Bibliothèque des Refusés

You describe yourself as writing ‘slipstream’ or ‘irreal’ fiction—what do these terms signify?

These are terms of convenience: as Ursula Le Guin said, genres are really for marketers, not writers. 

Slipstream and irreal are the most comfortable labels I have found, because while they make it clear that the reader need not expect psychological realism or depictions of the lived experience, they don’t really nail down what the reader should expect. They suggest literature that does not aim for realism, but that straddles an unreliable border between consensus reality and fantasy, that depicts aspects of reality in a heightened way, and creates fantasy that is in many ways very familiar and mundane. The terms signify a way of writing that tries to defamiliarise, rather than depict, the familiar. 

When did you decide that you wanted to be a writer?

As near as I can recall, it was when I finished reading M.R. James’ 'Lost Hearts' when I was about 13. I had made up stories, and sometimes written them down, though I was more consistently inclined to drawing or painting when I was little. I was terribly impressed, and equally intimidated, by the story, I think by the fact that it had both a narrative and an aesthetic, and I kept returning to it when I thought of writing a story, to see how it was done. 

Are there any specific authors whose writing styles or subject matter inspire your writing?

Of contemporary writers, I greatly admire M. John Harrison, Susanna Clarke, and Louise Glück; I am also influenced by Virginia Woolf, Flann O’Brien, Samuel Beckett, and the usual round of Modernist writers. I have read and admired much of Italo Calvino’s later writing. I recently started reading Robert Aickman, and have a great admiration for the precise layering of apparently innocuous details that reveals itself, when it is too late to escape, to be the true face of dread.

How have you evolved as a writer?

I have more tentacles now.

Your books suitable for younger readers are set in a fantasy-land that is immediately recognisable as Ireland, and your books for adults often involve international settings, realistic or partly imaginary. Is a sense of place important to you as a writer?

Place is extremely important. While I am writing, location is an opportunity to perch on the boundary between consensus reality and fantasy, a way for me to defamiliarise the familiar.

I use different locations to intensify what I want to depict. Quettopolis, the city in Hollowmen, intensifies the ambient neurotic illogicality, as does the hotel and the Institute. The rural and small-urban setting in my 'Hibernia Altera' territories of Muinbeo and the Outland allows for a rebalancing of the relationships between species, and with the landscape. In And the Wildness, the wilderness has an active role to play; in Muinbeo and Quettopolis, the forests’ role is more to create a constant unease.  

I am more likely to recruit a place—landscape, city, or individual building—into the service of effects that another writer might render through characters and their interactions.

Would you characterise your fiction as driven by plot or by character, or is it driven by other literary aspects?

Books in the Muinbeo and Flux Avellana worlds are plot-driven. There’s a story-arc focused on politics, the environment, and balances of power, so while the characters do have personal story-arcs within it, their inner lives are not the main focus. 

Fiction outside of these series is driven by more intangible things than either plot or character; I do not abandon the latter, but they may be secondary considerations. Usually, I am trying primarily to depict a point of realisation that the way in which the world is is fundamentally and profoundly unlike the way it has been perceived and is ‘officially’ explained. I am trying to evoke, but not pin down; I have what Henry James called “the truth … at the back of my head” and a very fugitive one it is, too. I also experiment as I write, making decisions influenced or inspired in light, not of plot or character, or even of narrative, but of works of visual art, or pieces of music.

You work full-time in a job unrelated to literature—how do you make time for writing?

I have been predominantly working from home since the pandemic, and this has been transformative. I have more time to write, to read, to be a bit more adventurous in what I read; I have more mental energy. I don’t expect WFH works for everyone, but I found the pre-pandemic ‘normal’ expectations of interactions not at all ‘normal’ for me. 

At the same time, it is a problem that so many writers, and creative people in other fields, have to work full-time in other jobs to make a living. The money that is to be made in literature and publishing does not seem to pool around the creators. It means that being able to live a creatively productive life, being able to contribute to the artistic and cultural worlds, is dependent to a significant degree not on your abilities, or capacity for hard work, but on how much money you have available to you. It is not simply a question of being fair or unfair: it creates a cultural monoculture.

