The Dark Emerald: Folklore and Feminism in Irish Genre Fiction
By: Colin J Mccracken
Tags: Authors, Horror, Interview, Ireland, Feminism

Ireland has come a long way in the last few years with regard to both culture and society. Genre, particularly horror, has always fed off the ebb and flow of societal changes and often reflects the way of the world in a manner that more traditional forms of media cannot.

Early pioneers of Irish fantasy, ghost stories, fiction and horror range from the internationally celebrated, such as Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory and Bram Stoker, to the lesser-known but equally influential Lafcadio Hearn (Kwaidan), Sheridan Le Fanu and Lord Dunsany.

This undeniably spectacular group of writers from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries all came from predominantly upper-class positions of privilege (several of them were literal lords and ladies). There has been an ongoing revolution in Ireland, one which has concerned every citizen; women in particular. The rights of women and members of the LGBTQI+ community have taken centre stage in recent years. Gender equality, abortion legislation, divorce and, currently, the rights of sex workers within the country have all been a huge focus; the real life horrors left in its wake are now feeding into the nation’s fiction.

The Handmaid’s Tale author Margaret Atwood recently said that ‘Ireland is an example of the fact that things can change and they can change radically’ adding that it was a ‘little point of light’ in the world as it slips into division and dystopia.

Rising from the furore, a group of young, passionate Irish voices are emerging. Their work reflects a truly modern Ireland and a renewed slant on genre fiction. Taking influence from the ancient ways, occultism and witchcraft which have shadowed Irish life for centuries, these authors are leading the charge in terms of creativity and innovation, taking an inherently Irish tradition of magical storytelling and drastically modifying it to make it their own in the twenty first century.

Three of the primary forces; Sarah Davis Goff, Deirdre Sullivan and Mary Watson, all spent some time speaking with me about their work, modern horror and the influence that Ireland has had upon it.

Addressing LGBTQI+ issues, the precarious uncertainty of growing up, as well as a multitude of unpredictable horrors which encroach upon the lives of the protagonists, it is hard to deny that there’s something dwelling under the surface of these novels.

This is a collection of voices handing down a stark warning to an up and coming generation of young women: you have power and you cannot let anyone take it from you!

CMcC: When did you realise that Ireland was a country like no other in terms of folklore, occultism and mythology?

Mary Watson: I moved to Ireland nearly eleven years ago, but was aware of the remarkable sense of story here long before then. Irish mythology and lore had the strongest draw: changelings, banshees, púca combined with stories of warriors and gods had me enthralled.

Deirdre Sullivan: I always loved Irish myths and legends. Books that I encountered early included Michael Scott’s folklore collections, and his novellas of The Children of Lir and The Last of The Fianna. I read WB Yeats, Lady Gregory, Jospeh Jacobs, Eileen O’ Faoilan and Sinéad DeValera as well. I liked reading about an Ireland where impossible things could happen, and the history that would have been explored in children’s literature of the time, and in school, such as the famine and the war of independence seemed mythic and impossible to me also.

Sarah Davis-Goff: I’ve been interested in banshees especially for a long time, I love the myth and how carefully it seems to be treated. My mother and father are not superstitious, but they speak very respectfully of stories of the banshee; of people they know who’ve heard the wail. I love that uncompromising respect for other people’s beliefs, not just because that’s a good moral stance, but because of the possibilities it allows. There’s room for magic in there somewhere.

· The Wickerlight by Mary Watson (Bloomsbury)

CMcC: Given that the Irish are known as a nation of storytellers, do they shy away from some stories more than others?

MW: I think every place has stories that are difficult to tell, but these change as time goes on, for example, stories that would have been hidden a few decades ago are more out there now. But there are of course experiences we’re not hearing about, stories that are ignored or hidden or unspoken.

DS: Returning for a second to myth, a lot of our mythology is about the land itself and place names. There’s a darkness that’s underneath the landscape, in terms of our collective memory, and you don’t have to scratch the surface very deeply at all to access it. As a child, my mother would have told me stories of the Black and Tans ransacking my grandfather’s home and threatening his father, of my great-grandmother dying of the Spanish flu, of slaughtering animals and a workman who came to the house that always frightened her.

