Q&A with Eamon Doggett

We are thrilled to be publishing “The Scab” by Eamon Doggett this week, a story that easily tugs you back into childhood — the team sports, the weight of impending adulthood, quiet drives and overheard parental conversation. And of course, wondering if there is anything quite so tempting than a good, thick scab on the knee. Beneath the nostalgia is something all too authentic. A family wounded, a child finding their place within it all. One of our editors, Sophia Blush, dug further into “The Scab” with Doggett, revealing some of the intention behind the story.

What inspired you to write this piece? How did you land on the wound as the central image?

I am glad you see the wound as the central image because that is where this story started in my mind. Usually, I begin stories with a character, a premise or a question, but with this story, I started with that image of a wound. More specifically - and more grossly in some ways! - I was thinking of a wound healing itself and the magic and mystery in that process. I quickly realised then that the central character - or the wounded - was going to be a young person because they are much more likely to be running around, falling over and wounding themselves. Moreover, I remembered being young and being fascinated - like everyone, I think - when a wound started to scab. All of a sudden, you had this reptilian-like crust on your body that was so fascinating. You had a front row seat to the incredible workings of the body. And no matter how many times you were told not to pick at the scab, you inevitably did. From there, I got the idea that a part of Colm, this young lad, welcomed the pain in some way, if only, perhaps, to see it represented on his body. It was with the writing, then, that I figured out that his parents had broken up.

This story contained quite a bit of dialogue, and I thought it flowed very well. How do you approach writing dialogue, and what helps you figure out what your characters might say?

I think I'm always fearful or self-conscious about being too present as an author in the story. The old and not always helpful cliché of show and don't tell plays in my mind a lot, so I try to avoid explaining things as much as possible - mostly because when I think my writing is going well, I don't really know what is going on in the story myself. In this way, I like letting the characters speak. I like dialogue - and I think it's a characteristic of Irish writing - when everyone is struggling to express what they mean to say, and plenty of space is given to the reader to interpret things. I also like the way dialogue can often feel more unfiltered, instinctive and authentic than the narrative voice. Conversely, I think the short story sometimes struggles to accommodate too much dialogue, and my editing often revolves around removing swathes of dialogue that add nothing to the story. Then, again, I do also find myself fighting against Chekhov's gun idea that everything has to be consequential and serve a purpose within the story, inasmuch as I like writing that meanders and goes nowhere to some degree. These are the battles I have in my mind anyway!

I liked the ending – there was a definite sense of conclusion to the story arc, and yet, I could also see the story continuing on. How did you decide where to end? 

I don't know how many times I redrafted this story's ending! To be completely honest, I'm still unconvinced by the ending, but it feels more true than the other versions anyway. I do baulk when I read stories that use a refrain at the beginning and ending of a story. It can feel like a kind of cheap trickery that insults the reader's intelligence. But I've ended up doing something similar here! The idea, I suppose, is that Colm's wound has regenerated - it has healed itself - but by the story's end, he seems to be possessed by the same urge - the urge to hurt himself or to feel pain - that he felt at the story's beginning. In one way, you could say that the refrain of Colm hurting himself again neatly ties up the story and gives it a sense of circularity, but, as you say, I would also like to think that it opens up the old wound and things that might happen in the future. I have no idea what might happen to him in the future, so it felt like the right moment to end things.

Who inspires you? Did you have any direct influences while writing The Scab?

For whatever reason, I was writing a lot about childhood at the time of writing this story. This might be because I was reading a lot of Ernest Hemingway's early short stories at the time. I could reread his Nick Adams stories like 'Big Hearted River' and 'Indian Camp' all day long for their emotional depth and clear-sighted imagery. When reading those stories, though - stories of fishing, and fathers and sons - you think, I can do this; this seems achievable. But when you try it yourself, you realise you can't. Rather, you start polluting the world with words, and you keep editing - subtracting words - to try to get rid of all the mud that inevitably accumulates - at least it does for me - when you write. I think I am attracted to writing about childhood because there are fewer opportunities to get lost in introspection. Children are more instinctive and authentic, so I hope that by writing about them, I produce writing that is more instinctive and authentic.