The Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2026 opens for submissions on June 1st, and this is your chance to get your work before Donal Ryan, one of Ireland’s greatest writers, a twice Booker-longlisted author of seven bestsellers, winner of multiple national and international awards, and one of the nicest guys one could ever hope to meet!

In the lead-up, I’ll be writing some posts about short stories, and what it takes to get noticed in the queue. Today, I’ll share some thoughts on what you ought not to do in your submission.

Everyone has their own style and ideas for how a story should be written, and we want you to write your story in your own unique way, so what I offer below should be taken as no more than suggestions. None of these items will kill your story (apart from the word count one), and they won’t exclude you from the competition. Nor will they mean you won’t make it to the final, but avoiding these things will certainly help your chances.

Remember, we are your cheerleaders, and we’ll be reading the queue with a view to accepting, rather than rejecting, your story. We want you to succeed, and what this article is really about is putting you in the best posssible position to do so.

At the end of this post, I include links to a couple of earlier craft articles that might be of interest.

And it almost goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway:

We can’t wait to see what you have for us!

Our competition judge this year is Donal Ryan.

Donal has published seven number-one bestsellers, plus a short story collection. He has won many awards for his work, including the European Union Prize for Literature, the Guardian First Book Award and six Irish Book Awards, and has been shortlisted for many more, including the Costa Book Award and the Dublin International Literary Award.

He was longlisted for the Booker Prize in 2013 for his debut novel, The Spinning Heart, and in 2018, for his fourth novel, From A Low and Quiet Sea. The Spinning Heart was voted Irish Book of the Decade in 2016.

In 2021 Donal became the first Irish writer to be awarded the Jean Monnet Prize for European Literature. His most recent novel, Heart Be at Peace, won both Novel of the Year and Book of the Year at the Irish Book Awards, and was shortlisted for Novel of the Year at the Nero Book Awards. His work has been adapted for stage and screen and translated into over twenty languages.

Donal is an Associate Professor in the Creative Writing programme at the University of Limerick.

1. Leading with rich (and pointless) descriptions

That’s not entirely awful (I just whipped it up, by way of illustration), but it needs to get to the point. What’s this story about? The first line, at least the first paragraph, can encapsulate the entire tale. Get us into the story, situate us, let us know what’s happening. Keep the prose active, especially at the start.

Having said that, a story opening like this can work if the details are relevant to the tale and the character. Does the garden, the sky, the view, really matter at this point? It sets the scene, but it would be better to start with the character rather than the setting.

2. Opening with dialogue

I’m not saying that opening with a passage of dialogue never works, but unless it’s done with great skill, I feel it’s best avoided. I don’t know who the characters are, I don’t care about them, and now the writer has to get me to care when both she and I are on the back foot.

What I’m really saying here is to not overdo it. Opening with a single line line of dialogue can work well, because it raises the reader’s curiosity. Two lines would be stretching it. Three? Well, now I’m lost!

Related to this are stories with too much, or mostly, dialogue. Again, unless it’s done with great skill, it’s a hard act to carry off.

3. Filtering

Using phrases like ‘He saw…’, ‘She thought…’, ‘He heard…’, ‘They noticed…’, all create psychic distance, and put a layer between us and the characters. They should be used sparingly, if at all. Mostly, they’re easy to eliminate.

For example:

‘She thought he would probably text her.’

becomes

‘He would text her. He had to.’

And:

‘She heard a rooster crowing in the distance.

becomes

‘In the distance, a rooster crowed.’

You can get more mileage by removing the filters. And by doing so, you bring the reader closer to the character and the action.

4. Lack of clarity

Subtlety is great, but don’t be so subtle as to confuse us. Ground us in the story. You might think we know what’s going on, but are you entirely sure?

This doesn’t mean you have to spell everything out (in fact, don’t do that), but you need to give us enough hints so that we can work out what’s happening, and to whom.

5. Blowing the ending

End well. A poor ending can ruin the experience of reading the story. We’ve stuck with it all the way, so reward us.

Call back to something at the start of the story, to give it a circular feel.

An open ending is fine.

A flat arc is fine too, but better if it ends with us knowing something new about the character.

6. Hammering home the theme

You might have a clear idea of what the theme is, but don’t tell us. Let us discover or intuit it, or decide for ourselves what the theme is. We might take an entirely different meaning from the story than you intended.

Mostly what we want is a feeling of what the story is about. A sense of it, rather than coming away from it and saying that the story was about grief, or hate, or revenge or whatever.

In most cases we would advise forgetting about theme. Just tell a good tale, and keep us engaged. If there’s meaning there, we will find it.

7. Poor presentation

Spelling errors, little attention to punctuation, sloppy presentation, all show a writer who doesn’t really care for their work. And if they don’t then why should we?

