Today I welcome the lovely Nuala Ní Chonchúir to my blog as part of her blog tour to celebrate the launch of her super debut novel You, which I just finished reading, and loved.

Nuala, what was the very first germ of the idea for You? Where were you at the time, and what were you doing?

It’s a while ago so it’s hard to remember exactly; I know I was living in Galway city, on the opposite side of the country to Dublin, where the novel is set. (Useful distance!) It began life as a short story in my first collection The Wind Across the Grass. I was enjoying writing in the girl’s voice (the whole thing grew from the character’s naive voice) and I just continued on with it. I write a lot about water and so it was a natural progression to write a novel about a river. Usually my work starts with a fusion of voice and mood and a vague situation and I just see where it goes. And so it was with this novel.

Did you have any rituals while you were writing it – time of day, clothing, chants?

I was working in a Writers’ Centre when I wrote it and I had a new-ish baby too, so I just grabbed time wherever, whenever, after work and at week-ends. Rituals are irrelevant when writing time is short, I find. Though I did play a CD of hits from 1980 while I wrote. And I had a big blue cardboard box full of research materials which I kept beside me.

The book is full of lovely childhood observations – one of my favourites: ‘Sometimes a ladybird will do a little yellow poo on your hand and it smells sour, but they only do that when they’re afraid.’ I know exactly what that smells like! Is there another moment from your childhood in the book that had always been waiting for this novel so it could be written about?

Oh my, so many of them, Adam. It took me a year to write the book and over that year I wrote down lots of those little memories, like the ‘frilly carrots’ that look like goldfish and the mother drinking Snowballs, which we considered very posh as kids. All the stuff about the river too is directly from my childhood – I grew up beside/in/on the river Liffey in Dublin.

I was a melancholic child, very observant and shy, so the girl in the book is basically a fictionalised version of the young me.

It’s set in 1980 – what is the significance of that year for you?

I turned ten that year (as does the girl-narrator in You). I always think that’s a big year for girls: it’s the first year of double digits in your age, which feels important, and you are moving towards puberty, sort of reluctantly leaving childhood behind. It may also have been the first year I really noticed current affairs, like the volcano in Washington, the Olympics in Moscow and the hunger strikes in Northerrn Ireland, all of which are mentioned in the book.

Have you, like the character in your novel, ever run away from home?

Yes. I got as far as the end of our street. I had my schoolbag with me and all I had in it was a pile of Ladybird books. My father came out and found me (I was waiting!) and chased me home. So nothing as serious as the running-away in the novel.

Can you tell me one thing about the book, or the writing of it, that you’ve not told anyone else in the world?

I was re-reading the book recently and came across a passage where the girl asks her Ma if she can get her ears pierced. The Ma says no. On the cover image the little girl is wearing ear-rings…

Adam, thanks a million for having me here on the penultimate stop on my virtual tour. Next week the tour ends back in Ireland at Eimear Ryan’s blog: http://eimearryan.wordpress.com/. I hope some of your readers will join me there.

Thanks for visiting, Nuala!

About You: It is Dublin, summer 1980; Kate Bush is on the radio, Nadia Comaneci is cleaning up at the Olympics and The Elephant Man is the film to see. In one house by the Liffey, a spiky but sensitive ten year old girl is minder to her troubled Ma and her two younger brothers. When a tragedy splits the family apart, the girl realises that the only person she can trust is herself, so she takes her future into her own hands. Sometimes heartbreaking but also charming and funny, You is a story about friendship and loyalty and changing your mind, set in rural county Dublin and Wales.

About Nuala: Born Dublin 1970, award-winning fiction writer and poet Nuala Ní Chonchúir lives in County Galway. Her novel You was published by New Island in April 2010; her third short fiction collection Nude was published by Salt in 2009; The Irish Times called it ‘a memorable achievement’. Nude was shortlisted for the 2010 Edge Hill Short Story Prize. She is fiction editor of Horizon Review.

www.nualanichonchuir.com
http://womenrulewriter.blogspot.com/

I went for coffee with a friend at King’s Place (round the corner from Kings Cross) this morning and discovered this beautiful sculpture of a woodlouse on its back. It’s big. I kicked it to see if it would roll up into a ball, but it did not.

