Shorter than me

Tag: fiction

  • Review of the International Dublin Writers’ Festival

    My friend, Katie Moynagh, was the one who told me all about the International Dublin Writers’ Festival, and so it was she who called me to the adventure.  Katie writes beautiful poems and short stories, and I enjoy listening to her read them aloud, and I trust her opinions on all things literary.  All the same, I declined at first, as I had other plans for that weekend, but as things moved around and I adjusted my diary, I found myself in attendance at the festival, at the Academy Hotel, just off O’Connell Street, in Dublin city.

    As soon as I arrived, I felt the fear.  What on earth was I doing attending a writers’ festival in Dublin?  I wasn’t established, successful, well read or reviewed.  I like to write, of course, I do, but what did I think I was doing? 

    I met Katie in the foyer.  She smiled, and said she was happy to see me, and suddenly I felt better.  It turned out, no one minded at all, about my status or lack of it.  In fact, everyone was far too busy having a great time, to worry about my worries, and soon I didn’t worry either.

     There were over 20 presentations over the next three days divided loosely into the creative inspiration of writing, and the business of writing.  There were presentations by writers, publishers, agents and companies offering help to writers.  The Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland were there, talking about their “Grand Theft Author” campaign, which tries stop Artificial Intelligence (AI) from stealing writers’ work.  There were Hollywood screen writers, and a member of the Ottoman Imperial Family.

    There was even an improvisation session.

    Some writers read their pieces aloud in an open mic session, and I enjoyed hearing Katie read again.  Some writers got to pitch their ideas for books and plays to our new friends from Hollywood, and after the scariest 90 seconds, received constructive feedback.

    If there was a dark cave, during the weekend, it might be my reluctance to monetise my hobby of writing.  I love writing.  I’ve always loved writing.  I love my daily practice of trying to put into word form, the experiences of being in this world.  I try to connect, with my honest, messy and incongruous inner world and try, if I can, to make sense of it.  The idea of selling this seems ugly.

    And yet, of course, I would. 

    In a heartbeat, and a nano second and without asking any questions.  Which is why I joined the Irish Writers’ Union of Ireland, so that if I ever did get a book deal, someone would read my contract for me and tell me if it was safe to sign.

    As well as joining the Union, I bought some books.  I made some new friends, and I absolutely adored being surrounded by writers, and people who love the business of writing, for the whole weekend.

    I really thank the lovely organiser, Laurence O’Bryan and his team at Books Go Social, and I look forward to seeing everyone next year.

  • Review of the School of Myth Summer School Programme July 2025

    For four days and nights in July this year, I was lucky enough to be one of the sixty participants on the School of Myth summer school programme, at a manor house, on the edge of Dartmoor.  We listened to Dr Martin Shaw, tell us ancient Celtic myths, Arthurian stories, and folk tales from Siberia, for hour after hour, and day into eve.

    Sometimes, the stories were accompanied by the smell of an open burning fire, and sage.  Sometimes, the sound of drums walked the stories in.

    When was the last time someone told you a story?

    When was the last time you gave your full, undivided attention to a storyteller?

    Martin would start each story in the same way, by asking us, “shall we go?”  We would answer him, “let’s go!”

    For a second time he asked us, “shall we go?”

    And again, we shouted back, “let’s go!”

    Finally, when he asked us a third time, “shall we go?” glee and laughter filled the room, as we cried back loudly, “LET’S GO!”

    Martin then took us gently back to kingdoms far away and long ago, and into deep, dark forests and sacred rivers, and to a lake that three large cows walked out of.

    It was magnificent.

    I arrived at the manor, with my pre-conceived modern ideas that this workshop or retreat would have an agenda, and name tags and a welcome folder with all the necessary handouts.  In preparation for the week, I had re-read The Hound of the Baskervilles, because it was set on Dartmoor, and I thought it would get me into the mood.

    Oh blessed, sweet, gentle child.  I was in the wrong century.  I did not need those things.  I would need to go further back.

    What I needed to do, was listen carefully.

    What I needed to do, was hear the stories with an open heart and kindness.

    What I needed to do, was be still and leave distractions at the train station at Newton Abbott.  What I needed to do, was walk down to the ancient stone bridge, turn right at the fairy forest, walk past the Alpacas and take a long relaxing swim in the lake, under the silver-grey clouds, in the grounds of the manor.

