Showing posts with label Nuala O'Connor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nuala O'Connor. Show all posts

Friday, April 25, 2025

Nuala O’Connor, Menagerie

 

A Grey Gardens for Galway

Fleece-thick dust on the windowsills. A cobweb, big as a sail, wafts in the breath of my passing. Ivy lattices the windowpanes and one long, ambitious tendril has found its way in and slinks along the wall. I stand and look and breathe. This is the house I want to die in. I kneel down to rub ten, twenty years of grime from the floor tiles. They are mustard and terracotta with cuts of blue; they speak of maids-of-all-work and susurrating hemlines. My heart bulges into my mouth in a push of goy, a bittersweet, home-found palpation, though I’ve never been in this house before. The ceiling and walls reach to me, they bend close and caress my hair, they pour their mildewed breath along my neck. Welcome, they say. You are welcome.

Galway, Ireland poet and fiction writer Nuala O’Connor’s latest poetry collection, her fifth, is Menagerie (Dublin Ireland; Arlen House, 2025), a curious assemblage of prose poem narratives and short scenes that hold a thickness of detail and a lush sense of the lyric. “Now that the cage is open,” the title poem begins, “the wild animals are gone; now that the wild animals are gone, the garden is silent; now that the garden is silent, the trees take up their whisper [.]” Across a suite of seventy-eight poems, O’Connor offers a prose menagerie of uncertainties, searching; she offers attempts at clarity, seeking; of stories and storytelling, floating across fable and fairytale and a science of hard facts, all told in a lyric lilt. “The geraniums are scarlet pansies,” the single-sentence of “Matisse in Massachusetts” begins, “their leaves, succulent shamrocks, the wallpaper, a sky lassoed by pink ribbons, the table is a saffron desert, the plate, holding the pot, somewhy sheds blue ceramic petals, the signature is an exuberant upcurve, each S a joyless snake, sizzing high to snare the viewer, as adroitly  as innocent Eve, sizing up the seductive beauty of an apple.” There is such song in her descriptions, one that understands myth and beauty, the wealth of the garden and a detailed description. Her narratives might be composed in straight lines but they are nothing of the kind, offering a kind of detailed and direct meandering into and through struggle, complexity and ease. These poems are quite magical, honestly.

 

Wednesday, February 19, 2025

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Nuala O'Connor

Nuala O’Connor lives in Co. Galway, Ireland. Her poetry and fiction have been widely published, anthologised, and won many literary awards. Her sixth novel Seaborne, about Irish-born pirate Anne Bonny, is nominated for the Dublin Literary Award and was shortlisted for Eason Novel of the Year at the 2024 An Post Irish Book Awards. Her novel NORA (New Island), about Nora Barnacle and James Joyce, was a Top 10 historical novel in the New York Times. She won Irish Short Story of the Year at the 2022 An Post Irish Book Awards. Her fifth poetry collection, Menagerie, will be published by Arlen House in spring 2025. www.nualaoconnor.com

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My first book (a poetry collection) cemented my commitment to the project of being a writer. I was full of the joys, so hopeful, so (naively) sure of a steady upward trajectory, rather sure I would make an OK living as a writer. I hadn’t a clue what that meant at the time; if I had, I probably would’ve stayed longer in the trad workplace.

My new poetry collection, Menagerie (Arlen House, March 2025), has the same devotion to language, but is perhaps a little freer in spots. It’s hard to be objective about the work. I think I am a better writer since book #1, after twenty-two years of writing/publishing.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I was writing poetry and fiction in tandem – I had enough work for a poetry collection sooner.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I start quickly (I’m impatient) and tend to research as I go, which presents its own issues but works for me. Drafts are like holey cardigans that eventually end up mended, and quite wearable, between the efforts of me, my agent, and the editor I’m working with. Some editors are hands off, some hands on, some are gifted and hands on. It depends how many holes the cardi has, I guess. But first drafts are almost never what is published.

Yes, notes galore, I’m incessant.

