Tag: Writing

Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writers Read, Writing Life

Writers Chat 57: Richard Fulco on “We Are All Together” (Wampus: 2022)

Front cover of We Are All Together showing a black and white sketch of a stage with instruments lined up against a stool, waiting to be played.

SG: Richard, Welcome to my Writers Chat series. Congratulations on your second novel, We Are All Together which comes out this November 2022 with Wampus. Let’s start with the cover. As We Are All Together is so person-centric, I’m curious about the cover which is a black and white sketch of the various instruments (literally) of We Are All Together. What message/s did you want to convey with this, and how much input did you have, working with Wampus, into the cover design?

RF: One reason I love working with Wampus is that its founder and creative director Mark Doyon provides me with ample feedback on everything from marketing to editing. Ultimately, Wampus leaves the decision-making up to its artists, so I am eternally grateful for the creative freedom that I have.

The cover art was created by my brilliant partner, the painter Nan Ring. She and I discussed the concept. I wanted something fairly cynical yet simple. The bare stage: a guitar, amplifier, microphone and stool. But where are the musicians? Nan and I wanted the cover art to start a conversation. We wanted to pose several questions considering the title of the book.

The Beatles have been an enormous presence on me as a writer and on this particular novel. The book’s title is from “I Am the Walrus.” “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.” The title claims, “We are all together” but in fact, the characters are not all together at the beginning of the book. In the United States, we are not united, never was, and yet we are inextricably linked nevertheless. I don’t think the irony will be lost on readers.

In addition, the edges of the image dissolve, indicating the ephemeral nature of life and art. Even as we are here together, we are all slowly leaving this world, which makes the present moment all the more intensely poignant and beautiful.

SG: Thank you for that explanation – it’s interesting to hear the story and conversations behind the cover and title. Leading on from this, it seems that We Are All Together could not have been set in any other era and any other country than the 1960s New York (and other cities).  Was the era – and all the conflicts of national and individual identity – what brought you to this story?

RF: Syd Barrett and The Pink Floyd brought me to the story and the recent politics in America provided me with a blueprint.

It began as a rock and roll novel about a young musician so desperate to make it that he’s willing to do anything, even betray his best friend. I drew upon my experiences as a desperate musician, living the life of a starving artist, doubting my abilities, and unwilling to face the truth about my artistic pursuits.

For several years, I wrote about music on my blog, Riffraf. I had the opportunity to interview the great rock photographer Mick Rock who had taken some of the most iconic photos in rock and roll: David Bowie and Mick Ronson, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and of course Syd Barrett. Syd’s story was a compelling yet strange one, and Mr. Rock shared his experiences with Syd that really piqued my interest. At the height of his musical powers, Syd just checked out. Was he an acid casualty? Was it mental illness? Or did he no longer wish to make music with the band he formed?

David Gilmour said, “Syd’s story is a sad story, romanticized by people who don’t know anything about it. They’ve made it fashionable, but it’s just not that way.” I am by no means trying to romanticize Syd’s story. Although I’ve included some of Pink Floyd’s mythology and lore. My novel resembled Syd’s story in the beginning, but eventually morphed into something more socio-political than I had anticipated. I owe a great debt to the American politics of the past decade.

SG: I thought you captured the public/private self well alright. Stephen is constantly trying to please those around him – on stage, at parties and even when he is supposed to be engrossed in his music he steps out of his reality to remember, for example, seeing the Beatles on TV. Stephen’s journey – and that of the reader – is about using others to find or create himself. Would you class this novel as a coming-of-age tale, a bildungsroman? Or is it more of a morality tale about vanity? Or does it belong to a genre at all?

RF: Whereas my first book, THERE IS NO END TO THIS SLOPE, is a coming-of-middle-age novel, this one is a more traditional bildungsroman. The novel’s protagonist, Stephen Cane, is a naive twenty-one-year old narcissist who is wrestling with his parents’ mixed messages, dreams, vocation and the belief that he is not a truly great man.

Stephen and his partner and friend, Dylan John, are young men on their own individual psychological, spiritual and moral journeys. Dylan travels in one direction as a civil rights activist, while Stephen, on a separate path, pursues his love for rock and roll. WE ARE ALL TOGETHER is also a buddy novel and a road novel. There’s even a touch of historical fiction and perhaps some thriller/mystery elements tossed in for good measure.

