I Am A Trembling Mess From Hip

I'm Quite Interested In The Absolute Roots Of Narrative, Why We Tell Stories At All: Where The Monsters Come From.

I'm Very Keenly Aware That There Aren't Very Many Women Writing Literary Fiction In Ireland And So That Gives Me A Sense That What I Say Matters, In Some Small Way.

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.

Sometimes I Will Spend Two Or Three Days Not Speaking To Anyone Outside Of The Immediate Family When They Come Home, And Then I Find That I've Been Emailing Like Fury. Once You Give In To That Silence, It's Quite Nice.

Nothing Had Happened Yet In My Life Except The Need To Get Out Of It.