Having said that, we won’t reject a story purely on the basis of poor presentation or sloppy spelling. We understand and accept that not all writers are well-versed in how to present a story, and that spelling errors are unintentional, and may be (for example) due to a writer’s dylexia. So we’ll deal with poor presentation if we have to, and all I’m really trying to do here is to encourage you to read the guidelines and take as much care with your manuscript as you are able.

8. Ignoring the word count rule

Stories under 750 words or over 2,000 words will get an instant rejection. In submissions to issues of Frazzled Lit, we can be more flexible, but this is a competition, and there are rules. It wouldn’t be fair for us to give you a pass on blowing the word count when other writers have worked hard to stick to it.

We are excited to officially announce the Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2026, which will open for entries from June 1st until June 30th, and will be judged by international award-winning Irish author Donal Ryan!

The prizes for the competition will be as follows:

1st Prize: € 1,000

2nd Prize: € 500

3rd Prize: € 300

All winning, finalist, shortlisted and highly commended stories will have the option of being published in Issue 5, our special competition issue of Frazzled Lit

There will be an entry fee of € 12 for one story, € 21 for two stories, and € 31 for three stories. These fees are necessary to fund the prizes, and cover costs.

We appreciate that some writers who may wish to enter will not be able to afford the entry fee, so we will offer 20 free entries to low-income writers.

Free entry is for one story only, and is limited to one per successful applicant

Entries to the award must be between 750 and 2,000 words, must be the author’s original work, must not have been previously published or broadcast in any form, and must not have won any other competition. Stories shortlisted in previous competitions will be acceptable, provided they were not published.

Entries must be made via Duosuma, using the link we will provide.

All entries will be blind-read by Jennifer, Laura, Kerry and Emily.

Winners will be selected by Donal Ryan from the six finalists.

Frazzled Lit reserves the right to cancel the competition in the event that we don’t receive enough entries to make up the prize fund and costs. If we cancel the competition, we will refund all entry fees received.

We are happy to read work on any subject, however Frazzled Lit will not accept work that is racist, homophobic, transphobic, misogynistic, ableist, or is hateful towards any person or group. Further, we do not wish to read anything that is gratuitously violent or erotic, or contains excessive gore. Animal cruelty of any sort is unacceptable to us.

It goes without saying, but we’re saying it anyway:

Frazzled Lit will not tolerate work that has been generated by AI, or for which AI has been used in any form to create it.

I’ve been going through this rather dull and unexpected phase for the last two weeks. Mostly, I think, because I have been working flat-out on so many projects for a sustained period of many months, and it has led me to this sort of hollowed-out place where I’m feeling uninspired and unmotivated. It’s also partly due to my obsession with the endless cycles of bad news from home and abroad. I’m not alone in this, and as much as we might try, it’s hard not to look at a train wreck, especially when the train is still moving. World events might take an even nastier turn than they already have, and I find myself checking the excellent and other major independent news networks every ten minutes to see if someone has started shooting nukes. It’s all so dreadfully depressing, and has taken a toll on my customary sunny-side groove.

I greatly dislike these doldrums in my creative ocean. During them, I tend to think that perhaps I’ve given my best and have nothing left to offer, and that the old magic has left me. Crazy, I know, but I do tend to obsess about these things, and the more I do, the worse it all seems. I should really just chill out and go with the flow, because nothing is more likely to strangle the free flow of inspiration than dwelling on how utterly uninspired I feel.

So I’ve been doing the things I can do; reading, perusing my catalogue of past work, submitting to opportunities, free writing, and playing more golf than is good for me - though whether there is such a thing as too much golf is debateable for this golf nut!

Perhaps you’ll identify with the above, perhaps not. I’m inclined to think that no writer fully escapes the doldrums, not even the greats. There was a time I thought I would never experience them, but then it happened. You see, it’s not so much about not being able to come up with new ideas (in fact, I probably have far too many of them, which is part of the problem), nor is it about not being able to write (I finished the first draft of a new novel last week, and did plenty of other writing, including penning two new flash stories). No, what it’s really about is my subjective assessment of the quality of the work I’m producing.

Literary quality is an esoteric concept, and in this regard, one person’s meat is another’s poison. Some may like a lot of action with little interiority, others may relish a deep dive into a protagonist’s soul. When it comes to language, it seems to me that plain fare is very much in vogue, while I prefer a lyrical and musical beat. Whatever your taste, I think we can all agree that what it all boils down to is telling a good story in an authentic and consistent voice, and doing so with varying degrees of clarity and precision. At the end of the day, though, I’m first and foremost writing a story for me, so it is my judgement of the quality of my piece that matters most.

Yours second, mine first. Sorry, I’m being selfish, but it’s just how it is.