I suppose there are moral questions posed, but I don’t think of the novel as a morality play. At what lengths would you go to gain success? What role does the artist play in this world? Does the world need another rock star? Now that I think about it, Dylan is kind of like Everyman who is trying to justify his time on the earth.

SG: Yes, there is a touch of Dylan as the seer, and also the Everyman. While We Are All Together is, on a top level, an exploration of the lure of fame, and perhaps a commentary on a capitalist society – “My old man had been instructing me ever since I was a boy that whenever money was involved, I should seize the opportunity, no matter who gets shredded in the process, even if that person ultimately turns out to be me….” – it also sets its gaze at parent/child relationships in the formation of “character”, and “reinvention”. Early in the novel, we’re told:

“Some mothers inspire their children to aspire to greatness, to reach for the stars, like Arthur’s mother. But my mother, who was kind of musical in her own way, singing in the church choir and all, encouraged me to play it safe…the world ‘dream’ just wasn’t in her vocabulary.”

To what extent do you think Stephen’s strict religious moral upbringing with a focus on money making, is related to his constant misjudging what is expected of him in the relationships he tries to forge? I’m thinking here of the complex relationship with Emily, and then later with her as Gentle Wind (who, perhaps accurately, claims he has “never loved anyone” in his life).

RF: I’m not sure that Stephen misjudges Emily (also known as Gentle Wind). He witnesses her prejudice and bigotry on their first night together when she makes an anti-semitic remark. I think Stephen chooses to overlook Emily’s questionable, reprehensible behavior because she’s not only beautiful, but she’s also a terrific artist. He’s a young, lonely loser who just had his heart broken and is desperate in both art and love. He’s seeking the love, attention and approval that his parents failed to provide. Stephen is truly impressed with Emily’s natural talent. Wondering if he possesses greatness himself, Stephen wants to be near greatness, hoping that maybe some of Emily’s will rub off on him.

SG: I was thinking not that he misjudges her but that he misjudges the relationship. This desire to be near greatness, as you say, is also why he has John as a friend. You make great use of description, colour, and visuals to capture the clothes, atmosphere and attitudes of 1967, or the Summer of Love. From Emily’s “ratty dungarees with holes in both knees”, “yellow button down with a wide collar and large bright silver buttons”, to the “purple stairs” which Stephen and Emily descend, and a projection of a montage of “films of suburban families opening presents in front of a Christmas tree, psychedelic mushroom swirls, the conflict that was heating up in Vietnam, and police officers beating negroes with Billy clubs.” Or later the band is

“decked out in black and wearing dark shades… stunning female back-up singer, a blonde mannequin in a white leisure suit and black scarf”.

It strikes me that We Are All Together is very filmic. Could you see it as a film – or a play, given your playwriting background?

RF: I never envisioned this book as a play. Though I do think there is some fairly decent dialogue within. When I write a play, I accept the stage as my biggest challenge. I love writing dialogue, but I also consider ways to tell my story visually? Writing a novel is quite different. And for this book I attempted to write a more traditional, linear tale, but I wanted to go really big with its visuals. Let’s include a chapter with Andy Warhol and the Factory. Why not take a trip across America? I like Pete Townshend, so let’s make him a character. My vision was broad and ranging. I saw the narrative quite clearly. The Sixties provided me with color, extraordinary political events, and powerful images, so I’ve tried my best to preserve them in prose.

SG: Yes, you’re right about the vision – and it’s quite a journey you bring the reader on. We Are All Together also explores the expanding, changing world of music (and touches on the art and film world with Warhol making multiple appearances) in the 1960s, and shows the reader – through Stephen – how closely it was linked to political change. How important was it for you to track socio-political change and in doing so, echo tensions and polarisation in America of today?

RF: When I embarked on this project, my intention was to recall some of my experiences as a singer in a rock and roll band in the 80s and 90s. I set it during the Summer of Love because I wanted the protagonist to be somewhat of a precursor to punk, someone outside the mainstream. But early on it was clear to me that the character I thought was the book’s protagonist, Dylan John, was really the protagonist’s (Stephen Cane) foil.

The more research I did on the Summer of Love the more I learned about The Long, Hot Summer where more than 150 riots had taken place across America, the most notable rebellions were in Detroit and Newark.

As a white writer, I discovered that there were two narratives in the summer of ‘67. The white narrative of The Summer of Love – peace, love, and understanding, is more mainstream, while the black narrative of racial injustice, discord and the quest for equality takes a back seat.

