Ethel Rohan's Blog, page 16

Call Me

I’ll be in Ireland June 7th through June 26th. Let’s meet.

Words

I met Cheryl Strayed last year here in San Francisco, during her The Rumpus reading with the wonderful Lidia Yuknavitch and Dylan Landis. I admit I had never heard of Cheryl before that night. Her reading, though, an excerpt from her then forthcoming memoir, WILD, made me an instant fan.

Toward the end of the evening, Cheryl and I stood close together at the bar and I worked up the courage to say hello and compliment her on her reading and gush about the excerpt. I think it was Cheryl’s red dress that prompted me to say hello. Red is my favorite color and you know how I am about ‘signs.’ I’m not great about introducing myself to people, but I’m getting better. Maybe because I had such a good experience that night. Cheryl was so gracious and kind and down to earth. It wasn’t until months later that I learned Cheryl was also the anonymous author behind The Rumpus Dear Sugar advice column, a column I loved. And so when WILD published, I rushed to my local bookstore, panting.

I want better words to describe Cheryl Strayed’s memoir, WILD. Words beyond honest, searing, compelling, and inspiring.

WILD is a memoir about courage, strength, power, resilience, and healing. It’s a memoir about the opposite of all that too.

WILD is an ode to Cheryl Strayed’s mother, an account of working through grief, and a testimony to the human spirit.

WILD is a memoir about love and loss and mistakes and regrets. Their opposites too.

WILD made me see the potential in fear, loss, grief, and the absence of a mother. The potential for such experiences to become layers that inform and enlarge us rather than gaping holes that diminish.

 

WILD : A powerful, blazingly honest memoir: the story of an eleven-hundred-mile solo hike that broke down a young woman reeling from catastrophe—and built her back up again. At twenty-two, Cheryl Strayed thought she’d lost everything when her mother died young of cancer. Her family scattered in their grief, her marriage was soon destroyed, and slowly her life spun out of control. Four years after her mother’s death, with nothing more to lose, Strayed made the most impulsive decision of her life: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail from the Mojave Desert through California and Oregon to Washington State—and to do it alone. She had no experience as a long-distance hiker–indeed, she’d never gone backpacking before her first night on the trail. Her trek was little more than “an idea, vague and outlandish and full of promise.” But it was a promise of piecing back together a life that had come undone. Strayed faces down rattlesnakes and black bears, intense heat and record snowfalls, and both the beauty and intense loneliness of the trail. Told with great suspense and style, sparkling with warmth and humor, Wild vividly captures the terrors and pleasures of one young woman forging ahead against all odds on a journey that maddened, strengthened, and ultimately healed her.

 

Honest

Yesterday afternoon I learned the good news that my short-short story “Keepsake” won the Tin House Plotto Contest. I phoned my husband to tell him. Afterwards, I wanted to phone my mother and tell her too. I cannot remember ever before having this urge to tell my mother my writing news.

I can’t phone my mother anymore. She has suffered Alzheimer’s for twelve years and wasted away to seventy-something pounds in a nursing home just outside Dublin: helpless, speechless, sightless (retinitis pigmentosa), and vacant. The last time I remember speaking with my mother on the phone and sharing good news was when our oldest daughter was born thirteen years ago. By the time our second daughter was born, three years later, my mother’s mind had so unraveled she couldn’t grasp the good news.

I lost my mother long before the Alzheimer’s though, in my childhood to paranoid schizophrenia. Yesterday, sitting in my car, my cell phone in my hand, I imagined I phoned my mother. I told her about my Tin House win. I imagined her reaction. She felt happy for me, excited and proud–the kind of elated response and delight I have always craved from her.

Strange thing, our exchange felt real. I experienced my mother’s excitement and her love for me. I mean I really felt it. It was like connecting with her best heart and her best spirit and her best self. Like if she had been healthy, this was the mother she would have been. An imagined exchange, but it made me feel warm and giddy inside and so bitter-sweet happy.

I almost didn’t submit “Keepsake” to the Tin House Plotto Contest. I thought, here I go again, telling another story about the loss of a mother. Maybe I’m supposed to keep telling this story. For sure, it’s one of the most honest stories I can tell.

Ethel Rohan Revised

At recent readings and meetings, I’ve surprised people with my new short haircut.

“You don’t look like your photo.”

Methinks it’s time to update my author photo.