So today, I started tinkering with a brand new story idea, did some brainstorming on it, and came up with some cool concepts and notions for its development. It has the potential to be a great story, I think, but it all depends on my execution of it, and for me, that further depends on me being able to at least glimpse the overall shape of the story, and to know the precise point in the arc where it starts. Also, what it starts with (action vs. introspection) and who it starts with (who the POV character will be). I don’t worry too much about where the story ends until I’m well into it, and even if I decided on a particular ending at the start of the project, it would very likely change before I got there, due to the inherent capriciousness of character and the habit of story arcs to find their own resolutions. It’s no harm to have a notion of an ending, though, to set a navigation marker for my journey.

At this point, I haven’t written a single word of the story, but that’s okay because I’m still in the ideas phase. I could be delaying the writing, for all the reasons I mentioned above. I’m also delaying because my protagonist is not yet talking to me, and until I hear her voice, I’m just whistling in the dark.

Looking back over some recent and not-so-recent stories, I noted the number of false starts I made on many of them. Sure, some came in a flash, and emerged fully formed in one or two bursts of frenetic tapping. Others toyed with me, dangling their pretty fruits before my eyes then pulling them away as soon as I reached for them. For those stories, the opening and protagonist’s voice emerged by seeking them through free-writing exercises, or walking around my kitchen as I tried to visualise scenes and fit into the character’s skin, all the while mumbling to myself. A voice recorder is a useful tool for such times, because nothing is more certain than me having a great idea and then forgetting what it was, two seconds later.

Record everything, that’s my policy, and back it up multiple times.

Trying to find a character’s voice, then, can be an instantaneous experience, or it can be one where the writer needs to dig deep, overcome frustration, and seek the gems that must surely be hidden in the striata of ideas. Personally, I prefer the first option, and it’s a wonderful experience when a character walks onto the stage and starts telling me their story. In truth, I feel I’m doing something wrong if they don’t magically appear, because I’m a writer and therefore I should be inspired at all times, right?

Nope. Wrong.

The myth that writing is easy can be a trap. I’m not saying it’s hard all the time, but if we’re being honest here, I think we can agree that there are periods when it is. Everything has its season, every story has its time. What’s important, I think, is that we cut ourselves some slack, allow ourselves the time to reflect and reload, and trust that everything is going to be fine. While waiting for this period to pass, I can go for a walk, knock a little white ball about with a stick, meditate, pray, and limit my intake of international news to the bare essentials. Then, when the time is right, I can permit myself to rediscover the joy of assembling words into neat sentences that form, as a whole, something truly magical.

Not resisting, that’s the trick, because resistance to ‘what is’ leads only to frustration.

Normal service will resume soon, and if experience has taught me anything, it’s that these doldrums are really growing pains, and can very often lead me to greater achievements in craft. In this way, I can reframe them as a gift, and embrace them as such.

Go on, create a little magic, and get ready to send it to us in June.

The Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2026 will open for submissions on June 1st, and we feel hugely honoured to have twice-Man Booker longlisted and multi-award winning Irish author Donal Ryan as this year’s judge.

Donal has long been one of my literary heroes, and I’ve been most fortunate to meet him, and to have him read some of my work. His short fiction and novels are among the finest works ever produced by an Irish writer. Six finalists will have their stories put before him, from which he will pick the three winners, so send us your very best!

We can’t wait to see what you have for us!

This is more of a ‘fireside chat’ than an interview, a back and forth between peers.

We hope you enjoy it!

Seán McNicholl is an award-winning writer and GP from Armagh. He is the winner of the Hammond House International Literary Prize, and his work has been shortlisted for the CRAFT Short Fiction Prize, and longlisted for the Bridport Prize, the Fish Prize, the Hope Prize and the Bedford Prize.

His stories have appeared in Epoque Press, The Storms, Fahmidan, ANMLY, Frazzled Lit, and The Belfast Review. He is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Microfiction.

Find out more at www.seanmcnicholl.com

In this session of Writer to Writer, Patrick Holloway dicusses THE LANGUAGE OF REMEMBERING (epoque press, 2025), his debut novel, with Jennifer.

Patrick Holloway is a prize-winning Irish writer of fiction and poetry. His debut novel, The Language of Remembering, was published in 2025 to critical acclaim. His second novel is forthcoming in 2027 with Eriu. His work appears in The Stinging Fly, The Moth, The London Magazine, Southword, The Irish Times and The Irish Independent. He is the winner of The Bath Short Story Prize, The Molly Keane Creative Writing Prize, The Raymond Carver Contest, The Flash 500, among others. He is an editor of the literary journal, The Four Faced Liar, and is the 2026 Writer in Residence in Maynooth University.

In this session of Writer to Writer, Irish author Barbara Leahy discusses REMBRANDT’S PROMISE, her fabulous debut novel, with Jennifer McMahon, our co-EIC.

