In 2021, I interviewed Hattie Crisell, the producer and host of the podcast In Writing with Hattie Crisell. In each episode, Hattie, a writer, journalist, and contributing editor at Grazia magazine, interviews a writer about their creative inspiration and practice, often in the place where they choose to write. It’s well worth a listen if you haven’t already, with interesting insights from a range of perspectives, including but not limited to those of novelists, poets, screenwriters, journalists, and filmmakers.

The biggest takeaway for me, as a new writer listening to the successful creatives featured on the podcast, was simple: There are no ‘rules’. Every writer has a unique early writing life, a writing space and routine that reflect their individual quirks, and their own professional journey to where they are now. It’s less about right or wrong and more about what works for you.

On the surface, this may appear liberating. But for someone with oppositional tendencies like me, this creates an infinite plethora of choices to make, even before beginning to not put them into practice. Does a clear desk really equate to a clear mind? Or should I surround myself with ‘stuff’ to inspire my writing process? Should I listen to The Idles or write in silence? Get up early to write or stay up late? Free write or edit as I go? Plan or pounce? See what I mean. For someone who is still trying to figure out who she is as a human, let alone her identity as a writer, the endless choices are exhausting, leaving little energy to not implement them when decisions are made.

The truth is, I spend infinitely more time thinking about writing (the how, where, why, and when) and angsting about not establishing positive creative practices than actually writing.

There is a glimmer of hope.

Recently, I read Joan Didion’s essay On Keeping a Notebook, and it struck me that jotting down ideas in a notebook is the only constant in my writing practice. It has evolved by happy accident rather than design: I love notebooks with arty covers and the feel of writing on thick paper, and as a perimenopausal woman, I constantly forget things. For these reasons and because I do not write in a notebook as a matter of routine (yes, you’ve guessed it, I forget), this practice has not fallen foul of my oppositional tilt.

I use a new page for each entry. My story ideas often take the shape of a spider diagram, with the initial seed of inspiration at the centre and arms connecting to keywords related to characters, setting, tense, key questions, and anything else that comes to mind. This usually starts in a simple form and evolves over time with bursts of inspiration in the middle of the night, during a shower, or after a glass of vino or two, often spilling over to the next few pages. I prefer to sit with an idea and let it percolate until it takes a recognisable form in my mind before I start writing.

If you’d asked me before I wrote this article, I’d have bet you 50 quid that that’s all I use the notebook for. Well, let’s just say I’d be in my overdraft.

It turns out I’ve used it far more variedly over the years than I give myself credit for. Inspired by reading, I’ve jotted down examples of experimental story structures, subversive dialogue, and novel tense shifting, among other techniques; outlined a mini essay on my thoughts on experimentation and hospitality to adhere to when I write; listed magpied words or phrases that have been used in innovative ways as reminders of the electric possibilities of language; and even scrawled a couple of pages of free writing, which I would swear I don’t do but aspire to.

In this way, my reflection on my use of a notebook echoes Didion’s. Our notebooks do, indeed, ‘give us away’ because ‘the common denominator...is always, transparently, shamelessly, the implacable “I.”’

Maybe I’m not oppositional. Maybe I’m just scared.

Scared to commit fully in case I fall short. Scared to embrace my creativity because writing leaves me feeling exposed. Scared that I will fall into the trap of writing for other people, when it’s so important for me to do this for myself and for any external success to be an added bonus rather than intrinsic motivation.

There’s a lot for me personally to unpack here, but one thing is clear.

Without realising it, my notebook is my safe space. It’s where I store sparks of stories, explore ideas without inhibition or doubt, experiment with new techniques, and work out what matters to me as a writer, using it as a guide. The pages are often messy, which is a positive sign; when I’m stressed, I tend to make things look tidy to find some kind of order or control. I don’t draw because I am rubbish at it, but there are sketches for when words didn’t come fast enough. There’s a freedom, honesty, and energy that sometimes gets stifled when I come to write, as I subconsciously start to frame my words in relation to outside constructs. It’s my first album, unfettered and raw; some of my best work in terms of its potential.

In Didion’s words, ‘your notebook will never help me, nor mine you’, but talking about craft and its relationship with the psychology of writing helps. It creates community and connection and hope—three things we need to preserve in the world right now.

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!

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!

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!

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.

We published some great craft articles this year, so we decided to round off 2025 by revisiting some of them. These are our favourite pieces, and do something special to illuminate some aspect of writing.

We’re busy here at Frazz HQ, as we prepare Issue 4 for launch in the New Year, so this post will be brief. I hope you’ll forgive me for rambling a bit, but I ‘m writing this on the go.

There’s little fickler than fashion. We all know this. That snug pullover you bought last year, and hope to renew this winter? Forget it, it’s history, and the stores have moved on to this season’s style.

Likewise, the publishing industry goes through fads. Anyone for:

Gone Girl On The Train In The Window Who Had A Tattoo And Kicked The…

You know what I mean, and I’m not criticising the books or writers I’m hinting at, just pointing out that there was a fashion, not so very long ago, for novels with Girl in the title.

What doesn’t tend to change a whole lot is an author’s individual style - the writer’s voice as opposed to the voices of their characters. Think of it as a creative fingerprint, the identifying mark that this work is theirs, and theirs alone. Others might be inspired by it, and may even try to copy it, but they too will find that something of themselves leaks into the process, and the end result will be very much in their own personal style, and not that of the author they’re drawing from.

That is not to say that a writer’s style is static. No, it evolves and grows over the course of their career, sometimes as a result of changes in the writer’s life or internal make-up. Writers can even reinvent themselves, and adopt a whole new writing persona, but even then, I believe the basic fingerprint will remain, and will make their work identifiable, so that even without knowing the writer’s name, we will recognise their work.

I like to think of my own style as being rhythmic and lyrical, a little hard-edged, and impactful. The language and tone of a piece, be it a short story or a novel, is important to me, and I try to write it so that it sings to the reader, and that every beat of a sentence lands perfectly with them. Hence, I take care to craft every sentence to achieve the desired result.

But I didn’t start out writing in this way.

My style evolved through a process of failure, and I wrote a lot of poor stories to get to where I am now. Which is perfectly fine, because there is no greater teacher than failure. And I still fail, and will continue to do so as I evolve. What’s important is being willing to risk failure, and not being hard on myself when a piece doesn’t work.

I should clarify; by failure, I mean in my personal judgement rather than by any external measure. Does the piece work for me, and does it achieve the desired result? Does it need more work, or is it something that, at a certain point, is unsalvageable?

In truth, though, there is no such thing as failure in writing, because it is the doing of it, the taking of the risk, which counts.

Write a lot, read a lot; this is how we become good, and better, writers. Playing with form, language, experimenting with our writing, is how we develop our style.

Yes, it can be frustrating at times, and sure, there are disappointments, but the actual writing, the crafting of a perfect sentence and a wonderful story, knowing we got it right and that as time goes on, we get it right more often than not… that’s the buzz, the tonic, the pure magic of being a writer.

