They’re going to let those freaks use the same bathroom as my little nieces! Now, what is that all about?”
He went on for a while expressing his disgust and dismay at the fact that lawmakers here in NC may roll back HB2 after intense pressure from the business community, while I stood there dumbfounded. I guess I had my own stereotypes. I thought that he might be worried as I was about the erosion of voting rights, the return of segregation, etc. That just shows the folly of assumption.
Now, If I were to see transgender people called “freaks” on social media, I’d be quick to anger. But here I was, standing face to face with someone whom I like but whose concern for his female relatives seemed misguided to me. Instead of getting angry, I simply said, “You know, transgender people are such a small portion of the population, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ve only known a few my whole life, and they were nice people.” Of course, I could have said any number of things, but I was so stunned that was all I could muster.
I went about my business, but I thought about the conversation and thought about what I would say when next I saw him and it would be this: “You know, I’ve had guys expose themselves to me when I was just a kid. And I’ve been raped, as have many women I know. None of those were wearing dresses. They looked just like any guy. Your nieces may need protecting but not from transgender people.”
I’m so grateful for Laverne Cox’s complex and sympathetic portrayal of a transgender woman on Orange is the New Black. I don’t understand what it feels like to be born in the wrong body, but that doesn’t mean that the people who do feel that way are somehow inferior to the rest of us. We had it right a long time ago: “Different strokes for different folks.”
By the way, my own novel about a women’s prison, The Pink House, is available now.
“It just seems that there’s more evil in the world right now,” he said. Immediately I thought of the program of rape that ISIS is alleged to be conducting, I thought of the racist violence fomented at Trump rallies, and I thought of the young black men shot by poorly trained and over-equipped police. But the landscaper was thinking of something entirely different.
“They’re going to let those freaks use the same bathroom as my little nieces! Now, what is that all about?”
He went on for a while expressing his disgust and dismay at the fact that lawmakers here in NC may roll back HB2 after intense pressure from the business community, while I stood there dumbfounded. I guess I had my own stereotypes. I thought that he might be worried as I was about the erosion of voting rights, the return of segregation, etc. That just shows the folly of assumption.
Now, If I were to see transgender people called “freaks” on social media, I’d be quick to anger. But here I was, standing face to face with someone whom I like but whose concern for his female relatives seemed misguided to me. Instead of getting angry, I simply said, “You know, transgender people are such a small portion of the population, I really don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ve only known a few my whole life, and they were nice people.” Of course, I could have said any number of things, but I was so stunned that was all I could muster.
I went about my business, but I thought about the conversation and thought about what I would say when next I saw him and it would be this: “You know, I’ve had guys expose themselves to me when I was just a kid. And I’ve been raped, as have many women I know. None of those were wearing dresses. They looked just like any guy. Your nieces may need protecting but not from transgender people.”
I’m so grateful for Laverne Cox’s complex and sympathetic portrayal of a transgender woman on Orange is the New Black. I don’t understand what it feels like to be born in the wrong body, but that doesn’t mean that the people who do feel that way are somehow inferior to the rest of us. We had it right a long time ago: “Different strokes for different folks.”
By the way, my own novel about a women’s prison, The Pink House, is available now.