Rembrandt’s Promise begins in 1642, during the Dutch Golden Age, and is inspired by the life and times of Geertje Dircx, a wronged woman who demanded justice. Geertje was Rembrandt van Rjin’s mistress after the death of Saskia, his first wife.

Barbara Leahy is from Cork. She was a winner of the Irish Writers’ Centre Novel Fair in 2023. Her short stories have won numerous awards, appeared in the Bridport Prize Anthology, the Bristol Prize anthology, and been broadcast on RTÉ Radio 1. Rembrandt’s Promise is her first novel.

How can I capture, for the second time, the essence of my time in Doolin? In my reflection on my first trip, I fell in love in Doolin, I pretty much nailed it, and it’s hard to find the words to describe this second literary adventure in Co. Clare. I shall try, though!

There’s something about the light - no, it’s the air, or the bracing thrust of the wind, or the music and thunder of the wild and white-capped Atlantic waves as they fold and roll down in the bay, thrashing against the shores of the shadowy stack of the Aran Islands set against a vivid and turbulent horizon. I don’t know what it is, or was, or forever will be about Doolin in Co. Clare, on the wild and rugged west coast of Ireland, that makes it such an inspirational haven for writers and poets and artists of all persuasions. Professor Sarah Moore Fitzgerald and I remarked upon it when we met in Hotel Doolin last Monday for the start of the University Of Limerick (UL) Spring Forward Creative Writing Programme, and neither of us could pinpoint precisely what it is, other than to say that there is some inherent alchemy to the place that calls out to the artist, and draws their greatest potential from deep within.

I’m not joking, and I’m not exaggerating. Go there and discover it for yourself, and you will find as we did that there is no better location on this good and kindly planet for a writer to be.

So I’m just back from my second outing with UL, for a writing intensive with a smaller group of participants. And this trip, I was there not only as one of the learners and writers, but also as a grateful and enthusiastic tutor and facilitator. A huge honour, I’m sure you’ll agree, especially when the roll of tutors included not only Sarah and multi-award winning author Donal Ryan, but also Fiona Scarlett, Sheila Killian, and Eoin Devereux.

No less impressive was the list of participants, which included many published authors, including well-known Irish crime writer Casey King, and Lauren Mackenzie, who was shortlisted for Newcomer of the Year at the Irish Book Awards in 2023. To be counted among them, and then to deliver a tutorial to the group, from the perspective of a literary journal editor, was an honour I will never forget.

We had splendid food courtesy of Hotel Doolin, were catered to by the wonderful staff who went to great lengths to ensure we were comfortable, happy, and well-fed (a special shout-out to Tracie, who did so much to help us, and to help me in particular), had mighty craic in the bar, and felt so at home that we didn’t want to leave.

The tutorials were incredible, and my mind is spinning on everything I learned. To listen to Sarah Moore Fitzgerald talk about writing is to have one’s mind expanded, one’s vision deepened, one’s creative boundaries pushed past their limits to an entirely new horizon, then beyond it again. And when Sarah teamed up with Donal Ryan for a joint tutorial, it was pure magic!

We were all there to learn from each other, so the tutorials were more interactive sessions than lectures, and were peppered with lots of questions, discussions and sidebars, with a free flow of ideas and concepts in both directions. These discussions continued during our beautiful meals and over drinks, and our evening salons and check-ins solidified our practice of what we had learned.

Wednesday night brought us to our open mic event, where we shared poetry and prose with each other, and the talent on display was breathtaking. There was laughter, there were tears, and there was pure joy in the togetherness of what had already become a tightly knit group of creatives. I will never forget the work I heard that night; it really was top class.

So here I am, back home again, dealing with the mundanities of ordinary life. I mean, I actually had to make my own breakfast this morning, and make my own bed! But I am altered, reinvigorated, still spellbound by that west of Ireland magic, and if I use only one tenth of what I learned in those four days, it will make me twice the writer I was before I went there.

To my fellow participants and tutors, to the wonderful staff of Hotel Doolin, and to Professor Sarah Moore Fitzgerald most of all, this humble wielder of the pen sends you her love and thanks you from the bottom of her heart!

In this moving and evocative story that seamlessly merges past and present, the author reveals a tale of enduring love and the memory of a passionate marriage.

Linda M. Bayley is a writer living on the Canadian Shield. Her work has recently appeared in voidspace zine, Five Minutes, BULL, Short Circuit, FlashFlood Journal, Underbelly Press, Stanchion, Does It Have Pockets, Roi Fainéant, and Tiny Sparks Everywhere, the National Flash Fiction Day 2024 Anthology.

Find her on Twitter and Bluesky @lmbayley.