Armed & Loaded

That’s the attitude I’m trying to fake these days. Fake until it’s real. ‘Armed & Loaded’ is an invisible tattoo dead center on my forehead. Really, my every atom is sighing FUNK.

I drink Yogi herbal tea and love/hate the tiny rectangles of wisdom at the end of the string on every teabag. This morning’s kernel: “Empty yourself and let the universe fill you.” My response today: Whatever.

I’m insanely busy on the writing front, but worry it’s the busy of jogging on the spot till I’m purple in the face and hyperventilating in the lungs and getting no where.

Just this past week, I had two readings, and in the past couple of weeks I’ve had four stories published. The reading this past Saturday took place across the Bay Bridge in Oakland. The wonderful ‘East Bay on the Brain Reading Series’ hosted by Lauren Becker. I broke my long-held rule and drank a cocktail before I read. Vodka and fresh grapefruit, ying and tang. The way to go, friends, WAY TO GO. I had fun, mingled, and especially enjoyed the wonderful line up of fellow readers: Hollie Hardy, Hugh Behm-Steinberg, Krysten Bean, Ken Weaver, and Evan Karp. Is it okay to say Hollie Hardy and Hugh Behm-Steinberg rocked? Hollie Hardy and Hugh Behm-Steinberg rocked.

My reading this past Monday was INSANE, but in a mostly beautiful way. The venue, 851 Haight Street, is a SQUAT with no power, bathroom, and in some rooms no walls! There are also many gaping holes in the floor. Everything stripped to bare timber. I fell in love with host Janey Smith from the first moment we met. He knew I was FREAKED by the venue and he did his utmost to help me feel welcome and relaxed. I also AGAIN broke my long-held ‘no drinking before I read’ rule and enjoyed a neat Irish whiskey. The way to go, friends, the way to go.

I was the oldest reader on the night and the only female reader, and the only traditional narrative storyteller–all things that would have rattled me to my core in the past. Also the lighting was so poor that for the first time EVER I had to read while wearing glasses! However, I embraced the event and decided to just be ME. I gave the reading my all and believe my work was very well received. It was freeing to stay true to myself and just be me, not trying to fit in or be cool, but simply sharing and celebrating my work with others and allowing the story to either fly or fall.

Okay, I admit I also felt bolstered by my shoes. My shoes were hot. HAWT.

I also admitted to the audience that, cough, cough, unlike some of my fellow readers, I’d never gotten high. I wanted to be high on Monday night. Just pot happy high. After I read, a certain fellow reader offered me the fattest joint I’ve ever seen. Boy was I tempted. Suffice to say, smoking a joint remains on my bucket list.

In the past few weeks, I’ve sent out several agent queries for my novel and my short story collection. I received some ‘nos’ on both, only one full request thus far on the ssc, and I’m awaiting responses from others. I’m aware I may never hear anything. After ten years of working on and off on my novel, I think I have to finally accept it’s unsaleable–not because of the quality of the writing but because of the subject matter. I believe in this book and believe it’s a gripping and worthwhile read, but I’m now facing the hard truth that I most likely won’t get a publisher to bite, at least certainly not the bigger houses. Here’s my novel’s summary:

“Kisses With Teeth is set in Dublin, Ireland, in 1980 and centers on Gavin Flynn, a middle-aged, working-class bus driver. At the novel’s opening, Gavin’s humdrum existence with his wife and three daughters is shattered when their middle child, fourteen-year-old Maeve, becomes pregnant. As the family struggle with the shame and scandal surrounding the teenage pregnancy in a still religiously and socially repressed Ireland, Gavin also wrangles with his growing infatuation with Maeve’s best friend, Claire. Claire is also fourteen. Throughout the course of the novel, as Gavin’s family and work life disintegrate, he is forced to take stock of himself, confronting his darkest fears and greatest hopes.”

So the subject matter is difficult and problematic and the plot summary scares. However, I feel sure that if I could just get agents/publishers to read the ms, they’d recognize its value. That said, I need to put Kisses With Teeth to bed and move on to a new novel. Otherwise, I’m going to stay stuck. I need to get out of stuck. I have strategies. I’ve entered several writing competitions and am hopeful. I’ve applied to writing conferences and for a MacDowell residency. I’ve applied to freelance at the much hailed Writers’ Grotto here in San Francisco and am going there for lunch tomorrow to meet and greet. Wish me luck!