“The stories that I liked the most were the ones that scared me, because they felt the most real. I think that there have been far too many things unspoken in Ireland, and it has made the land fat with secrets, which are ready to be mined.” — Deirdre Sullivan

DS: In Acallamh na Senorach, two warriors, Cailte and Oisín show St. Patrick around Ireland, and tell him the stories of the places they encounter, which is a motif that comes up in All the Bad Apples (by the exceptional Moïra Fowley-Doyle) too, but with an emphasis on the stories of girls and women kept apart.

We don’t hear about our female High Kings, and the female forces too powerful to cloak in silence, for example the goddess Brigid were appropriated by the Catholic Church to ease the path from paganism to Christianity.

The stories of women and non-binary people are there, but they’re not the ones we grow up hearing. And the same goes for LGBT stories- Finn MacCumhal was raised by two women, for goodness sake. And I think that, to look more closely, takes a distance that was hard to come by in. If you look at the Magdalene laundries, in particular, we have this culture of containment. We make prisoners of stories we don’t want heard and hope that they will fade to whispers, then to nothing at all. As the recent past turns to history, and as we make steps towards a more inclusive society, we have the right balance of proximity and distance I think, to touch and name the things that have been done. And it’s delicate, but so necessary.

· Perfectly Preventable Deaths by Deirdre Sullivan (Hot Key Books)

CMcC: Ireland has a lot to celebrate in terms of literature and culture, but a lot of wounds to repair in terms of societal injustice, suppression and inequality. What role does fiction have in all this?

SDG: I think fiction is just one way that we as a nation digest and process often traumatic events. Creating a story around something helps make it — not palatable exactly, but more comprehensible. It’s easier to move on from something once you’ve got a stronger hand on that understanding.

MW: I believe in storytelling as a means of rehearsing difficult issues and bringing them out in the open. There’s validation in recognising ourselves in fictional characters that acknowledge us and our experiences. Stories encourage empathy and understanding by allowing us to explore beyond the boundaries of our normal. All fiction, even an action packed pirate adventure about an ancient grail stolen by evil orc-like creatures, can be an opportunity for this.

DS: I can’t speak for my own fiction, as I use it as a tool to make sense of the world around me first and foremost. Stories are powerful, and they can be a tool for change. I’m heartened by the increasing recognition of the importance of hearing diverse voices and seeing all kinds of identities represented on our bookshelves. Writers like Mary (Watson), who explores witchcraft, myth and the importance of interrogating the structures we are raised with are doing wonderful, necessary work.

In a world where survivors of Magdalene Laundries have to fight for compensation, and the church tries to dance around the rape, child-murder, physical, emotional and sexual abuse it was and still is responsible for, if you are a person raised catholic, there is a point where you will have to re-examine the stories you have grown up with, and look at what you can and cannot reconcile. I think that even reaching out to touch and name the things that are difficult to comprehend has a benefit. There’s something to be said for putting down in black and white as often as possible that these things happened. That people were hurt and then forgotten about. That this country has a history of taking away the power of the marginalised and then abusing them for being powerless. I was very moved and energised by Other Words for Smoke (by Sarah Maria Griffin) and All The Bad Apples, for many reasons, but also by the power of looking at something very dark from our history and naming it and saying what it was. It’s simple, but it matters.

And in a country that has historically hated and feared women and the marginalised, (and is not currently knocking it out of the park in terms of treating asylum seekers and the homeless like human beings) raising your voice at all can feel political.

CMcC: When a book deals with a transition; a momentous life shift such as displacement or relocation. As well as being a significant time in a teenager’s life, do you see these movements as an allegory for a larger cultural shift within Irish society?