Patrick Holloway is a prize-winning Irish writer of fiction and poetry. His debut novel, The Language of Remembering, was published in 2025 to critical acclaim. His second novel is forthcoming in 2027 with Eriu. His work appears in The Stinging Fly, The Moth, The London Magazine, Southword, The Irish Times and The Irish Independent. He is the winner of The Bath Short Story Prize, The Molly Keane Creative Writing Prize, The Raymond Carver Contest, The Flash 500, among others. He is an editor of the literary journal, The Four Faced Liar, and is the 2026 Writer in Residence in Maynooth University.

Laura and I always strive to make Frazzled Lit an exciting place to visit, and a happy home for your short stories, poetry, creative non-fiction and flashy tales. It’s important to us that we not only feature your work, but that we get it out to as many readers as we can. Also, we’re all about community here, so we’re keen to grow the Frazz Family. To achieve these goals, we’ll have some exciting developments coming your way soon!

The Frazzled Lit Anthology, Volume 1

I’m currently putting together an anthology of some of our favourite pieces from Issues 1-3, and hope to have it ready for publication by the end of April. It will be initially made available on Amazon as a Kindle ebook and a print-on-demand hardcopy. Later, I hope to get it onto other ebook platforms.

The Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2026

Our very popular short story award will be back this year, with a total prize fund of 1,800 euro, and the option of publication for shortlistees, finalists, and winners.

We have another top judge lined up, none other than the award-winning and twice Man Booker-longlisted Irish author Donal Ryan!

Donal has long been one of my literary heroes, and I’ve been most fortunate to meet him, and to have him read some of my work. His short fiction and novels are among the finest works ever produced by an Irish writer, and we are hugely grateful to him for agreeing to be our judge this year.

The rules of the competition will be much the same as last year.

We’ll open for entries via Duosuma from June 1st to June 30th.

Can’t wait to see what you send us!

Frazzled Lit Issues 5 and 6

Issue 5 will publish around end of August, and will be made up of a selection of short stories from the Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2026.

We hope to open for submissions to Issue 6 in either October or November, with publication of the issue in January 2027.

Expedited Responses & Feedback Options

We’re hoping, on a limited basis and our schedules permitting, to offer expedited responses and feedback on submissions.

There will be a small fee for these services.

Stay tuned for further updates on the above, and more!

IN THE DESERT is published on March 3rd, 2026, by Cowboy Jamboree.

It is available in U.S. at this link, and in Ireland and the UK at this link.

Irish readers can also get the paperback from O’Mahony’s Bookshop in Tralee, or from O’Mahony’s online store.

Barbara Byar is a working-class American writer living in Ireland for over 25 years with her two boys and two dogs. Her critically acclaimed, collection of stories: Some Days Are Better Than Ours (Reflex Press) was short-listed for the Saboteur Awards. Her short fiction has been published and prize-listed widely. including pushcart, best small fictions and best microfictions nominations. She was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Irish Short Story of the Year in 2023 and longlisted in 2021. A recipient of an Irish Arts Council Literature Bursary and an Agility Award, she is a previous novel fair winner and editor of the MOTEL anthology from Cowboy Jamboree Press.

IN THE DESERT is published on March 3rd, 2026, by Cowboy Jamboree.

It is available in U.S. at this link, and in Ireland and the UK at this link.

Irish readers can also get the paperback from O’Mahony’s Bookshop in Tralee, or from O’Mahony’s online store.

Barbara Byar is a working-class American writer living in Ireland for over 25 years with her two boys and two dogs. Her critically acclaimed, collection of stories: Some Days Are Better Than Ours (Reflex Press) was short-listed for the Saboteur Awards. Her short fiction has been published and prize-listed widely. including pushcart, best small fictions and best microfictions nominations. She was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Irish Short Story of the Year in 2023 and longlisted in 2021. A recipient of an Irish Arts Council Literature Bursary and an Agility Award, she is a previous novel fair winner and editor of the MOTEL anthology from Cowboy Jamboree Press.

International award-winning Irish author Nuala O’Connor discusses SEABORNE, her latest novel (shortlisted for Book of the Year at the Irish Book Awards 2024), the craft and practice of writing, and neurodivergence with Jennifer McMahon, our co-EIC.

Nuala O’Connor lives in Galway, Ireland. Her sixth novel SEABORNE, about Irish-born pirate Anne Bonny, was published in April 2024 by New Island, and has been shortlisted for Book of the Year at the Irish Book Awards. Her novel NORA (New Island), about Nora Barnacle and James Joyce, was a Top 10 historical novel in the New York Times. She won Irish Short Story of the Year at the 2022 Irish Book Awards and is editor at flash e-journal Splonk.

Nuala O’Connor described Gary Finnegan’s winning story as

Jennifer said:

Gary Finnegan‘s fiction has appeared in Litro, The London Magazine, Howl, Ropes, and The Irish Independent. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and was selected for the Freedom to Write Award in 2024 by PEN/Ireland & The John Hewitt Society. Gary has an MA in creative writing and is working on a novel.