I just ran about two miles to get to old street tube in time for my train. Googlemaps on my iPhone said the walk would take 15 mins. I did it in like 5, and these shoes have a little heel on them too.

Had a super night at the Shoreditch House literary salon. The lovely Clare Wigfall read a brilliant and unfinished short story – will have to wait patiently for her next collection to see how it ends. Alex Preston read from his novel The Bleeding City, and then legend Diana Athill talked about her career and the heartbreaking process of choosing only 300 books from her collection to take to her new home in Highgate. Damian Barr, charismatic host, led Q&A sessions with all the writers while sipping a red cocktail. The audience was so beautiful that I suspect they may have been hired extras.

There were free gin and tonics on arrival, and then pizza in the interval. Someone spilled something down my back, and I still haven’t dared look to see what it was.

Afterwards, Sols and nachos in the fine company of Emma Young, Joe Pickering and Grant Gillespie. Now tea on the train and catching my breath. There’s a man on the seat opposite with no shoes and a baby.

All photos copyright Tom Pilston

My shortlisted story is published in the Sunday Times magazine today – a good time to remember the awesome fun I had in Oxford last week.

1 The Oxford Literary Festival green room. On my way in, I checked that my flies were done up, and only then noticed a camera crew pointed in my direction, filming Alexei Sayle. I hope they had him close in the frame. In the green room, Cathy Galvin and Joe Dunthorne had already arrived. We all got a souvenir, which the lit fest give to the participants each year. This year it was a bottle of Floris shower gel. We all signed a leather autograph book. I stupidly didn’t look at the previous pages to see whose company I was in.

2 The event with Alexei Sayle, Cathy Galvin, David Vann, Joe Dunthorne and CK Stead – chatting about why we write short stories. This was the first time I’d heard excerpts from the other stories – all wonderful. Great to be amongst so many enthusiastic champions of the story. The room was right next door to the grand hall where they film the Hogwarts dining room scenes. None of the paintings move in reality.

3 The Friday afternoon event. The shortlistees all sat in the audience, while on stage, Cathy Galvin, Andrew Holgate, AS Byatt and Hanif Kureishi discussed the award, the judging process, and the short story form. Each judge took turns to talk about a particular story from the shortlist. AS Byatt talked about mine. My head swelled as she said such lovely things, until it got way too big for my neck to support and flopped over onto the shoulder of the lady next to me. To hear ASB reading some of my story aloud was such a huge honour. I giggle every time I think about it.

4 The formal prizegiving dinner, held in Corpus Christi college. There were so many literary celebs there, I was wandering around totally starstruck. ‘Is that Nick Hornby?’ ‘That’s Ben Okri!’ It was great to meet the people who’d I spoken to in the run up to the event – Anmar Frangoul from the Sunday Times and Claire Shanahan from Booktrust – who’d had to put up with me shrieking with joy every time she called with news of the long and shortlists. When we took our seats, I was absolutely thrilled to be sat opposite AS Byatt. We shook hands. She said she’d enjoyed my story collection. (!) This compliment so anaesthetized me that when CK Stead was announced as the winner, I felt no disappointment at all. I was genuinely glad for him. A well deserved win, his story is super. The dinner was such fun – I was also sat next to ASB’s agent Deborah Rogers, CK Stead, and Stead’s daughter Margaret, who were all wonderful company. Naomi was sat next to Ben Okri. He liked her squirrel joke, which she learned from our five-year-old (why do squirrels swim on their backs?…..to keep their nuts dry).

5 Piling back to the Randolph hotel for drinks. Even though the booze at the dinner was delicious, and there had been a different variety for every course, I’d been moderate, just incase I had to get up and make a speech. Now I could relax. About twenty of us, shortlistees, judges, publishers, journalists and publicists sat in the Randolph’s mega-lounge drinking until 2am. A fabulous and memorable night.

Today I received my invitation to the Sunday Times EFG Private Bank Short Story Award Dinner – so I definitely didn’t hallucinate the whole thing.