So play with style.

Be influenced by the work you read, but ignore the trends.

Experiment and have fun.

Be true to yourself.

And let the you-ness of you sing through in every word, because you, just as you are now, are more than enough.

It’s no secret that I am a lover of the short story form, and I like to think that I have garnered a pretty good reputation as a short story writer, and that readers enjoy my work as much as I enjoy producing it. I’ve crafted many stories I’m proud of, and I’m grateful that a good few of these have achieved something for me, either in terms of publication or doing well in competitions. Other stories, ones I’d swear are the best material I’ve ever produced, have yet to find a home. There may be many reasons for this, up to and including me being deluded about my own genius. Yeah, I know, but humble servant of art that I am, it still does happen from time to time!

And yet…

For all the successes I’ve enjoyed to date, there is a place I’ve yet to reach with my writing. It’s something I know when I see it, and I am determined to bring my craft to that level, mainly because I feel an artistic imperative to do so, but also so I can hopefully place some stories in my dream publications. It’ll happen some day, I know it will, and with each new story I create, I am edging closer to it. I’ve received a number of tiered rejections from those publications, so I’m at least knocking on their doors.

I’m currently reading a book called Short Circuit, which is a collection of essays on the art of the short story, edited by Vanessa Gebbie. I picked it up in the pop-up bookshop in Doolin when I was at the UL Creative Writing Winter School, and the content has proved to be quite excellent.

The first essay, by Alison MacLeod and entitled Writing and Risk-Taking, is all about (not surprisingly) taking risks with our writing. Specifically, she refers to writing about taboo subjects. Fetishes, that sort of thing, and it got me thinking about how and why I take risks with my writing, and why it’s important for me to keep pushing the limits of what I write about. Perhaps even more important is to challenge what I give myself permission to write about.

Sure, I’ll take risks with form and language, and I’ll address important issues such as dementia, dying, grief and sexual trauma. But writing about actual sex? No, so far I’ve mostly skirted around it, and it makes me wonder, why do I shy away from what is a most human and intimate act? Is it due to my Irish Catholic upbringing, or could it be that I fear I won’t get it right? Possibly, it is both, yet I must somehow overcome these hurdles, because if this artist isn’t willing to write about the things she finds hard to write about then she’s failing in her task.

Writing about sex can be erotic without being raunchy, and can be glorious rather than gaudy. To take an example of how it can be achieved in the most beautiful fashion, I turn your attention to the wonderful novel Nora (New Island Books, 2022) by Nuala O’Connor, who in my opinion is one the finest Irish writers of her, or any, generation.

No one writes about sex and sexuality better than Nuala. Her approach to it is as tender as it is visceral, as lyrical as it is muscular, rendering the most intimate moments in vivid shades through the musicality of her prose.

The following is from the opening of Nora, and is used with the kind permission of the author.

Such wonderful prose, and such a beautiful, intimate scene; what Nuala manages to show us in this brief and powerful passage is astonishing. The playfulness of the characters, their teasing of each other, is so true to life. Nora’s willingness to pleasure James, his coy way of asking for it, her understanding of his unspoken desire, speaks deeply not only of their physical intimacy, but also of their deep and enduring emotional bond. These characters totally love each other, and I can only imagine that the great James Joyce, himself a fearless artist, would wholeheartedly approve of how Nuala has depicted him and his beloved Nora Barnacle.

Let me ponder this a bit more deeply.

In any story, we have characters, and they interact with each other as people do. We have dialogue, movement, momentum. Language is of course of huge importance, and should be an experience in itself, but there can be many levels to a story. Though I might slip into my characters’ skins to some degree, I must ask myself, am I willing to go all the way in like Nuala does, and really occupy their lives? When my female protagonist goes to bed with her lover, must I fade to black, or gloss over the details? If I am to reveal who she truly is to the reader, surely no better way exists than to show her in the most intimate of exchanges.

It matters, it really does, that we take these sorts of risks with our writing, that we challenge ourselves and our readers, that we draw as close as we can to our characters. In doing so, we can discover who they are, and also who we are.

To paraphrase Alice, the one who followed a tardy white rabbit into Wonderland, I don’t know what I think about a thing until I write about it. To stretch the idea a bit further: in the film The Matrix, Neo follows the girl with the white rabbit tattoo to a nightclub, where he meets Trinity, and she brings him to meet the enigmatic Morpheus, the man who will free his mind.

I too must follow the white rabbit, and discover where he will lead me. I must free my mind and creativity from the barriers that I and my life experiences have set for it.

I must become my own Morpheus.

To this end, I have an idea for a new short story that I’ve been tinkering with for the last week, and it is currently stewing somewhere between my amygdala and hippocampus. This story involves matters of an unusual sexual nature, and very specifically so. In part, I’m letting the story stew because I’m not yet willing to take the risk of writing it, but here and now, I am setting myself a challenge, to complete it by the end of the holiday season.

It’s time for me to be brave and get intimate with my characters, and to do so in the sort of style that Nuala O’Connor excels at.

This is the secret sauce, the deep dive into the hearts and souls of my characters that my writing needs right now.

I must be unafraid.

No need to look first.

I’m just going to jump.

Check out my interview with Nuala O’Connor, in which she touches on some of the matters discussed in this post.

I’ll admit to having felt a bit flat about my writing, of late. I was tired, a little bored with what I was doing, doubting myself and the quality and meaning of my work.

Not good.

I needed something to light the spark again, because as insular as I can be, as in love with my own company as I often am, I cannot grow as an artist in isolation. My mind eats itself, and my creativity wilts, shedding shrunken leaves that might once have been brilliant had it not been for lack of light. I need other creatives to bring that light into my life, I need their presence and the joy of community, of the sense of common purpose that only they can give me. It’s one of the reasons that Laura and I started Frazzled Lit together, and it was one of the many reasons I was in Doolin last week, for the 2025 University of Limerick (UL) Creative Writing Winter School.

Picture this recipe: a stellar group of facilitators from the UL Creative Writing faculty, a sprinkling of guest tutors, and a group of twenty-eight superbly talented writers, poets and playwrights, all gathered in a small hotel in a remote Irish village (Doolin, Co. Clare) on the wild Atlantic coast, with wonderful food, the glowing hospitality of Hotel Doolin, warm and comfortable rooms, and more than enough love and delicate pastries to chase the winter away. Three and a half days passed in an intense blast of creative energy and inspiration, and now I am home and my mind is on FIRE!

But these are just words, and I am still failing to capture the essence of what it was like, so let me try again by reflecting on how deeply affected I was by the experience.

I was reintroduced to the wonder of what we do as artists, granted the freedom to play with my writing, encouraged at every turn to get messy and attempt, in form, language and concepts, to reach beyond my current capabilities and arrive at a new place with my writing. All this, in concert with my fellow participants, led me back to a deep love of what I do as an artist, and what my peers are doing with their work.