Alison Langley’s gorgeous and cautionary near-future tale deals beautifully with issues of consent, that which we willingly give, and that which we unknowingly sacrifice.

Alison Langley is a former journalist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Guardian, among others. Her novel, Budapest Noir: Ilona Gets a Phone (Dedalus Books, 2024) won the Irish Writer’s Centre Novel Prize. Langley’s short stories have appeared in various literary journals, and The Date was shortlisted for the 2024 Bournemouth Writing Prize.

I’m writing this post to help me figure something out. I’ve got a new work-in-progress novel, you see, and am trying to be rather clever in how I structure it, but I ran into a brick wall today. So here I am, wondering if I’ve got it wrong, and perhaps should start from scratch - yet again, because this is iteration three of this particular narrative.

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the effort has been a waste of time, because nothing is ever wasted in writing, and even by taking a wrong turn, we can learn something new about a story and its characters. Still, I prefer to get it right from the outset, which is likely a hangover from my tech industry days, and my desire to be efficient in the execution of a project. Also, I feel the ticking of the universe’s clock, and am aware that precious time is slipping away.

I’ve written about this stuff before, about having the courage to risk failure, but when one is down in the trenches and has just spent weeks putting the bones of a new long-form project together, the sense of failure can sting more than the strength of one’s courage to overcome it. I find I’m second-guessing myself, and doubting what my gut is telling me, which is that I just need to keep writing to find the answer. The story will reveal itself to me, and dang, it’s only the first draft. I’ll have plenty of time to edit, rewrite, whatever I want to do, because this is my project and I’m the boss of it.

Total creative freedom, yeah?

But that’s also a scary place to be, because…

Because I might get it wrong, and wouldn’t that be awful!

Yes, the sky would fall, and the very fabric of our fragile reality would be torn asunder. Or not. It’s hard to tell right now, I mean it feels like I’m about to destroy the entire universe, but on reflection, it seems unlikely.

Hmm… [wicked and insane laughter]… or is it?

The noisy brain

The inner critic, the second-guessing pain-in-the-butt who looks over my shoulder and says, ‘Are you really sure about this?’ in her squeaky, irritating voice, is always ready to question what I’m creating. Sometimes, she lurks in the shadows, waiting for me to finish a piece, then springs nimbly into the light, executes a graceful pirouette, and says, ‘Yeah, but what about that part?’

What she does is make my brain a noisy place, and fills it with a buzzing when it should be calm and quiet, so I can concentrate.

What if you did this, what if you did that? Oh, you spelled that wrong! Why does this character have to have dark eyes? How come everyone in this novel is so tall?

Her questions are often endless, and I guess if I spent ten years in therapy, I might learn that she sounds just like Mrs. So-and-so, my most critical teacher in school. Really, it would make no difference to know this, because I have to deal with what is in front of me. Or inside of me. Whatever.

I’m not saying that little Miss Nag is always wrong. In fact, if I’m being totally honest, I’d have to say that she does have her uses, but problems arise when she becomes pestering, and exceeds her brief. Like right now, as I write this post.

Is it good enough? Should you do some research, get some statistics? How many inner critics can dance on the head of a pin, that sort of thing? What did the old masters say about it? Everybody else’s posts seem to be so much better than yours, so maybe you’re no good at writing them. In fact, maybe you’re no good at writing, period. You should just curl into a ball and whimper. Yeah, solid plan, you should do it!

I’m writing from the heart here, and this is just you and me talking. From the heart, then, let me say that the person most likely to screw up one of my projects is me. Not my dog, not my readers. Just me, and the means by which I do so is most often telepathy.

The telepathic writer

Inner critic on one shoulder? Check! But she doesn’t work alone.

On my other shoulder, you’ll find a motley crew, namely:

• An amorphous reader;

• My agent;

• A faceless, nameless commissioning editor at a Big 5 publishing house;

• A wizened grand mage of a literary critic who’ll be the first to get his hands on my published novel.

The telepathic writer tries to read their minds, egged on by the inner critic, to find out if they like it, or perhaps will like it at some future point. Even to get from them some hint of positivity.

Mostly, I get some.

Other times, it goes like this:

‘But darling,’ says the literary critic, rubbing his hands together as he subjects me to a torturer’s scrutinous gaze. ‘The prose is just so dreadfully parochial, and terribly, terribly dull. Why don’t you try writing like what’s-her-name? You know, that good writer.’

‘But, my dear,’ says the commissioning editor, not unkindly. ‘I’m not entirely falling in love with this manuscript.’

‘I like it,’ my agent says. ‘I can see the potential, certainly. BUT…’

And the reader? Well, the reader folds her arms, taps her foot, and sighs.

They’re not always present, of course.

