A hermit crab, a zephyr

...and a book of smells

The Wild Atlantic Way

In June this year, I found myself on the far edges of Europe looking out over an endless sea with a curious blend of wild exhilaration and safe containment. I was a guest/participant/student/writer/interloper on an Ireland Writing Retreat, warmly hosted by the engaging and inspiring Sean and Columbia Hillen, and in this special space that they held on the fringe of the world, something quite magical unfolded.

I was there as a result of winning a writing competition organised by the retreat - The Wild Atlantic Writing Award, and despite ‘on paper’ presenting as a competition winner, and [soon to be] published author; the depth of talent, knowledge and inspiration in the room was almost overwhelming. Nine other extraordinary women from across the world bursting with creativity, skill and experience beyond my imagination. Imposter syndrome, anyone? ‘Yes!! Pick me!! Pick me!! I do not deserve to be here.’

After the cleverest of ice-breakers on our first morning however, what soon became apparent was the depth of generosity and insight in the room. The warmth, tenderness and empathy of a special community of writers revealing whisperings of how much I would learn, love and laugh over the course of the following few days. So, I gently folded up my own feelings of embarrassment, unworthiness and overwhelm and neatly placed them in a little cupboard in my mind, the one with the faulty lock, and temporarily allowed myself to crack open. In doing so, I was able to bleed out my ideas and to absorb theirs; to listen to words spun into intricate webs of beauty, droplets of my companions’ souls hanging like dew from the very threads. I could hear, feel and appreciate critique in a way that was meaningful without being abrasive, ameliorating without bringing shame.

Whereas my writing has previously been conducted like most of us, solitarily, this brought the curious experience of sharing writing from the moment of inception. Writing exercises were based on prompts from the day, words scribbled in evenings after class, creative cogs lubricated by a half pint of Guinness before we laid down our pens for a dance, a walk or a song…or perhaps an early night. It was a truly liberating way to write with no prep, no forewarning, just a simple instruction about an experience of the moment; inspired by a visit to a remote island, story telling in an ancient thatched cottage or a walk through castle grounds. Ideas formulating whilst dipping toes in a lake on the longest day or hiding from the hard stare of the mama sheep.

The writing room

Whilst the geographical setting was glorious, a whole new world opened up to me within the writing room. From flash fiction, to memoir, from ‘writing through the senses’, to practicing dialogue, ideas and inspiration whistled around the room taking up the place of the strangely absent wind. Plot structures, memorable titles and inciting incidents were carried on zephyrs of breath, looping and dancing in the air alongside surprise endings, emotional truths and humour. Non-fiction writers were thrown into fiction. The panic of ‘but how? I have no imagination?’ slowly lapped at by waves of wicked glee in not having to remember detail, or to portray an ‘authentic’ narrative. The room became filled with selkies and wolves, statues of Mary and mischievous faeries, murderous wives, a lip balm and tell of a disappointing penis…

Fiction writers were challenged to write their truths… confronting fuzzy memories and delving deep inwards. Frost and pomegranates hung in the air, cut through with the acerbic smell of a cigarette or the sticky sweetness of candyfloss. The warming feel of homemade soup gave way to tears cried onto daisies as we hopped from generation to generation through the viewfinder of an old cine-reel. The mid-morning tea arriving with a large plateful of Madeleine de Proust.

Phrases became scribbled into my mind:

‘extraordinary does not have to be loud’

‘self-pity wins no friends’

New grammatical terms, techniques and conventions learned - the transferred epithet, the power of reading out loud, slaughtering adverbs along with your darlings. The anti-alliteration and the six-word memoir, the tenets of ‘flash’ and the criticality of the ‘point of view’. Auto-fiction and magical realism. Memorable opening lines and delicious titles:

OPENING LINES

‘When I was nine, I wrote a vow of celibacy on a piece of paper, and ate it.’ - ‘Not That Kind of Girl’, Lena Dunham

‘I come from Des Moines. Someone had to.’ - ‘The Lost Continent’, Bill Bryson

TITLES

‘Becoming’ - Michelle Obama

‘Wishful Drinking’ - Carrie Fisher

And then, amidst the orchestra of creativity and my delight at learning yet another new word (callipygian) I heard it.

The distinct clackety clack of claws as it scuttled across the table.

‘What is this? A strange creature in our midst?’

T’is but a crab.

Photo by Ahmed Sobah on Unsplash

The hermit crab

On the penultimate day, one of my highly talented co-writers, Celia, introduced me to what is known as a ‘hermit crab’ essay. A writing form that has tantalised me ever since, and has now popped up in my Substack feed in the most delightful and unexpected way. The hermit crabs are breeding!

