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. it made me want to cry with relief. like thank god. someone’s still reading the book. someone’s still liking the book. books die almost as fast as the mayfly if they’re not read. the review made me feel the book is still alive, if only twitching.

i have so much work to do today, but i’m tired and my head hurts and i feel small and heavy. i work too hard. i need to rest. i have several readings coming up over the next four months. 9, i think. i don’t know what that has to do with anything, except right now all those readings feel like something else that’s wrong with me.

i have work coming out in several books. here. and here. and here. and here. and out of dublin will be published in print along with five other shebooks titles in their ‘best of’ anthology titled ‘whatever doesn’t kill you.’ and four months after publication out of dublin, the ebook single, remains a shebooks bestseller. i am beyond grateful. like smack me is this real grateful. still i’m not grateful enough. yearning. it’s a condition.

i’ve sent a short story ms to irish publishers. it contains 9 full-length short stories, all set in ireland. it would mean so very much to be published in ireland. like dream come true much. i’m about to send my novel ms to my agent, too. that’s also set in ireland. it hurts how much i’m hoping.

when i was in ireland over the summer i met two dragons. it’s a long, wild, and aptly magical story, but the details aren’t the point. the point is that i’ve always loved dragons. dragons, like fire, capture my imagination. the particular point is that pure chance allowed my two sisters and me to spend an unforgettable evening with these dragons. i was reminded good things can happen. reminded that sometimes people and the world are wonderful.

i rarely write here anymore. and this post feels like, well, drivel. but i felt this strong urge to write here today. i came back and in filling the blank page i heard the screaming. i’m not where i want to be. i want to get to someplace else. i’m hoping chance is reading.

wish me good luck, will you? and send some painkillers.

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 think? What if it’s all meaningless?

Mostly, though, I feel a weight laid down. I’ve a better sense of closure now. A woman asked last night, “God, how do we survive?” We do. We’re amazing.

The responses I’ve received to Out of Dublin has been wonderful, thank you. Most of you have told me, I didn’t want it to end. Because I’ve mostly published short-short work, I hear that a lot. I’m working hard on a final revision of my novel. I hope that book will deliver the long, satisfying read so many of you have asked for over the years. That’s if I can finally figure out how to end the beast, and end it well.

This week, The Rumpus published an interview with me. My deep thanks to Liana Holmberg, Publisher, Red Bridge Press for her excellent questions and to Rebecca Rubenstein, Interviews Editor at The Rumpus.

Last night, Shebooks hosted their official launch party and showcased their new website and Equal Writes Kickstarter Campaign to raise money to pay ever more women writers. I read alongside 9 fellow and excellent Shebooks authors and we enjoyed a wonderful evening. I felt Out of Dublin, as tiny as it is, has value.

For those of you who asked, you don’t need a Kindle or Nook to read Out of Dublin. You can download the free Kindle app and read Out of Dublin or any Shebook on your phone, PC, or iPad.

For all their power and might, words often fail. I’ve always thought Thank you is wholly inadequate. There just isn’t enough heft and beauty and emotion to those two words. To those of you who continue to support me and my writing, I’ll leave you with this attempt to convey my deep gratitude: Stories, books, all art, would fail without witnesses.

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. Yet while there’s a lot of my past in those fifteen tiny linked stories, I wrote them as fiction peopled with characters, and with distance and imagination. Out of Dublin is a whole other beast. In Out of Dublin, there’s no where to hide.

That’s why I wrote Out of Dublin, though. I’m done with hiding, and with the unsaid. The unsaid has tormented me over decades. What price will I pay, though, for these ten thousand words. I’m frantic Out of Dublin will cost me family and friends, that some will criticize me for putting in print what they believe should stay private. I write, though. That’s what I do. I write about what matters most to me.

These past several months, the fifth commandment, Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother, has breathed on the back of my neck, chasing me. My parents would hate that I’ve written this book. That’s what presses on my chest, makes me panic. I’ve agonized. For me, it comes down to intention. My intention is not to dishonor my parents. I love my mother and my father. My intention is to make the truth into writing that’s artful and valuable, because the truth alone hurts too much and does no good.

I’m often scared and confused. I often don’t know if I’m doing the right or the wrong thing. I always try, though, to do my best. Recently, when I felt most afraid, most anxious, and most confused about publishing Out of Dublin, I made myself sit in my garden, and close my eyes, and listen to the birds, and feel the gold of the sun on my face, and even though I got calm and still, I didn’t feel or hear or see anything that seemed like a sign.

I had to make up my own mind, and I did.

It’s easier to look away from the hard things, to stay silent.

Easier isn’t enough for me. I decided to keep scaring myself.

Out of Dublin, a short e-book, will be published from Shebooks in May, 2014.

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 a wonderful and diverse group of participants and I know we’ll do fine work together.

The first two sessions consist of brief in-class writing prompts and in-depth exploration of masterful short stories by American and international authors, including authors of color.