    The other participants were storytellers:  writers, actors, dancers, teachers, yogis, grief counsellors, psychotherapists, NGO workers, preachers, a hypnotist and a shaman.  We were all on the edge of Dartmoor, looking for magic.

    On the last night, we watched a performance of a few scenes from A Midsummer Night’s Dream outdoors, and then we huddled around the bonfire.  Some people wore flowers in their hair, and there was music. The staff of The School of Myth were kind, and thoughtful, and prepared our feasts, and took care of us.

    I’m not sure why I went, but I’m happy I did, because it changed my life.

    I’m not sure how, or even if the changes will be visible from the outside, but something has shifted my heart.  A tiny piece of me has altered indefinitely, and I will never be the same.

    Since my return from the moors, I’ve been swimming in Martin’s back catalogue of work:  his Jawbone YouTube channel, and his books.

    I thoroughly enjoyed “Smoke Hole:  Looking to the Wild in the Time of the Spyglass” and “Red Bead Woman:  Consequence and Longing in the Myth World”.  I’ll need to re-read both books many times if I want to ponder them carefully and reflect wisely.  I’ll need to read his other work, and see him when he comes to Dublin in October, and hopefully go back to summer school, next year. I’ll stay in touch with some of my new friends, and I’ll learn more.

    Once in a while, this life offers up beauty, joy and safety in ways we couldn’t have planned for, or imagined.  When it does, it’s our duty to note the extraordinariness, bow our heads, and gratefully say, “let’s go”.

  • Book Review:  “Barren”, by Byddi Lee

    Byddi Lee’s “Barren” is a book about loss, sorrow, love, and hope. 

    “Barren” is an original story about two women separated in history by 4000 years, and connected by spirits, colours and auras.  It’s beautifully written, very funny in parts, and structurally very satisfying as both women return to an axe, and to the foundations of their stories.

    Aisling lives in modern day California, and together with her husband Ben, is Trying to Conceive (TTC).  Childlessness for both, but particularly for her, is a barren landscape which is becoming more expensive and challenging to their relationship.  The external pressures the couple face are the effects of climate change and a profound homesickness, which eventually takes them back across the Atlantic to visit Ireland.

    Zosime, meanwhile, lives in Ireland in 2354 BC, and faces the loss of her village.  A comet has passed too closely to the earth, and the sun has disappeared.  Zosime’s communal loss, her need to “follow the sun” and journey towards the sea, and beyond, is a challenge that she and her partner, Nereus, learn to manage because of their intrinsic hope.

    The two parallel stories are connected through plot, colours, prose and humour (one section ends with a ritualistic ceremony involving dead pigs, while another section opens with the couple in California cooking a fry!).   And as the two women slowly realise that they are stronger and more capable than they might have imagined, they also start to realise that their own stories can change, and the stories they witness carry their own energies and auras. 

    “telling our story, and bearing witness to others’ stories…”

    The juxtaposition of a very modern, realistic story of two Irish people living in California could be jarring against a neolithic story of hunter gatherers forced from their village, and yet, Byddi Lee manages to take the reader through the landscapes safely.  There are moments of magic realism, simplicity and dreamscapes, set against a backdrop of climate chaos, forced migration, deep sorrow and healing.

    Byddi Lee has a history of taking care of stories and the stories she witnesses.  She is the founder of, and she manages Flash Fiction Armagh, where she promotes new writers, sometimes in the Armagh County Museum, which makes a visit in the last few chapters of “Barren”.

    Already described as, “engrossing, immersive and wonderfully constructed” by Donal Ryan, “Barren” is beautifully written, enjoyable and poignant, with great hope and love on every page.

    “We don’t come from nowhere, nor do we vanish into nothing.  I always knew three facts.  I was wanted – in bright shades of flashing yellow – desperately wanted. I was loved – in vibrant shades of swirling pinks and reds – unconditionally loved.  And I’d never be forgotten – in shimmering waves of silver – always remembered”. (p.12)

  • Made in Dublin: the age of uncaring

    Dublin comes with rain.

    You can’t have a country as green as ours without the falling water.

    You hear the rain splashing down on asphalt, on the windowpanes of the houses and buses.  It’s part of the soundscape and a background track for this city.

