Ryan Dennis’s THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

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***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Ryan Dennis’s The Beasts They Turned Away is #226 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? The novel is titled The Beasts They Turned Away, although after five years of thinking about it, I still might not have gotten it right. I wanted something that reflected both the form and the content of the book in some way, but had to settle for only the latter. Its working title for the first draft was Man of Land and Sky.  (Right:  Ryan Dennis (far right) outside of Neachtains pub in Galway, Ireland. Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? The Beasts They Turned Away is the result of my PhD with the National University of Ireland, Galway. I first started writing it September 2015, and six drafts later, the final corrections were submitted to the publisher in February 2020. I had trouble with my eyes in 2015 and couldn’t tolerate a computer screen, so I wrote the whole thing longhand in notebooks first—and once accidentally left those notebooks overnight in a pub. Luckily, the barman didn’t bin the year’s work. (Journal entry from Ryan Dennis's notebook of THE BEASTS THEY TURNED AWAY.  Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? Because the project spanned five years, the writing of Beasts happened all over and spread across three continents. Some of it was at my desk in Galway, Ireland, some happened at the home farm in Western New York State, and the final draft was completed while traveling through South America. (Right: Road leading to Ryan Dennis's farm in upper state New York. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

When at home and in good weather I’d either work on the porch, or on a hay bale in a field. It always worked better when I was outside and only the cattle could hear me talking to myself. (Left: Ryan Dennis's nephew sitting on the porch where Ryan Dennis writes. Credit and Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I always write the first draft of everything on paper, and then type it in. I can’t think staring at a computer screen, and instead need a pen in my hand so I can draw arrows and make quick notes and scratch things out. It’s much slower, but I can’t get around it. (I just hope that it makes for a better archive someday.) (Right:  Ryan Dennis reading on his farm.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Often, I let the characters in the scene speak to each other freely first, with me simply transcribing what they say. Then I go back and write a draft of the scene. In that manner, I’m not getting in their way as much. (Left: Ryan Dennis with his partner Alessandra in Patagonia, South America.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. 

THE SICK PEN

The old man stares at the backend of a cow, his elbows in his hands. The cow lays still, breathes slowly. 

Behind them Geir Sullivan jerks open the shed door, squeezes himself through sideways. Stands there with his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. Hey there, he yells out. Rocks on his heels. Yells out again and then walks through the shed.

The Great Mulgannon, Geir Sullivan says, coming upon the old man. Stands next to him and folds his arms. Then says, Christ Almighty.

A red mass protrudes out of the back of the cow, bulges in the straw. Leathery caruncles drying, stiffening in the murky light. Her uterus spilled out behind her.

Listen, says Geir Sullivan. He wears a hat that says Cusack Feeds. Takes it off and puts it back on again. I’m sure you’re willing as I am to let bygones be bygones and all that. He looks the old man over. Then shifts on his feet and holds out an open palm. 

The old man walks away.

Geir Sullivan stares after him. Turns to the cow. Then follows the old man.

The old man enters the dairy, takes a calf bucket. Pumps the lever of a plastic barrel and splashes teat dip into the bucket. Fills it with warm water. Yellow bubbles swell on the surface and then burst. Geir Sullivan trails the old man out the door.

The old man climbs into the sick pen again. Swings his leg over the highest bar and sets the bucket down. It tilts in the bedding. The old man picks up a come-along from the corner of the pen and drags it to the down cow. Tosses the rope towards the rafter stretching over them. 202 lays in the far end of the pen, watching the old man, the other cow. Flicks her tail at flies on her topline. On the third try the old man tosses the rope over the plank, connects it back to the pulley.

I just been hired, see, by Cusack, Geir Sullivan says. Sure, it’s alright. I’m to enquire after accounts and all that. Mostly the overdue ones. Jesus, what’s going on here, he says, nodding at the cow.

The old man slips the hip lifters over her pins and turns an old bolt shaft until it grips her bones tightly. Straightens himself, exhales. Starts working the crank, raising the backend of the cow.

Geir Sullivan says, anyway, they sent me here. In fact, I’m the only one that would come. Others say it’s futile, or well. Just don’t feel comfortable or something. But I said hell, I’ll come.

The cow scrapes at the concrete with her front hooves but doesn’t have the strength to lift herself. Resigns to being on her front knees. Her backend slowly turning as the rope twists.

The old man pushes up his sleeves. They bunch at his elbows. Dips his hand into the bucket, lathers. The dark water clinging to the hair on his arms. Says, the dead pile will take you. Maybe not today though.

The old man carefully rubs the rough tissue. Lifts the bucket to his chest and pours it, the warm liquid following wiry paths over the organ, his fingers. Falls to the hay. The cow jerks, dust filtering down from where the rope flinches on the wooden rafter.

The old man steadies himself behind the cow. Gets two hands beneath the bulbous pile and then puts his shoulder under it. Shakes as he lifts up. Slips it back into the cow, pushing it into the caverns inside her. Then he stands there, his arm inside the cow. Tells Geir Sullivan to come here.

Geir Sullivan clutches at his beltloops and kicks at the chaff in front of him. Turns to stare at the shed walls. The old man says it again and Geir Sullivan finally steps forward.

Run your hand along my arm, the old man says. Until you find my fingers. Hold her in place for me.

Surely will not, Geir Sullivan says. This isn’t my job.

The old man looks him over. Says, probably never been inside a woman either.

Geir Sullivan chews on the inside of his cheek. Shakes his head. Jesus Christ, he says.

Geir Sullivan pushes his hand through the vulva of the cow, his arm sliding against the slick skin of the old man. Leans in until his fingers reach the tissue lining. The old man pats Geir Sullivan’s hand inside the uterus of the cow before freeing himself.

I’m going to need to leave here with a payment, Geir Sullivan says. Marching orders, you know. I’m sure you understand.

The old man takes a steak knife out of the back of his pocket and tosses it into the bucket. Tips the bucket and swirls around the little bit of teat dip still inside. Bends and unlaces one of his work shoes, pulling at the dirty string as it becomes longer, clumps of mud breaking apart as he forces it through the eyelets. Drops the shoelace into the bucket.

The old man grabs the fold of the vulva and needles the end of the knife into it. He clenches the shoelace in his mouth, the bitter taste pooling around his teeth. The string stretching half his length and swaying. The internal fluids of the cow cool on the old man’s arm. When the knife pierces through the tissue of the vulva the old man slides the knife into his back pocket again, pokes the end of the lace through the hole. Pulls. The cow lifting her head and straining from the lifters. 

The old man spreads the vulva flat between his fingers and takes the knife again. Geir squints. Leans away from the old man. 202 rocks forward at the other end of the pen, finally pulls herself to her knees and gets her hindlegs beneath her, rises. Her loin dipping as she stretches, puts her head over the gate. The old man’s wrinkled fingers numbly work the flesh, the shoelaces. He stops sometimes to curse and wipe his forehead on the end of his shirt.

Eventually the string weaves around the outside of the vulva, both ends falling over the back of the udder.

Take your hand out, the old man says. But do it slowly.

As soon as Geir is clear from the end of the cow the old man ties the shoelace into a bow. Well, he says. Then says, there you have it. You’re an alright assistant, Sullivan.

Geir Sullivan shakes his arm out. Didn’t expect to be doing vet work today. But damn.

The smell of iodine rises off the clothes of the two men, the top of their collars damp with sweat. The old man bends down to rub his hand on a dry patch of straw. Then steps over the top bar of the gate and takes a syringe, bottle, off a nearby window ledge. 

Now comes the uncomfortable part, says Geir. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask for that payment. It would be helping me out.

I won’t, the old man says. He fills the syringe and gives the cow a shot of penicillin in the neck. 

Geir Sullivan crosses his arms. Looks to the cow and then back to the old man. Tilts his head. You won’t, Geir says. That’s not a great stroke on your part.

The old man levers the crank, slowly lowering the cow. When her weight settles in the bedding and the rope slackens the old man slips the lifters off. He pushes her rear legs beneath her to make it easier for her to stand later.

The old man looks up. Sees Geir Sullivan still staring at him. Says, can’t get water from a stone, and so on.

Fucksake, you’re a pain in the hole.

The old man sets the knife, syringe, and bottle into the bucket. Grabs the lip of the bucket and heads towards the dairy.

They’ll put a lien on this place, if they haven’t already, Geir says. Banks and lawyers and all of it.

Geir Sullivan grabs the old man’s shoulder as he passes.

The old man spins around. Lifts a finger at him. I’ve given more than enough for what I have. Try to take more and see what happens.

The old man takes the knife out of the bucket, grips it. Turns back to the dairy.

I will, Geir Sullivan yells at the old man. He pounds his fist on the gate, making the latch rattle. Glares at the old man’s back. I will!

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? This except involves the main character fixing the prolapsed uterus of a cow with his shoelace and a steak knife. The scene was added in the final draft. I had written similar scenes in other short stories and an unpublished novel from when I was young. It might seem a little unrealistic to some readers, but that it how we fixed prolapsed uteruses on our farm. Much like the protagonist in The Beasts They Turned Away, we couldn’t afford to hire a vet. To me, the scene represents not just a lived experience, but serves as a demonstration of what the current agricultural policy has done to family farming in most Western nations. (Left:  Ryan as a child with Ana.  Copyright by Ryan Dennis)

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt? Unfortunately, all the drafts of the novel that survived moving from one place to another are kept in a blue plastic tub in the old feed room on the farm (and I am currently back in the West of Ireland). I had to put a lot of heavy tools tractor parts over the lid because the goat that roamed free liked to pry it open and eat my future archive.

https://www.kennys.ie/shop/The-Beasts-They-Turned-Away-Dennis-Ryan

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html 

Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

***Clint Margrave’s “Jesus Never Laughed” is #275 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until final form? In a journal entry dated from August 2019, I first mention this idea that Jesus never laughed. I had heard someone say on a podcast around that time how Jesus never laughed and how Socrates never wept. It wasn't until a year later that I rediscovered this in my journal and wrote a draft of the poem.  (Right:  Clint Margrave's journal entry from August of 2019.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem?  And please describe the place in great detail. Most likely in my apartment in Atwater Village in Los Angeles, CA. Probably at the kitchen table rather than in my office. I have taken to writing there during the pandemic, since my office has now become my classroom.  (Left: sculpture head of Socrates)

 

What month and year did you start writing this poem? The first journal notes were in August 2019. The first draft was August 2020.  (Right:  The place where Clint Margrave wrote "Jesus Never Laughed"  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?) Not too many compared to some poems. I'm guessing around 10.  

 

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version?  And can you share them with us? Sure. Originally, I had to tried to include the idea that Socrates never wept then realized it was too much. (Left:  Clint Margrave's writing space today.  Credit and Copyright by Clint Margrave)

The more I thought about how Jesus never laughed and how there is a whole religion based only around one side of life  (tragedy), the more I wanted to focus in on this. There isn't much humor anywhere in the Bible, both in the Hebrew Bible and the Christian one, which seems odd if this is supposed to be the word of "God" since humans have both the comic and the tragic. God and Jesus are both so humorless as characters.  (Right:  Clint Margrave in August of 2019.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I don't want to prescribe any feeling or message, but maybe I hope it'll inspire people to remember to laugh and lighten up sometimes.  

 

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write and why? I felt emotional about how so many can only see tragedy, which is only embracing one side of life. I believe you need to embrace both. Some turn entirely away from the tragic as well and that isn't healthy either, but we need to laugh, even at tragedy sometimes. It's the only way to deal with the world.  

Has this poem been published before?  And if so where? Yes, in The Moth, Spring 2021 Issue. (Above Left)

Jesus Never Laughed 

 

It’s true that a sense of humor

didn’t run in the family. 

