Why did I come to Dublin? There was a full year of build up for me leading up to studying abroad in Dublin, Ireland. A full year of living, eating, and breathing the word, “Dublin.” I worked four jobs during that timeline, and each paycheck I acquired had Dublin written all over it. I watched every Irish film I could get my hands on, read up on James Joyceʼs work (or at least as much as I could understand), and purchased what I thought would be the appropriate attire to fit in with local Irish. To top it all off, I proudly brandished my Irish last name, “Clare,” on a pin on my backpack to signify a return to my ancestry. Needless to say, I was excited. Ireland was the country of my dreams for the longest time, especially since becoming interested in writing. I would finally feel like an Irish writer, walking the same streets as the brilliant literary juggernauts that came before me, and pump out poem after poem, and short story after short story. I would finally feel like an Irish director, gazing with cinematic wonder at the canals and buildings around me. I would finally feel like a true adventurer, claiming my familyʼs name and making discoveries on their behalf. I felt full of potential, wearing all of these identities with pride. Logan Clare, the writer, the filmmaker, the adventurer.
However, the amount to which these “identities” would be fulfilled was unknown to me. Perhaps I had anticipated too much for myself. Yes, I loved Dublin upon arrival, and I had empty check lists full of activities at the ready for each of my identities, but perhaps I was actually over prepared. Something happened about halfway through my trip that made me stop everything I was doing. I lost all my motivation when it came to these identities I set up for myself, specifically the writing identity. I didnʼt feel like that.
“Dublin writer” that I wanted to be so badly. The unfortunate truth is that Dublin, in actuality, has way less of a writing culture than I initially projected. I fooled myself into believing that everyone walked around in James Joyce attire reciting lines and dialogue from Ulysses. The final event that kicked me into this slump was on June 16th, Bloomsday, a celebration of everything James Joyce. The day turned out to be an excuse for old, rich people to eat expensive meals in silly hats. This was the ultimate, final disappointment for me, and it made me feel extraordinarily lost. I thought I came to Dublin to be a writer, and here I was, completely uninspired to write, and three weeks into my program. I was forced to ask myself, “Why did I come to Dublin?”
Three weeks into my study abroad program, that question was actually easy to answer. Why does anyone travel? To experience the people and the culture. Iʼm not sure how I missed this concept. Itʼs not like every conversation I had with the local Irish was conducted through writing on napkins and passing them back and forth. I loved spending my time chatting with locals at pubs and on the streets of Dublin. Dublin is the one place on Earth where, when walking down the street, if you pass someone and ask, “How are you doing,” that person will recite a generous monologue describing how they are feeling. As a victim of verbal diarrhea myself, I found this very comforting. However, I thought that I was cheating myself. I thought that I should have been spending more time writing poetry and prose work rather than listening to the stories that the locals had to offer. I constantly had this voice of regret telling me to get back in gear and succeed in becoming that Dublin writer I told myself I would be.
Luckily, this mindset would soon be abandoned. About a week after my mid-trip crisis, a guest visitor came to one of my classes. He was the founder of a Dublin collective called “Milk and Cookie Stories,” a bi-weekly event where storytellers of all kinds gather, eat sweet pastries, and just tell stories. He visited the class to give us a “storytelling workshop,” which was immediately intriguing to me. As an introduction to the collective, the guest speaker told us an adventurous and incredibly touching coming of age tale that spoke directly to my heart. This man, getting up and encouraging us to just get out there and tell stories, and telling us how he originally made the decision to do so himself, had reawakened the passion inside me that originally made me want to be a writer. It shocked me right back to my family dinner table at seven years old, making up nonsense tales in front of my parents and brothers just so I could have an audience.
Moreover, this storytelling workshop reassured my decision in studying abroad in Dublin. I finally found the real identity that I was meant to fulfill while in Ireland. It wasnʼt that of a writer, filmmaker, or adventurer. It was a combination of all three, really. Anytime I was writing for leisure in Dublin, it was in a tucked away corner of a pub in the early morning, jotting down the details of my explorations here in Ireland over a fabulously large Irish breakfast. I wanted to remember everything for later. I wanted to return home and perform grandiose stories to my friends and relations, combining the literary aspects of writing, the performance of film, and the wonder of adventure. I didnʼt want to come home and recite my travels in a chronological manner. I wanted to tell the tale of a confused 20 year old who landed in a foreign country with hopes and dreams that ended up being burnt and then gracefully reborn like a phoenix. In the end, I have the Irish culture to thank for giving me that identity. Logan Clare, the storyteller.
-Logan Clare