MW: I am preoccupied with a certain kind of Irish experience: displacement and assimilation into a new culture, being POC in a predominantly white society, questions around belonging and the idea of the ‘outsider’. I write fantasy, so books about secret magical communities and sacrifice and witchy dolls and romance, and these themes might not be entirely obvious but they’re there.

“I find the young adult years really interesting, it’s a massive transition period, a threshold time. I think that everything seems so much bigger when we begin to experience the adult world, with adult issues and situations, while so new to it. I don’t know about allegory, but for me there is definitely a conversation between the two”. — Mary Watson

SDG: I guess I seem them more as representational of small, ordinary shifts in a young person’s life. Orpen, the protagonist in Last Ones Left Alive, feels the call of a big city — her parents, though, her guardians, want her to stay home where she’s at least relatively safe. This is fairly common ground for anyone who grew up in the sticks, and bereavement is something that catches us all sooner or later. This is one of the things I like best about dystopia, the ordinary topics and problems that can be addressed, but from an angle or from a height.

DS: I think that when a book is in the world, it becomes a series of conversations with its’ readers. And what they see in it might overlap with my intent, but I write as a sort of dialogue with myself, at least initially. I start with character and add texture and depth around them as my sense of who they are develops. I did not intend to write an allegory, and I think if I had gone into it with that in my head, it wouldn’t be the book it is now. I don’t think you can write to change the world or fix the world. It’s enough sometimes just to see it.

CMcC: Within the fray and constant noise of our online lives, do young women and men need literary voices to guide them and, if so, how are those voices more resonant and impactful than what they might encounter on their social feeds?

MW: I strongly believe in having literary voices as a guide, at any age. My own young adult years were powered by writers like Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood, amongst others, and their books were foundational. I think that social media can sometimes be distracting. I can see how it’s hugely beneficial to belong to online communities, and how powerful these can be as a tool for social change. But sometimes it feels like I’m getting too much information, never mind the disinformation, online and this can be disorientating.

SDG: Obviously in novels, short stories, memoirs — and graphic stuff too — there’s more nuance, more space to follow a point or a theme, and a keener, more sacred relationship between reader and writer. There’s an element of trust that’s developed when a reader sits down with a book they love. That faith is hard to find in lots of other media and contemporary discourse generally. I’m not sure about guidance exactly but spending time with a book is a great way to spend time with yourself and your own thoughts; that reflective time is valuable, and shrinking.

DS: It’s not my job to guide anyone. It’s like with tarot, you want to tap in to the seeker’s intuition and support them to find the message they need to find, but you need to shy away from being didactic, or assuming that you know better than anybody else. We’re all on the same journey. And anything that helps someone to feel seen and heard, on the page or on the phone, has a value.

I think young men and women are quite capable of guiding themselves, as some of the young adults I’ve worked with have been compassionate and powerful writers in their own right. I think that there is a comfort and a value in finding a story like yours on the shelves, but social media can be a haven and a light house to young people struggling with their sexuality, or mental health issues. They can use the internet to find people who have been through it and come out the other side and built happy lives. And that’s a door appearing in a locked room.

· Last Ones Left Alive by Sarah Davis-Goff (Tinder Press / Flatiron in the U.S.)

CMcC: Genre has always contained the power to subvert, challenge and satirise. Did you feel that this tradition has allowed you to make braver and bolder decisions within your work?

MW: I started out writing literary fiction, mostly interested in playing with words and exploring ideas. Switching to genre fiction was a lightbulb moment for me. I love that there are expectations that I can follow, jazz up, play around with, thwart, or subvert. It feels closer to more traditional storytelling, and looking at my writing within the timeless, intercultural tradition of storytelling has been a revelation to me.

DS: I think horror fiction in particular provides a safe way to be scared. Writers like Sarah Langan, Joe Hill, Shirley Jackson, Edith Nesbit, Paul Tremblay and Grady Hendrix have done exciting things, and I love writers like Carmen Maria Machado as well, who play with genre in a really artful way. Genre is a frame and not a cage, I think you need to be free to make your own of it.

