‘His writing is rich and heavy with imagery’—Meg Grehan talks with Liam Maguire

by Meg Grehan

The first time I read Liam Maguire’s words they seemed at odds with the person I know him to be. He is charming, funny and sweet. His piece, Hole ( Aimsir Press Lúnasa 2024) is strange, dark and unsettling. I was surprised at first, but then I saw it. This piece is strange, yes, but it uses its strangeness to dig deeper into understanding. It’s dark, yes, but it uses this darkness to share its truth. It is unsettling, yes, but it uses this to bring you into the mind of a hurt person. There is so much empathy, so much kindness, so much more to this piece.

Liam works in publishing and you can tell it’s where he’s meant to be

This is something I see more of as I read through Liam’s catalogue of work. He’s been published in The Four Faced Liar, Puca, Honest Ulsterman and Howl among others. Liam’s world is one of words and the invitation his work extends, a gentle and honest ‘come on in’, is a beautiful one.

Liam works in publishing and you can tell it’s where he’s meant to be. After getting his Masters degree in Publishing in Galway he began working at Gill Books and has since made the move to Lilliput Press. His knowledge of the Irish publishing scene is enviable and his passion for it inspiring.

Liam started writing as a child. He tells me he started by borrowing stories from media he liked and writing his own version, rewriting Star Wars and superhero stories. He wrote ferociously as a child, so much so that it intertwined with his identity. In his own brave and vulnerable way, Liam tells me he wasn’t sure if it was something he did for the love of it, if it was something intrinsically him or if it was something others saw as his. But writing found its way back in not long after, and he hasn’t stopped since.

He wrote ferociously as a child, so much so that it intertwined with his identity

It’s this courageous vulnerability that I think makes Liam such a strong writer. His writing is rich and heavy with imagery. The characters in his stories are vivid and often lost in their own unique way. But he always finds them; he guides the reader into the worlds of his characters and shows us how to empathise with oddity, how to embrace the dark, how to find a way through.

His poem Gullet which featured in The Honest Ulsterman in September 2024 is as devastating as it is beautiful. While the matter-of-fact tone is at odds with the very human subject matter of body image, the blend is incredibly effective. It’s a poem that sits in the chest, that fills the stomach with the feeling of moth wings, with “midge, bluebottle, spiderweb”, with a distinct fluttering discomfort and a sorrowful sense of familiarity.

There is an earthiness to his work; it’s grounded in nature and the movement of the air.

There is an earthiness to his work; it’s grounded in nature and the movement of the air. Liam’s poem TOOTH ache in Aimsir’s Lúnasa 2023 issue displays this beautifully. It is soil and lichen and snail slime. It is glorious.: “We have never been this alone. / I have never loved like this. / Do you know what it means to ache?” The simplicity of the language allows for layers of imagery, for the meaning hidden beneath the soil.

Liam is currently working on his first novel and was recently a recipient of the Guthrie Bursary, presented in partnership with the Tyrone Guthrie Centre and the Irish Writers Centre. Having read a chapter or two of the novel-in-progress, this achievement doesn’t surprise me. The novel so far is an extension of the work Liam has already shared, merging and melding discomfort with understanding, hard with soft and sharp with gentle.   

Tell me about your process

I’m going to make this sound really boring but it’s really just about showing up at my desk, whether that is early in the morning or late at night (recently all my writing happens at night). I’m at the mercy of public transport for most of my waking life, so a lot gets written in transit too.

I don’t do much prep, especially with short fiction or poems. I try to exorcise myself of them quickly. It’s instinctual maybe, or just emotional, and it mostly results in something unreadable, which I try whittle down and revise until it becomes something that makes sense.  I try to just follow the thread, let the feeling or memory or whatever it is lead me, and figure out what it means later.

I’m a slow writer too, so I could be at it for hours and only have a couple of paragraphs to show for it. I used to only write in silence, but recently I’ve had music on while I’m working – mostly Patti Smith, Hank Williams, the Yellowjackets soundtrack, and Ethel Cain’s last album.

You write about heavy topics with such honesty and kindness, how do you go about broaching heavier subjects?

I don’t set out to be kind or even particularly honest in my writing. I just try to be fair, and maybe some sort of honesty comes as a result of that.

It’s probably entirely selfish. Like writing as a way to understand yourself. I don’t want to minimise writing by saying it only serves as a way to process emotions or experiences, or that it always has to be deeply personal. But the writing has to come from some part of the self, whether it’s a lived experience or a thought that’s taken root inside of you. It can feel like untangling knots sometimes.

the writing has to come from some part of the self, whether it’s a lived experience or a thought that’s taken root inside of you

Having a piece accepted by a journal is a really special feeling too – just knowing another person connected with the words. Writing about the heavier things might be an attempt at that connection, a way of reaching out to the reader and asking, have you ever felt like this too?

How does the process and experience of writing a novel compare to writing stories and poetry?

Naively, I thought writing a novel would be like writing a short story, only longer. But the whole process has been completely different.

With a short story or a poem, its intense but it’s also brief. A good line is enough to sustain a poem, and with a story it really is just a snap, everything comes and goes in nearly the same moment. Hopefully it leaves the reader changed, but it’s usually a quick change.

It’s different with the novel. Every part of it is stretched out.  Moments last longer. The story is on a slow boil. You have to take the time to get to know the characters, to understand who they are and what they’re about. Any change that happens is gradual.

I’m a chronic overthinker, but I was told by a writer I know to just get the words down

It feels like a proper commitment, which is really exciting to me. It’s a compulsion, something I need to tip away at bit by bit. I’m trying not to be too precious with it either. I’m a chronic overthinker, but I was told by a writer I know to just get the words down. The most important thing is to just write the damn thing. You can clean it up in the edits.

I’m lucky enough to have received a mentorship from the Irish Writers Centre and that’s been a huge help with writing the novel too. I’ve been able to bounce ideas off my mentor and go to her for advice. Knowing she is going to read my writing is also a great way to hold myself accountable and be more intentional with what I’m putting down. I just feel really grateful that a writer whose work I admire has engaged with something I’ve written.