I have subbed a lot of stories to lit mags I once believed I could never break into, lit mags that are taking a LONG time to respond. I also plan to attend more readings in the city. I plan to write more book reviews, essays, and creative non-fiction, and push myself beyond my fiction work. I’m reading books, books, and more books. I’m picking apart the bios and books of writers I especially love and admire and asking myself, “okay, how are they doing it?”

I’m trying insanely hard, to the point of banging my head against the wall in frustration.

My short-short “Haunt” went live at fwriciton : review today.

My short-short “Take That” went live at metazen today.

Booth Magazine published my short-short “Dark Stars” as part of their monologues project. My deep thanks to Bryan Furuness and Michael Martone for soliciting me for this excellent series.

My story “Saturday Girl” is in the current issue of Eclectica Magazine. I love Eclectica Magazine. The story is dedicated to my dear friend, P.D., who like me was also a Saturday Girl once upon a time.

The rejections and disappointments keep coming. Sledge hammers that laugh at my invisible ‘Armed and Loaded’ tattoo. I remain brazen, even if it’s only fake brazen.

The Stinging Fly

Mel Ulm, curator of The Reading Life, invited me to write a guest post. I happily wrote about the current spring issue of The Stinging Fly, an outstanding literary magazine out of Ireland. In particular, I wrote about an excellent story in the issue, "All About Alice," by Irish writer Danielle McLaughlin. I cannot recommend this stellar story and the entire issue highly enough. My post titled "All About Danielle McLaughlin" can be read here. I hope you enjoy.

My Response to Unknown Arts by William Walsh

is now live at HTMLGiant and titled "A Book About James Joyce's Books About … How Many of Us Are Really Sure What?" I hope you enjoy.

 

Make A Wish and Win Free Books!

My brief response to Laura Ellen Scott's fantastical debut novel, Death Wishing, is live at PANK.
The post also includes an exciting FREE FOUR BOOK Giveaway. All you have to do is share your deepest wish. Imagine, as in Death Wishing, your dying wish could come true. What would you wish for? Tell us here in the comments at PANK and you could win the following books:
Death Wishing (signed), novel by Laura Ellen Scott

The Curfew, novel by Jesse Ball

Echolocation, novel by Myfanwy Collins


Hard to Say (signed), stories by Ethel Rohan


Laura Ellen Scott will choose the winning wish. Entries close Friday, April 6th, at NOON, PST. Winner will be announced soon thereafter.
Bonne Chance!

BULL

The first-ever full print issue of BULL: Men's Fiction includes Kevin Wilson's wonderfully titled story "The Moon's Face, Darkened." The story's premise centers on a total lunar eclipse and is a delightful mixture of outrageous, funny, and poignant gut-punch:

A taste of its Outrageous: "[Narrator's wife] talked about things like tradition and catching up with old friends but I understood that the real reason was that she was going to sleep with some outdoorsy type who had complicated knots displayed on the walls of his study, that she had been sleeping with this guy since high school, and I was not to deprive her of this."

A taste of its Funny: "I watched the World Submission Fighting Finals on ESPN, two Brazilians wrapping themselves around and around each other, trying very hard, I thought, not to accidentally fuck."

Poignant Gut-Pinch: There are several disturbing/poignant moments throughout and the last, gorgeous paragraph in particular delivers an emotional punch that bears the full force of this short work's cumulative power.

Another standout story in the issue is Sara Lippmann's "Houseboy." The pidgin English voice here is phenomenal and beautifully wrought:

"There is much items to fix. I take my hammer to pool deck. When I vision a lonely nail I hammer that nail because Mrs. Strickland worries the tetanus emergency. Then–how do you say?–I light up the pool deck. My fire glows green breakthrough to other side. My fire is a Pink Floyd song. I love Pink Floyd! I smoke Marlboro. I think. I try thinking English. I try to dream in English but in dream wild beasts rush the humble mountaintop like refuges to Yam Suf. A stampede of zebra and giraffa and peacock. The pool makes hypnotic on me. The wind blows, the water gleam the color the eyes of Tzipi when she wear blue contact lens. I swim Olympic. I swim and swim without thought or molesting."

And I can't resist also quoting this:

"Sometime there is deer eating the hydrangea bush and sometime I exclaimate, Die deer! But sometime I stand there and say, you are my friend, deer, you have eyes like hand grenade, when I vision your blood pulsating true animal vein make me want to be a better man."