As quoted by

Jeannine Ouellette

in her latest BRILLIANT writing intensive, this type of essay is defined as follows:

A hermit crab essay is a type of nonfiction essay that uses an existing form, such as a letter, recipe, or social media post, to tell a story or explore a topic. The term was coined in 2003 by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola in their book Tell It Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction

In the classroom in Ireland, my new friend read to us the draft of her simply marvellous ‘Recipe for Reinvention’, cleverly weaving a poignant narrative into the form of 'ingredients, cooking methods and notes to the chef. Giving her story a different ‘home’ structure, in a delightful nod to whimsy underscored with great skill. Other friends also had experience of this format, and it has been joyous to continue this exploration, particularly with the conversations now unfolding in Jeannine’s

Writing in the Dark with Jeannine Ouellette

- I highly recommend having a peek.

Here are a couple of hermit crab examples, one from Celia herself:

"Last Will and Testament of me, Andrzej Jacek Sikorski" by Celia Chandler

In this, Celia celebrates the memory of her husband with love, warmth and wicked humour. This made me smile deeply, gave me a sense of the man I have never met (and through her representation of him, of a woman I barely know), and emanates a comforting sense of familiarity, ease and mischief. I think it’s quite brilliant.

Celia also shared with me another hermit crab penned by her friend:

"A Marriage Triptych" by Gail Purdy

This triptych hilariously charts a marriage through a job application, mid-term performance review and notice of termination. I won’t say more - just read it.

The book of smells

Back in the writing room we had an assignment to write: a short essay inspired by our day and incorporating the senses. I dipped my toe into the rockpool of the little hermit crab in the form of a letter to my daughter who will soon be leaving home. This has a very simplistic shell, and my first crab had a short gestation period, but you get the idea…

Mini-baby-bel,

I’ve been practising being without you this week, I think you’d be proud. I’m playing with how it will feel when it becomes our normal. God, will it be our normal? I hope not. I hope you still call me every day to discuss your meal-deal. I promise never to be bored by the contents of your sandwiches.

Glenveagh reminds me of holidays from before you came along…when it was just me and he. We would fold our tent into the back of my hot-orange mini and head to Europe with no destination in mind. Adventures which will soon open up again as you will have been…and gone… A bit like the hot-orange mini.

Oh God, please don’t go.

I feel excited, like I’m on the cusp of a freedom I cannot quite recall, but I am so scared. Not for you though babes. You’ll be fine. It’s #allaboutme.

I realise how much I will miss the sense of your presence. The way you tangle your soft but weirdly angular limbs into mine when we curl up on the sofa, how I hold you as I have done since you were born - melting you when you are brittle, strengthening you when you are weak. Burying my nose into your hair to inhale, as you roll your eyes knowingly at your sister: ‘mum needs a sniff’.

A woman at the lake once said to me ‘life is a series of damp patches’. From birth, to menstruation, to waters breaking to menopause. For me, life is a book of smells.

Oh, the smell of your fuzzy newborn scalp, and the malty tang of milk vomit – seriously how did you produce so much? When you got sick, I would smell your breath to determine if it was an infection. One whiff of the plant-withering sourness and I knew.

And now – the familiar biscuity bite of your fake tan. The earthy, metallic tang of blood on the day before your period, and your horror at my witchery when I tell you you’re about to come on.

The sickly-sweet alcopop vapour that giggles from your lips when you return from a party, repeatedly splurging how much you love me and trying to tidy up, instantly giving the game away.

The mouth-watering aroma of my herby chicken that hauled you back from the precipice of vegetarianism, allowing me to finally throw out all the ‘sunflower mince’ shit that had been clogging up the cupboards.

How you drift around in a cloud of floral body sprays and buttery popcorn.

Your book of smells is my comfort blanket.

I asked dad how he’ll feel when you go:

‘Oh, I’ll be fine’.

‘Really?...won’t you be sad?’

‘No. It’s how it’s meant to be, Em. It’s time to let her go.’

Argh!! I can’t...

And then I realise. He has no sense of smell – probably for the best considering his butt.

Love you more than tea,

Mum

p.s. I’ll make sure you have the chicken recipe.

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I hope you enjoyed this little scuttle around my Donegal experience and my new discovery. I have another crab on the way soon… I can’t wait to share it with you!

As always,

Love & lemons 💕🍋

Em xx