 

And he could always fall back 

on other traits 

like raising the dead,

healing the blind,

walking on water. 

 

Not to mention

turning that water into wine 

which must’ve made him 

a hit at parties.

But imagine if one of the most famous

lines in the Bible 

had been, “Jesus laughed”?

Instead, he wept. 

He was always weeping. 

For the sins of the world.

For the mercy of his father.

You almost feel bad for the guy. 

You almost want to say, 

Hey Jesus, lighten up! 

  

No one ever taught him

that tragedy is only

one side of life.  

That for every martyr

you need a jester,

for every Book of Job

you need a book of jokes. 

 

No one ever taught him

that laughter is its own savior

and sometimes all you have. 

Clint Margrave is the author of the novel Lying Bastard (Run Amok Books, 2020), and the poetry collections, Salute the Wreckage, The Early Death of Men, and Visitor (Forthcoming) all from NYQ Books. His work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Rattle, Cimarron Review, Ambit (UK), Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac, among others. He lives in Los Angeles, CA. (Right:  Clint Margrave.  Copyright by Clint Margrave)

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html 

 

Patron Henekou’s “My Neighbors In Lincoln, Nebraska” is #274 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM

*The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

*** The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished poets for BACKSTORY OF THE POEM series.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7

*** Patron Henekou’s “My Neighbors In Lincoln, Nebraska” is #274 in the never-ending series called BACKSTORY OF THE POEM where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific poem and how the poet wrote that specific poem.  All BACKSTORY OF THE POEM links are at the end of this piece. 

 (Above Right: Patron Henekou in September of 2017. Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Can you go through the step-by-step process of writing this poem
from the moment the idea was first conceived in your brain until the final form? The poem I choose here is called “My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska”, which I picked from my forthcoming book with the tentative title De l’autre côté de l’Atlantique, & autres poèmes. I can only offer some significant moments in the process of writing this poem, not a complete and detailed step by step process. Sorry about that! (Above Left: Patron Henekou in October of 2017. Copyright by Patron Henekou)

The idea of the poem occurred to me between my arrival in Nebraska in mid-August and October 2017. Having the demise of Eric Garner in the hands of the police in mind, I was very much concerned about my security on travelling to the US. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Killing_of_Eric_Garner 

When my friends who helped me to locate and rent an apartment at a perfect distance from UNL told me I was privileged to have Lincoln Police as neighbors, I was instantly struck by my disturbed feelings: to be happy or not about this proximity, marked by a beautiful tree visible from the window of my apartment. And the mixture of feelings I experienced materialized on the police tree with the passage of time.  (Left:  The police tree in bloom. Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Where were you when you started to actually write the poem? And please describe the place in great detail. I started to write this poem in Lomé, Togo, two years after my stay in the US. The outbreak of Covid-19 begun early March in my country, Togo, and by the end of this month the whole country was confined. I turned this situation into a writing residence in my apartment. The actual writing location alternated between my bedroom and the uncompleted top floor of the apartment where I had arranged a space, among various construction materials, for writing during the day. I would sit on a stool, and place the computer on my lap or on a chair in front of me, and write.  (Right:  Patron Henekoou in Lome, Togo.  Copyright by patron Henekou)

What month and year did you start writing this poem? I started writing this poem towards the end of April 2020 when I finally settled to recount my experience as an African during my stay in the US on a 2017 – 2018 Fulbright postdoc scholarship. (Left: Patron Henekou in May of 2020.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