Yes, that’s it; what I mostly felt was love!

I’ve never been part of such a tightly bound group of creatives, one that was so encouraging to the individual while being devoted to the welfare of the whole. My sense is that we were one, bound by the fellowship of common purpose, travelling together on a great journey that culminated in our Open Mic event, at which we got to perform our work, and I got to play MC (I was one of three). The work I heard that night was mindblowing, unforgettable, beautiful, courageous, tender… everything that art could possibly be, it was right there before us in the joy of a perfect moment, forever etched into my heart. I fully expect some of the bonds I formed in Doolin to endure a lifetime, and nothing could make me happier.

But you want some specifics, don’t you?

Winter School featured tutorials from:

• Sarah Moore-Fitzgerald - Professor, author, absolutely wonderful lady, and a total powerhouse of creative wisdom. She’s been shortlisted for the Waterstones Prize, The Calderdale Book Awards, Scotland’s Red Book Awards, The Irish Book Awards and CBI book of the year. Her seven novels have been widely translated and are published by Orion and Hachette.

• Donal Ryan - Associate Professor, Man Booker longlisted author for The Spinning Heart. His novel Heart, Be At Peace won the 2024 An Post Irish Book of the Year Award and the 2025 Orwell Prize for Political Fiction. Donal is my favourite author, and one of my literary heroes. I recommend you not only read his work, but study it very closely.

• Neil Hegarty - Guest tutor. Neil is one of Ireland’s finest authors, his work spans many forms, and his writing is simply sublime. Also, he is an absolutely wonderful and generous man.

• Kerry Neville - author of Momma May Be Mad, and faculty member in the creative writing program at Georgia College and State University. Kerry is a delightful lady, and she reopened my mind to the joy of wonder.

• Emily Cullen - Assistant Professor, and the inaugural Meskell UL-Fifty Poet in Residence. She is one of Ireland’s most celebrated poets, and has published three wonderful collections of her work. Also, a more generous lady one could not hope to meet!

• Eoin Devereaux - Professor of Sociology at UL, poet and post-punk musician. Eoin radiates more love and warmth than a July sun, and made us all feel at home and welcome. His debut poetry collection, Gardening Leave, is simply sublime!

• Sheila Killian - Professor Emeritus at UL, author of the incredible Something Bigger, and an inspirational tutor.

• Mary O’Malley - Multi-award winning poet, she has published many collections and is one of our national treasures.

As well as the amazing tutorials, I had a one-on-one feedback session with Donal Ryan on the opening of my most recently completed novel. Like, oh my absolute gosh!

I had breakfast with Neil, Kerry and Sarah.

I conversed with Sheila and Eoin, and was rendered much needed assistance by Emily in the form of life-saving vitamin C.

I got to be a writer among writers, and was bathed in so much creative energy that I glowed.

Seriously, it blew my mind!

I’m still processing it all, trying to return to normal life, but nothing will be the same post-Winter School because the entire landscape of my creative cosmos has changed. I see differently, think differently. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say that a light has been turned on inside of me, one I didn’t even know was there.

I fell in love with my writing again in Doolin.

And this is, perhaps, where my story really begins!

My last post, Busy, busy, busy, got me thinking about productivity - a word I am loathe to use in connection with art, but to me it seems an appropriate one.

In my former career, I was a software developer, project and team manager; you name it, I wore that hat. Getting the job done, and done right, was all that mattered. The principles I worked by then - efficiency, economy of scale, project and document management - are of great value to me today as a writer. The product has changed but the goal is the same: create a good result and deliver it to market in a timely manner.

I hear writers grinding their teeth as they read this. Sorry, guys, but it’s just how my neurofunky brain works. I like to get things done and tick them off my list, and this brings me to the dual topics of this post, which are dealing with (or not dealing with) the endless distractions we face in this modern world, and how we can learn to relax and enjoy the journey.

(Lack of) Focus

As I sit here this morning, trying to concentrate on my next novel, my mind and body are being drawn in many directions. My dog wants me to play with him, my phone is buzzing, I’m watching the weather forecast to see if I can find a gap in the rain to play golf, and watching the international newsfeeds to see what sort of new craziness happened while I was sleeping.

Oh, look! Something shiny!

And I’m off again.

Seriously, it makes me wonder how I’ve achieved so much when I have the attention span of a goldfish, but this is how my brain works. Then there are other times when I’m right in the zone and the world fades away, leaving just the words before me. The question is, how do I hack my brain to get it there in a more on-demand sort of way?

Some parts of the solution are obvious:

• Give my dog a nice beef bone to chew (not lamb, because lamb bones can splinter and shatter, and that ain’t good for doggies).

• Put my phone on silent, and shove it in a drawer.

• Clear my desk of all shiny and interesting objects that might distract me

• Close all the open windows on my desktop, apart from the one I’m using.

• Switch my word processor to Focus Mode.

• Commit to a period of time in which I will stay with what I’m doing.

Another practice I find really helpful is keeping a daily writing journal. I find it hard to think inside my head, if that makes sense, and it’s easier for me to get a grasp on the miasma of my thoughts when I write them down in some sort of ordered, or even disordered, fashion.

In my journal, I set down a clear intention for what I want to achieve in the day. If that’s making progress on my current novel then I’ll note the starting word count, and set a goal of writing an extra 100-300 words for the day. I usually find that once the first 300 words are written, I can easily set a new target of 600 words, then 800, then 1,000 words. What I’m really doing in the journal is encouraging myself to stay on track and keep going. I applaud myself for every achievement, and never scold myself for not reaching a target, because at least I showed up and tried.

Simple stuff, right?

But my brain is still funky, so even though I really want to write a few more words, it will hijack my thoughts and direct them to the short story I started earlier this week, a random tune, a video I need to watch, what my dog is up to, my budget, my Submittable account…

Argh!

Resistance is futile, it seems, and what I’m left with is radical acceptance. This is how I am, so it’s better for me to say a resounding Yes! than fight it, and get down to working with what I’ve got.

So be it

It’s easy to accept the acceptable. No big deal there, and no great spiritual effort required. The real effort is in accepting what we resist, but it is a spiritual axiom that we can surrender to win. Lay down one’s arms, and the battle is over.

‘So be it,’ as a good friend of mine often says, and his words neatly encapsulate what I’m trying to say.

For me, acceptance means writing this post instead of working on my novel, because this is where I can make progress right now. In around ten minutes, I’m going to switch tabs and look again at the very complex plot diagram for that novel, and make a couple of refinements to it, followed by a glance at a short story. I do what I can do in the moment, make progress where I can, chop and change, and go with the flow.

Where the flow stops is when I get frustrated that this is the way things are, which brings me back to acceptance.