    Some weeks ago, the sound of the city was the shouts and chants of people demanding that migrants like me, go home!  The protesters carried banners of anti-migrant poster boys, like the Presidents of the United States and Russia and an Irish marital artist, recently found guilty of rape.

    Some of the protesters carried crosses, even though St Patrick himself was a migrant.  As was Jesus.

    Some of the protesters wish to go back to a time, before the migrants came to this rock on the edge of the Atlantic.  They long for the 1980s, which was a decade of famous tranquillity, fairness, equity and justice. They believe there were no house shortages or unemployment in the 1980s.  Their memories state that Ireland was a heavenly garden of Eden, with no addiction issues or poverty, in that special decade.

    Some of the protesters wish to go back further. 

    They liked it better when nice, white, Irish women and nice, white, teenage girls could have nice, white, babies with Irish men.  No abortions, no trans rights, no mixed-race children!

    I’m not going to listen to their sounds anymore.

    I’m not going to listen, anymore, to such words of people, who tell me that their Aunt Mary-Kate went on the anti-migrant march but isn’t anti-migrant.

    Aunt Mary-Kate can go and fuck herself!

    I can’t be arsed making excuses for Aunt Mary-Kate anymore. 

    When did it become my job to explain to Aunt Mary-Kate that the engine room of this republic is staffed by migrant workers?  Without us you can close the creches and the cafes and the care homes.  Don’t try and use public transport or taxis without the migrant workforce.  Good luck getting your takeaway prepared, cooked and delivered to your home, and don’t be surprised when hospitals can’t function, without migrants like me. 

    It’s not my role, to highlight the irony to Aunt Mary-Kate, of this country’s history of migration.  Will she bring new posters to the next march, that say, “Stop the Norman Invasion!”, “Vikings Go Home!”, “Irish Diaspora Return – NOW!”

    And where does she want us to go, this Aunt Mary-Kate?

    We can’t go home, when we are home.

    I became Irish seven years ago and in my citizenship ceremony, retired Supreme Judge Brian McMahon, told us that we were as Irish as anyone born here.

    But you can’t say this to Aunt Mary-Kate, who thinks that facts are fake news, and that discourse and debate are methods to silence her right to free speech. You can’t use reason and rationale with someone who puts their fingers in their ears and shouts back, “this new way isn’t fair!”

    The sound of Dublin is rain, and laughter and stories, within the craic agus ceol. But the sound from O’Connell Street, that day frightened me.  They hate me because of the accident of my birth, not because of my own hatbox of contradictions and sins, but they pre-judge me because of where my parents had unprotected sex.

    It chills, me, this sound of people who hate me.  The sound is so menacing and so large.  And so I become quieter.

    We’re an orchestra of correlated mammals in a unified living system, and so with a deep breath, love and wide-open kindness, I come back to Aunt Mary-Kate and I try to explain again. 

    Perhaps this time I whisper.

    Our synchronised sounds can be beautiful flute music, or hellish discord. 

    Even the older trees have memories and want to live well. 

    The robins bathe, at sundown so that their feathers can make the flight, and we are alive now. 

    The staggering pain of this life is only balanced by its incomparable beauty and joy. The open secret, if there is one, is to experience both. 

    Yes, there is both.

  • Made in Dublin: eruptions of significance

    Many years ago, during a summer holiday in Italy, I found myself on a tour of the most famous volcanic eruption in the world, Pompei. Like everyone else that day, I found the remains of the town a mix of fascinating, beautiful, horrific and, in eerie ways that I couldn’t understand, poetic.  Our tour guide took us down streets, and into fragments of lives, that all ended the day that Vesuvius erupted.

    One woman, an American walking closely behind me, wanted to know if there were any survivors of the tragedy, who might be still alive.  Maybe they lived in a small village nearby, and maybe we could talk to them?

    It’s easy to tease American tourists, when they ask questions like these and of course, it’s mean spirited and unkind.

    When American tourists come to Ireland, they do so often times, because they have Irish ancestors or want to see Connemara or they have a romantic view of Dublin.  They are incredibly pleasant, chatty, open and they tip well.  They are super polite, when asking for directions or wondering about recommendations.

    But some say harsh things about Dublin, such as, “Dublin is nothing to write home about!”