The final four sessions will be devoted to workshopping participants’ stories. At each workshop, I will use students’ stories to highlight craft lessons, with particular emphasis on character, action, consequences, and the atypical.

Participants are invited to share their work at a reading. The reading, limited to 3-minutes each, will take place on two Friday evenings, March 28 and April 4. I’ll confirm one of these dates for our class once we meet. This is a terrific event that students love. It’s a fast-paced and fun evening. Participants invite family and friends, and it’s always a full, appreciative house.

My bio and testimonials for my workshops follow. I’m deeply grateful to everyone below for his/her generous feedback.

Testimonials:

I’m a poet. As far as I know, I’ve always been a poet. It’s the way I’ve chosen to tell my stories. But lately many of those stories have spilled over their boundaries, asking for something more than I’m able to give them. I knew I needed an entry into the intimidating world of fiction, and Ethel Rohan’s flash fiction workshop, during the Aboard Writers Conference in Ireland, was beyond perfect.

She was just the guide I needed — she made it easy tor realize the parallels between my poetry and longer prose works, and led stimulating group conversations that left me feeling more than capable of not only beginning work in a new genre, but in conquering it. In fact, I’m using two pieces crafted in her workshop as the basis for a new book of short prose pieces. She gave me that much confidence! —Patricia Smith, National Book Award Finalist and Winner of the Academy of American Poets 2013 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize.

Ethel Rohan taught a two day workshop for Abroad Writers’ Conference at Lismore Castle. Her workshop was inspirational to all those who attended. National Book Award finalist Patricia Smith took Ethel’s workshop and she told me that it changed the way she thinks about writing. If you have the time, don’t miss this opportunity to work with Ethel. —Nancy Gerbault, Founder, Abroad Writers’ Conference

In Ethel Rohan’s workshop you will find the atypical in yourself and in other writers’ work.  Ms. Rohan will help you analyze your text for its strengths and vulnerabilities. She will share short fiction from a variety of writers that will probably be new to you, and after reading these you will have a deeper understanding of what can be accomplished in a short story, or short short fiction.  Most importantly, you will write in a safe, supportive environment and surprisingly, you will want to spill your guts. Rather, you will find them in a story Ms. Rohan will delicately help you craft.  You will find the shifts within it.  I can’t wait to work with her again. —Darothy Durkac, Winner, Abroad Writer’s Conference 2013 Flash Fiction Contest, Judge, Robert Olen Butler

I am privileged to have attended Ethel Rohan’s “The Brilliance of Brevity” course in Lismore, Ireland. Ethel’s two day workshop was my first introduction to flash fiction/non-fiction. Her empathetic technique, organization, examples, and prompts inspired me to produce two pieces I did not know I had in me. One is ready for submission and the other I continue to revise. It was a wonderful experience and increased my confidence as a writer. –Laurie Blanton

I am a non-fiction writer but, on a whim, decided to take Ethel’s Flash Fiction workshop. I was a bit nervous (fiction terrifies me) but Ethel’s knowledge, teaching approach, and encouragement had me believing that there might be a fiction writer inside me after all.-–Kimberley Lovato

I recently took a class from Ethel Rohan in Ireland. I liked that she kept the class on focus and didn’t let other students begin talking about this and that and get off the subject. She gave each person her utmost attention and was able to make positive concrete suggestions. Our class was on brevity. Use one good word instead of five. So, it’s hard but I’ll pick just one word: enlightening. —Lee Lyons

I really enjoyed my recent workshop with Ethel Rohan on brevity. One of the great things about her workshops is accessibility to all genres. As a poet first, I loved learning how to reduce the number of words but to increase the power of the message. It was painful to delve into memories not often spoken of as material, but I came away from the experience with a better understanding of how important empathy is for a writer to have in order to welcome a reader in. —Rachael Ikins, poet, novelist, artist

Ethel teaches and directs her students with passion, patience and encouragement. She is a beacon in the dark, directing to that place only writing can take you to. —Maria FitzGerald Houlihan

I had the great pleasure of participating in Ethel Rohan’s “The Brilliance of Brevity” workshop at Lismore Castle (Ireland) on December 14th and 15th, 2013. Although Ethel’s workshop came at the tail end of an intense week of other writing classes, she managed to keep me highly engaged and stimulated throughout 2 days of reading, writing, and responding. The class was comprised of beginning writers and those who make their living at writing, younger and older writers, poets and fantasy writers, Irish and Americans, and Ethel managed to challenge and bring together this diverse group of writers.

It was obvious from the course design that Ethel had been meticulous in her preparation — from her thoughtful selection of short fiction and non-fiction readings (which effectively introduced or reinforced pedagogical points she was trying to make) to wonderfully-effective writing assignments, which quickly brought us, a temporary writing community, to a deep place. It was also impressive that Ethel participated in the writing exercises along with us, and wasn’t afraid to share her vulnerabilities as a writer, something that really helped me, as a novice writer, to participate fully.