The practical answer is: I find time with difficulty, but with persistence. I write in the morning, before work, and usually in the evening, before dinner. I try to write something every day, even if I have only half an hour. I keep a schedule of different projects I am working on, so that even if I can’t keep to it, I am never stuck for something to do. 

Do you have a separate writing space with its own rituals? A book-lined study, perhaps, replete with rare volumes and ancient manuscripts?

It’s like the library in Buffy—spacious, endless bookshelves, lovely big desk for working at, extra armchairs. There’s subdued yet sufficient lighting, a small kitchen to the side where I can brew tea and coffee, and where the biscuit-tin always seems to be full of my favourite shortbread. There’s even a lockable cage for any unfriendly visitors from Over Beyond. 

Back in consensus reality, though, the writing space is just a desk, very straightforward. I don’t have any particular rituals before writing, other than almost certainly making a mug of tea. Or coffee, if we have any. And clearing the desk, if it’s needed—I don’t like clutter. If I am trying to write something with a very specific mood or look, I might listen to some music, do a bit of free-writing, or read a bit of a favourite author; to warm up the engine, as it were. 

I recently acquired a studio (it’s a shed), where I keep art supplies, and which I expect will also be pressed into service when I am writing. Neither place is as book-lined as I would like, but that is where the public library service comes to the rescue. I can try out new authors, especially if I am not sure I will like them, without extending myself in terms either of space or budget. The entire catalogue is available on-line, the service is easy to use, and there is always a librarian available with the answer to a query. It’s an absolute blessing. 

How do you juggle participation in events such as conferences or readings with your writing work and your job?

On-line/hybrid conferences are the path to true inclusivity in this regard. During the Covid pandemic, there was a significant increase in the number of events that could be attended remotely, and lots of places continue to provide hybrid options. It has made a huge difference to me, particularly as an unaffiliated scholar but also as a fiction writer. Attending a conference suddenly becomes affordable, in terms of both time and money, once you don’t have to travel out of the country and stay in an hotel, as well as pay to attend. Also, like a lot of people, I find being in crowded places, especially unfamiliar ones, excruciatingly stressful. 

Because of the availability of remote access, I’ve attended conferences and talks on children’s literature, detective fiction, archives, and modernism; I’ve given an academic paper at Reading University, and done fiction readings both for a British Fantasy Society event and Worldcon’s Glasgow2024’s indie-author reading library—all without having to threaten the environment, my budget, or my nerves. I know that it is an extra administrative issue for the organisers, but I can’t sing the praises of on-line facilitation highly enough. 

What made you decide to self-publish?

I think it was quite a gradual decision. I had been published sporadically in magazines, and had had one novel, Good Red Herring, published by Little Island in 2014, but it became clear that these instances were not shaping up to anything sustained. Although there are definite advantages to traditional publishing—the editing process, for one, and the greater audience reach, the marketing budget—there are disadvantages, too. There is a long lead-time between completion and publishing, more and more publishers will only deal with agents, the marketing budget tends to be spent on higher-profile authors, the writer still seems to be, to borrow once more from Ursula Le Guin, ‘very low on the totem pole.’ 

Self-publishing is a lot of hard work, and is more nerve-wracking. But no-one is going to put their back into perfecting a book, and finding the perfect audience, as thoroughly as will the author. Other indie-authors have been an inspiration: there is a great generosity in the indie world, an immediacy and openness about sharing knowledge, offering advice, answering questions, and, in particular, boosting other writers. 

When you self-publish, do you do it all yourself?

Bibliotheque des Refusés is, at the moment, myself and my partner, and we do everything, from soup to nuts—my main focus is naturally on the writing rather than the production side of things. At the same time, it would be, if not impossible then certainly immeasurably more difficult, without the generosity with which experienced indie-authors share their experience and knowledge. The Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi) is an extremely valuable resource for any writer intending to self-publish, and there are plenty of individual authors who make special efforts to support the independently-published. 

What is the story behind your imprint name?