When I’m in the flow of a project, when I hit my stride and know what I’m writing is top class, I’ll see neither hide nor hair of any of them. Though I suspect that, even then, they are conspiring in the shadows with my inner critic, waiting for my eyes to leave my screen so they can ambush me in one great balletic rush.

Shut up, you lot!

I’m very much solution and goal oriented, so what can this telepathic writer do to quieten them enough for me to figure out the best course of action to take with my new project?

Meditation or a mindful practice of some sort are definite possibilities, but I’ve never been what you might call contemplative, at least not in that way. Playing golf is another of my preferred ploys, but the weather is dire.

Anything else in the toolkit, Jennifer?

Yes, there is one thing!

Redirecting my creative energy in an entirely different and unexpected directon can, I find, give me some clarity, and catch my inner critic and her cohort off guard.

Here are some of the things I like to try:

• Drawing a pencil potrait of my protagonist. Now, I’m no artist with a pencil, but it doesn’t have to be good - which is sort of the point, really, because doing something I know I’m not good at really catches my crew unawares. It’s a useful exercise; try it and see. If you’re like me and can’t draw a straight line, you’ll still be able to create a vision in your mind’s eye of what your character looks like. Is she well dressed, or a member of the pyjama brigade? Hair tidy or messy? Is she smiling or frowning? These little details can help me find attributes I might otherwise have missed.

• Trying the above, but with a scene from the novel. Hey, why not turn it into a graphic novel?

• Writing an essay, or a craft post, to discuss my artistic ideas, and my vision for my story.

• Alternatively, writing an essay, just for my own use, about my wildest adventure or my greatest success, can give me a fresh burst of creative energy.

• Telling the story in the form of a poem or a song, and setting it to music.

• Talking it through with another writer.

• Brainstorming wildly, without limits, and playing the what if game. Throw a curveball at my protagonist. Imagine their deepest, darkest secret, and their greatest fears. In this game, anything goes, and it really can help to unlock a new level of the novel.

• Cleaning out my sock drawer - this one always works!

By derailing the judgement train by doing things I know I’m not good at (apart from the sock drawer clean-out), I can ease my mind towards a clearer vision of what I want to achieve with my project. When I return to it (which I will do in a few minutes), I often find that the answer has surfaced from my subconscious while I’ve been otherwise occupied, and little Miss Nag has gone for a nap, thus ensuring the safety of the universe for one more day.

Yay!

Update: the answer did actually come to me as a result of writing this piece, so that’s a win, and a happy ending! Thanks for reading!

Nuala O’Connor, our competition judge, described Amy’s Mom as

Jennifer said:

Emily Rinkema lives and writes in northern Vermont, USA. Her writing has recently appeared in Variant Lit, Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Ghost Parachute, and Wigleaf, and she won the 2024 Cambridge Prize and the 2024 Lascaux Prize for flash fiction. You can follow her on X, BS, or IG (@emilyrinkema).

Neil Hegarty grew up in Derry.

His novels include The Jewel; and Inch Levels, which was shortlisted for the Kerry Group Novel of the Year award.

Neil’s non-fiction titles include:

Dublin: A View from the Ground;

Frost: That Was the Life That Was, a biography of television journalist David Frost;

The Secret History of our Streets, which tells the story of twentieth-century London;

and The Story of Ireland, which accompanies the BBC television history of Ireland.

His short fiction and essays have appeared in the Dublin Review, Stinging Fly, Cyphers, PVA, Banshee, Tangerine, and other journals; and in a range of anthologies. Neil is co-editor of the essay collection Impermanence, which was adapted for radio by RTE. He is a regular writer on the Irish Times.

Neil lives in Dublin.

Neil Hegarty grew up in Derry.

His novels include The Jewel; and Inch Levels, which was shortlisted for the Kerry Group Novel of the Year award.

Neil’s non-fiction titles include:

Dublin: A View from the Ground;

Frost: That Was the Life That Was, a biography of television journalist David Frost;

The Secret History of our Streets, which tells the story of twentieth-century London;

and The Story of Ireland, which accompanies the BBC television history of Ireland.

His short fiction and essays have appeared in the Dublin Review, Stinging Fly, Cyphers, PVA, Banshee, Tangerine, and other journals; and in a range of anthologies. Neil is co-editor of the essay collection Impermanence, which was adapted for radio by RTE. He is a regular writer on the Irish Times.

Neil lives in Dublin.

I enjoy writing these craft posts, not only because they focus my mind on my own writing, but also because I believe you guys find them encouraging. This is important to me, because I really do want to encourage our readers to think about their writing, and to reflect on how much they know. Truth is, though, the more I know about writing, the more I know I don’t know. This knowledge helps me bring a beginner’s mind to each project, so when I have a new idea for a story or a novel, I feel like a child taking up a paint brush for the very first time.

How do I do this again?

