Woman Hears Of WAWA Success As She Faces Life-Saving Surgery

Hearing she was a winner of our recent ‘Wild Atlantic Writing Awards’ creative nonfiction category on the theme of ‘secrets’ could not have come at a better time for Jillian Godsil - just as she prepares to undergo live-saving surgery this week.

After sharing the sad news with Ireland Writing Retreat about her recent diagnosis of breast cancer, Jillian, from Arklow in Ireland, said reading the good news about her erotic story 'Research Purposes Only' had lifted her spirits and strengthened her resolve about the future. Not only did it help change her outlook on life, but also made her promise to herself to attend more creative writing retreats worldwide.

“This award really means a lot to me,” said the divorced mother of "two amazing children." “And I fully agree with the term ‘tempus fugit’ and believe writing retreats are fabulous.”

Speaking about her medical odyssey, Jillian said, “My diagnosis is very recent, only a couple of weeks ago, and now I’m getting ready to go into hospital for surgery. Initially, the diagnosis of breast cancer made me want to record my feelings. I write therefore I am. Since I went public with the news, I’ve spoken with many other women who had breast cancer, one in seven will receive this diagnosis, but we don’t all die so there is much hope. I am writing more than ever as a result.”

Born in Dublin, Jillian, who described herself as “a fast writer,” has lived in many places during her lifetime including London, Sydney and Singapore, beginning work as a systems analyst before moving into public relations in the financial tech sector. 

“I had some major life changes in my 40s – divorce, recession, business collapse, home repossession,” she said. “I even ran as a candidate in the European Parliamentary Elections. I transitioned to journalism and began writing about my life and justice issues for national broadsheet newspapers, and for my own blog.”

Building on her love of creative writing, Jillian, a member of the Arklow Writers Group led by Noline Foley at which WAWA was discussed, finished her first novel, entitled ‘Running Out Of Road,’ 15 years ago. 

Her favorite genre of writing is literary fiction and favorite books are ‘Atonement’ by Ian McEwan, ‘M for Mammy’ by Eleanor O’Reilly, and ‘The Stone Diaries’ by Carol Shields.

Research Purposes Only

by Jillian Godsil

There are things you can tell your mother and things you can't. This falls squarely into the second category.

Back in 2014, I wrote a trilogy of erotica. It wasn’t a lark, though it began as one. I’d read Fifty Shades and scoffed; the way writers do when they think they can do better. Then I sat down and tried.

It turns out you can’t fake your way through erotica. You have to feel it. Smell it. Time it. You have to understand how skin reacts in low light, how desire builds and stalls and comes back in waves. I wrote the first ten pages and realised I was completely out of my depth.

So I did what any serious writer does. I researched.

Not the safe kind. Not the literary essays or annotated Kama Sutra. I went to places. I said yes to invitations I might once have deleted. I crossed thresholds, both literal and figurative, armed with a notebook and a vague sense of mischief.

It was my first encounter with what I now call method writing, full immersion. I learned quickly that you can’t bring a notebook to a dungeon. Nor should you ever say, “This is for a book” while holding a glass of wine and looking over your shoulder at someone in a harness. But I learned. I listened. I took mental notes I prayed no one would ever subpoena.

I made friends I still couldn’t introduce at dinner parties. I discovered there is a script to this world, a rhythm, and that beneath the leather and latex is a deep trust. More than I’ve found in most places, to be honest.

The writing got better. I found my rhythm too. The books, all three, were published under a pseudonym. They sold modestly. They were to save my house from the banks, they didn’t, yet.

But by the third novel, something shifted. I found myself getting a little bored of the parties, the performances, the constant pulse of sensation. My heroine changed too. She stopped participating. She became an observer. A voyeur. She watched from the edge of the room, curious but detached. Maybe she was me. Maybe I had seen enough.

Because here’s what no one tells you: writing sex is like writing violence or grief, it only works when it's real. When it trembles with risk. When the author has been there, not just guessed at it. Readers can tell. They can smell dishonesty like cheap aftershave.

So I went. I lived it. I wrote it down.

And then I closed that chapter.

People sometimes ask me if I’ll write another erotic novel. I smile. I say I’ve moved on. I tell them I write business profiles now. Essays. Fiction without any sex. Safer stuff. They nod. They’re relieved.

I never tell them the whole truth, not because I’m ashamed, but because not every story is meant for dinner parties, or mothers. Some stories are for the page alone.