After the workshop I picked up a collection of her short stories, and it’s been an immense pleasure to read her work (now that I’ve gotten to know the person behind the carefully-crafted words on the page) and to know that she’s not only a great teacher but a great writer as well.

I recommend Ethel without hesitation to writers of any level, and I look forward to participating in more of her writing workshops! –Peter C. Palo Alto, CA

Bio:

Ethel Rohan is the author of two story collections, Goodnight Nobody and Cut Through the Bone, the latter named a 2010 Notable Story Collection by The Story Prize. She is also the author of the chapbook, Hard to Say. Her e-book, a short memoir titled His Heartbeat in my Hand, is forthcoming from Shebooks in 2014.

Winner of the 2013 Bryan MacMahon Short Story Award, her work has or will appear in The New York Times, World Literature Today, PEN America, Tin House Online, The Irish Times, BREVITY Magazine, Post Road Magazine, and The Rumpus, among many others. She has reviewed books for New York Journal of Books, HTMLGiant, and elsewhere.

She has guest-lectured and/or taught writing at Book Passage, San Francisco State University, the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto, and the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Festival, among others. Most recently, she served on faculty alongside the Pulitzer Prize-winning authors Jane Smiley, Edward Humes, Robert Olen Butler, and more, at the winter 2013 Abroad Writers’ Conference in Lismore Castle, Ireland.

She received her MFA in fiction from Mills College, CA, 2004. Raised in Dublin, Ireland, Ethel Rohan now lives in San Francisco where she is a member of The Writers’ Grotto and PEN American Center.

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 Closet of Savage Mementos will be published in spring 2014 by New Island.

We’re here today to talk about Of Dublin and Other Fictions. Book buying info here.

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 published. He would have gotten a kick out of that. He would have loved to reach so many people with his stories, recounted here in the essay. He would have loved to live longer. I’m still sad he didn’t. Still sad my parents suffered so much in life and in death. I’m working hard to let the sadness go, to say Amen and Peace and Goodbye.

An excerpt:

“This past July, I stood over my father’s hospital bed and contemplated suffocating him with his pillow. Five weeks earlier, Dad had walked into hospital in his good clothes, uneven shoe heels, and with his small bag of belongings hanging from his large, gardener’s hand—a fit and hale seventy-eight year old man still graced with his full faculties. He felt afraid and irritable, nervous about his surgery to treat an aortic aneurism in his abdomen but hoping to recover and return home.” 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 I’ve been reluctant to share the interview beyond my writing community and with my personal communities. I also haven’t yet been able to bring myself to listen to the interview.

I think most of us find it difficult to listen to ourselves or to see our photos without the internal rush to criticize. I’m tried of criticizing myself. These days, I’m trying to talk to and about myself just as I would talk to and about my daughters–with nothing but love.

They say we can’t love others if we don’t love ourselves. Thus far in life, I haven’t found that to be entirely true.

There’s also a part of me still trying to hide myself, in particular my writing self, from certain people and communities. I’m still clinging to compartmentalizing myself. Here’s Ethel: Wife, Mom, School Parent, Irish woman, Immigrant, San Franciscan, Upright Citizen, Writer, Rebel, Struggler, The She’s So Together, The She’s Falling Apart. That’s something I’m also trying hard to work on these days: Here everyone, this is me, all of me. Like or leave, Amen.

It is with this at long last new meview that I give you my interview with Brad Listi. Like or leave, Amen: http://otherpeoplepod.com/archives/2394

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 its jaws. Yet this morning I’m hit with a fresh wave of pain and feel caught all over again between grief’s teeth.

I think of my parents every day, my Dad especially. Dad’s death is still shocking to me: How soon he died after Mam. How much more living he had to do. How horribly wrong his surgery went. How slowly and terribly he died over those six weeks.

I’m still asking empty rooms how is it better to allow someone starve and thirst to death over four weeks, as Dad did, than it is to give him or her a lethal injection? How is it humane to allow someone waste away over five years dependent on complete 24/7 care and emptied of everything except body, as my Alzheimeric mother did?

I return to Ireland in December to teach a writing workshop in Lismore Castle. It is hitting me now how hard the return will be. No Dad to answer the door to my Dublin home and hug me. No mother to visit, to stroke her hair and face and hold her warm hand. Dad’s beloved back garden gone–its maintenance too much for my sister and paving put in instead. Two roommates now living in our parents’ home with my sister, to help pay the mortgage and bills, so all sense of home gone. The first return to my parents’ grave since I helped my brothers and sisters lower Dad’s coffin in on top of Mam’s. To see both my parents’ names on the temporary wooden cross.

Doing all that will be so much harder than it would have been to give permission, when all hope was gone, to inject both my parents with a lethal concoction and to let them go with dignity and in peace.