July 2021: Sporting newly restored beard and first haircut since lockdown
The Story So Far

I am a Dubliner in London. I’ve been a writer since early schooldays. I was praised for my essays and won a small prize in a national essay competition for schools. I remember other boys asking me to write verses for their Valentine’s day cards, which came easy to me; I was their pre-teen Cyrano.

It was thanks to the Finglas mobile library, which pulled up at the shopping parade on Ballygall Road every week, that I became enthralled by books and the adventures I found in them, while still in junior school. Not highbrow, I read Jennings and Just William, A Coral Island, Swallows and Amazons, El Cid, The Famous Five, The Secret Seven. Those are the books I remember.

I loved a good description, it would linger and replay in my mind. Somewhere in Enid Blyton, there was an old woman conjured who was almost bald, and the way white strands of hair lay across her head. I felt a powerful sense of admiration for the most brilliant passages in the books. At the age of nine, I was inspired to fill an exercise book with an adventure story I made up and I sent it by post to a friend who had moved to England. (Where are you now, Gerard Malone?) It was the feeling of adventure and evocative description that I loved, the sense of landscape and groups of people and their talk.

The De La Salle national school put me into the scholarship exam, and I won a scholarship in the last year before free secondary education was introduced in Ireland. However, after that, my exam results were only so-so, as I relied on remembering what teachers said in class and did no revision till the last minute, if at all. My Chemistry teacher, Mr Coughlan, summed it up well as he went round the class with his advice to each in the run-up to exams. He said something like, “Stephen Moran, I don’t know. You don’t do any work but you always seem to do just enough at the last minute.”

My entanglement with poetry developed in late teens, when almost everyone I knew or wanted to know, wrote poetry. It felt like everyone was writing poetry but I see now that we were self-selecting. I noticed others because I was a poet myself. I remember two girls passed by in the street, talking about poetry, while I and another poet passed by in the other direction. I really wanted to know those girls.

By now I was buying my own books. Chinese poetry in translation, Poems of the Late T’ang and Catullus from Latin were my earliest influences. I have given Catullus as a gift and re-bought three times, I think. My copy of Poems of the Late T’ang, translated by A.C. Graham, is in tatters. I read all of Joyce and loved his poetry too. Of course, no little part was played by the school curriculum, for example the poetry in Soundings, which you can now read online.

As for short stories, the ones I remember from our high school syllabus are The Confirmation Suit by Brendan Behan and Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce, which I still think of as my favourite ever. There were others, Mary Lavin, Frank O’Connor, O Henry, Saki and Liam O’Flaherty come to mind. From the library I loved the collection The Magic Barrel by Bernard Malamud and the Salinger collections.

I don’t really want to talk about novels. I followed the fashions for Herman Hesse and JP Donleavy but also read an odd mixture of other books, some racy, some sombre, a few classics. A list would be dull now, I think. My prose favourites other than Joyce were Steinbeck, Salinger and Flann O’Brien.

I went to UCD but dropped out in first year. Big mistake all round. At 21 I found myself at work in a clothing factory, taking care of the stock. That kept me busy for nearly four years. Meanwhile, I fell in love, got dumped and was pathetic for a while. I decided to quit my job and leave home. I got someone to take over the payments on my car and took to a bike.

I went first to Paris but couldn’t get work there and ended up in London. A friend lent me the money to stay in a hostel. I sold the bike to repay him. I got another job in the clothing trade, this time higher fashion in the West End. I married and started a family. After retraining, I became a computer software developer and that’s what paid off the mortgage. I am free now to work full-time on my writing.

Reading at Queens Park Book Festival with local writers’ group
Long Story Short

(For those who don’t know, authors write these short third person bio’s themselves.)

“Stephen Moran was born in Dublin. He made his way to London in his mid-twenties and stayed. There he combined a career in database software with writing poetry, fiction and editing. His latest book is Day of the Flying Leaves (Selected Poems, 2021). He previously published a short story collection ‘The London Silence and Other Stories’. He has also edited or co-edited eleven anthologies of fiction and two of poetry. His blog Stephen Moran’s Museum of Illusions, begun in 2003, continues to the present date.” (Amazon Author Page)