SDG: Definitely. What I love about dystopia is the pressure it puts on characters — everything is heightened and harder; the relationships people create with each other are more intense, more fraught and more important all at once. Writing in this genre really compels an author to think big, and then figuring out where to be gentle and where to present nuance and detail is a fun challenge.

CMcC: How important is it for young readers to experience narratives which feature a broad range of representation? (Highlighting LGBTQ+ issues and so forth)?

MW: Everyone should be able to see themselves in books. I didn’t have this as a young adult and it did make me feel invisible but I was used to it because that’s the way it was. But why should it be? While books that explore or dissect issues have a vital role to play, I am especially interested in books where the main characters are POC or LGBTQ or disabled and are doing the things white/straight/male/able-bodied characters do; books where the normalness of these identities are embraced, and these characters can just stumble upon a magic portal or accidentally summon a demon and get on with things.

DS: SO IMPORTANT. If fiction provides a roadmap to possibility, or a way of explaining ourselves to ourselves, encountering a range of diverse and queer identities is key. I’m very happy about the growing trend towards popular romantic queer fiction also. We need all kinds of heroes and all kinds of happy endings. Our diversity keeps like interesting, and is an essential part of a compassionate world. However, I am wary of ‘issue’ books. Like, if you start from a place of pathologising difference I don’t know how compassionate and artful the narrative you produce will be.

SDG: Even as a white, relatively wealthy, relatively straight person it’s really obvious to see how incredibly important representation is; recognising yourself and seeing yourself in the art around you is essential.

“Everyone should feel like they can be part of a community — and having these diverse communities isn’t important just for say the LGBTQ+ community but for the straights and the cis too. This world is thankfully diverse and that’s something that should be celebrated rather than feared. Especially now — because it’s been denied, on purpose, for so long.” — Sarah Davis-Goff

CMcC: Given the recent focus on witchcraft as an emboldening, almost political tool, do you want to give young readers (particularly young women) the sense that they possess a power which no one can take away from them?

MW: I agree that witchcraft can be wonderfully emboldening. And yes, I hope it speaks to a power within the reader. Some people are just deeply drawn to magic. In my childhood it took the form of searching for fairies and magic trees or trying to travel through time. In my young adult years, it was finding the magic within me. And for many of us who long for magic, there is a recognition of the witch within. We lose sight of her sometimes, maybe while we’re preoccupied with new jobs or babies or weddings, but she’s there. And she is a source of power, of strength. It reassures me that this magic I searched for as a young adult, is still there, that I still connect with it so many years later.

DS: I would love to do that, but sadly, the world will try to take power away from young women in a myriad of ways. I think that power can be very easily stolen or diminished. But that sense of character, or finding a way to be okay with your Self is harder to remove. I want to tell stories about women and girls who matter, and the tools they use to help them navigate a world that will inevitably tell them that they don’t.

And if readers find a strength from story, the way I did growing up from writers like Marian Keyes, Virginia Woolf, Angela Carter, Dorothy Parker, Emma Donoghue, Sara Kane, Marina Carr, Katherine Applegate, Michael Scott and Morgan Llwelyn, that’s their power. That’s them using my book like a tarot card, to divine something deep about themselves and what an honour for my work to be that for anyone.

I am quite a selfish writer, in that I write first and foremost for myself, to satisfy myself. If I thought too much about the reader, I think it would stall me.

CMcC: The occult and magic is something which is often mistakenly confused with Satanism or the dark arts. Do you believe in the positive power of the occult?

DS: I do. I think in a world where we have a deep spiritual need, but organised religion prioritises consolidation of worldly power over compassion and nourishment, we need to find the tools that work for us, whether those look like. We all want to be our best selves in the world. And we need to honour where we come from and those who leave us along the way. And however you choose to do that, is part of your own journey. We need to be able to look at the dark because we’re not always going to be walking in the light. Life is a murky sort of beast and hard to handle at times. And I suppose in a way writing is a part of me coping with that, and living beside that.

MW: I do too. I can’t imagine a life without a sense of magic.

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By Colin McCracken, March 2020