Louise O'Neill: Every other book sort of magically appeared out of thin air with little to no work on my behalf

Louise O'Neill, author. Photograph Moya Nolan

I’m writing this column from a foreign land. Well, I’m writing it from Galway which is so far outside my 5k/county/whatever we’re allowed to do this week, that it may as well be another country.

I’m here for the Cúirt literary festival. I’ve spoken at the festival before, and have wonderful memories of a packed venue hall, hugs given in the signing queue, meeting other authors in a small, sweating pub afterwards, kisses on cheeks as we stood as close to one another as possible in order to be heard over the din of glasses clinking and voices shouting.

In the year of our Lord 2021, things are very different, of course. 

There are Covid forms to be completed, and letters to show at Garda checkpoints lest I be stopped and interrogated as to where I am off to. I have to go alone, there will be no using the festival as an excuse for a minibreak with my boyfriend, like I would have done in previous years. Initially, I had been quite excited about a trip up the country; I have done so many Zoom events and Instagram Lives over the last year that the prospect of an in-person conversation with actual human beings was irresistible. 

And such wonderful people, too — it’s for a panel discussion called ‘The State of Her: The Future for Irish Feminism’, and I’ll be talking with Melatu Uche Okorie, who wrote This Hostel Life, and Caelainn Hogan, the author of Republic of Shame — two writers I deeply admire. A part of me is hoping I will just be able to stay quiet for the duration and listen to what wisdom they have to impart, although I suppose I had better at least attempt to justify my speaking fee.

But even though I had been looking forward to meeting these women, I found myself oddly anxious when it came to leaving my house. Firstly, it was as if I had lost my ability to pack a suitcase. 

What would I need for two days, I thought? How would I know what to wear? For 2.5 seconds I contemplated jeans but the idea of wearing something with a waistband for the first time since March 2020 seemed beyond me. (What are we going to do when this is all over? Do I resign myself to a life of leggings and joggers?) 

I waited until midnight the night before I was due to set off on my voyage (an Odyssey, even) and then threw a dress and some workout gear into a bag and called it a day.

To make matters worse, I’m in the middle of editing my new novel and am battling a fast-approaching deadline, so it wasn’t the best time to step away from my desk. “These are the hardest edits I’ve ever had to do!” I moaned to my mother. “I’ve never had edits this intensive before!” and she didn’t even look up from the TV as she replied “but you say that every time?” I was surprised by this, as in my memory, every other book sort of magically appeared out of thin air with little to no work on my behalf but now I’m wondering if that is akin to how mothers don’t remember how painful childbirth is, because otherwise the world would be populated with only children and furious women.

I contemplated bringing the manuscript with me but was plagued with visions of something terrible happening to it — although why anyone would want to steal a cheap ring binder is beyond me — but left it behind, giving my mother strict instructions that if my house went on fire, she was to run through the flames to rescue it. She dutifully promised to do this, even if my father said nonsensical things like, “it’s only a book!” and “it’s not worth risking your life over this!”.

On the day I left for Galway, I had to drop Cooper to a kennel. I smothered him with kisses before walking away, and he tried to run after me, whining, unable to understand why I was abandoning him. The man who ran the kennel was watching so I couldn’t do what I really wanted to do which was sink to my knees and whisper in the dog’s ear that “I’ll never let go, Jack,” but as I drove away, I could feel tears stinging my eyes. We rescued him from the CSPCA in October and this is the longest I’ll ever be away from him. (Don’t worry, I can’t believe I’ve become this pathetic, either.)

I had to stop approximately 10 times en route because I’m so out of practice with long journeys and when I arrived at the hotel, I asked the receptionist if I can have a quiet room. “They’re all quiet, now,” he said. I can’t imagine how tough it’s been for the hospitality service, all of this. But now I am sitting at a desk that is not my own, in a room that is not my own, after a night spent in a bed that is not my own. And it reminded me that yes, there will be life after this. This won’t last forever. Summer is coming.

Louise Says:

Subscribe: I have a newfound obsession with newsletters. Two of my favourites are Hung Up by Hunter Harris, which is a whip-smart and delightfully weird take on pop culture, and The Aram by Tahmina Begum, based on ‘ease and joy’.

Read: No One Can Change Your Life Except For You by Laura Whitmore. This is just the blast of positive energy we need right now. Funny and life-affirming.