Author Archives: Ethel Rohan

i’m tried. shattered, I would have written if I’d never left dublin. i’m thirsty and hungry. i feel small. i have a headache, splitting. all this and still i’m here. why? i just read a wonderful review of goodnight nobody. … Continue reading →

Out of Dublin published last week. Its publication didn’t kill me, but it was difficult and painful. Part of me feels like a bad telltale. Grief still gnaws. There’s the fear that nips, who has read it? What will they … Continue reading →

Out of Dublin, my forthcoming short memoir from Shebooks is just ten thousand words. Ten thousand of the hardest words I’ve ever laid down. I’ve felt similar pain, and fear and anxiety, when I published my chapbook, Hard to Say. … Continue reading →

This is my oldest daughter, just turned 15, with her lifelong friend, also 15. They are singing one of my all-time favorite songs, “Falling Slowly.”

I will teach a six-session workshop on Sunday afternoons on the short story at San Francisco Writers’ Grotto. Class starts February 2nd and runs through March 16th. I’m excited, and grateful the class is filling. Only two spaces remain. It’s … Continue reading →

  Welcome, Nuala Ní Chonchúir. Nuala lives in Galway. Her fourth short story collection Mother America was published by New Island in 2012. A chapbook of short-short stories Of Dublin and Other Fictions is just out in the US and Nuala’s second novel The … Continue reading →

is my Sunday Rumpus essay. My heart was hurt in the making of it. Sometimes we have to hurt to heal. I’m glad I wrote it. I’m glad I published it. I’m glad to see Dad’s photos and pen name … Continue reading →

I don’t know why I didn’t post this interview here that I did a few weeks back with the wonderful Brad Listi over at Other People’s Podcast. I feel so grateful to be included in this literali-studded, award-winning series, but … Continue reading →

Just last night I went to bed thinking, At least the grief has eased some. It’s six months since Mam died and almost three months since Dad died. The grief is less sharp now, less like it has me in … Continue reading →