    Dubliners see our city as a beloved family member, or dear, old friend.  We can criticise the housing crisis, rise in crime, rain, traffic, food, prices and the rain again until the Kerry cows come home, but woe betide anyone else should do so!

    When American tourists talk poorly about our capital, or indeed, when anyone from outside the pale speaks badly of it, we skulk, and frown and look away and say under our breaths…“aithníonn ciaróg ciaróg eile”.

    Dublin is the best city in the world.

    This is not for the Instagram competition but for the more intangible reasons such as the craic, live music, poetry, and soul of the place, that makes you feel alive when you’re here.

    Some aspects of the city are unforgivable, such as housing policies and the rise in xenophobia that affects me, and all the other migrants.  But I love the eruptions of significance that happens every time one Dubliner makes another Dubliner laugh.

    Better than that, when one Dubliner makes another one smirk!

    Before the English came to Dublin, or the Normans or Saints or Vikings passed through, and even before the Celts, the dragons lived here.  When they breathed, the lava erupted and everyone knew it was true, and everyone sang songs to make them sleep. 

    But even then, it seemed like a difference of sorts, and I can’t understand what happened next. 

    I’m waiting for the dragon to wake.

  • Made in Dublin

    I was the victim of crime.

    Or rather, I was nearly the victim of crime.

    Last week, as I was walking down O’Connell Street, a young man unzipped my rucksack and popped his hand into my bag to try and take my purse.  I didn’t notice his movements, which were as light as a ballet dancer’s.  I didn’t feel his breath on my neck, nor did I hear him.  I didn’t feel any difference in weight or speed as I walked at my normal pace, and he walked just behind me.

    What I did notice was that two other men, two plain clothes Guards, swooped in and stopped him, mid-crime.  One man took the would-be-thief, over to the Public Order Van, parked next to the Spire.  And the other plain clothes Guard walked me over to the wall of the GPO, to ask me some questions, and take my details.

    The man had to tell me a few times, that he was a plain clothes Guard, as I wasn’t sure what was happening.  He told me to check inside my bag, which I did, and I reassured him that everything was fine.  He wrote down my name, address and telephone number, and again, I told him that I felt OK. 

    Dublin has a poor reputation these days. 

    Everyone criticises it for being dangerous, unpleasant and harsh.  I’ve been like an eternal ex-girlfriend, singing its praises and defending it, despite the reality unfolding in front of me.  I see the correlation between political neglect, inequality, rising prices and a rise in crime.  But as it’s been my home for half my life, I still hate it when people are mean about it.

    That said, when I was nearly the victim of crime last week, I wondered if it was time for even me to finally say, “Dublin is shit”.

    The plain clothes Guard finished writing down my details.  Then he asked me where I was going for the evening and so I told him that I was on my way to my writing group.  I explained that it was more of an open-mic event, than a traditional writing session, and that it was filled with eclectic and inspiring writers.

    He nodded and said, “well good luck with that Ruth, and tell me are you more of a poet or a prose writer?”

    “Both!” I said enthusiastically.  “I’ve always written short stories and flash fiction or vignettes, if you will.  But recently I’ve started experimenting with poetry and I’ve had two poems published in a magazine called “Flare””.

    “That’s really wonderful”, the plain clothes Guard said to me encouragingly.  “Keep it up!”

    …and our thief, what about him?

    He needed to take something that didn’t belong to him. 

    There were at least 20 uniformed Guards on patrol that evening on O’Connell Street, and so his chances of getting caught were enormous.  Nevertheless, he thought it was worth the risk.  I don’t look like the sort of person who would have a lot of cash with me, or a fancy new phone, but he thought it would be worth his while to see what I was carrying.  Even if he had been successful, all he would have stolen from my bag was 20 euro, a Leap card, a 4-year-old phone, and a poem. 

    He risked it all for that.

    Later, after the writing session or open mic event, I walked back down Dame Street to take a bus home, and I saw plenty more Guards in groups, around the city, keeping its residents and visitors safe.  As a woman, walking to a bus stop alone in the dark, I was happy to see little groups of Guards.  But wouldn’t it be cheaper and better if we just made the city a little easier to live in, so that people don’t have to choose a life of crime?

    Couldn’t we just have a city where everyone had a home, no one needed to queue for food outside the GPO, and no one needed to try and steal from passers-by?  Where everyone had enough comfort and security to be able to call their lives, “real living”, and where we all looked after one another?

