Ethel Rohan's Blog, page 17

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?

Insides Out

Yesterday, our nine-year-old daughter sang in her first recital. I admit when the program listed twenty-two performances I had an ungenerous moment and shifted in my seat with much the same sense of unpleasantness I experience at the dentist. Our daughter was second on the schedule and I thought once she'd performed it would be hard to stay engaged. I was wrong.

The singers ranged in ages from four to twenty, and their skill and experience levels also varied. Our daughter sang Bruno Mars' "Talking to the Moon." She poured her heart and soul into the song, thinking as she performed of her two young cousins in Ireland, Megan and Katie. My sister lived in San Francisco for twelve years and Megan and Katie were both born here. However, my sister returned to Ireland permanently three years ago, when Katie was four and Megan two. They were the only family I have in the United States (aside from three cousins), and similarly my husband has no family here. Our daughters keenly feel that sense of loss of family (Katie and Megan were more like sisters than cousins to them) and we often have to remind them how blessed we are to have so many friends here who we consider family (and in many ways are better than family because of those pretty white-picket boundaries).

The final performer yesterday, aged twenty, sang "I'm Here" from The Color Purple. From the first note, she grabbed the audience and her great voice and heartfelt performance held us hard. As she reached the end of the song, her breathing turned ragged, her entire body shook with emotion, and she struggled to make those final notes. But she did. The audience clapped and cheered, and several cried. I blubbered. This brave terrified young woman was showing us her insides. Messy, ugly, powerful, beautiful, amazing insides.

In Which I Tout My (Sad) Claim to Fame and Repeat ‘Fierce” Several Times

David Cotrone, Editor, Used Furniture Review runs an excellent and intelligent interview series that, to name a few, includes Rick Moody; Tom Grimes; Ryan Scott Oliver; Amelia Gray; Dani Shapiro; Kristen Hersh; Kyle Minor; Michael Kimball; Lidia Yuknavitch; and most recently Ben Marcus.

I’m honored to have my interview go live today at Used Furniture Review. David asked interesting, thoughtful questions and I tried to respond in kind. I like this interview. A lot. I’m only sorry I didn’t include cool photos like Ben Marcus.

This morning, I read and enjoyed a great number of the interviews in the series. Here’s an easy link to the entertainment and the wisdom. No doubt my interview would be vastly better if I’d read these interviews before I submitted my own. But maybe that’s what I most like about my interview here: I discovered I have more and more to say about writing and the writing life. My voice is getting louder, stronger, and more confident. I’m aiming, though, for fierce.

There’s a humility and honesty to Tom Grimes’ interview that I found especially moving. There are also his excellent insights and advice. Tom, I hope your literary heart is beating again, wildly.

Here’s a brief excerpt from his interview’s close:

“Write. Don’t worry about ‘making it.’ The literary life is irrational. I know a writer whose book was turned down by more than a dozen publishers. Then a small press published it, sold the book rights to nine countries, and a large New York house that had originally turned down the book published it in paperback. In 2010, novels by tiny independent presses won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award.”

Another favorite in the series is from Amelia Gray. Last year, I met Amelia Gray here in San Francisco and heard her read. She glows on and off the stage and her work is brilliant. Yes, I like all things Amelia Gray. She quotes John Berryman: “We must travel in the direction of our fear.” She’s also hysterical. Read her interview. Read everything of hers you can.

The series also introduced me to musician and writer Kristen Hersh and I read fascinated about her music career, her memoir Rat Girl, and her struggles with bipolar disorder. She reads as funny, quirky, compassionate and straight-in-your eyes honest. Mostly, though, she reads as fierce. (She has an intriguing take on reading fiction!) Here are a couple of her responses:

“I didn’t consider writing the book to be “art” until it took on a life of its own. When I realized I was doing what IT wanted me to do rather than what I thought was “best” (least embarrassing). Of course, any work is better when you let it boss you around. Art, like a lot of things, is smarter than people.”

AND

“Don’t lie. Don’t show off. Don’t express your “self.” Just be quiet and listen. Become unselfconscious by imagining you work in a vacuum, that no one will ever hear your song or read your book; it will keep artifice out of your work.”

Again, a wonderful interview series that’s well worth your time and interest. Thanks again, David Cotrone, for your commitment to writers and excellence.