I’m not in a race, I’m not competing with anyone. I’m just muddling through, finding my way, and taking what measure of enjoyment I can from my writing day. If by evening I can point to any one project and say that I made progress with it, no matter how small, then I can count it as a good day.

Brains like mine are uniquely suited to writing, I believe, because distractions can lead me to interesting places. My dog chewing his bone might prompt an idea for a poem about addiction and perseverance (in fact, it just did), something in my newsfeed might inspire a new short story. By going with the flow and not resisting the distractions, I can find inspiration everywhere. In this way, having a weirdly wired brain can be as much an asset as a liability, and as hard as it is to get things done, I am so driven that I do actually do do it, albeit in a non-linear way.

And that’s fine, because life is very often lifey, distracting, and messy. My problem starts when I expect it to be any other way. By embracing it as it is, by saying ‘So be it’, I can be happy with whatever progress I make, and enjoy the weird process by which I do it.

Now I’d better get back to it! For a little while, at least :)

I’m going to make an assumption, that many of you work at a day job, and fit in your writing as best you can. Which is pretty normal, because for most of us, writing doesn’t pay the bills or put bread on the table.

I’ve been given, for various reasons (not all of them good), the opportunity to be a full-time writer, and am very grateful for it. All day long I get to do writing stuff, be it working on a novel or short fiction, writing posts like this one, doing Frazz-related work, and generally taking care of business. As the man says, if you love what you do then you’ll never work a day in your life.

And I do love it, and feel very blessed.

At any given time, I generally have several projects in train. At the moment, I’m working on:

• A new short story.

• Planning two new novels.

• Reading submissions and coordinating the reading effort for our upcoming issue.

• Doing preparatory work to put the issue together.

• Managing my new Substack project, Into The Workshop - if you haven’t checked it out yet then do please pop over there and see if it might be of interest to you. Your support would be very much appreciated!

• Beta-reading for my writing pals.

• Preparing for my trip, later this month, to the University of Limerick Creative Writing Winter School in the west of Ireland. It’s a pretty big deal, and I can’t wait to get there!

• Working on edits for a client.

• Submitting work to competitions and open calls.

• Reading published work, because that’s also a part of the job. I’m currently reading The Wren, The Wren by Booker-winning author Anne Enright, because… well, because she’s Anne Enright, whom I class as one of the best Irish writers of her generation, if not ever, and I greatly admire her work.

• Staring out the window.

• Freaking out about how much I have to get through today, because there aren’t enough hours in which to do it all.

I’m not bragging here, just saying it as it is, and it’s all good, guys, it really is, but being a goal-oriented person, I can drive myself pretty hard, and that’s no good for anyone. I need to manage my time well, and adopt good working practices so that I work smarter, not harder (these practices will likely be the subject of a future post).

In the midst of it all, I need to take care of my well-being. Exercise, diet, these are important for the writer. Awareness of posture, not becoming isolated, are crucial. I’m a keen golfer, so that takes care of some of it, but any form of exercise is good, as are mindfulness and meditation. The answers often come when our minds are quiet, not when they are busy.

So this is the writing life, and it’s a dream come true. Mostly, it doesn’t feel like work, but I do regard it as my day job. I’m more fortunate than most writers, I recognise that, just as I recognise how difficult it can be for other writers to fit their art around work, family and other committments. I have the greatest admiration for anyone who can do all that, and still produce quality material.

Seriously, my hat’s off to you!

We are writers, creators, visionaries, and in whatever capacity we can be these things, we do so with the fullest of hearts. The rewards tend to be intangible at times, perhaps even most of the time, but it is so very much worth it. Even if only one person reads our work and gets what we are trying to do.

It means something.

It has value.

So keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll do likewise, but we cannot do it alone. Be a part of the community of creatives. Give to others, and be generous and honest in your praise and criticism of their work. Help those starting out, because you’ve been there too, and you’d have loved to have had someone like you to help you in your early days.

Cherish your writing friends. Be joyful about their achievements, commiserate with them in their losses. We need each other on this often lonely literary adventure.

Most of all, enjoy the heck out of every writing moment, because each one is a blessed gift.

Okay, best get back to it - deep, calming breath, and here we go!

When I take a piece of writing into a group session, I’m often surprised by the meaning my peers take from it. I may have had an idea in mind for what I wanted the piece to say - then Bam! - someone sees some aspect of the story which means something entirely different to them. Did I see, it? Nope, totally missed that one, but when it’s pointed out to me, it becomes as clear as day.

So who makes meaning, the artist or the reader, and whose interpretation is more important? The truth, I suppose, is that they are both valid opinions, and once an artist puts their work out into the world, it no longer belongs to only them. Readers, crit partners, editors, the artist’s least favourite aunt; everyone will have a perspective on the work.

When I start a new short story, I’m not really concerned about what it might mean when I finish it. I write by exploration, so while I may have an idea in my mind for what it means, the story, the actions and reactions of the characters, the narrative voice, are far more relevant to the task before me. Get those wrong and at best I’ll have a poorly executed tale, and at worst a jumble of rubbish.

Starting a novel is a little different. I often like to write up to three exploratory chapters to get a feel for the character and their world, then step back and do some degree of planning, at which point I will generally consider what I want the reader to get from the tale. A vague and nebulous idea is enough to help nudge the work in the direction I want it to go in, though the final version may not reflect the initial idea at all. This is because stories and characters by their very nature tend to be capricious, and so will acquire a life of their own early on in a project.

If there is a meaning to a piece, then, I think it must first and foremost arise out of, and belong to, the protagonist.

Looking at my short story Life On Pluto, it’s very much about unresolved grief, though I didn’t have the theme in mind when I started writing the opening sentences. It was more about capturing the voice and atmosphere of the piece at that point, and creating a very real sense of place to establish an emotional landscape for the story. Or it wasn’t, because what really happened was that I wrote the paragraph in a single burst, then sat back and said, ‘Yeah!’

In the story, Sharon works as a receptionist in a remote hotel (which she likens to a passenger liner). She lost her beloved fiance in a car accident nine months earlier. In the following passage, about one third into the story, she muses about the possibility of his continued existence on another plane.

I actually did hear that radio report one day, and it lodged in my mind. Three months later, it found its way into this story, and became a very powerful symbol for Sharon. In the above passage, she uses it as a bridge to the hereafter, which brings her a little closer to the man she loved and lost. For me as the writer, it created meaning, but the meaning really belongs to Sharon and to the reader. Those who have lost someone they love will, I hope, connect with the story and with Sharon’s hope, and perhaps might draw some comfort from the tale.

Symbols are a great way to create meaning, and I use many of them in Life On Pluto, from mist to mountains, from alien life to candles. Was I intentional in their use? To be honest, no. I simply stepped into the scene and looked around, seeing Sharon’s world through her eyes and her interpretations. If we make our characters real enough, their worldview will always be colourerd by their emotions and experiences, so the meaning to be found in the symbols I used is entirely hers and not mine (though I do concur with my character in this case).