How many drafts of this poem did you write before going to the final? (And can you share a photograph of your rough drafts with pen markings on it?)  I can’t tell. This question reminds me of the importance of keeping record of the writing process of my work as a way of building a gestational memory of the poems. Unfortunately, I have kept no drafts of this poem though there have been changes, a number of them, to the first version.   One quite important thing to note is that this poem was originally written in French under the title “N 26th ST & Holdrege” where the police tree stood (it is still there, anyways).  (Right:  "My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska in the French language.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Were there any lines in any of your rough drafts of this poem that were not in the final version? And can you share them with us? Yes! I can remember a few lines which I am glad to share with you. The title, for example was “N 26th ST & Holdrege.” Now it is “My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska”. Another example is "It’s so/cruel that it can be taken as the title of a famous ballad.” This was initially at the place of lines 9 and 10 of one of the drafts. And there were references to Guy Des Cars and Toni Braxton, namely. (Above Left:  photo of the intersection of N 26yh Street and Holdrege.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guy_des_Cars 

http://www.tonibraxton.com/

What do you want readers of this poem to take from this poem? I can’t tell, precisely. A poem may resonate with different people differently. Different readers may experience different levels of emotional response about a specific line or a particular imagery, or the poem’s musicality. 

I continue to ask myself this fundamental question about how some trees manage to breathe after losing their leaves in winter and rejuvenate in spring, and how care is taken to create and enforce by virtue of law breathing spaces to squirrels and other animals, and the growing awareness of Americans to deal with discrimination against blacks and other ethnic minorities. 

https://globalexchange.org/2020/06/03/global-exchange-stands-in-solidarity-with-the-movement-for-black-lives/?gclid=CjwKCAjwpKCDBhBPEiwAFgBzj74r7EJiLW1oKMqHsBNybBGQerzDZJo3ZsMcpV98kChR5zVfZ7A7JxoC0MsQAvD_BwE 

I just hope that the poem’s movement in the way it weaves and highlights the plights of black people and the afflictions of trees would ring the bell in someone for whatever morally significant action to be taken so that they can “breathe again…”, which echoes Eric Garner’s last words. (Right:  The Police Tree.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

Which part of the poem was the most emotional of you to write, and why? The last stanza, as a whole, and the last three lines in particular: 

“I touched its trunk. My hand shook. The afflictions

of trees and our afflictions. A few leaves fell,

again. You will breathe again, dear tree.” (Right:  The Police Tree.  Credit and Copyright by Patron Henekou)

This scene actually happened, and writing it two years later was like renewing the experience once again as vividly as it has been, thinking of a police that does not protect and a winter weather that afflicts trees, pitilessly. 

Has this poem been published before? And if so, where? Yes! Zócalo Public Square.  https://www.zocalopublicsquare.org/2020/06/12/patron-kakou-henekou-poem-togolese-poet-playwright/chronicles/poetry/ 

This poem was translated from its original French by Patron Henekou and Connie Voisine (Above Right), Zócalo Poetry Editor.

http://www.connievoisine.com/ 

My Neighbors in Lincoln, Nebraska

I have neighbors

at the corner of N 26th & Holdrege:

the police station and a tree that announces their proximity

to me. I find myself surprised to be happy about

this closeness at first. Did I say happy?

I think of better worlds hardly possible.

Now, each time I pass beneath this tree

I think of the “I can’t breathe” of Eric Garner,

and how these words contrast with my dreams.

 

In this month of October, the police tree breathes less

or it looks that way. Its green welcoming leaves have changed

their color. They look more and more like my skin.

What future is there for tree leaves? Ah, future.

Do I have any myself, in this American city, presumably calm?

What color would it take here on this peaceful street

while in the unhappy streets of Lomé since August 

my compatriots breathe the spice of tear gas?

Time afflicts trees. Humans afflict humans.

 

Returning from campus one evening at the end of October

I stopped by the police tree.

This night, I felt more for this tree.

It had lost many of its leaves.

I touched its trunk. My hand shook. The afflictions

of trees and our afflictions. A few leaves fell,

again. You will breathe again, dear tree.

Patron Henekou is a poet and cofounder of Festival International des Lettres et des Arts (www.nimblefeathers.com ) at Université de Lomé, Togo. He writes in French and English as well, and translates. (Above Left:  Patron Henekou.  Copyright by Patron Henekou)

His poems have appeared in anthologies such as Palmes pour le Togo, Arbolarium, Antologia Poetica de Los Cinco Continentes, and The Best New African Poets Anthology 2017, and in poetry journals such as AFROpoésie, Revue des Citoyens des Lettres, Aquifer: The Florida Review Online, Asymptote, Zócalo, Scoundrel Time, etc. 

