All about Erin, by Rosemary Jenkinson, an extract from Laganside Lights (Arlen House)
Her name was Erin Campbell. And believe me, it was calculated because on her very first application for arts funding, she used her real name — the more prosaic Ellen Campbell which failed to open the doors she craved. Erin Campbell on the other hand was a perfect fusion of Irish and Scottish. It was a name to appeal to both sides in Ireland in spite of her Protestant religion. She changed her name to Erin Campbell and from the day we met I had a problem with her.
Are you thinking I had a problem just because she was a better writer than me? No, it was because she was an expert in artifice. She was assiduous in making connections. One day, an email arrived in my inbox requesting a meet-up. Knowing she was on a charm offensive and that every half-decent writer in Belfast was in receipt of the same missive, I made up some excuse about being away in England. I knew about her, of course, long before I met her. There were the photos of her in all the papers with long black hair, sometimes straightened, sometimes carefully teased into nonchalant waves and there was often the edge of a tattoo creeping onto her neckline, just to temper her well-groomed façade with a down-widda-kidz vibe. She had a boho taste in earrings and once appeared wearing a torc like a Celtic queen.
Are you thinking I had a problem just because she was a better writer than me? No, it was because she was an expert in artifice
I’m not into clothes at all, but I’d say her style was alternative yet establishment — an eclectic mix of suede boots, tailored jackets and shiny silk dresses matched with the occasional grungy tear of denim. She was never pastel—her colours were bold—and, yes, I’m realising I sound obsessed, but truly she did fascinate me. I was the total opposite; I had a wardrobe of identical clothes like Einstein — a series of black polo necks, black or blue jeans and a few pastel linen shirts. I had blond hair I repeatedly asked hairdressers to shape, but they never quite managed to make it look anything other than short. It seemed whatever I said, I lacked the conviction to make them think I deserved a style. I don’t want to imply I wasn’t attractive. I had great bone structure that my somewhat rudimentary understanding of makeup couldn’t efface. Men, in general, loved me and sometimes women too. I just wasn’t sure I had a discernible style, though Erin once said of a black wool coat of mine, ‘That’s a great look for you.’ Perhaps some of us do find our style, only we just don’t see it. It was definitely my style, however, to save my style for the page. It was my style to rip the arse out of the word ‘style’ – okay, I’m completely joking now which was really my style. What I mean to say is that if Erin had the image, I had the substance.
Before Erin Campbell came along, I’d been coining it in for ten years and flaunting my reputation for being acerbically outspoken. A decade is a veritable epoch in the ephemeral world of publishing and I’d long since morphed from emerging writer into literary powerhouse. But post-Erin, I was losing money and gigs hand over fist. I’d started my writing career the traditional way by actually writing which one might think was a prerequisite, but Erin was different, part of the new breed. She began by being a mentor to other writers, running creative writing groups, curating festivals, reviewing, blogging, doing a PHD in literature…the writing came second. I avoided these sideshows, but should have noticed much earlier the value in training future acolytes. By the time I did, Erin Campbell had permeated Belfast’s literary scene, and yes, permeate was the word for it because she was ubiquitous.
Looking back objectively, some kind of Erin Campbell was always bound to disturb my cosy cocoon. My slide was inevitable and I couldn’t blame her for that. I’d ridden the arse off my slice of luck for a long time. Other writers had muscled in to my sphere, but most found it too mentally tough to hang around and moved within a few years into easier genres like journalism or even, poor bastards, into the obscure but well-funded realms of Ulster-Scots poetry. In a city like London, Erin Campbell and I could have coexisted in total harmony, barely registering on each other’s radar. In the pond of Belfast, though, there wasn’t enough room for two big fish, especially if one was a piranha (I’ll leave you to guess which). My major disadvantage was being eleven years older than Erin Campbell’s tender twenty-nine, for literary circles venerated youth, as did the whole neophile world of publishing. Sometimes I thought she looked older and she may well have edited her birth date along with her name. And why not? I’ve always said that writers’ greatest works of fiction are themselves. I’ve lied a shedload about the literary prizes I’ve won.
I’d started my writing career the traditional way by actually writing which one might think was a prerequisite, but Erin was different, part of the new breed
One day, I noticed her name as winner of the lucrative Guardian Short Story Prize. I read the first paragraph and left it at that. It was enough to tell me she had talent. I also spotted her setting up a literary fundraiser for some fashionable political cause and, not long after, I finally met her at a book launch at the John Hewitt. I was late as usual, flitting by to show my face. My publisher often urged me to go to these things to have ‘meaningful chats’, but I’d always been more into meaningless hook-ups and scarfing the free drink. As I scooped up a glass of red wine, Erin Campbell strolled towards me.
‘You’re Adele!’ she exclaimed with a huge smile.
‘Yep and you’re Erin.’
I recognised her immediately from her media headshots. In person, she was tall, willowy and engaging.
‘Oh, I should get some wine too,’ she said. ‘I don’t really drink it, but it always looks good holding a glass in public.’
I gave a little internal raise of the eyebrows.
‘By the way, your short stories are amazing,’ she continued.
‘Thanks. I’m still writing them, but I’ve just started work on a novel.’
‘Sounds great. I’m running a small group for writers to engage with each other’s work. Do you already have someone who reads you?’
‘Apart from my publisher, no.’
‘So why don’t you join my group then? We also discuss the books of contemporary greats.’
‘No way,’ I said, shocked that she expected me to join her vanity project. ‘I’m not giving my stuff to people I don’t trust.’
‘But if you don’t get feedback, how will you ever improve?’ she said, irritated. ‘Surely you want to get better. I know I do.’
I mumbled something noncommittal. I was happy with what I wrote, but to say so seemed crass and boastful. Deep down, I was furious. I’d learnt to write experientially and there was no chance I was joining some soppy writers’ group, as the wrong feedback could destroy your work. Besides, having to read the poor fiction of wannabes would, if anything, have an adverse effect on mine, plus I was at a different place in my career than Erin and no matter what way she cut it, she was ridiculously reducing me to her level. All these thoughts and more were passing through my head. I could have said them out loud, but there was no way I was revealing my superiority complex and I wasn’t going to risk showing her how to be a real author in case she usurped even more of my writing ops.
We moved away from each other like two antimagnetic forces. To me, she was like some proselytising monomaniac and, fittingly enough, I remembered reading an interview she gave where she’d talked of her parents being missionaries in India. I threaded my way over to a publisher, Niall, I used to go out with. There, I monologued brightly and loudly without listening to what he had to say. I couldn’t concentrate any more as I was aware of this black spot on my horizon. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Erin set down her glass on the table and leave. Her wine was untouched.
Back at home her words kept pinballing around inside my cranium. Perhaps I’d become too self-satisfied with my writing level. My only aspiration was to keep producing more of the same in the knowledge that some days my work transcended its limitations and other days it didn’t. Murakami had recently shocked people by saying the best writing was done by under-forties. I was forty now and while I disagreed with him, I recognised that I’d replaced some of my youthful freshness with meticulous polish. But, and this is important, I believed in my genius. And though every passing year made it unlikely I’d exchange my Cork publisher for a big London one, I still thought I’d make it. Even so, perhaps Erin had a point; if I read more contemporary writers, I might learn the stylistic tricks to appeal to London publishers.
The worst thing about the conversation with Erin was it made me doubt myself. Doubt is absolutely terminal to a writer. Confidence is everything. If I was a Hemingway, Bukowski or a Colette I’d have told Erin to fuck right off.
All About Erin is from Rosemary Jenkinson’s seventh collection of short stories, Laganside Lights, published by Arlen House.