I’m just shooting the breeze here, and if I have any advice to offer, it’s to let your characters create meaning from their personal journey. Be compassionate with them, and let them guide you to those inner and outer symbols, be they objects or transformative events, that resonate deeply with them. They will make the meaning in your novel and story, and the work will ring true.

And, should a reader take an entirely different meaning from it, that’s cool too, because they will see your story through the lens of their worldview, and that’s just as valid as yours.

People don’t think I’m shy, but I am. If I had to pick a description, I’d say that I’m an introverted people-person, and am far more comfortable in an intimate one-on-one conversation than I am in a group. If I’m at a party or an event, you’ll find me in the kitchen or in a quiet corner discussing deep and meaningful matters with a likeminded individual. This can often be misconstrued as aloofness, but it’s actually the opposite; I crave connection to ground me in this crazy world. Perhaps this is why creative non-fiction, the literary equivalent of a intimate chat, so appeals to me, because it speaks directly to my heart.

In thinking about how to frame this post, I recalled the viral TED Talk by author, academic, and shame researcher Brené Brown, in which she spoke about how sharing our vulnerability stories can build real connection, and help relieve us of our shame. This is truth to power in its most personal, fundamental, and courageous form, and to my mind, it’s exactly what creative non-fiction is about (or I should say, is often about, because I wouldn’t want to limit any writer’s expression in any way). What was once painful, awful, embarrassing, joyful, is transformed by art into an honest expression of your humanity, touching your heart to ours. To reveal oneself in this way is authentic and liberating, and we as editors applaud you for your courage and wisdom.

Submit to Issue 4

In terms of language, all the tools of the fiction writer are at the disposal of the non-fiction writer, who are in many cases one and the same person. Good writing, keen observation, a certain elegance and flair in the telling, are essential in the creative non-fiction pieces we select for publication in Frazzled Lit, but they must always ring with truth, because what we most look for is authenticity. The work should be thought provoking, perhaps sobering, and linger long in our minds and hearts. We want not so much an admission as an embracing of your experience, one which welcomes us to see a part of you in a transformative and cathartic way.

This doesn’t mean that you must bare all and render yourself naked before the world - the writer should always be mindful of their boundaries and ours - but we do want a window into your life. Bring us your dejection and defeat, bring us your joy, acceptance, triumph, and self-actualisation, and capture it all within a crystal-clear span. Give us your unique lived experience from a perspective that only you can know. By sharing it with us, you validate our humanity and yours, and give us permission to own our pleasures and our pain.

When you share your creative non-fiction with us, we promise to treat it as tenderly as if you had whispered your story to us by candlelight in a quiet backstreet cafe. We will remember you, and your experience will become a part of our shared history. And, should we chance to actually meet you some day, we will already know you, for you will have shown us the true colour of your soul.

We’ve published some great creative non-fiction in Frazzled Lit. Below, I offer you three of what I consider to be fine examples of the craft.

Submit to Issue 4

We love flash fiction here at Frazzled Lit, how it can make us sit up and think, and pack a gut punch into so few words. I don’t profess to be a great exponent of flash, though I’ve written many pieces that went on to get published. I won second place in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize in 2023 with my story City Rat, and was a finalist last year in the Allingham Festival flash competition. As a reader and an editor then, I like to think that I know good flash when I read it, and the pieces that make it into Frazzled Lit are the ones that leave me a little breathless, and give me pause for thought. Perhaps a vivid image lingers with me, or the story might draw something extraordinary out of an ordinary moment.

Whatever it may be, flash fiction must strike home and affect me in some way.

Submit to Issue 4

During my interview with our flash-wiz friend from Fractured Lit, I reminded him of something he had said on social media the day before about the craft of writing flash fiction.

Hard to disagree with any of that, right? But it seems a tall order. Below, I attempt to unpack it piece by piece.

The language of poetry

With so few words to play with in a flash piece, making good choices about the words you use is vital. The right word at the right point can speak volumes, and when coupled with assonance, alliteration and repetition, the power of the words you choose can be greatly magnified.

We want to be dazzled by your words but that doesn’t mean the language has to be complex and overblown. What it absolutely has to be is true to the voice of the narrator, and show a touch of elegance and crafting. Simple language is great and poetry in itself, in fact the best flash pieces I’ve read have been written in plain language that doesn’t get between me and my understanding of the work.

More than reading your words, I want to feel them!

Action/reaction

Newton’s Third Law of Motion states that for every action there is an equal an opposite reaction. What holds true in physics also holds true in story. An event occurs that puts our characters under pressure, and they react; stimulate the nerve by passing a charge through it, and the limb responds.

Action and reaction, cause and effect, this is the symmetry of causality, and our characters behave as they do because we make them.

Context and characterisation

Context means the setting and circumstances of the story, which can go a long way to helping us understand the characters within that context. They react to each other and their environment, and through these reactions they show us who they really are, even if they claim to be other.

Don’t just paint the picture for me, instead put the brush in my hand and let me paint it myself. Make the setting real by revealing pertinent and illustrative details. Likewise with your characters. Show me who they are by what they say and do. Drop them in the deep end; they may flounder for a moment, but in the end, they’ll find their stroke, and so will the reader.

The magic of brevity and compression

Use as few words as are needed to get your meaning across. Make it tight so that meaning, emotion and power can be packed into a mean punch. Distil the scene, refine the characters. Keep dialogue tight and purposeful. Use white space and omission to amplify the effect of your prose. You’ve got to get my attention and give me an experience with your flash.

Ball it up really tight, then zap me with it, baby!

I know all you great flash writers out there will have your own opinions on the above, so please feel free to leave a comment below!

Submit to Issue 4

I’m very excited for Frazzled Lit to open again in October because one of the things I love more than anything is reading other people’s work, especially poetry. To open a piece we’ve been sent and be dazzled by the wit and imagery, the perfectly crafted stanzas, the richly textured layers of meaning… well, all I can say is that it is a priceless experience, and we can’t wait to read your work!

Submit to Issue 4 thru October

So I’ve been pondering what it takes for me to want to visit a poem again and again, and what it takes to get published in Frazzled Lit. The best way for me to answer this is to tell you a story.

I wrote a poem for someone the other day. It’s not something I’ve done before, not directly anyway, and I must admit to being worried about letting them read it. Which is an emotion I rarely feel anymore. Sending a poem out into the world for the Lit community and sending a poem to a real live person you know is an entirely different animal. In the end, I decided three things, and I offer them below.

Poetry needs to be honest

I had written a true poem, straight from the gut, and I was worried how it would land. But the thing is that I don’t write anything that isn’t honest. I write nothing that hasn’t first hurt me a little or made me feel something, and I don’t enjoy reading work that doesn’t have some ring of truth to it either.

Don’t hold back, be brave, push yourself to the farthest regions of your emotions.