I’m ashamed to say that I really didn’t know too much about the Long, Hot Summer until I began writing this novel. The more I wrote, the more invested I had become. Dylan John questions his role in society and decides to join the fight for civil rights. He doesn’t think the world needs another rock star. He believes the world needs soldiers in the fight for justice.

I created two narratives that parallel the socio-political events of the time. There is Stephen Cane’s story – The Summer of Love – and then there’s Dylan John’s story, The Long, Hot Summer. It was a very conscious dichotomy. While I was writing the book, America was in turmoil, mimicking the events of 1967. WE ARE ALL TOGETHER is set during the Summer of 1967, but I’m really commenting on present day America.

SG: That duality and commentary comes across really strongly, Richard. It really speaks of how our own situation as writers and the when/where we are writing from seems into our narratives. Stephen and Dylan John/Arthur Devane are polarised characters in this respect and your use of dialogue worked well in this respect. Can you talk about the relationship between Dylan John and Stephen Cane and how this asks questions about the role of the artist in society – is it to provoke? Create change? Make money? Do something “meaningful”, as Dylan says?

RF: We Are All Together addresses a nation struggling with its mythological past and the effects it has had on the integrity of the individual. Does the artist owe the world anything? Does the ailing world need another rock star? The role of the artist is to comment on the world. The artist seeks truth. The artist tries to make sense of this perplexing world. If the art is truthful it might offer a fresh point of view for the audience (or reader).

SG: Questions that are timeless. But was it difficult to incorporate real musicians and bands (The Beatles, The Velvet Underground, Mamas and Papas etc) into the fictional world of We Are All Together whilst maintaining the integrity of Stephen’s story?

RF: It was actually quite fun. I particularly enjoyed writing about George Harrison. I wanted to write about the time George was in Haight-Ashbury and how disappointed he was in the flower power counterculture. And there is Stephen Cane in the midst of it all, pleading with George to listen to the only song he has ever written.

The infamous story is that George and his wife Patti visited the Haight on August 8, 1967, but were really turned off by the culture. In his biography Dark Horse, Harrison said, “Somehow I expected them to all own their own little shops. I expected them all to be nice and clean and friendly and happy.” Instead, he said, he found the hippies “hideous, spotty little teenagers.”

SG: Again, it’s that duality – perception/ expectation/ reality. Part of Stephen’s journey is also experimenting with various class A drugs, especially heroin “his papa” which eases his guilt at

“Failing to protect my mother when my father went to town on her with his black belt and wide silver buckle. Breaking up Ghost Spider. Replacing Dylan in Red Afternoon. Sleeping with my best friend’s wife”.

There are times when our sympathy for Stephen wanes. But you pull us back with humour and bizarre horror, such as The Jolly Jokesters on their magic bus, Furthermore which bring both reader and Stephen out of his self-obsession and back into the reality of a divided society. Can you comment on the humour in the novel?

RF: I wouldn’t say WE ARE ALL TOGETHER is a particularly hilarious novel. One might find the hapless Stephen Cane somewhat amusing. Certainly Tony Campbell, the writer and entrepreneur, might make one smile. Neal Cassady has his moments too. Though even in the dark there is light. Mark Twain said, “The secret source of humor itself is not joy but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven.” Whenever I’m writing I search for the humor in the tragic. I’ve written a number of tragicomedy one-act plays, and I approach all of my writing with some levity. You can’t write from inside a casket all the time, right?

SG: Exactly! So, lastly, Richard, let’s conclude our Writers Chat session with some fun questions:

  • If you could be a character in your novel, who would it be? Clementine. She is a poet, a lover, a traveller, a wandering spirit, an adventurer, a good friend.
  • What song from We Are All Together would be its soundtrack? “Arnold Layne” by Pink Floyd influenced the psychedelic songs written by Dylan John, Red Afternoon and even Stephen Cane’s one song.
  • Silence or noise when writing? Noise while writing. Silence while editing.
  • Favourite band doing the circuit today? Wilco.
  • What is the most surprising read you’ve had this year? The Talented Mr. Ripley and Oh William! 
Photograph of smiling Richard Fulco wearing black-rimmed glasses and a navy-blue shirt, against a background of a lake and forests.

Purchase We Are All Together at Barnes and Noble, Amazon or AppleBooks

Learn more about Richard Fulco at Wampus.

With thanks to Richard Fulco and Wampus for an advance copy of We Are All Together.

Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writers Read, Writing Life

Writers Chat 56: Tara Masih on “How We Disappear” (Press 53: North Carolina, 2022)

Tara, How lovely to feature your work again on my Writers Chat series. We last chatted in 2020, about The Bitter Kind, a flash novelette and today we’re talking about your latest publication, How We Disappear (Press 53: North Carolina, 2022), a novella and stories – a Millions Most Anticipated book!

Cover of How We Disappear showing a painting of a woman disappearing or emerging against a light turquoise background

SG: I had the sense that How We Disappear is as much about appearance, judgement and expectation as it is about how we disappear and are disappeared. I was particularly moved by the last story in the collection, “Notes to the World” where the protagonist, Grigori finds that the notes he is reading speak not just of the woman’s life but also of his own. I loved the effect of the stories mirroring – literally timeless – but also how you show the repetition of human behaviour in relationships, who lives/survives, who hunts/is hunted and that haunting last line, “let me hear your voice”. Can you explain your intentions with the collection and the title (and the beautiful cover)?

TM: The stories were written over a period of time (“Those Who Have Gone” was actually written decades ago), and there was no intent in any of them to link up. It wasn’t until I realized I had enough for a collection and started looking at the stories to order them that I saw the connection of disappearance.

I think the various ways disappearance can be examined or experienced is only partially shown in this collection, but I do think my personal relationship history together with my upbringing in the sixties as a mixed child in a very white community allows me to understand both the feeling of having been left and the feeling of not being seen. Of disappearing into the background. What most allows us to be seen? I don’t think it’s all through the visual (though there is visual judgment) as much as through auditory (I include sign language as “auditory”). I think we have a greater need to be “heard” than seen, though both are powerful, often interchangeable needs. I want readers who have always had the benefit of being seen and heard to understand what it’s like to fight to be recognized, and I want those who can relate to the themes to find themselves or find ways to make better decisions so they can function at their best. We’ve also been collectively traumatized by the covid pandemic and many have lost loved ones. I hope some of the stories allow readers to work through the grief process.

The cover image is gorgeous and designer Claire V. Foxx did a beautiful job of making the type reflect the theme. She is the one who noted that the woman could be viewed as either disappearing or emerging.

SG: I love how you bring in the senses and all types of language and communication here, Tara. In “Fleeing Gravity” you tell a story that feels like an epic fairytale, yet it is grounded in history and colonisation. Ghosts flit in and out of reality – physically and psychologically – and it seemed to me that it was their story as much as Brandy’s story of displacement, creation and destruction. He says of the female ghost Miz Annabelle Fourier, “It’s easy to love a ghost who asks nothing of you”. I also found that this story had echoes – in terms of the relationships – of “In A Sulfate Mist”. What was your thinking behind these two stories?

TM: There is no conscious connection between those two stories outside of the fact that I’m drawn to stories set in the natural world. I love placing characters into landscapes and allowing those exterior settings to influence story and behavior. “Fleeing Gravity” began with my wanting to set a character in a ghost town. What would it be like to live among ghosts on a daily basis? To be a caretaker and be the only one left there at the end of the day? I also wanted to highlight the plight of the Montana “Landless Indians,” as they called themselves, who fought for recognition from our government for decades. They were basically told they were not worthy to exist and should disappear into the landscape. I’m thrilled to report that before this book got published the Little Shell Tribe members finally achieved their goal and are now federally recognized. They have essentially become “visible.”

Which brings up other issues such as power. Who holds it, and how it’s wielded to make others powerless by making them invisible.

SG: I think you’ve done a great job of highlighting the plight of the Little Shell Tribe members and here is hoping that in now being officially “visible”, the needs and rights are upheld and the Tribe treasured. A number of the stories in the collection explore connections between environment, emotion and story. I’m thinking here, for example, of “Delight” and “Billy Said This Really Happened to Lucy.” Desire is by the sea, Lucy is by the marsh and they both have ambiguous relationships with their surrounds. I really enjoyed the characters’ realisation about themselves and the land/sea around them and the powerful role that parental stories play in forming impressions, teaching social norms, particularly in relation to gender, the body and control. Can you talk about this?

TM: While I love the natural world, I recognize its disinterest in us. And its destructive power. Nature is beautiful and restorative. Nature is full of fury and can obliterate anything in its path in seconds. There are many writers now exploring the genre of cli-fi fiction. My writing doesn’t go that far into what we are facing now, but perhaps as someone who is bicultural, I try to present the reality of both sides. The same for people. In “Delight,” we first see the father as a typical abusive parent. In the last scene, I hope readers catch something else. In the Lucy story, her mother returns in the guise of a poisonous snake. Lucy both welcomes this new interaction but is also wary of it.

