'Writing a second book is harder than the first...' Acclaimed Waterford poet Molly Twomey introduces her new poetry collection Chic to be Sad, and revisits the challenging journey to the book's publication.
'I’ll never write anything worth reading again’, I think as I shackle myself to a desk, picking at my skin and calling myself names.
Readers tell me Raised Among Vultures, my first poetry collection, about recovering from an eating disorder, encouraged them to seek help or better understand a loved one’s struggle. So, of course, everything I write afterward feels pointless.
Then, one evening, my younger brother facetimes me. He’s pale, catching his breath. 'Molly,’ he stammers, ‘our house is on fire.’
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Over his shoulder, our childhood home in Lismore spits flames. He turns the lens to Mam, Dad, and Buddy the dog so I know they're safe. Firefighters circle in their clunky gear. Someone shouts that the car is parked too close to the blaze. I press my fingers to the screen as if I could reach through and hold them as they watch our home suffocate.
The next day, my brothers and I walk through the blackened kitchen, the tiles squelching underfoot. We go upstairs in our blue gloves and N95 respirators, careful not to slip. Objects like Mam’s night guard, buried in ash, reinforce how lucky we are that it happened while everyone was awake and could evacuate.
It takes three years to repair our home. It takes me a little longer to finish Chic to be Sad.
In my old room, I find photos melted together, soggy tobacco, soaked birthday cards, everything is wrecked by soot. The reek is unbearable; it clings to my clothes, hair, and skin for weeks. I'm gutted to lose my grandmother’s doll, my college sweater, my first pair of socks. I know I’m going to write it all so I focus my attention like the blue mold that later spreads on the sofa, loops around the banister, and creeps up the walls.
Back in Cork, I pore over insurance documents, rewatch videos and study photos of the fire. I scribble maps of the house, recalling the memories tied to each room: dressing up in mam’s kitten heels, pushing my brothers down the stairs in the washing basket, blasting Atomic Kitten from a CD player in my bedroom. From these flashbacks, I begin to write my second collection, Chic to be Sad.
Writing a second book is harder than the first; I think about the reader more, convincing myself every line isn’t good enough. I fixate on award lists and reviews. I study incredible collections, comparing them to my own mess of a manuscript. I’m terrified my new poems are useless, that the accolades for my debut were a fluke.
It takes three years to repair our home. It takes me a little longer to finish Chic to be Sad. The book spans more than just the fire, from the Guggenheim in Venice to a disciplinary meeting in the Maldron hotel. At my launch, I stand before the smiles of people I love, writers I admire, all of them wishing my work well, gifting me flowers, queueing for my signature. I wish I could pocket their kindness and scatter it across my desk, be patient and gentler with myself.
Chic to be Sad is published by The Gallery Press.
Cover image: 'Just So You Know I Was Thinking Of You' by Niamh Swanton.