Booktrust called me a few days ahead of the official shortlist announcement, and I had to keep the news secret again until Sunday. Except this time, I was at work when the call came, and my colleagues knew that I was really hoping that this exact thing would happen. So after speaking to Booktrust outside, I was only able to restrain my glee when I went back in by thinking about limping kittens.

I didn’t find out who my fellow shortlistees were until Sunday morning: Will Cohu, Joe Dunthorne, Petina Gappah, CK Stead and David Vann – a fantastic line-up. I’m not yet sure which of them will be able to make it to the Oxford Literary Festival, but I’m looking forward to meeting them. My favourite thing about festivals is always meeting other writers – when Instruction manual was nominated for the Frank O’Connor prize and I went over to the festival in Cork to read, the feeling of camaraderie between the writers was amazing, and I am still in regular contact with many of them. So I’m hoping Oxford will be the same.

Right after I found out I’d been shortlisted, I discovered an album on my iPod I didn’t even know I had, of Nine Inch Nails remixes. And the track ‘In this twilight’ remixed by Fennesz totally resonated with the sense of elevation I felt. I listened to it about ten times, and this song has now become the anthem of my happiness at this news. I love it when songs imprint themselves on moments in your life like that. I know that in ten years, I’ll be able to put this track on and be transported right back to this moment. And it is a great moment.

I am thrilled that my story ‘Fewer Things’ has been longlisted for the Sunday Times EFG short story award.

Booktrust called on Thursday afternoon to tell me in advance of the list being published on Sunday. I was sworn to secrecy (and kept it, despite my urge to leap onto Twitter and Facebook). Had it been a regular week, I would have been at my desk at work when my mobile rang, where my stupid grin and inability to speak properly would almost certainly have alerted my editorial colleagues that I’d just had some pretty super news. But I’ve been on leave all week, and I just happened to be working on my novel in the attic. I had the house to myself. Naomi and the kids were out with friends, and therefore not around to see me in those first delighted moments.

Downstairs, while the kettle boiled (I always celebrate with tea), I put on my headphones, played Mint Royale’s Singing in the rain waaaay loud and staged the best breakdancing performance my living room has ever seen.

I couldn’t wait until today, when I’d be able to see who else was on the longlist.  The alarm on my iPhone went off at 5.57am as usual (the weird spaceship landing sound works best for me), and I googled the competition right away. Reading the list was an exciting and daunting experience – it’s exciting to be in the same company as so many awesome writers, and daunting because in the face of this competition, a place for me on the shortlist seems fanciful. But I can hope. I will hope. I’m really proud of ‘Fewer things’. It’s quite possibly the saddest story I’ve ever written, and is partly inspired by a genuine environmental disaster that’s happening to seabirds around the UK.

The shortlist is announced on 7 March. Until then I’ll just enjoy the great privilege of the longlist, and try not to let it swell my head so big I can’t get through the attic door – it’s awfully narrow.

Congratulations to all my fellow longlistees, gulp!

• Richard Beard – James Joyce, EFL Teacher
• Nicholas Best – Souvenir
• Sylvia Brownrigg – Jocasta
• John Burnside – Slut’s Hair
• Will Cohu – Nothing But Grass
• Joe Dunthorne – Critical Responses To My Last Relationship
• Petina Gappah – An Elegy for Easterly
• Jackie Kay – Reality, Reality
• A.L. Kennedy – Saturday Teatime
• Adam Marek – Fewer Things
• Charles Mosley – Constraint
• Chris Paling – The Red Car
• Ron Rash – Burning Bright
• Simon Robson – Will There Be Lions?
• Kay Sexton – Anubis and the Volcano
• Helen Simpson – Diary of an Interesting Year
• C.K. Stead – Last Season’s Man
• Rose Tremain – The Jester of Astapovo
• Gerard Woodward – Legoland
• David Vann – It’s Not Yours

I’m up in the attic working on my novel today. It’s so damn cold I’ve got on five layers and this stupid tauntaun-fur hat.