A poem tells a story, sure, but the best poetry is poetry that you wouldn’t want your family to read. Dark, jaggy-edged, visceral, risky, honest.

Tell A Little, Show A Lot

Poems work best with a mix of show and tell and with any extraneous words removed.

For many years, I’ve been writing for a Twitter poetry prompt called Top Tweet Tuesday, where the focus is on using imagism. This includes using carefully chosen synonyms, metaphors, similes, non cliched comparisons, kennings and a variety of other poetic devices. These poems are always short and stripped back to their most imagistic form, allowing the reader to imagine what the writer is trying to deliver without being told what to see. I think the ability to do this is key to being able to write a good poem.

Keep it short, snappy, visual, and use as little telling as possible.

This doesn’t mean that we only want to read short poems. Some of the best work we’ve published has been forty lines long, but within those forty lines there is true magic, well crafted stanzas that shout from the rooftops with imagism and luxurious language that transports the reader without telling them where we’re being taken. A little telling is also sometimes required, of course, and what’s it’s really about is striking a balance.

Understand Your Audience

You must write what you must write, this I believe. The poem that is born from you cannot be changed or be anything else. BUT you must also understand the audience to which you are delivering the poem.

The poem I wrote the other day was not the usual tone or style I would send to a lit mag or publisher. But there would have been no sense in sending the person a literary poem, so I carefully crafted it to deliver what I wanted, and in the best way possible. It contains all the elements above, but it is a simple narrative prose style poem that is true, came from the gut, and isn’t telling.

Here at Frazzled Lit, we are happy to read anything; it has always been so and will always be so. We have a wide readership and love the fact that we also have a wide range of writers and poets.

So, what are we looking for in poetry submissions?

Honesty, imagery, your pain and your joy.

Make us think, make us cry.

Hurt us a little. Please.

Submit to Issue 4 thru October

So here we are, preparing for a new round of submissions to the Frazzled Lit Short Story Award, laying the groundwork and hoping we’ll receive work that we will love so much, we’ll want to accept it. What makes Frazzled Lit isn’t us. It’s you guys. Our job is to curate your work and present it to the world in the best way possible. In a very real sense then, everyone who has or will submit to us is a part of Frazzled Lit, and an important part of our literary community.

It’s difficult to define an editorial standard when so much of what we do at Frazzled Lit - what the editors of any literary journal do - is a matter of personal taste. There are no actuarial tables for style or voice or character, there are no scorecards for prose. We like what we like, and we publish those pieces which appeal to us, and to our broad readership, the most.

How then can you as a writer or a poet hit the right notes with us? I’ll attempt to answer that question in terms of short story submissions in this post, with a special look at the opening to a story from Issue 3.

Start strong

What do we look for in an opening? But that’s the wrong way to phrase it because we’re not actually looking for anything in particular. It’s not like we have a checklist to tick, and the pieces with the best scores get published.

We want what any reader wants, which is to be surprised, entertained, and excited by the work we’re reading.

A strong opening is essential, because if you grab us from the start, there’s a good chance you’ll hold our attention.

Let’s look at a great example from Issue 3, the opening to Amy’s Mom by Emily Rinkema.

After Amy’s mom drops dead, like literally drops right in her driveway, groceries spilled all around her, we sit in my basement and get high and plan what to do if ours do too. Meaning our moms. Meaning if they just drop dead.

This opening grabbed my attention on first read. I got a sense of a strong and authentic voice that gave me the impression of a young female character. There was action; dropping dead, getting high, planning. There was anxiety: what if our moms drop dead too? There was also a feeling of community (‘… we sit in my basement…’), and a hint of behavioral problems (‘…. and get high…’).

All this in three simple sentences that say it like it is, in the character’s own voice.

I was immediately drawn into her world, and wanted to learn more.

Is the prose grandiose and overblown? No, because this character wouldn’t speak in anything but simple terms, but that doesn’t mean that she is simple, and can’t grasp the emotional complexities of the situation. Quite the opposite is true of her, in fact.

The writer wasted not a single word in this opening. It is concise, tight and sets the scene perfectly, and I can honestly say that, in my opinion, it is one of the finest openings I have ever read, because the writer kept it real.

Get messy with it

Starting a new story can be easy or it can be challenging. Perhaps the opening comes to you in a flash, as so often happens, or maybe you have an inkling of a voice and a character but are unsure of where their story should begin.

My advice is to start imperfectly, and get messy with it.

Words on the page, that’s what matters at the beginning of the creative process, so write something, anything, to get in the flow, because true inspiration often comes in the doing, not in the thinking. By writing, you will discover your story, your character, the truth of the tale. Later, you can edit, and that’s where the real magic happens. Let the story take shape around you. Breathe life into your characters and stir them to action and emotion.

There’s no science to it, there’s no formula.

You take words and spin them into gold, and we love them.

It’s alchemy, plain and simple.

Can you dig it?

You know what I mean, right? You know it when you watch a great movie, read a great story, enjoy a great novel, hear a great song. Listen to the opening to Hotel California by The Eagles, from their Farewell tour. When the guitar comes in, it hits you somewhere inside and you think, ‘Wow, this good!’, because you just dig it.

That’s what it’s like for us when we read a great piece of writing or a great poem.

We are drawn into your wonderful piece, and say to ourselves:

Wow, this is exactly what we’re looking for!

So here we are reading your wonderful short stories, each one of them a unique and beautiful creation, and I have to say that we are amazed by the variety of themes, and the vision of each and every writer we’ve so far encountered. Truly, there are no limits to the imagination, which got me thinking about what it means to be inspired.

I saw a sardonic post on X a couple of years ago that said:

Let’s set aside the somewhat judgemental tone of the post (we all of us have different processes, and if yours is to wait for inspiration, that’s totally cool), and take a look at what it means to wait, and what it means to grab a muse by the throat until she renders forth a glistening opening line or the perfect ending to a perfect story (note to readers: we do not in any way condone violence against muses, or anyone else for that matter).

What I’m really talking about here are the down times, the slumps, the doldrums on the literary sea. Adrift on becalmed waters, we gaze hopefully towards the sails, wishing for the slightest sign of a breeze... Okay, I’m going wild with my metaphors today, but you get the picture.

I endure such periods from time to time, feeling like a total fraud, wondering if I’ll ever write again because surely, this time, I’ve lost the skill I once had. Never mind the story I finished the week before because that doesn’t count. I want a new one. Like an addict, I crave the rush of being in-process, words spreading across the fertile page and filling me with joy. Still I sit there, berating myself for my failure to write even one good sentence.

I’m being honest here; it’s a tough job sometimes, being a writer.

I’m trying to learn to embrace such times as a necessary part of the creative process, during which I can tinker with ideas and forms, do some free writing, read other people’s work, go back and read some of my own, remember my successes, and play golf (but that’s a whole other post). When the right story comes along, it will be out of the blue, perhaps prompted by an overheard phrase in the supermarket, the memory of a past experience or emotion, or a stray neutrino zipping through my brain and sparking a chain reaction.