Haven’t a clue, but I’ll give it a go!

My gut has always guided me, in writing as much as in life. I create organically and instinctively, throw out my word net and catch the pesky critters as they fly by in the aether. This approach has thus far served me well, and my very best stories just sort of fell onto the page in a frenzy of tapping fingers. Tap, tap, tap, and there it was, a freshly minted tale, a brand-new page-turner. Usually, it needs only a few finishing touches and a good polish, plus some feedback from my valued peer readers, to get it to the point where I can declare it complete, or as close to complete as any artistic project can be.

I know many other writers who likewise rely on the muse of the moment, and who agree with me that, when we plan a short story too deeply, we can lose something along the way. Indeed, I have often had a really good idea then planned the heck out of it, to the extent that I lost interest and moved on to another project. For me, art has to come in a breathless moment, and blindside me. If the work captures a little of that wild creative energy, if it is suffused with the wonder I felt in the act of creation, then the reader will, I hope, catch the feeling of that moment too.

Having said this, I believe that instinct and inspiration are rarely effective unless one has learned good tools and techniques. For example, I have at times been inspired to create abstract paintings. An image comes to me, a grand vision for an incredible work, but I lack the skills to produce it. On occasion I have attempted to produce pencil sketches of such pieces, but the result has always been poor. Without the right tools and techniques, the image was wasted on me, leading me to wonder if it had perhaps called to the wrong house.

However, when literary inspiration comes, I’m primed for it.

I might fumble around for a bit, but ultimately I will know what to do, and equally how to do it, because I have learned. This learning has taken many forms, including training courses and craft books, but my greatest teachers have been failure and the work of other writers.

Risking failure

Hardly anyone is instantly good at creative writing. For sure, we might have all the words and show promise with our early efforts, but it takes time to develop as an artist, no matter our form of expression. Remember the pictures you painted when you were a child, of a tree, your home, your family? Though you might have instinctively understood focal point, they most likely lacked depth and perspective. As you grew, so too did your world, and your representation of it became three dimensional. The more you drew and painted, always with the wonder and playful attitude appropriate to your age, the better your work became. You played, experimented, expressed yourself, learned from your mistakes, and tried to do better the next time. Even better if there was a prize to be won, because there’s nothing like a little competition to motivate us to excel.

The same is true of writing. I had to write many poorly executed stories before I wrote my first truly satisfying one. I progressed by degrees, learned from rejection, experimentation, observation. Each new story was an attempt, one I was sure would be accepted by a journal. When it wasn’t, I looked at the story again and realised that it wasn’t as good as I had at first thought. Then came my first placing in a competition, and soon after my first publication and my first competition win. Oh joy!

I guess what I’m really saying is that I evolved, and I am still evolving, still making mistakes. The important thing is the doing, the attempting, the willingness to push the envelope as far as I can with each new project.

Having the courage to risk failure, that’s the trick!

Learning from other writers

Art, like science, tends to be derivative. Einstein couldn’t have happened without Newton, I couldn’t have happened without Chekhov and Joyce. Now, I’m no literary genius, but I can pen a decent tale. My ability to do so is based not only on the writings of those who came before me, but also my contemporaries. This is not to say that one should copy, but we can be inspired, and see something in someone else’s work that makes us question our own. Perhaps we see a technique we haven’t tried, like the use of repetition or white space, and decide to give it a go. Perhaps it is the depth of character which impresses us, and makes us want to dive deeper into that aspect of our next project. Building and releasing tension, I’ve learned some new tricks about them recently, and also form.

Unpacking an amazing novel by a brilliant writer allows me to develop a deeper understanding of the techniques they used, and thus absorb some of their method for myself.

Donal Ryan showed me how to write about the extraordinary lives of ordinary people, Nuala O’Connor’s writing taught me the value of lyrical prose, Neil Hegarty showed me alternative forms to a straight-forward linear narrative. My dear friend Barbara Byar showed me, in her brilliant and soon-to-be-released novel In The Desert, how to get wild with all three of the above. You might write something, structure a sentence or a story in a way that sparks my imagination, and gives me permission to think in a slightly different way. With a little practice, the techniques become my own, executed in my own unique way. Perhaps another writer will then see what I’ve produced, and adapt the methods to their own work.

Every writer encourages me to venture to new places with my writing, and risk ever greater literary experiments.

Error, derivation, evolution; we learn from our mistakes and from each other.

The formula, then, to being a good writer, is to write a lot and read a lot.

Doing so with an open mind and a playful, childlike attitude engenders learning, and as each day passes, we know a little more, we write a little better, and we grow as artists.

It just so much darned fun, isn’t it?

Best job in the world!

By the way, if you’d like to read one of my recent stories, check out yesterday’s New Irish Writing section of the Irish Independent newspaper.

The story is called Somewhere Near Waterloo.