The advice has always been to write about what you know. I suppose the idea is that if it’s familiar to you it will have that ring of authenticity, something readers are drawn to. At the same time writers of fiction are encouraged to take risks, dip their toe into the unknown, be brave, don’t settle for the familiar. Which is it?
I’m still not sure but all I know is that when I’m asked for advice about what to write about, I say: follow your heart. What story do you really want to tell? Whose voice do you want to be heard? What excites you? What character/setting/narrative can’t you stop thinking about? What story are you wedded to? If something stirs within you, go there. That’s where the gold is. Whether the story is set-in far-off Iraq, the Tuscany hills or in your own sleepy Irish town, the themes can be universal: love, loss, rage, regret, despair, fulfilment. All these emotions are the heartbeat of women’s fiction everywhere.
I’ve always been drawn myself to this type of story: the single mother rebuilding her world after divorce; the fraught father-daughter relationship; the stay-at-home adult child grappling with the challenges of caring for ageing parents; The couple in trouble; the invisible child. The woman who looks like she has it all but lies awake wondering where she might find love. Reflections of real lives, secrets shared across a café table, on late-night texts, or buried deep inside journal pages. That’s the heart of women’s fiction.
That’s why I write. And that’s why I read.
Women’s fiction gives space for those stories. And that space is powerful. It’s where we meet characters who feel like old friends. It’s where we find echoes of ourselves in the pages – our regrets, our dreams, our triumphs, our fears. Sometimes, reading a novel is like looking into a mirror. And we find characters and stories that connect us, heal us, and remind us that we’re not alone.
When I was about nine years old, I so wanted to be a boy: I dressed in shorts and t-shirts, wore my hair very short, wouldn’t be seen dead in a dress. I climbed rocks, rode my bike fast and learnt to whistle. But no one in my small-town world understood me! Then along came The Famous Five, Enid Blyton’s series of books about a trusty band of four children plus Timmy, the dog. The Famous Five were preppy English children who said things like gosh and splendid and drank ginger beer. The ringleader was Georgina – a girl my age who would only answer to the name George. She so wanted to be a boy, and she dressed like a boy, wore her hair short and was a tough as any boy. George was my hero. Now I had someone I could identify with; I wasn’t alone after all. For me, the wanting-to-be-like-a-boy phase faded out after a year or so but the character of George has stayed in my head through the years.
When it came to writing my first novel, The Girl with Special Knees, I wanted to write about what I knew. And I knew the voice I wanted to be heard. It was the voice of my (silent) daughter. I wanted to hear what she had to say, what was she feeling, did she ever laugh inside? I wanted to untie the bonds of her rare congenital condition and see her fly off, twirl into her dreams, come fully alive. And I wanted to write about family, and people who had lost their way but still showed up, feeling their way forward one step at a time. People who were navigating big questions: Why me? Who am I now? What do I want? What happens after I unravel?
I write these stories because I’ve lived parts of them. Maybe you have too.
Did you ever stand in your kitchen wondering if it’s too late to start over? Maybe you’ve sat in your car a little too long after a hard conversation? Maybe you’ve held a grief no one else could see? Or maybe you’ve rediscovered joy in the most unexpected place – like an old friend’s voice or a quiet morning that felt peaceful and where you felt that you could cope and live to fight another day.
That’s why I believe women’s fiction matters. It reflects the truth under the surface: the strength behind the smile, the longing behind the busy schedule, the growth that comes from falling apart and glueing yourself back together.
These stories are not always tidy. But they are true.
As you’re reading this, I’d like to say thank you for being here. Whether you’ve read one of my books or whether you’re just shooting the breeze, thank you for reading this. And I hope you find in your reading experience, stories that make you feel seen, understood, and a little less alone.
Because even in fiction—especially in fiction—we find pieces of our real selves.
Eleanor O’Kelly – Lynch
eleanorokellylynch.ie 
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