His published books include a play, Dovlo, or A Worthless Sweat (2015) and two poetry books in French entitled Souffles d’outre-cœur (2017) and Souffles & Faces (2018). Patron is a 2018 African American Fellow at the Palm Beach Poetry Festival in Delray, Florida.

All of the Backstory of the Poem LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/02/will-justice-drakes-intercession-is-251.html 

 

Mary Byrne’s short story “What Doesn’t Choke Will Fatten” from her short story collection PLUGGING THE CASUAL BREACH #225

 *The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo. 

**Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly

***The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at caccoop@aol.com or personal Facebook messaging at https://www.facebook.com/car.cooper.7 

****Mary Byrne’s short story “What Doesn’t Choke Will Fatten” from her short story collection PLUGGING THE CASUAL BREACH #225 in the never-ending series called INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt.  

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? I first entitled this story ‘Existentialism for Dummies’ which I rather fancied, but when I asked my nephew to read it and he asked, ‘What’s existentialism?,’  (Right:  Mary Byrne's son Edwyn and her nephew Ian. Copyright by Mary Byrne)

I decided on my father’s adage: ‘What doesn’t choke will fatten’, a nice paraphrase of Nietzsche’s ‘What doesn’t kill me makes me strong’. (My father started life on a farm in south Monaghan and was never short of sayings, quotes, poetry – including Kavanagh, of course – and remembered doggerel from one of his aunts). 

What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I wrote the story around 2011.

(Right:  Mary Byrne in 2011. Copyright by Mary Byrne)

Moving from Paris to Normandy some years earlier, I realised that the houses, villages and countryside I’d seen in WWII films were in fact Norman. My students introduced themselves and their region by saying, ‘The Allies bombed Caen without evacuating it.’ 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Goodwood 

(Above Left:  IWM caption : THE BRITISH ARMY IN THE NORMANDY CAMPAIGN 1944.  Sherman tanks carrying infantry wait for the order to advance at the start of Operaton Goodwood.  1944.) 

I began to understand the extent of the destruction that had been necessary to win the war. Le Guide du Routard for Normandy gave percentages of destruction for towns, sometimes up to 80%. When Allied bombing started on the coast, dishes rattled in dressers some 100 kms to the south. Many of the (by then) elderly men in our region had been POWs on farms in Germany. Theirs and other stories emerged. (Right: Between Chambois and Vimoutiers, in the exact location where the MontormelMemorial is situated today, the ultimate and most bitter battle of Normandy took place, from August 18th to 22nd, 1944. Montgomery called it “the beginning of the end of the war")

The clincher was a visit from friends of Polish origin and a visit to the Montormel memorial (http://memorial-montormel.org/history_2_109.html) which illustrates the final battle for Normandy: the ‘kettling’ of some 50,000 German soldiers into the ‘Falaise pocket’ in August 1944. Polish troops from Britain played a major role. The story was building itself around me. 

Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work?  And please describe in detail.  And can you please include a photo? I had no ‘official’ study at home at the time – my husband needed a room for his own work and I was often in Caen teaching – so I tended to camp my temporary study in bedrooms until dislodged by visitors (see two such encampments below). Any writing I did was snatched in haphazard breaks from teaching and happened in notebooks and sometimes in a deckchair in the garden, which was beautiful. (Right: Mary Byrne's writing space. Credit and Copyright by Mary Byrne)

What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I tend to use music to put me in the mood, whatever I’m into (but Mozart when I need to be fast and efficient). However when seriously writing text, even music can be an interruption. I’ve now moved from notebooks direct to laptop and have a proper study (still pretty chaotic though). I drink tea all day. Favourite time varies from morning to evening according to mood and other interruptions. (Mary Byrne's notebooks.  Credit and Copyright by Mary Byrne)

Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference.  This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. The story’s narrator is a German former student of philosophy, who is captured in the ‘Falaise pocket’ in 1944.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falaise_Pocket  

The story consists of his backstory intercut with events in the present. Obviously it was his backstory that inspired me first. When he’s finally released, sometime in 1948 probably, he walks to Germany and, failing to find any trace of his family, returns to France, ‘the only other place anyone had ever cared for me.’ That person is Marguerite, a farm worker like himself: 

I bought an old motorbike and we would take off for the coast, Marguerite having forgotten her idea that we’d never remain friends if we made love again.