    Ireland is one of the richest countries in the world right now, with full employment and a big bank balance thanks to the Apple tax.  If we can’t accommodate everyone now, and give those who need a little extra help, a little extra help, then shame on us.

    The place I call home is magnificent. 

    But it could be so much better and brighter for all.

  • Sailing on Stories

    I am here again.

    I am on the ferry travelling from Holyhead to Dublin, but this time I’m sitting next to a Chinese family preparing lunch in a portable rice cooker. They’ve asked me, several times, if I want to join them, but I’ve politely refused each time. Instead, I’m eating a dry cheese sandwich, and I would prefer to eat their food because it smells very delicious.

    The Chinese family have just watched me come back from the Duty-Free shop and they asked me why I have three pairs of reading glasses.  I tried to explain that one pair is for reading books and my mobile phone; one pair is for my laptop screen, and one pair is for reading the prices of goods in shops, or the numbers on the buttons you find on cookers, and washing machines.

    The Chinese family have no idea what I’m talking about.

    It took me five visits to Specsavers to explain my visionary needs.  On the final visit the optician simply put his head in his hands and asked, “what is that you want?”

    Oh, gentle eye man, if only I knew the answer to that question.

    The Chinese family tell me that they spent the Lunar New Year in Shrewsbury, and I am not clear if they are going back to Dublin to visit family, or if they are flying back to Sichuan.  One of them lost their mobile phone earlier, on the car deck, and I’m trying to explain that they should ask one of the ship mates to announce this over the loudspeakers.  I’ve suggested that perhaps the Captain might be able to help.

    I’m not sure, but I feel like Jessica Fletcher on the verge of unravelling a mystery.

    I am currently only five years younger than Jessica Fletcher was when she started fighting crime in her free time in Maine.  Like her, I used to be a teacher and have a passing interest in local politics.  Like her, I don’t have children and can give disappointing looks to strangers on cue.  But this mystery of the missing phone on the journey of the Chinese family, will have to wait, because I am busy writing.

    I write, ergo I am a writer.

    I love to write.  Any words and in any formation and for any reason at all.  I write a daily journal and postcards, letters and flash fiction.  Recently I’ve started writing poetry and I send my stories off to be read at magazines and publishing houses.  Typically, they thank me and say that my piece was good, but that they received a particularly high volume of submissions this time, and that I mustn’t be despondent.

    I write for many reasons.

    Firstly, to make room in my head for all the new thoughts and words that rush into the space like ice-skaters without helmets or knee pads.  If I didn’t manually remove all the words from my brain, there would a traffic jam of letters, and they would all get loose and be mixed up like this:  x e f ggggg h k v b fffff

    So here I am scribbling in public.

    I write about what I ate for dinner and who my main enemies are.  I write about the weather and how happy and sad I felt during the day.  I write about my plans and then reflect on what really happened after the plans turned into rainwater.  I make myself laugh sometimes, with the absurdity of the thoughts as they dash about like gold, or copper or vomit.

    I love to write in public.

    Look at me!  Look at me just writing about it all…maybe I’m writing about you, gentle stranger.  You there with the leather jacket that’s a bit too small for you, who’s been drinking the Duty Free since we left the port and is probably an outlaw.  Or you, dressed in hemp dungarees with the children and the two dogs.  Or you with the older parent in a wheelchair, who probably can’t fly anymore. 

    I write because I must.

    The only writing I don’t enjoy is work emails.  I remember years ago, when I still worked at the British Embassy in Copenhagen, and we were going to start using this new thing called, “Email”.  One woman I worked with, a woman I liked very much, asked if this new email meant we wouldn’t have to manage the regular mail coming into the office.

    Oh no, said the IT Guru.  We would still have to manage regular mail, but we would also have to manage these virtual inboxes as well.

    Ah, said the woman.

    Ah, indeed.

    And so, we write a million emails to people who read a million emails and somewhere in between, we find the time to write something more interesting.  Like about a mystery on a ferry concerning a Chinese family, who are on the move, or that time we went ice-fishing. What about that evening when we watched the new moon move around the sky, and it felt like it was playing hide and seek? 

    Then when the moon was as bright as could be.

    A mystery worthy of Jessica.