‘From frozen to fearless – let it all go and release that voice’: author Tuula Costelloe on the writing of her novel, Mercy.
My favourite thing I’d ever written simmered on my laptop, like a secret. It felt too radical, too daring, to put out there. Despite the hours of work, the nights as an insomniac, it felt scandalous to have written a thriller about euthanasia, and it was safer to keep it between me and my keyboard, its evocative, emotional world something only I would ever know. Then I learnt the UK would be voting on Assisted Dying this November, and I couldn’t keep the book inside me any longer. Two weeks of editing and it was up on Amazon, ready for everyone’s eyes. How did I get to this point?
I had an amazing time living in Ireland, where I attended Trinity College Dublin. That period at university is maybe the last time I remember being truly content, or truly laid back, where I was just living in the moment and not always chasing something – I think my lecturers would tell you the only thing I was chasing was fun. But after college, an obsessive streak kicked in. I wanted to be an actress and I wanted to be one now. I wanted to be the first person to have that amazing status announcement on Facebook, the first person to throw a party celebrating an epic success, maybe even the first person to be able to take my besties on a private jet. I thought this was ambition, but I realise now it was coming from a place that didn’t feel good enough as just myself – a place that listened to every voice that had ever put me down growing up, and wanted to prove them wrong.
All consumed by this, I embarked on the life of a ‘scream queen’, running through forests and across motorways, hair drenched in fake blood and white contacts pressing into my pupils. These memories are amazing, but I’d say it was the rejections – the lack of auditions – that made me who I am today. If I wasn’t getting seen for roles, I would create the roles and stories I wanted to be seen for. 3, 2, 1 and I picked up the pen.
You know what it’s like. That moment. That catharsis. You reconnect with something, and the words come rippling out, writhing their way around their page with glee at their eventual, inevitable release. I realised I was a writer, not a vessel to channel one character, but someone who wanted to splash in the emotions, morality and philosophy of a story. I was a creator of vibes, an activator of fears and a brewer of desires. Writing gives us a voice – the empowerment to share our message on the page. I read over the first thing I’d created and felt I had something to say.
Yet still it wasn’t enough. Another hurdle rose up – full imposter syndrome/perfectionism at play. What if people didn’t like what I had to say? What if it was, somehow, wrong? No, for me to put this out there, it would have to be validated first. Only if the best literary agent in Ireland, the US or the UK liked it, would I share my stories. Only if a top producer wanted to make it into a film, would it see the light of the day. Until then, my laptop would keep our secret.
A common theme in my work is to stick up for the person who nobody else will – somebody framed or accused or unfairly persecuted. Concurrently, while writing, society seemed to change around me. We live in an increasingly online world, and almost every day, a story seemed to break about somebody being thrown under the bus – and the digital universe embracing their downfall. I shivered, sat on the sidelines, and continued to explore this creatively, grateful it wasn’t happening to me.
But what if the relief it wasn’t happening to me wasn’t enough? What if I could try to stop it happening to other people? It was this thought that hit me last Christmas, after I’d just finished the script for my festive noir, ‘Christmas Is Cancelled’. The play explores what one’s limits are when pushed, and the tragic consequences this can have. The end of the year approaching, I tentatively emailed a theatre, not expecting anything to actually come of it. But the next morning, I woke up to the offer of an available slot. Somehow, something in me gave way. I emailed back ‘yes’ before I could stop myself. Finally, I let my voice go.
My work has never connected me with more people. The play turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life.
My novel Mercy explores if you can ever have too much of the word. I’ve always been interested in euthanasia, and its combination of kindness with freedom. When I learnt about the vote in the UK, I pictured the country legalising Assisted Dying, the fallout that could ensue and then a whole new evil rising up to ‘put society back in its place.’ The final draft wrote itself. Apologies in advance for the nightmares! Ireland’s The Magdalene Sisters is one of my favourite films, and it’s a big inspiration for the sinister centrepiece of the novel, the secretive Core Retreat.
When considering whether or not to put it out, it was a similarly scary experience as last year. I didn’t want to trivialise anything through the thriller genre or romantic theme. But I decided it was bigger than me. Perhaps the book could give somebody a voice or encourage a debate. Either way, it would do more in the world than on a Google Doc, and so I clicked publish.
When you’re writing, it’s because you’ve got something to say, something exciting or powerful or hilarious. You’re writing for a reason, and you deserve to be heard. There’s always going to be doubts and fears, but walking through that fear is worth it.
Let your creations fly – then dance on the moon with them!
(c) Tuula Costelloe
About Mercy by Tuula Costelloe:
The vote has changed everything.
The country is divided.
Nobody feels safe.
Myles wakes up to a UK that has legalised euthanasia. While people reel from the result, he grapples with the biggest mistake of his life.
Erica escapes a nightmare and is finally able to embrace her freedom. What starts as a liberating adventure quickly changes into a terrifying self-discovery about what she is capable of.
In the midst of the chaos, a retreat is created that will become the antidote to suicide. In this place, people can hope. In this place, people can heal.
The retreat is secretive. Tucked away in the countryside, it doesn’t have to answer for what happens within its walls.
But what happens if it won’t let people leave?
Morality, obsession and danger collide as Myles enters the retreat in an attempt to find Erica.
To get her back, he must become the sickest of them all.
