“The last time we were here”, says Josepha Madigan, the Minister for Culture, Heritage & the Gaeltacht, “we were launching the repeal of the eighth referendum”. “Here” is the charming and atmospheric space of the Main Theatre in Smock Alley Theatre, the bustling hub of the 2018 Dublin Book Festival for the next three days. Madigan welcomes to the stage a delegation of writers and editors, here to read and reminisce in celebration of the 20th anniversary of Ireland’s leading literary journal, The Stinging Fly. To mark this extraordinary feat is the publication of Stinging Fly Stories, an anthology of 40 short stories originally published in the magazine – a kind of birthday present, if you will.
Before the readings commence, musician Larry Beau – whose lyrics have featured in the magazine – steps forth, guitar in hand, looking for all the world like the lovechild of the first hipster and a dyed-in-the-wool country and western singer. His sound is haunting yet upbeat as he intertwines poignant lyrics with startlingly beautiful whistling.
Then it is time for Declan Meade, the founding editor of the magazine, alongside Aoife Kavanagh, to say a few words. “So, 20 years – yay”, Meade quips dryly. He speaks of the literary scene 20 years ago, of writers frustrated and a chronic shortage of places to send their work. Much has changed since then. “The first issue”, Meade recalls, “was about 24 pages, now we’re publishing 224 pages per issue”. Meade plugs the latest Winter 2018/19 issue – “the 57th” – which is still hot from the press and will be available in shops from Wednesday, November 21st.
Meade then introduces Sean O’Reilly, whose debut novel Watermark was the first book to be published by the Stinging Fly Press, in 2005. A recently elected member of Aosdána, O’Reilly leads the annual Stinging Fly fiction workshops. O’Reilly’s voice is hypnotic, almost like a chant. His prose is simple, concise and chilling, bowing under a creeping weight of malevolence. Listening, I feel cold, exposed, on edge, like the girl who walks the unforgiving pages of his prose, wearing her “new green, pointed cowboy boots”.
A mood of camaraderie and friendly ribaldry enfolds as the writers relax under the bright stage lights. Next up is Lisa McInerney, author of two award-winning novels, The Glorious Heresies and The Blood Miracles, and a contributing editor to the magazine. Quick-witted, irreverent and downright hilarious, McInerney informs us, by way of context, that her story is about “drunken sentiment” and, I kid you not, “two complete eejits”. She then proceeds to tear strips from such conceits as nationalism and patriotism, mercilessly satirising two misguided souls, Sparky and Pup, who roar rebel songs as they stumble along in search of “a feverish ride against the back of the town grotto”.
Next, Meade puts young Oisín Fagan on the spot and promptly, paternally, embarrasses him: “You were definitely a student at Trinity when I started reading your stories and then you left Trinity, not quite finishing up there…” The audience guffaws, and all Fagan can do is give a self-effacing smile. Fagan has just this year published his debut collection of stories, Hostages, with New Island. His story, entitled “Triangle”, is disarming. It is kaleidoscopic, composed of images that crash and collide, and is written with an honesty that sears: “She lacks the necessary tragic moments off which to hang the loneliness of her nights.” Despair and a kind of violent paralysis course through Fagan’s work, one that is entirely at odds with his lively exterior.
Another song from Beau, this one distinctly eerier, and then it is Wendy Erskine’s turn. “Prior to May 2016”, she confesses in her distinctive east Belfast accent, “I had never had anything published before at all – other than a recipe involving baking a banana”. Erskine is at once charming and irresistibly funny. Holding up Sweet Home, her debut collection of short stories, she describes it as “a miracle” and begins. Within moments, she has us in the palm of her hands. Her story “Arab States: Mind and Narrative” is genuinely side-splitting and brims, paradoxically, with warmth and not a small drop of cynicism.
Last up is Sally Rooney. Currently the magazine’s editor, Rooney is author of two widely acclaimed novels, Conversations with Friends and Normal People (the latter was recently nominated for the Man Booker prize). She reads an early scene from Normal People, and I am stunned. I experience the passage, which I have already read before, as if for the first time. Dialogue that I had admired – for its flow, its realism, its heart – but through which I had merrily whizzed, takes on new life as well as a glut of previously unimagined meanings. (Note to self: must attend more author readings).
The evening, which runs gloriously over time, concludes with a fascinating discussion of that ever-prickly and contentious topic: class. Meade remarks that “keeping the magazine going through all these years, it was always assumed that I was this gentleman publisher … that was how publishing existed until very recently, a person had money and wanted something to do”. Clearly, this couldn’t be further from the truth as, after 20 years, The Stinging Fly battles on, still challenging the status-quo, still pushing the boundaries of what it means to be avant-garde, totally unflinching in its mission to publish new writers and new writing for art’s sake, and art’s sake alone.