Which makes me wonder: is the better strategy to wait for my muse to get up off her lazy ass and whisper in my ear, and save myself the headache? Quite possibly it is, especially when I remember that inspiration means not only to be mentally stimulated to do something creative, but also to draw a breath.

Still, the drive to create and keep creating, and to always create a piece that is better than the last one, is hard to ignore.

Your thoughts on this are welcome!

Let me enumerate some of the ways I try to prompt my muse, and tease a story out of thin air so that it flows free and unforced from my fingers.

1. Free writing, as already mentioned, is a great tool. Sometimes I ramble, writing my name over and over, or just spew babble all over the page. After a minute of this, something kicks into gear, and very often a character’s voice peeks out and waves at me.

2. Listening and observing. People watching and people listening can be great tools for creatives, because we’re such fascinating creatures! See a man on a bridge, staring into the water and mumbling to himself? See a harried mother scolding a child in the grocery story? What are their stories?

3. Posing ‘What if?’ questions. What if a gaming-addicted child is deprived of their console, or a gambler wins big? What if a stranger shows up at your door claiming to be your half-sister? What if an old piano in a ghostly house starts to play of its own accord? What if the sky actually does fall, and that darned chicken is proven right? There are so many possibilities we can explore with this simple technique.

4. Using picture postcards to prompt the imagination. This is something I picked up at a Nuala O’Connor prose workshop in 2022, and resulted in a flash story that went on to be shortlisted in the Oxford Flash Fiction Prize, and published in one of their anthologies. So, take a postcard and look deeply at it for a minute or so, then write down ten or more powerful words that come to you in relation to the picture. Then, craft these words into a paragraph, and see where it takes you.

5. Pick three random words from the dictionary as a prompt, and write a story around the ideas they suggest. It’s not an easy exercise, I think, but it does work.

6. Reading poetry. Poems can spark wonderful story ideas, or set our minds in just the right space to go and write a lyrical piece of prose. For me, the poetry of Brendan Kennelly, Allen Ginsberg, Langston Hughes, and my favourite gal, Laura Cooney, are all constant sources of inspiration.

I’m sure you have your own favourite tools, so please do share them with us in the comments.

The other ideas that occur to me on this topic of waiting versus (let’s call it) striving, come from the excellent book It’s Not About The Shark: How To Solve Unsolvable Problems, by David Niven. In it, he deals with problem solving, and proposes many strategies to help, some of which are pertinent to the matter in hand.

The following are some of my favourites:

1. Don’t let the problem infect your thinking. Obsessing about a problem makes us seventeen times more likely to fail, Niven claims. This is because we become problem rather than solution focused, and so get stuck chasing our tails.

2. Trying harder can make it worse. Sometimes, working harder, trying harder, can make problems worse, and solutions elusive. Working harder can not only be unproductive, it can be counter-productive.

3. Look away, take time. Your ideas don’t come on a schedule. They come to you when you’re doing something else, not staring at the problem. I recommend a physical activity as a distraction, such as a walk or, if it’s to your tastes, a round of golf.

4. Trust yourself. You have the skills, you have the talent. They don’t just vanish, never to return. You got this!

In my experience, nothing is ever wasted in writing. The fragments we create with the exercises above or your own favourite tools will ultimately end up being used in some story or other. Even if it’s a word, a sentence, an emotion, it will turn into gold once we find the right home for it. And once in a while, we can paste fragments together to create a tapestry (but that too is another post).

Let me finish by wishing you a happy and vociferous muse who incessantly badgers you with new ideas. May you always be inspired by her, and may she always be amazed by you!

That’s right, Mr. Owl.

You keep staring at that ‘Declined’ email message, or that shortlist which for some totally insane reason doesn’t include your amazing story.

Believe me, I get it!

But it’s not going to change the reality. It’s nothing personal, and considering that no one actually died as a result, how important is it really?

Over the past few years I’ve submitted hundreds of stories to several hundred opportunities, and only a fraction of those submissions have resulted in some form of success or other, be it a longlisting, shortlisting, winning or getting published. Some years have been better than others, but months, years, whatever time period I might view these results over, are really the imposition of a meaningless constraint. There are no good years or bad years, because each submission is individual, as is each success and failure.

But let’s get away from these very loaded terms - success and failure, rejection and acceptance - and take a moment to consider what we are actually doing as writers.

I’ve written, and have wanted to be a writer, since I was child, because the worlds I discovered between the covers of great works - everything from J.R.R. Tolkien and Frank Herbert to J.D. Salinger and James Joyce - filled me with such wonder, I felt there could be no greater vocation in life than to create my own worlds and stories, and share them with others. Fifty years on, and here I am doing it, writing this post, tinkering with a new short story, working on a new novel, editing an earlier one, reading the work of other writers, interviewing my heroes, and being a part of the literary community.

I had no great plan to end up here, I just wrote the stories I needed to write and said the things I needed to say - or more correctly, that my characters needed me to say for them - and woke up this morning and found myself right where I am. It just sort of happened by showing up every day and trying to be the best writer I could be.

It hasn’t made me exceptional, it hasn’t made me rich or famous, but I do like to think that it has made me a slightly better person, and perhaps a more rounded and compassionate one.

If that’s not success then I don’t know what is!

And yet…

I received something like five rejections last week.

Total bummer, right?

Like, what the heck am I even doing, writing these stories if no one’s actually going to publish them? What’s the point?

To which my child self would say: Because you LOVE THIS!

Yes, I do, when I remember that success for me is in a well-turned phrase, a unique observation, a finely crafted tale. It didn’t exist before I created it, which makes it mine.

I did this, baby! I wrote it!

That, right there, is the joy of the thing, the blood and sweat and tears that the average reader won’t ever understand, but you guys totally get.

This is what it means to be a writer: to fly, to soar, to see the world from the lofty and often lonely altitude of literary creation, to take artistic risks and then plummet when they are unappreciated, only to find a thermal and carry on because we must, we must.

We do this or we die, not in body but in spirit, not in mind but in heart.

I know you understand!

Which brings me to the submissions we receive for issues of Frazzled Lit.

We read and truly appreciate every submission we receive, and we take the time to carefully consider them all. I feel it’s important to say, though, that while we very much wish we could accept everything, the simple truth is that we can’t. Of necessity, there will be rejections, and in technical terms, I’ll be the one sending them out, meaning I’m the one who gets to push the Big Red Button. This may result in much bad karma for me, and might even be why I got all those rejections last week!

So there will be rejections, but no matter what result you receive from us, please know this:

To us you are a success!

You created something only you could have made. Therein lies the victory!

We love what you do, so please, let’s keep doing it together!

Today’s guest post comes from Seán McNicholl, a good friend and an excellent writer. You can read Seán’s Pushcart-nominated story A Different Day in Issue 1 of Frazzled Lit.