Here’s an excerpt from our conversation, if anyone is still reading:

UFR: There’s clearly a long, amazing history of Irish literature, and Irish-American literature too. Do you consider yourself to be part of that tradition? If so, why? If not, why not?

Rohan: Honestly, as an emigrant, I often feel caught between cultures. The Irish no longer consider me truly theirs and Americans don’t consider me red white and blue. It’s who I consider myself to be that matters, though, and I believe myself to be this very fortunate hybrid of both cultures. When I write, I tap into something very deep inside myself and at that core I’m Irish. Maybe it’s that I write from my beginnings, my anam. I’m fierce in my celebration of Irish and Irish-American literature, both its legacy and its contemporary largesse, but I can’t think about that staggering treasure trove when I write—it would be paralyzing.

In Which I Tout My (Sad) Claim to Fame and Repeat 'Fierce" Several Times

David Cotrone, Editor, Used Furniture Review runs an excellent and intelligent interview series that, to name a few, includes Rick Moody; Tom Grimes; Ryan Scott Oliver; Amelia Gray; Dani Shapiro; Kristen Hersh; Kyle Minor; Michael Kimball; Lidia Yuknavitch; and most recently Ben Marcus.

I'm honored to have my interview go live today at Used Furniture Review. David asked interesting, thoughtful questions and I tried to respond in kind. I like this interview. A lot. I'm only sorry I didn't include cool photos like Ben Marcus.

This morning, I read and enjoyed a great number of the interviews in the series. Here's an easy link to the entertainment and the wisdom. No doubt my interview would be vastly better if I'd read these interviews before I submitted my own. But maybe that's what I most like about my interview here: I discovered I have more and more to say about writing and the writing life. My voice is getting louder, stronger, and more confident. I'm aiming, though, for fierce.

There's a humility and honesty to Tom Grimes' interview that I found especially moving. There are also his excellent insights and advice. Tom, I hope your literary heart is beating again, wildly.

Here's a brief excerpt from his interview's close:

"Write. Don't worry about 'making it.' The literary life is irrational. I know a writer whose book was turned down by more than a dozen publishers. Then a small press published it, sold the book rights to nine countries, and a large New York house that had originally turned down the book published it in paperback. In 2010, novels by tiny independent presses won the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award."

Another favorite in the series is from Amelia Gray. Last year, I met Amelia Gray here in San Francisco and heard her read. She glows on and off the stage and her work is brilliant. Yes, I like all things Amelia Gray. She quotes John Berryman: "We must travel in the direction of our fear." She's also hysterical. Read her interview. Read everything of hers you can.

The series also introduced me to musician and writer Kristen Hersh and I read fascinated about her music career, her memoir Rat Girl, and her struggles with bipolar disorder. She reads as funny, quirky, compassionate and straight-in-your eyes honest. Mostly, though, she reads as fierce. (She has an intriguing take on reading fiction!) Here are a couple of her responses:

"I didn't consider writing the book to be "art" until it took on a life of its own. When I realized I was doing what IT wanted me to do rather than what I thought was "best" (least embarrassing). Of course, any work is better when you let it boss you around. Art, like a lot of things, is smarter than people."

AND

"Don't lie. Don't show off. Don't express your "self." Just be quiet and listen. Become unselfconscious by imagining you work in a vacuum, that no one will ever hear your song or read your book; it will keep artifice out of your work."

Again, a wonderful interview series that's well worth your time and interest. Thanks again, David Cotrone, for your commitment to writers and excellence.

Here's an excerpt from our conversation, if anyone is still reading:

UFR: There's clearly a long, amazing history of Irish literature, and Irish-American literature too. Do you consider yourself to be part of that tradition? If so, why? If not, why not?

Rohan: Honestly, as an emigrant, I often feel caught between cultures. The Irish no longer consider me truly theirs and Americans don't consider me red white and blue. It's who I consider myself to be that matters, though, and I believe myself to be this very fortunate hybrid of both cultures. When I write, I tap into something very deep inside myself and at that core I'm Irish. Maybe it's that I write from my beginnings, my anam. I'm fierce in my celebration of Irish and Irish-American literature, both its legacy and its contemporary largesse, but I can't think about that staggering treasure trove when I write—it would be paralyzing.

“Bruises, like stones, are never silent. As a child, I wrote to put bruises on the page. I still do.”

