Writing Ireland’s Social History

How a tragedy and a passion to give voice caused me to self-publish my debut fiction novel focusing on Ireland’s Social History.

Back in March 2017 I was not a person who religiously watched the daily news bulletins or read the daily news-papers.

On March 3rd last year I called my mother to wish her a happy birthday. She related her gratitude and then asked me a question that was to change the direction of my life and the predominance of my thoughts forever. It was an innocent question about one of the biggest national scandals ever, that had broken that day. My mother asked:

Did you hear on the news that nearly 800 babies’ bodies were discovered in a septic tank in Tuam, Co Galway?

In that moment something took a tight grip on my heart. I still don’t know what it was, but it was painful, and I knew that somehow the scandal had deep resonance within me.

My mother went on to relate the story revealed on the news. After finishing up the phone call I switched on the TV, checking Facebook at
the same time to see that several friends had also tagged me in articles related to Catherine Coreless’ findings.

In doing so, I quickly realised my kinship with these innocent lives. They were all born in a Mother & Baby Home, so was I. They were all born of ‘fallen women’, so was I. Their lives all began under the supervision of the nuns, so did mine.

Throughout the coming days, more devastating news was revealed that similar secrets of disposed babies were likely in all the other Mother & Baby Homes around Ireland, all nine of them.

I was born in 1974 in St. Patrick’s Mother & Baby Home, in Dublin, by far the largest Mother & Baby Home in our state.
Over the following weeks, the outrage died down the scandal went off the radar. TV coverage moved on, and less and less articles and conversations filled our social media news feeds.

But my heart continued to break. Each day I walked around smiling outward through an abyss of silent devastation and sadness. The anger I felt towards state and church blew its punches to my being every day. Filled with grief, guilt and despair, I was lost. Tears flowed from my eyes, while the images of innocence in unrecognized graves haunted my mind.

Being a Spiritual Practitioner and Hypnotherapist I had all the tools to deal with pain, anger and grief, but in this instance none of these tools were effective.

It was too big.

I was helpless. The thought ‘it could have been me’ repeated in my mind over and over, followed by the guilt that it wasn’t me, and the victims lay silenced for decades, their soul legacy unknown to the world. The helplessness to fulfil a will to do my part was like a drug that paralyzed happiness and joy, and amplified frustration, anger and heart break.

One morning, at the end of March I woke with a sense of everything being perfect in my world. It was a bright sunny morning. My husband lay sleeping beside me and my three daughters were also lost in peaceful slumber. Life was perfect, and all was well. That perfection lasted about three seconds and the devastation came thundering into my mind once again, it’s heaviness weighing down on my being before I rose from the bed.

I got up that day and got the kids off to school, by now, behind the mask of my smile, my eyes were already swollen with the familiar sting of tears. I had nowhere to turn. I desperately wanted to step up and do something to make this better, but I had no idea what that was or how.

With eventual acceptance that my own efforts were ineffective and knowing I could not continue to live in this abyss of devastation, I eventually turned to God.

I stood in my bedroom, with a broken heart, tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

I looked up and asked for help: “God, help me see this differently, because I cannot find a way forward”

That is always my last resort question. Usually I ask, then I let it go in the knowing that later that day the answer will come, be it through people, places, a movie or some other medium. However, within moments something happened that would go on to consume my every thought from that moment to this. The plot for what was to become my first fiction novel began to download in my mind. It was about a baby girl, born in a Mother & Baby Home in mid-sixties Ireland.

She was given up for adoption by a mother who loved her without condition and the story followed her childhood of rejection and judgement due to the consciousness of Irish Society. To add to the mix the young girl had a beautiful psychic gift, including clear communication with her spirit guides, angels and an ability to see beyond the veil of illusion into realms beyond the third dimension. When you throw in Roman Catholic Ireland’s stance on that one, you get a good sense of where the story goes.

If I am completely honest, writing the story that downloaded in my mind made perfect sense to me, while scaring the living day lights out of me at the same time. I loved writing, and, in the past, I had thrown out the odd self-help article, admittedly with deliberate caution, targeting the audience whom I knew would say, something like ‘Gosh Hilary that was great, well done you!’

But to write a novel? That was a whole different realm. In fact, that was HUGE. I didn’t know the first thing about creative writing, albeit effectively and certainly not to the standard of a good author. The last time I encountered the task of creative writing was when I was seventeen years old sitting my Leaving Cert.

But this felt right. I wanted to give voice to those who were silenced, it didn’t even matter if no one heard or read my work. The point was I was doing something for these treasured angels and for all those magnificent mothers who still carry the pain
to this day caused by the aristocracy that controlled our nation. Once I wrote the story, did my very best and shared it out there, I knew I was doing my part, for them. Of course, I hoped that someone listened and heard, but control of same was out of my hands and I knew I just had to show up, be the vessel and pray for the best outcome.

The purpose of the story was to help the thousands of innocent souls be heard, have voice, and be seen for the pure innocence that they were. It was also my way of contributing towards healing the pain within the hearts and minds of the thousands if not millions at the effect of the judgement and condemnation that controlled our society. In some way it made sense that giving life to this novel would go towards doing all the above.

So, about an hour later I sat down and wrote the words that flowed from my mind. The words, the purpose and story has continued to dominate my mind every moment from that day to this, mostly in the hope that I do it justice.

And now Saoirse has gained her wings. She is out there soaring high. It has only been a couple of weeks but thankfully the orders are coming in every-day.

As for the feedback so far, those who have given feedback have said two things:
1. They couldn’t put it down
2. They didn’t want it to end.

It is my hope and prayer that Saoirse lives a life that gives hope, healing and inspires forgiveness and joy within the hearts and minds of all whom she encounters.

My wish for all who read Saoirse is two-fold:
I hope and pray that she inspires freedom to all affected by her story, because in some way it resonates with you.
I dearly hope and pray that she gives just voice to the souls who inspired her and helps their light shine brightly in recognition of their perfection, wherever they are.

—

Follow her on Twitter https://twitter.com/HilaryBauthor

Find out more about Hilary on her website https://hilaryconnor.com/

About SAOIRSE

As a child, Saoirse Corcoran was rejected. As an adult she is sought out by strangers. The reason for both is the same – her power.

Born in the mid-sixties to a mother who desperately wanted to keep her but couldn’t, put in an institutional crib and situation, she is visited by a guiding force who she will come to know in future days, who protects a baby born to survive inhuman treatment in a staunch Catholic society, and to change it with the strength of her life experience.

Saoirse’s mother Maisie, sleeps in a different part of St. Patrick’s Mother and Baby Home, sharing a collective sorrow that will haunt and mark Ireland’s social history. Saoirse is set apart from the beginning – marked with a psychic gift which serves as her greatest ally and strength against coming judgement and condemnation. When Lil and Joe Corcoran adopt her, she is four months old with and ancient soul. There is the hope of happy ever after.

At first, their love is unconditional, but then the deeper aspect of her nature triggers their great fear. They reject her abilities, forcing her back into another convent, run by St. Agnes, who sees and treats Saoirse as evil. Saoirse holds onto the truth that love is the only property to heal an emotionally enslaved, repressed Ireland. Her friendships give her hope.

Her family become her greatest teachers. The search for her identity centres on her first shared sorrow, separated only by walls, a mother and her child who felt each other’s presence.

On a harrowing journey, Saoirse is drawn to the deepest bond of all which is still a mystery. She moves to re-unite, to find out who Maisie was and finds out more than who her mother was. She discovers what she knew all along, from the moment she was born. Her gift came from somewhere unknown and now returns to claim its source. She learns the name and nature of the presence that guarded her lonely crib.

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing