Losing the Plot
This is the text of the 2025 Stinging Fly lecture, which was delivered by Sarah Moss at Pearse Street Library in Dublin on September 25th 2025.| The Stinging Fly
This is the text of the 2025 Stinging Fly lecture, which was delivered by Sarah Moss at Pearse Street Library in Dublin on September 25th 2025.| The Stinging Fly
'Swallows are everywhere. Golondrinas, I say to myself and remember the day on the balcony when Pilar taught me that word. She used to praise them for eating the mosquitos in summer. The balcony, with its view over the town and valley, the factories and slaughterhouses, el río Cinca, and its dry tributary el río Sosa. High on the hill above us, the castle.'| stingingfly.org
It is early June and I leave the aircon on high. I am driving two and a half hours from the airport to Monzón, the hometown of my wife María. My mother-in-law Pilar is to be buried this afternoon. I only brought an overnight bag with me and wore my suit on the early flight. María has been in Monzón since the previous month for the deathbed vigils. I am going for the night and flying home tomorrow at 12 noon. María and I had it planned for months, years even. Fionn, our son, is being look...| The Stinging Fly
'As she flew through the sky in the white clouds, Fatma agonised over the expectations placed on her. She thought about all the cars she was expected to bring back to her village, and the promises she had made to find people jobs – as if she could create opportunities in Bahari!'| stingingfly.org
‘A year into writing a second draft, I catch the first unsettling drift of unease, like something unpleasant and indefinable under the floorboards.’| stingingfly.org
The best things I said about my book, I said at the beginning. My answers have thinned, the more I am asked about it. I have come to realise, the less you say, the more powerful you suggest you are. The other tactic I employ is evasion. To some questions I reply, That’s not for me to answer, because I want to be mysterious—as if the sound of the modern world is too loud for my sensitive soul, as if I am being awoken from an inner sanctum, interrupted from hushed communion with my creativi...| The Stinging Fly
‘There’s just something about the way you are together. It’s a quiet sort of thing, but I’d say it works, doesn’t it?’| stingingfly.org
On the days when there is no Mother, Big Sister can go wherever she wants. Down lamplit streets and into shining playgrounds. She tries not to skip ahead; she feels a sticky-fingered guilt for missing anything. If Mother has been gone a very long time, Little Sister usually begs to come along. ˜ Today, Little … Continue reading "A Typical Barbie"| The Stinging Fly
After forty years on the planet, you’d think I would be used to this. Public shame about my body. Opinions of strangers. The eyes. The laughs. The echo of car horns and abuse hurled from passing motors. That feeling of being overlooked or underestimated due to my size, or worse, being looked over and assessed and found wanting. Derision that seeks to and often succeeds in sending me into hiding. Into my mind. Into poetry. Into the safety of the lifelines I know best. | The Stinging Fly
The gull lifted her wing and winced: the size of an eye, the wound was red and weeping. Inhaling deeply, she blinked and stretched out a leg. It was early morning, the town still and quiet. Across the rooftops the sun was rising, and the ferris wheel glistened in the yolk-orange light. This is happening, she told herself. Closing her eyes, she attempted to relieve the tightness in her chest, to bring lightness to her breathing, but then a mob of cawing crows swooped down beside her.| The Stinging Fly
Gregor Montgomery, she told me, was a man of such standing, of such unimpeachable gravitas, that no matter the location of a party, he was surely known by at least two attendees in any given room at any given time before his arrival, such had his legend spread. All who had heard of this icon, … Continue reading "The Gregor Montgomery"| The Stinging Fly
The government’s Basic Income for the Arts (BIA) pilot scheme reaches three years in operation this month. The scheme was originally set to finish after this period, however an extension until February 2026 was recently granted by government.| The Stinging Fly
There’s a place on the road to the west where there’s a car park for a lake. Traffic signs announce a viewpoint with little triangles that are supposed to show there’s something nice to look at. People stop in the car park and sit on the grass drinking tea from flasks. We used to go there, when my children were younger. | The Stinging Fly
February 2020. I’m in Rome, on a short break with my sister. It’s two months away from the launch of my debut novel and I’m searching for shoes. Along Via del Corso, I find them, elegant and punky, with heels just the right side of negotiable. Undecided between the green and the black—which will work better with the silk pleated skirt I’ve been saving?—I uncharacteristically splurge and buy both. This giddiness is short-lived: in April, two weeks into lockdown, the novel is publis...| The Stinging Fly
There have been many surprises since I embarked on a career as a writer: the constant feelings of inadequacy, long bouts of creative constipation, the acute pleasure of getting pissed with other writers at literary launches, and the vast amount of time I spend planning and writing applications. If I could somehow conjure a world in which all these applications came to fruition – the residencies, collections, cross-disciplinary exhibitions, the visits to galleries and archives around the wor...| The Stinging Fly
When I was publicly announced as a Granta Best Young British Novelist, I was working in a wine shop. I felt insecure as no one else on the list seemed to work a job like mine, and I probably felt a little vain too: ‘Why is a Granta Best Young British Novelist being yelled at for shelving beer cans badly?’| The Stinging Fly
The noise from the pub cuts off abruptly as the door swings shut. She hesitates, not knowing where he has parked his car, and he gestures up the road towards the square. His other hand lifts towards, although does not quite touch, the small of her back.| The Stinging Fly