Like Kevin Wilson's "The Moon's Face, Darkened," Sara Lippmann's "Houseboy" is a story that builds and builds until it's poignant and gripping close. Congratulations, Sara.

Curtis Dawkins has a great trio of gritty stories in the issue, "Urban Archery," "In The Dayroom with Stinky," and "A North."

From "Urban Archery":

"It was [Terrell's] own fault his marriage was falling apart. Terrell felt back abut it and I think he really loved Marvel, but still, every other day when he got home from running his press at the paper factory, he'd hook up his bass boat to the back of his Dodge and meet his girlfriend at the little motel off the highway. Everyone knew about it; I didn't even know why he bothered hooking up his glittery blue boat anymore. He never brought home any fish, and he never smelled like worms." The closing image in this story, of Terrell and the narrator with bow and arrows drawn, is memorable and beautifully written."

Dawkins's short story collection will be the first release forthcoming from BULL Books. I look forward to the read.

In addition to stories from Ryan Glenn Smith, Joshua Kleinberg, Nick Bertelson, and more, my story "Lodgers" is also included in this issue. At 4,000+ words "Lodgers" is the longest story I've published to date. My deep thanks to Jarrett Haley for his expert editing and his faith in this story set entirely on a farm in Ireland.

Ain’t No Harm In That, Girl

In our previous home, the one we moved out of last year, my carpenter/contractor husband had converted the dormer-style attic into a large, sun-filled office that we shared. Everyday I would sit in my ‘half’ of the attic at my glass writing desk amidst so much space and light and attempt to write out my insides.

In that office, on the window ledge next to my desk, I kept a little altar: incense; candles; crystals; Buddhas; saints’ cards, mandarin oranges, and vials of holy water from Knock and Lourdes. Yes, this Irish Catholic girl got a little Zen crazy.

I also kept a bookmark that my husband’s niece, Danielle, sent to me years ago, with a poem that begins “You Are A Writer …” A little girl I didn’t even know cared believed in me and her innocent faith is just one of the many things that has touched and fortified me over the years.

On that altar I’d also displayed a sheet of yellow notebook paper lined in light blue that listed thirty literary journals I really, really wanted my stories to be published in. At the time of our house move, as I was packing up, I held the yellow page, torn. The page was yellowed and drooping, sun-damaged, and the black-inked list barely legible. I almost tossed the sheet, but didn’t.

Today, that page remains on my altar in our current home. My office here is in the basement, rather than the attic, and is small and cold and dark. I need the light on all the time and the space heater blows regularly. There’s also that chaotic sense of the ever-growing contents of the room about to spill out beyond the walls. My altar here is on the two top shelves of a bookcase, away from the windows, and the yellow sheet of notepaper is faring much better, away from sun bake.

Every time I place a story in a magazine from this yellowed ‘Dream List,’ I make a check on the page. There are now twenty-three checkmarks. The Dream List is from about four years ago, when I first started publishing online and learned of Duotrope and the many, many magazines available to us as readers and writers. My Dream List today of publications to contribute to, were I to take the time to write one, would look very different to that of just a few years ago. There was a recent discussion on Facebook, largely between xTx and Barry Graham, on the hierarchy of literary magazines and writers’ shifting ambitions. Graham maintained that if a magazine was good enough for your work once, it should remain good enough for your work. And I agree, for the most part, but the desire to move ourselves up the hierarchical tower of literary magazines shouldn’t discredit or damn anyone.

My ‘Dream List’ today has changed because I’m ambitious. I want to further my career, widen my readership, and garner greater respect. One key way to do that is to publish my work in magazines that are highly valued, both nationally and internationally. I also want to earn money for my writing and see it win awards and recognitions. My Dream List has also changed because I’m now a better and more confident writer. I aim now for publications I once believed out of my reach. Publications I didn’t believe I deserved to be published in. Publications I never believed my work was good enough for. Now I believe different.

Every acceptance I’ve received from a magazine editor has pleased me, and some acceptances have delighted me more than others, particularly where I especially admire the magazine’s editors and aesthetics, and where the magazine is more widely valued, has a bigger readership, and publishes ever-more brilliant and exciting writers.

When I look out the window of my basement office and into our back garden, I see an orange wall, black railing bars, our daughters’ bicycles, my husband’s rusted, blue wheelbarrow, and in a straight row the skinny calves of young green trees. The trees grow and grow, and reach every higher. Who’d put limits on a tree?