I’ve just got back from the Manchester Literature Festival, where I was reading at the launch of the anthology When It Changed, which has just been published by Comma Press. It was a surreal, wonderful weekend in which the mathematician Alan Turing was a recurring motif.

The strangeness started in the train on the way up, where there were people dressed as Star Wars characters – including an impressive Admiral Ackbar. Then I got to Manchester too early to check into my hotel room, and having changed my mind about wearing a t-shirt under my shirt, had to get changed in the lobby toilets. A guy staggered in and then practically weeped through a violent explosion of diarrhoea. So abject.

The launch was the first event of the day – it was great to meet up with Geoff Ryman, the editor, Patricia Duncker (another contributor), Dr Tim O’Brien and Prof Steve Furber – two of the scientists who collaborated on the collection. We all read sections from our stories and then did a Q&A, which brought back memories about the brilliant day I spent with Dr Vinod Dhanak the nano-scientist, earlier this year, and which inspired my story in the collection. Geoff read from Liz Williams’ story, as she couldn’t be there. It features a conversation between Wittgenstein and Alan Turing (the day’s first occurrence of Turing). All the copies of the collection at the venue sold out in an hour.

I stayed at the festival for the rest of the day to see the other events – so much great stuff: Bernard MacLaverty, David Constantine, Chris Beckett (whose book is called The Turing Test – Turing occurrence number two), James Lasdun and then two very humbling readings – Atef Abu Saif who was unable to appear in person as he’d not been granted a visa to leave Gaza, but who appeared in an interview which was recorded a couple of days earlier during one of the infrequent bursts of electricity they get there, and Hassan Blasim, a refugee from the Iraq war who has seen some horrific stuff, which he writes about using fantasy and black humour.

In the evening I went out with the gang from Comma Press for curry, quite a few Guinnesses, and a strawberry flavoured shisha outside a bar next to the main road at midnight with blankets over our knees. Later, while searching for places still open for a drink, we just missed the bar that was once the toilet where in 1952 Alan Turing was caught in flagrante with another man and then prosecuted (which Gordon Brown only just apologized for on behalf of the Government last month). Turing occurrence number three.

The fourth and final Turing-event was at Sackville Park, where there is a life-size statue of him sitting on a park bench holding an apple (he killed himself with an apple injected with cyanide) – which at 2am makes an uncanny, shit-scary silhouette.

I have the kind of mind that likes to think recurring motifs like that hold some kind of meaning, but after the three hours’ sleep I got last night, the computational part of my brain is kaput.

This week I was supposed to be in Marbella with Naomi and the kids, but my eight-year-old reacted badly to the lumbar puncture he had a few days before. He was throwing up for days afterwards and there was no way he could travel. So instead I had a week at home, and once my kid was starting to feel better, and I wasn’t having to empty sick buckets anymore, it was actually a fun week. It probably would have been an awful holiday anyway – we would almost certainly have been savaged by the monkeys in Gibraltar.

I finally finished Midnight’s Children, which I’ve been reading for months, both as an audiobook and paperback. It goes straight into my top ten favourite books – a rare thing now. It is so relentlessly inventive and brilliantly crafted I just know I’m going to be disappointed by everything I read for a while until I forget how good it was.

Naomi has been working on a commission for a group called Pornsaints, who get artists to paint pictures of pornstars as saints. So all week Atomic-Exotic, with her gold halo and bright red hair has greeted me from Naomi’s easel. I will miss this painting when Naomi sends it off for the exhibition in Austin, Texas.

My heel injury has kept me off training and running, which is driving me crazy. All week I’ve been stretching it, massaging it, soaking it in bowls of ice water. I’ve eaten so much ibuprofen, some days my heel is the only thing I can feel. I’m now going to explore alternative therapies, first, strapping my cat to my leg so that its purr can ultrasonically repair the torn ligament.

So instead of actual exercise, I’ve been doing virtual Jedi exercise on the PS2 Star Wars Lego game, which my five-year-old and I are blasting our way through together. This week, we completed about 10 levels, so many that the looped soundtrack still loops through my head at night when I go to sleep.

Oh, and I got some good work done on my novel. Right, must go find the cat.