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

It varies. Some things that start tiny – a spark that becomes a poem, flash, story – end up as novels because I can’t stop thinking about the character. In fact, that happens a lot e.g. with my novels Miss Emily, Becoming Belle, and NORA. I have my writerly obsessions – mother-child stories; the body; breaking love – so I tend to write across the genres on those. Others are book-shaped from the start, novels like my WIP, a contemporary novel set between Ireland and Greece.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

They are part of it – we’re expected to do them, and I also have to earn a living. I (almost) always enjoy them in the moment, but being autistic, I live on my nerves, so I’m in a constant state of anxiety, and I tend to dread every social/public encounter. So, the public side is genuinely challenging for me, and I rarely relish doing events, BUT, I also enjoy them, and I like meeting bookish people and talking about literary things. The Dread is one of the central conundrums of my life. 

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

Feminism has always been central to me. Also justice. I grew up working class, so I’m interested in social standing, money, the working vs the middle class and opportunity. But I don’t think in themes or symbols as I begin a project – it’s just about the characters and what they’re dealing with. Obviously, war, the collapsing environment, and capitalism are upfront for all of us, and they leak onto the page.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

The writer just needs to write the human experience in honest, realistic, and imaginative ways. That’s all. Great language and something like a story. We’re all struggling; most of us haven’t a clue what we’re doing here, and we’re basically flawed and bonkers. We need to write that. Writing honestly is political, in and of itself. It’s not the writer’s job to write a palatable version of life with thoroughly decent players – we can pretend those people exist but they don’t. If our work offers comfort, so be it, but each writer’s duty is to themselves – to make the best work with the tools and understanding they have. And not to be a fuckwit.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Both. One always hopes to write a beautiful, breathtaking, meaningful work on the first go. It rarely happens. Criticism is not easy, but fresh eyes are useful. A good editor is a gift to a writer. I’ve had brilliant experiences on some books (my last novel Seaborne, for example) and middling ones on others.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

‘Eyes open. Heart open. Feet on the ground.’ From the wonderful English writer Andrew Miller.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to short stories to the novel)? What do you see as the appeal?

Writing is my safe-space, my joy, my comfort. The difficulty is in brain-space and bandwidth. When I’m working on a novel, I don’t have the time or head-energy for much else. I can break off from the novel to deal with story commissions, for example but, in novel-land, I don’t have the lovely, swirly capaciousness needed for poems and stories to brew naturally. So, I miss the green grass of shorter work while engaged in long form and vice versa, often. Writers are never happy…

The appeal is the different momentum – the comfort blanket of the novel, the long haul of it, versus the electric rush of completing something short.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

As an autistic person, routine is very necessary to me; I have to be at my desk by 9am, five days a week, or I get a bit loopy. I stay there for about three hours, longer when I have a deadline.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Good writing (Elizabeth Bowen and Virginia Woolf, often; the classics; good poetry); visual art; any cultural experience – a live poetry reading. Nature walks. The sea. Historical happenings. Inspo is everywhere.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Lavender.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Visual art is the big one for me. I write a good bit of ekphrastic stuff, poems and fiction. I’ve always been an art dabbler – my family is chockers with visual artists – so I make things too. Mostly collages and cards these days. A lot of writers I know draw or sew or knit. Creativity is a nest – for most creatives, we have our main branch, but we like to play with, and weave in, other seductive twigs.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

I like work that is tricky, dark-ish, language based, deep, empathic. I like humour. Bowen, Joyce, Anne Enright, the Brontës, Austen, John Banville. Too many to name, really.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Write a novella. A good one.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I wanted to be a bus conductor or a nun, when I was a kid, neither of which would have suited me 😊 Realistically: Archivist/researcher. Conservationist. Architect. Interior designer.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

It’s the perfect occupation for an introverted, shy, non-drinking, autistic loner who loves words, anthropology, and history. Previously I was a translator, librarian, and bookseller, and I worked in a theatre and a writers’ centre. You can see my special interest never really waned: words, words, words.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

I loved the Netherlands-set novel Safekeep by Yael van der Wouden: sharp, challenging characters, a house as the main setting (I love buildings), a fold and re-fold structure, strong sentences. Very good.

I don’t watch many films these days, though I recently enjoyed Lonely Planet about a writer in Morocco. I’m more of a series binger. I’ve recently loved Shetland (rugged island landscapes; great characters).

20 - What are you currently working on?

Finishing up my Greek novel. I’m also working out the plan for a memoir about autism, writing, and hope. It can be upsetting to examine past life-blunders, and see where I went wrong, but I’m in my mid fifties now so I care less than I used to about what others think of me. So, onward!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;