Does living close to the most famous vampire author inspire greatness?

Living in Marino, a suburb of Dublin, close to where Bram Stoker, author of the well-known Gothic vampire novel, ‘Dracula,’ grew up and lived, it should come as no surprise Patricia Wall is an accomplished writer.

In fact, we’re proud to introduce Patricia to you as the winner of our ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ flash fiction category on the theme of ‘secrets’ with her impressive story, ‘Writing Material.’ 

Married to Stephen and mother to four-year-old daughter, Heather, Patricia said she is now “navigating my mid-forties.” 

Working as a post-primary teacher of English and Film Studies in the Glasnevin neighbourhood of Dublin for the last 20 years, she said literature and film “were always my main passions at school and college.” 

As for her creative writing strengths and weaknesses, she said, “My single writing strength is striving for the most suitable description and my weakness is allowing myself to indulge too much in that description and to distract from what is crucial for the piece's theme or development.”

Describing her approach to her winning WAWA entry, she added, “The story of a darkly inspired writer came to me when I thought deeply about how inspiration can be such a unique experience for every writer. The thought of a writer enduring heartache for the sake of a good story developed as I processed the idea.”

Keeping her story under the 500-word limit was her biggest challenge. “I have a bad habit of embellishing and adding-on,” she admitted. “To control that, to cut back, to delete and to heavily edit is difficult for me.”

Giving her story a name was also a challenge. “I had thought about other titles that might be puns on writing or the writing process, without great success. I considered ‘Reading Material,’ ‘Between the Lines’ and ‘Plotting’ as alternatives to the one I finally chose.” 

As to her reaction upon learning she was a WAWA winner, a writing competition she saw on various online platforms, “I was happily surprised when I first found out. The experience of entering a writing competition and writing in general can often involve moments of self-doubt, so I felt very encouraged. And heard. I really liked the theme of secrets and felt like it was something I could work with.”

In terms of literature, Patricia’s favourite genres are dystopian and speculative fiction. “They hold my attention the most,” she said.

Asked for three books that have the most impact on her, she named The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin, Prophet Song by Paul Lynch and The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood.

Writing material

by Patricia Wall

Dee emptied the contents of her mug down the sink. Cold tea. Her reflection manifested on the glass window over the sink. She saw her tired skin, brown eyes and a silver earring hanging from her right ear. She reached her hand to her left ear. Her lobe was unadorned. 

“Shit,” she muttered and started looking around the floor. 

“What's wrong?” her daughter, Sam, offered from the couch in the sitting room.

“Nothing. Just lost something…” Dee said, brushing it off. The doorbell sounded.  

“Hi Dee,” Gavin said, out of breath, “She's had another panic attack.”

“I'll follow you over,” Dee said. Gavin nodded and left.

“Well?” Sam asked.

“Iris is bad again.”

“Oh I forgot to tell you,” Sam said, more animated, “We might be studying Iris’ new novel. Our tutor told us today.”

“Oh yeah,” Dee said, unenthusiastically, as she left.

In Gavin and Iris' home, Gavin already had the kettle on. Dee let herself in quietly and greeted Gavin in the kitchen.

“She's curled up in the bed, Dee,” he said, stirring a tea-bag in the water. He handed her the mug. He had been asking for her help recently and Dee felt reluctantly obliged.

“I'll go up to her.”

On entering the small bedroom the setting sun filtered through the blinds. There was a tumbler of water on the bedside locker, a stack of notebooks and a few pens and a stylish picture of Gavin and Iris laughing full-heartedly somewhere in Italy.

“Hi Iris,” Dee said, sitting on the bed. “Are you not feeling up to dinner?”

There was no immediate response. Iris was breathing under the duvet. She slowly shifted and turned around to look at Dee. 

“No. I'm not in the mood,” she said, almost inaudibly. Dee smoothed creases in the duvet with one hand and grasped the mug with the other. Gavin stood awkwardly in the doorframe, chewing a nail.

“Have some tea,” Dee offered, but Iris turned back towards her pillow.

“No. Thank. You.” she said slowly.

Dee looked at Gavin. Gavin shrugged.

“You know what Sam just told me Iris, before I came over here? She told me that your new novel is on her course! Isn't that amazing?”

Iris mumbled into her pillow.

“Sorry? I can't hear you?” Dee said.

Iris turned around to face Dee again.

“Have you read it?”

“Um… no. I've seen the reviews. It's on my list,” Dee's voice was unconvincing. She looked again in Gavin's direction.

“He hasn't read it either,” Iris said, without taking her eyes off Dee, “I feel for Sam. That she'll have to analyse it in class.”

“What do you mean?” Dee asked.

Iris smiled strangely. She reached a closed hand out to Dee and dropped a silver earring into Dee's palm.

“You left it here this morning.” This time Iris looked at Gavin.

“You knew the whole time…” Dee whispered, rising slowly. And with trepidation, “What is your novel about, Iris?”

“Sam will fill you in. I'm sure.”