We rarely see women in wilderness stories, though that is changing as well. But I still can’t tell you there is a large list of women who write about nature and place, especially in short stories. Men have long had that domain almost exclusively to themselves. My female characters are either learning to be comfortable in that male-dominated wilderness, sometimes with the help of men, or have found their own ways into the wilderness and are leading the way for the men who are following.

SG: I loved how you channelled the writing process – and formation of a writer – in the cleverly constructed “Agatha: A Life in Unauthorised Fragments”. In some ways this story feels like the spine of the collection; it is almost like a reflection on the story telling process. “Every story is an escape story.”

In a way this book helps the readers escape. Did the writing help you escape and do you think this is one of the roles of writing/reading in our lives – and in Agatha’s?  

TM: Thank you. I just loved writing that story. I had studied Christie’s disappearance decades ago in high school. Besides loving her mysteries, I was obsessed with trying to find out what happened when she disappeared. When I realized I needed another story to flesh out this collection I recalled that long ago research and took to it again with great glee. As someone who has a minor in sociology, human behavior totally intrigues me and I have my own theory about what happened. It’s not anything ground-breaking, but I did channel my own experiences as a female writer, as a crisis counsellor, and as a woman who has been cheated on.

The epigram is just something that came to me when I was writing the story. Kind of a voice over, if you will. I think that all stories we tell are either escape hatches from our own lives or attempts to escape from someone or something or even ourselves. I was thinking of all that rather than of readers escaping into the stories, but yes, that is happening as well on the other end of listening or reading a story.

SG: Yes, I think we are touching on the very powerful invisible connection and dialogue between writer and reader! In the novella An Aura Surrounds That Night, a family views the news of the assignation of JFK on the TV, a child who captures slugs that escape and leave silvery trails on the bedroom ceiling comes of age and she begins to notice the inside/outside-ness of life:

“But there was Grammy below me, now trapped inside herself, while outside Japanese beetles, lightning bugs, moths, mosquitoes, gnats were flying into the window screens, banging and buzzing.”

Like other characters in the stories, she has the gift of second sight (hence the title) yet the gift cannot stop what is going to happen to her sister. I loved this novella and I think the placement in the book worked very well – the narrative carried much of the sensibility of the early stories and was one which I found really poignant. Have you any plans to write more of this story…?

TM: Ha! You are not the first to want more. I’m afraid at this point that story is as fully told as I can make it. It did begin as a novel and I just could not take it where it needed to go. But I kept tinkering with it, not wanting to lose the sisters entirely. When I finally recast it as a flash novella, it all fell into place. The writing flowed, the scenes congealed, and so I have to say it’s in the form it’s meant to be in, no more, no less. But never say never, right?

Thanks again for noticing and appreciating what I was trying to do not only with the story but the full collection. It warms my heart and helps keep me writing!

SG: Oh so wonderful to chat with you, Tara, and your writing warms many hearts. Now lastly, some fun questions:

  • Beach or mountains? Beach for sure. Love the ocean and all things watery.
  • Silence or noise when writing? Silence. Noise stresses me out.
  • Kindle, paperback or hardback? Hardback or paperback. Nothing beats the tactile feeling of a book in hand.
  • Dogs or cats? Love cats.
  • I love cats, too! So, what is the most surprising read you’ve had this year? I found a book in a remainder bin and loved it. The Australia Stories by Todd James Pierce. I don’t know why I never heard of it. A hybrid novel that was likely ahead of its time.
Tara Masih, Photograph courtesy of Tara Masih

Connect with Tara via her website.

Thank you to Press 53 and Tara for the advance copy of How We Disappear.

Writer Interview, Writers Chat, Writers Read

Writers Chat 55: Catherine Dunne on “A Name For Himself” (Arlen Classic Literature: Dublin, 2022)

Catherine, You are very welcome to my Writers Chat series. We’re here to discuss A Name For Himself first published in 1988 and re-issued this year as part of the Arlen Classic Literature Series. I finished reading the novel on the same weekend that The Irish Times published Stolen Lives, a heart-stopping report on the “239  violent deaths of women in Ireland from 1996 to today”. It is an awful thing to say that the narrative of A Name For Himself speaks of a horrible truth still present and persistent in our society. But it also reminds us of the role novels have, as you say in your Afterword, “in exploring the texture of our daily lives in a way that can help us understand ourselves and others better.”