Marguerite had this thing about ocean liners, could never get enough of them. So I was jealous of ocean liners, especially American ones. We would spend Sundays in Le Havre, where most of the local boys were getting piecework for rebuilding the town, working as fast as they could. Many of the houses around here were paid and families reared on the rebuilding of towns like Caen, Le Havre and St Malo. I never even tried for such jobs, content to stay with Marguerite on farms. I thought no one would have wanted me anyway, although the French were shipping in cheap labor from all over: Germany, Poland, Italy, North Africa. I just kept a low profile and stayed where I was.

On the quay at Le Havre we stood, keeping our voices down, among American soldiers leaning against American cars, waiting and wanting to go home. Their uniforms weren’t half so crisp or handsome as in the films that portrayed them. But they were better fed than us, from better-fed parents. Good teeth filled their big smiles. They smiled and waited and watched. Marguerite would watch the ships and I would watch her, in a yellow button-down dress with oranges and apples on it, watching those gigantic ships come and go, bearing glamorous passengers and other people’s dreams. Her favorite liner was the Ile de France. Back in the village she would throw her hands together like a child and describe it to friends. One Christmas I found her a poster for the Cunard line. She installed it on the wall of our first house together. By then it was the ‘60s: the crones were being silenced by new clothes, new music, new mœurs. They didn’t like us, but they had no power over us. (Plugging the Causal Breach, Regal House publishing 2019, p.21). 

https://www.regalhousepublishing.com/ 

Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write?  And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? My experience in Normandy left me sad for everyone in and around the war. I admired people’s physical and mental strength. I sensed buried rancour, as in any place ravaged by war. I loved the idea of a Franco-German post-war love affair between two people the world hadn’t managed to break. It was even sadder to imagine how difficult such a relationship might have been for them: they would probably have encountered considerable hostility.  

Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. I cannot find any trace of the actual story in notebooks I haven’t yet decommissioned. I can find lots of research about the war etc. It’s possible I wrote it straight onto the computer, because most of the elements of the story were already there in my mind. 

Has this been published?  And if yes, where? Short story first published in Prairie Schooner Vol. 86, No. 1 (SPRING 2012), pp. 132-147 (16 pages)

Published By: University of Nebraska Press

https://www.jstor.org/stable/41441671 

Now collected in Plugging the causal breach (Regal House, 2019). 

https://www.regalhousepublishing.com/product/plugging-the-causal-breach/ 

Or via Amazon

https://www.amazon.com/Plugging-Causal-Breach-Mary-Byrne/dp/1947548719/ref=sr_1_fkmr0_1?crid=3ONQ6JM96R2W9&keywords=mary%20byrne%20plugging%20the%20casual%20beach&qid=1569343738&sprefix=mary%20byrne%2Caps%2C217&sr=8-1-fkmr0 

Biography of Mary Byrne:  “I’m a writer, a voracious reader, former editor and translator, and a recovering academic. I was born in Ireland and started life in the picturesque village of Tallanstown, Co. Louth before moving to Ardee where I attended the Mercy Convent before going to Clochar Lughaidh Gaelscoil in Monaghan. At University College Dublin I studied English and Philosophy and eventually completed an MA in Modern English and American Literature. I’ve worked in Dublin, London, Essen, Rabat, Paris and Caen and now live in Montpellier where I’m working on further collections of short fiction - and planning further travels.” (Left:  Mary Byrne.  Credit to Didier Barthelemy.  Copyright by Mary Byrne)

All of the Inside the Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the VERY END of the below feature: 

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html