Voice is truth.

You can invent plot, experiment with form, play with structure, manipulate emotion — but you can’t fake voice. It’s individual, instinctive, and essentially you.

When I started out, I used to imitate writers I admired. Writing stories like karaoke — trying to sound like someone else. And to be honest, it took a long time to find the confidence to shed all that and write in my own way: out of time, off-key, mis-notes and all.

I remember an interview the late great Larry Cunningham gave, talking about how he got his break on the showband scene. He was auditioning for an agent, singing Jim Reeves’ He’ll Have to Go. Larry said he put everything into it — warbling with emotion, trying to be Reeves. He thought it was the best he’d ever sung. But the agent wasn’t impressed, and asked him to sing it again — this time in his own voice. Larry tried, the agent sighed. Again and again, with the same reply: sing in your own voice. Finally, fed up and fecked off, Larry sang it straight — no frills, no performance, just the notes as they were.

As the last word rang out, the agent clapped and said:

There’s your voice.

Writing is much the same. It’s not about adding layers — it’s about peeling them back. Voice lives in the rhythm, in the breath, in what’s unsaid. It hides in the verbs, the syntax, the absence, the shame, the pride. When we force another’s voice into our work — when it’s inauthentic — we write loud. We write cluttered. We write to be heard, not understood.

The first time I realised voice mattered was with my story Night, Joxer. I received a rejection from a well-respected literary journal with a note that said it was “too Irish.” I took it as a compliment. I leaned into it, amped up the dialect and rhythm, let the story sing in its own accent. That revised version went on to place as runner-up in the From the Well competition, with the judge, Patrick Holloway, praising it for its voice.

That moment taught me to trust the way I hear the world.

The voice of a story is all-encompassing. It draws the reader in, holds them, paints the world around them, and lets them live it. The power of voice always hits home to me when I read Donal Ryan — a true master. Every line speaks in harmony, pulling you deeper into the narrative he weaves, consistent and true. Paul McVeigh’s The Good Son is another masterpiece, submerged in the Belfast lingo of the Troubles. Page after page, word after word, it’s steeped in time and place, bringing you there — Ardoyne at the height of the conflict.

Your voice is already there. Waiting.

Not to be found, but remembered.

Today’s guest post comes from John O’Donnell, a writer whose work I greatly admire. His new collection, ‘Mr Hoo and other stories,’ is forthcoming from Doire Press in 2026.

A fragment, at first: snatch of a tune, an impromptu tableau, a half-heard - or misheard – conversation. Something snags; what was that? Maybe you make a note in the little notebook we’re told to carry round with us, or in the Notes section of your phone. The next day you look at the note, and see the image, hear the line, the voice, again; it will not go away. So, you open up whatever it is you write on, find a blank page and put down the note, or a version of it, and after that, the first word that comes into your head. And then the second word. And so on.

Congratulations. This is inspiration (or one form of it, anyway). However, Thomas Edison’s wearisomely familiar adage that ‘genius is 1 per cent inspiration and 99 per cent perspiration’ means that even if you are a genius - and especially if you’re not - your work has only just begun. Graham Greene suggested that when writing his ‘entertainments’ the hard bit was thinking up the idea; the rest, he contended, was like filling out a crossword puzzle. Well, fine: if you’re Graham Greene. For the rest of us it’s not so easy.

The first thing you have to do is, as William Faulkner said, ‘Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.’ You can’t make a statue without a lump of clay to begin with, so load it on, as much of it as you can bear for as long as you can. You may find it easier if you resist the temptation to edit as you go at this stage, since the risk of doing so is that you will end up with a finely honed opening sentence, and not much else. Even if you can sense that there are already little infelicities creeping in, don’t worry; like a plane circling before eventually coming in to land, you’ll catch them on the second or third or fourth pass.

There. You have a first draft. How does it look? ‘All I have is a pile of paper covered with wrong words’ said Dorothy Parker. Yes, maybe; but it is only the start. As Jane Smiley says, ‘Every first draft is perfect, because all a first draft has to do is exist’. So now what?

‘It is a writer’s job to look after his sentences,’ said John McGahern, ‘nothing else.’ Although the context of this pronouncement was a challenge thrown down at a literary conference at which writers were urged to display political commitment – a role which McGahern rejected – the observation also contains sound technical advice.

As part of the process of rewriting, you may find it helpful to write out each sentence on a new line, as if it were a line of a poem. Using that technique makes you focus more closely on what each individual sentence is doing: is it pulling its weight? Does your story really need it? Is it clear? Does it contain redundancies or repetitions? Read it out loud: is the music of the sentence right? (You won’t learn this from reading it in your head). Changing even one word will alter the rhythm, perhaps requiring other words to be moved around or changed as well.

You may chose next to look at your work paragraph by paragraph. The detective writer Margery Allingham (for whom the thriller was ‘a work of art as delicate and precise as a sonnet’) said that she wrote every paragraph four times: ‘Once to get my meaning down, once to put in anything I have left out, once to take out anything that seems unnecessary, and once to make the whole thing sound as if I had only just thought of it.’ Again, each paragraph has its own ecosystem, so even small changes will necessarily effect the overall balance. Again reading aloud can help: how does it sound?

And then? Ultimately it is about the individual word. McGahern again, recounting his early years as a writer: ‘Words had been a physical presence for me for a long time before, each word with its own weight, colour, shape, relationship, extending out into a world without end.’ So how do you choose the right one? There is no easy fix, no short cut. Perhaps it helps to think of each word as being one of those little coloured slides we used to view on screen via a projector (before PowerPoint). Essentially, editing involves holding each word you are considering using up to the light to see how it will work before you put it down. It is slow and at times difficult, but if it was easy everyone would be doing it. You may find using a thesaurus of assistance; likewise a good dictionary. As well as suggesting alternative ways of saying things, the process of consulting another source gives your brain a break from what’s in front of you (provided it doesn’t become an excuse for not writing).

In the end, though, it is your story - and yours alone. A good first reader or editor may later help you express with more precision what you meant to say, but no one will put more into what you write than you do. ‘You are all your work has,’ says Maeve Brennan. ‘It has nobody else and never had anybody else.’ Only you can nurture it, and care for it so as to give it the life that it deserves. It’s up to you to mind your language. Good luck.

John O’Donnell’s work has been published and broadcast widely. Awards include the Irish National Poetry Prize, the New Irish Writing Awards for Poetry and Fiction, and the RTE Francis McManus Short Story Award. He has published five poetry collections. His collection of short stories ‘Almost the Same Blue’ was one of the Sunday Independent’s Books of the Year. Rainbow Baby, a radio play, was broadcast on RTE’s Drama On One and won a New York Festivals Radio Award. His debut novel, ‘Second Skin,’ was one of the winners of the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair 2024. A new collection, ‘Mr Hoo and other stories,’ is forthcoming from Doire Press in 2026.