Cover of A Name For Himself showing a painting of a man in black with his arms around a woman in pale yellow against a background of houses and within wooden houses (painting by Tove Kregs Lange)

SG: So let’s begin with the title which tells us something about what motivates Farrell (one of the main protagonists) but also speaks of the role of class, money and reputation in Ireland. Can you talk about how you came to decide on this title A Name For Himself?

CD: Thank you, Shauna, for your invitation to take part in ‘Writers Chat’ and to discuss A Name for Himself on the occasion of its reissue by Arlen House.

In one way, it feels as though the writing of Farrell’s story took place a long time ago (it did) but in another, it’s a novel that still feels very recent. I continue to have a strangely intimate connection with Farrell and Grace. I think that’s partly because their story became my second novel: the one that made me believe I was on my way to becoming a writer. I say ‘becoming’ because I’d come across the view – on multiple occasions – that ‘everyone has a book in them’. And once my first book was ‘out’, I was genuinely terrified that that was it: the well had now run dry!

So, writing A Name for Himself was a very special experience. It was a complete departure from my first published work, In the Beginning, which drew on those contemporary issues and relationships that were familiar to me. But the story of Farrell and Grace – apart from one moment of inspiration, or perhaps recognition is a better word: that moment when a writer becomes aware that the spark of a new story has ignited – my second novel was a work entirely of the imagination.

During my career as a teacher, I’d spent the best part of two decades working in a disadvantaged area of Dublin. The 1980s in Ireland were a dismal time economically and socially.  It was also a decade of high emigration: more than 200,000 people left this country during those years. As teachers, we felt we were educating an entire generation for the dole queue, or the emigrant boat. Those years brought me face to face with deprivation in a way that had a huge impact on me. I saw ‘up close and personal’ the devastation caused by lack of resources, by intergenerational unemployment, by lack of opportunity and by social attitudes towards ‘the working class’.

When I began to imagine Farrell, his background came to me fully formed. I have always believed in the notion that writers don’t choose our stories: instead, our stories choose us. And when Farrell began to colonise my writer’s imagination, he emerged from a disadvantaged background, one he was determined to escape. He wanted, needed, to make a better life for himself. When his family of origin fell apart, he took every opportunity offered to him to be independent and self-sufficient. Through the kindness and solidarity of his local community, he became first a carpenter, then a master craftsman.

Everything about Farrell’s rejection of his background propelled him to create, rather than destroy. He wanted nothing to do with the violence and chaos that his father had created within the family. He rejected everything about him: appalled at the damage he had done. From an early age, Farrell even refused to call himself Vincent, or Vinny: that name belonged to his father, it was no part of him.

And so the title of the novel was born from Farrell’s determination to forge his own path, to have no connection with his hated father, to become his own, separate self.

I already knew what the trajectory of Farrell’s life would be, even before I began to write. I knew that he would behave in a way that was likely to make him infamous: he would indeed make ‘a name for himself’ in the process. And so, with that double helix of naming, the novel’s title was born.

SG: What a wonderful insight into your process and inspiration, Catherine. Thank you. Now, although A Name for Himself is not set in the present day, there is much of the way society works – the rush to secure property, the demand for tradesmen, the blooming craft businesses – that echoes in the Ireland of today. I think the Dublin that you capture is still recognisable. Are you surprised at the timelessness of place?

CD: Returning to the novel after a quarter of a century, there were many surprises: and some of the echoes, as you call them, were chilling.

I was writing in and about the mid-1990s, the period that led to the Celtic Tiger, to escalating house prices, to full employment, to the accumulation of wealth to a degree we had never experienced before. It was a heady time, for some: property became the new religion for men like P.J., and craftsmen like Farrell were in high demand.

It was a time of great economic and social change.

For Farrell and Grace, such affluent times provide them with an opportunity to be independent. But ironically, they also remind Farrell of the difference in class between him and the woman he loves.

The first time he sees Grace, in her father’s building in Merrion Square, the elegant surroundings emphasise to him – the man in the worker’s overalls, the man with a Dublin accent – that this woman is out of his league. Her father agrees, and this dangerous dynamic, this silent, subterranean tug-of-war between the two men has the potential to be every bit as damaging as the actions of Farrell’s own father.

I think we like to believe that class in Ireland is not an issue in the way it is, say, in Britain. I disagree. And along with economic prosperity, greed, and ruthless property developers, class divisions are still part of our society today.

SG: And that’s what this novel highlights I think. In Farrell, you’ve created an incredibly complex character who we come to love, as Grace does. Mia Gallagher in her excellent Foreword, outlines this reader position so well in that, similar to real life situations, we are totally taken by how he is presented, how he presents himself and how he is seen. It is only when we begin to feel what is behind his actions (or if we read carefully) – fear, inadequacy, lack of self-worth and so on – that we begin to see what he might be capable of. Can you talk about how you developed Farrell’s character?

CD: The development of Farrell’s character is just one of the chilling aspects of this novel that I referred to earlier.

I became completely obsessed by him during the writing process. I had nightmares about him. I saw the world, not through his eyes, but as though I was perched on his shoulder. I watched, sometimes horrified, at the way his character was unfolding. It all felt strangely inevitable. I followed where he led.

I know there are writers who will disagree with that last statement: who will say that the writer is always in control of her characters. And while that is true – I can kill off whomsoever I like, whenever I like, for example – it still feels deeply necessary to follow the shadowy paths that often appear to us, unbidden, in the tangled forest of the writing process.

I didn’t consciously choose what Farrell would do next, what he would ultimately become: it was much more instinctive, more intuitive than that. I went where it felt right.

And I was aware that Farrell’s fear of abandonment, his lack of self-worth, his sense of ownership when it came to Grace: all of these aspects of his emotional landscape created a powder-keg of dangerous possibilities.

But I needed the reader to feel empathy for Farrell. I knew what he was going to do – but I also knew that we tend to label people as ‘monsters’ when they perform monstrous acts that we don’t understand. It’s a way of creating distance between ‘us’ and ‘them’ – but that distance is in no way useful in helping us to understand what drives us – all of us – to do the sometimes terrible things that we do.

The term ‘coercive control’ was not in current usage in the 1990s, in the way it is now. But I had observed such behaviour in action and understood that men who were bent on controlling their wives or partners often appeared on the surface to be vulnerable, devoted, caring: ideal partners and spouses, pillars of their community.

How many times have we seen evidence of that volitional distance between ‘us’ and ‘them’ in the aftermath of a domestic tragedy? How many times have we heard the perpetrator described by others, in the wake of some violent atrocity against a woman, as a ‘lovely, quiet man’?

And although, for the purposes of the novel, I had a clear view of how Farrell and Grace’s story would end, it felt important not to portray him as a monster. At one point, I give him the chance to confront his demons and perhaps create the possibility of another life for him and Grace. But he rejects it, clinging instead to his own sense of entitlement and ownership.

SG: I think that sense of, as you put it, feeling, your way into Farrell’s actions is also felt by the reader in the atmosphere that runs through the novel. The multiple narratives work brilliantly in shining a light for the reader on the evolution of Farrell and his actions, especially the haunting present day “now” narrative that slips in, unsuspecting, and then increases with such tension until the narrative catches up (in time) with that day, that birthday. As I was reading it, a large part of me was hoping that the seemingly inevitable would not happen while knowing it would. Did these narratives come once the story and ending were cemented or did you start there and work your way back?

CD: The series of present tense scenes – one of which opens the novel – were written after the main narrative was complete. But from the beginning, I had three narrative strands in mind. The contemporary story of Farrell and Grace’s meeting and their growing relationship; seminal scenes from Farrell’s past, both childhood and adolescence; and finally, the ‘now’ scenes, scattered throughout the narrative to increase suspense and to highlight the inevitability of what is going to happen.

I began writing this novel in 1995. It’s not that I have a prodigious memory (I wish), but I was so consumed by the creative process during the two years of writing that I made copious notes about structure, about characters, about significant childhood events – I mostly used file cards, back then.  Word processing was still new and I had greater faith in pen and paper. I still like to use notebooks when I’m working on something new – something about the slower pace of handwriting makes for a more reflective process.

From 1995-1997, the writing of A Name for Himself was an experience of total immersion. I had taken a career break from work, and was acutely aware of the ticking clock. I had a limited amount of time to write this book, and it was one of the many occasions over the intervening almost 30 years that I have understood the value of deadlines.

Those two years also taught me that writing is an organic process. The act of writing in itself creates inspirational moments – the ability to see clearly those inviting paths in the forest I referred to earlier.

Turning up at the desk is the first essential. Words follow.

SG: What dedication to your craft and I love how you used the immersion and set time that you had to both write and also record how you wrote. What a wonderful thing to be able to look back on those index cards! Definitely for the archive. In relation to making, Farrell is “a maker in a most tangible craft” (Mia Gallagher) and I found it reassuring that Grace, too, is a maker, an identity denied to her by the men in her life (most notably her father) – until she meets Farrell.

I was really interested in how A Name For Himself therefore also explores the act of naming and, through this, agency. Farrell drops his first name “Vincent/Vinny” so that it is not tinged with the actions of his father and so understands Grace’s struggle to name who she is, and what she is. This enables him to literally open doors for her to make her dolls. There is, however, also the sense that Grace creates the dolls with care parallel to Farrell’s conjuring of Grace-as-possession. Can you talk a little about this aspect of the novel?

CD: Farrell does indeed understand Grace’s need to create, and to carve out an independent life for herself. In this, her needs are a reflection of his own. But his efforts to help her fulfil her dreams are, in fact, driven more by Farrell’s need to be in control than Grace’s need to be free and independent of her father.

Even at the very start of their relationship, we see Farrell’s obsession, his overwhelming need to be the ‘master craftsman’: ‘Grace held his arm tighter. Farrell thought he would explode. By the time they reached the city centre, he had planned and mapped and fashioned the rest of their lives’.

At a later stage, Farrell says to P.J. that he intends ‘to give her [Grace] a good life’ (my itlaics). As though her life is a gift that he has the power to grant her.

In many ways, Farrell is recreating the family he lost in the way he relates to Grace. It’s as though she becomes a child, someone whose whole future depends on how he crafts it – rather than an adult woman with agency of her own.

He oversees her making of dolls, Noah’s arks, toys of all kinds with a pleasure that is a complex mix of emotions, a mix designed to make the reader uneasy.

Yes, I felt that when reading it, that he was creating a child out of her, but also enabling her to create her own ‘children’ (the ones they long for) in the dolls and toys.

Lastly, Catherine, some short questions:

Do you usually have one book or numerous books on the go? If we’re talking about reading, rather than writing, then yes, I very happily have several books on the go at the same time. There are ‘upstairs books’ and ‘downstairs books’, and for Luas and bus journeys, there’s the ultimate ‘handbag book’ – my trusty Kindle. Although paper claims my affection and loyalty every time – a Kindle is for convenience.

As far as writing is concerned, I can’t focus on more than one obsession at a time. The most I can manage is, say, working on an essay at the same time as a piece of fiction.

I love the idea of upstairs and downstairs books, and that you use a Kindle (I do for travelling). So, quiet or noise when you’re writing? I used to believe I needed absolute quiet for writing. Then I spent several months in India. The only safe electrical connection in the village was in the local cafe, so I used to go there every morning.

That year, the cricket world cup was underway and the entire community for miles around came to watch the matches on the big TV screen. As you can imagine, the men’s enthusiasm was not expressed quietly. Apart from that, it’s difficult to find a quiet spot in India anyway – its large population makes sure of that. Very quickly, I learned to tune out the noise.

I still prefer quiet – but it’s good to know that I can adapt.

Generally, do you plot/plan or go where the writing takes you? I have a dreadful sense of direction. Anybody who knows me will tell you that. Even following a map, I have the capacity to get spectacularly lost. Some of my most enjoyable journeys have resulted from not knowing where I’m going.

Writing is a bit like that. I’ve always liked the comfort of having a map – a starting point and an end point: that was certainly the case with A Name for Himself and indeed, for subsequent novels.

But getting lost in the forest is also part of the joy.

Right now, as I start a new piece of work, I’m adopting a different approach. I have a vague idea about my idea – and I’m going where the process takes me.

I remember seeing children in primary school being encouraged to ‘take a line for a walk’ – just follow your crayon across the page and see what picture emerges.

That’s what I’m doing now. It’s strange, and different, and exhilarating.

I’ve no idea where I’m going next.

What freedom in just seeing what emerges! Coffee or Tea? In the morning, coffee for sure! In the afternoon, different types of tea.

What’s the next three books on your reading pile? They are all books that have been overlooked for a while, because I got carried away with so many other sources of printed temptation. So I’ve promised myself to go back to them. They are: The Nine Lives of Pakistan by Declan Walsh. Fifty Words for Snow by Nancy Campbell. No One Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood.

A great selection, Catherine! Thank you for such insights into your process, the thinking behind some of the characters and for your generosity in answering my probing questions.

Catherine Dunne (Photo: Noel Hillis)

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Read Catherine Dunne’s article in The Irish Times about what inspired this novel.