In 1863, the Paris Salon rejected so many paintings submitted for its annual exhibition that the artists—including Manet and Whistler—and their supporters protested. Emperor Napoléon III ordered that the rejected paintings be exhibited elsewhere in the same building, in a Salon des Refusés, the “room of rejections”. The Impressionists reused the ‘Salon des Refusés’ several times subsequently for their own exhibitions, and many—though not all—had successful careers outside of the official Salon. 

Like most authors, I have had far more pieces rejected than accepted by traditional publishers. I don’t claim to be a writer of towering genius, but I do know that my writing is better than some published work that I have read. Since I don’t have an emperor to go in to bat for me, I set up my own Bibliothèque des Refusés; maybe no-one will come to browse the shelves, but at least they have the option.  

Can I get your books from my local library?

Apart from Hollowmen, which is available only in paperback, my books are available as ebooks to libraries via the main global library distribution services. Public libraries in Ireland use BorrowBox; worldwide, there are Baker & Taylor, Biblioteca, and Palace Marketplace.

Books don’t appear automatically in libraries—they have to order them in, so if you don’t find a book you are looking for in a library’s catalogue, you may have to request that they order it for you. I consider public libraries to be one of the most significant cultural public goods a society can provide, so I make my books available to them on the most generous terms possible and without DRM.  

Who do you read for relaxation or amusement or escape?

Detective fiction usually answers all three, or old adventures and thrillers; I don’t read anything in that line that is grim or brutal. Ghost/gothic/weird stories also are a favourite. Usually, I need to be familiar with an author before they become a ‘comfort read’; poetry is the exception. I don’t need to work up to a new poet.  

What non-writing activities do you engage in?

Horticulture—I have two polytunnels, some fruit trees, and an as yet untamed field. Visual art: I have recently acquired a small shed in which I am starting to unpack my paints, charcoal, and oil pastels (which my partner infamously described as ‘expensive crayons’). I love a blank canvas. Listening to music: I am quite ignorant, but have been trying assiduously to become less so. There is almost nothing so comprehensively satisfying as good music, especially choral. I’ve been learning Ancient Greek, too. It is a surprising amount of fun for something that I find quite tough, and it really makes you think about language very carefully.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

You’re a long time dead. It might not have been meant as advice, but it certainly concentrated the mind.

The other, and more writing-specific, advice is: inspiration won’t show up unless you do. You have to ‘be a magnet for your muse’ (I think that is from Matt Cardin, who has written extensively about inspiration, the creative muse or daemon). It does not necessarily, or solely, mean always be writing, but it does mean recognising that creativity is more important to you than anything else.

If you could meet several writers in an interdimensional tea-house, who would they be?

I am very unsociable, but would be game once I could sort of sit behind them, and just eavesdrop.

It’s hard to say, though, who to invite. The dead that I most admire may not have been the best company.  Just after he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature, Samuel Beckett agreed to an interview with a Swedish journalist, but on condition that he be asked no questions at all. A tea-house might not stock anything of sufficient ABV to draw Flann O’Brien. Virginia Woolf delivered a paper to the Memoir Club, entitled ‘Am I a Snob?’; the answer, it seems, was yes, so I can see trouble ahead. Emily Dickinson was a recluse, Shirley Jackson probably scary. 

There are other writers, like Rose Macaulay or Mary McCarthy, Wilkie Collins, Dervla Murphy, who were very interesting people and probably excellent company, even if I am not much influenced by their writing (which I both enjoy and admire). Iain M. Banks, perhaps. Barbara Willard, because I loved the Mantlemass series so much when I was young. Tove Jansson—she might appreciate my Moomin-related tattoo. Charles Darwin or Oliver Sachs, specialists who can explain complex or radical ideas in elegant prose.

Have you advice for writers out there who are just starting out?

You’re a long time dead. Be a magnet for your muse. Practise. Don’t expect all your influences to come from literature. Decide on your relationship to the market; it is not your friend. Reflect on good-faith criticism; only you can do you.

If you had only five words to describe yourself, what would they be?

Grumpy, introverted, misanthropic. Three’s enough.