My brief interview is included in the February issue of Word Riot. Deep thanks to Jackie Corley, Kevin O’Cuinn and David Hoenigman. I tried to make my responses interesting and pretty. They are certainly short. And I plead a little. Maybe a lot.

"Bruises, like stones, are never silent. As a child, I wrote to put bruises on the page. I still do."

My brief interview is included in the February issue of Word Riot. Deep thanks to Jackie Corley, Kevin O'Cuinn and David Hoenigman. I tried to make my responses interesting and pretty. They are certainly short. And I plead a little. Maybe a lot.

Be Brave and Believe

Thank You, Beautiful Readers

Life is stranger than most fictions. The tough times continue and this has been a hellacious week. Hellacious, not as in 'wah-wah' my story was rejected, as in my heart physically hurt, as though the organ needed to be taken out and cradled and stroked. Please, no need to comment or respond, thank you. I will recover.

Curt Dawes in an inmate at Michigan Reformatory. I know little more about Curt except that he has a sister and he reviewed Hard to Say for BULL: Fiction for Thinking Men for a forthcoming issue. This morning, Curt's sister, N., sent me an advance copy of his review. It's hard to describe how it feels to know my stories mattered to Curt in Michigan in prison. I'll make up a word: grathumenc.

I cut off most of my hair, twelve inches of length and a crazy amount in volume, and now have Flash hair. My short-short haircut seems trivial to mention here. Yet it's where the keyboard has taken me. I don't know how many times yesterday the hair stylist said I was brave. He seemed shocked that I'd chance a new stylist with a completely new do. We are all brave in our own ways. For me, cutting off my hair felt nothing, felt like a grasp at forcing a new chapter.

I spent so much of this past week wrangling with all the ways I still feel so very afraid. The fall of my shorn hair felt nothing next to that. My head is lighter now that some of the old has fallen away. Scissors, Baby.

Everyone Hates a Tell-Tale

The wonderful editors at The Chattahoochee Review today published my 'Tell-Tale Table' to their blog. The table reveals the approximate percentage of actual, real-life events depicted in every story published in Hard to Say.

Hard to Say won the 2010 PANK Little Books Contest and is now available in print and on Kindle. Despite the thrilling and humbling advance praise and the excellent reviews thus far, this tiny collection of fifteen linked short-short stories has not sold well.

With hindsight, part of the low-sales problem is the book came out much too soon after Cut Through the Bone and hasn't thrived in the shadow of the latter's widespread promotion and success. There's more to the problem though.

The truth is that because I did draw on parts of myself and my past in these stories, I've tried to hide this book from so many, afraid of who the stories might reach and who they could shock, upset, and hurt. I'm afraid of my own little book and that's a terrible place to be.

I don't know why I suffer these sometime bursts to draw attention to myself and bare my soul in my writing. It goes against the grain of my Irish culture and my preference for privacy and grace. I pay an awful price emotionally for such revealations. Yet by the very nature of writing and writing well, every time I pull words out of myself, the onus on me is to be as honest as possible about what it is to be human–and by default what it is to be me. Even if I write stories that are 100% fabrication, I reveal myself. We artists all do.

In the worst of my terror, I worry Hard to Say most betrays my mother and belies my deep love and compassion for her. In my strongest moments, I believe the book is a tribute to girls and women everywhere who have suffered and journeyed and who refuse to be silenced.

Today someone dear to me read my post at The Chattahoochee Review blog and felt appalled. I've allowed that person's horrified reaction make me want to crawl into bed, hide under the covers, and never show myself again.

I'll share two of the best kernels of wisdom I ever received: "It's none of my business what anyone else thinks of me," and "Everything gets back to our intention." My intention in writing Hard to Say was not to shock, upset or hurt anyone. My intention was to write out of me the best stories I could around the real and the fabricated that have long haunted, fascinated and compelled me.

Maybe you'll help a girl out and buy a copy of Hard to Say from PANK ($7.50), or on Kindle ($4.50), or a signed copy at AWP? Maybe then the right someone will read this book and let me know everything's okay, tell me I did a good thing in writing and publishing these stories, and reassure me this little book won't injure me or anybody else, if we don't let it.

Wait, of course, that right someone is me.

How Beautiful is This?

A screenshot of the books I've read and added to my Goodreads account. So behind on so much else I've read and need to add, and so many more books yet to read and add, but this is gorgeous: