Happy Thursday, friend! Welcome to an interview with author Kim Fahner about her latest novel, The Donoghue Girl. Let’s welcome Kim and learn more about this historical fiction!
Kim Fahner lives and writes in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. She has published two chapbooks, You Must Imagine the Cold Here (Scrivener, 1997) and Fault Lines and Shatter Cones (Emergency Flash Mob Press, 2023), as well as five full books of poetry, including: braille on water (Penumbra Press, 2001), The Narcoleptic Madonna (Penumbra Press, 2012), Some Other Sky (Black Moss Press, 2017), These Wings (Pedlar Press, 2019), and Emptying the Ocean (Frontenac House, 2022). Her sixth poetry collection, The Pollination Field (Turnstone Press), will be published in Spring 2025.
Get to know the author: Kim Fahner
What inspired you to write this book?
In my late twenties, one of my great aunts told me a family story that I didn’t think was real until someone else in my extended family confirmed its veracity. I had never really known my maternal grandfather and didn’t know why. He just was not there. My great aunt told me that my grandfather had first dated my great-aunt Norah, but then had ended up marrying my grandmother, Alice. It got me to thinking about the love triangle itself, but also about how people’s lives are very private, especially when you consider the shifts between generations of relatives. I wondered why I hadn’t known him, and where he had been up until his death in the 1970s. It got me to thinking out how family history isn’t always clear to everyone involved, and the core idea of the story for The Donoghue Girl emerged and evolved.
How long did it take you to write this book, from the first idea to the last edit?
I started writing this book back in 2015, and the very last edit happened in July 2024. Two mentors who guided and encouraged me through the writing process were Lawrence Hill and Marnie Woodrow. Matthew Heiti, a Sudbury writer and friend, was also a huge support to me as I took his plaly writing course at the Sudbury Theatre Centre at the same time that I was beginning to write this novel.
What makes your story unique?
I think it’s a unique story because it seems out of the ordinary to me—given that I’m looking at it through today’s social lens—but the more I speak to people about it, the more I hear that such love triangles often occurred during that historical period. It may be that very small communities in Northern Ontario were tightly woven, or that families were larger then, but I’m not sure. It’s also a truly Northern Ontario story, set here in the Sudbury area with short pieces set in both England and Finland. I truly believe that our northern stories are a bit different from stories that find their genesis in other places, given our connection to mining and the land.
Who would enjoy reading your book?
In my mind, it’s a piece of literary fiction, historical obviously, so anyone who enjoys historical fiction as a genre might like it. The Donoghue Girl is centred around Lizzie Donoghue, so it’s a woman’s story with a strong protagonist at the centre of the novel. Lizzie is rebellious and spirited, grows into herself and finds her voice through her life experiences, and I think readers will love her gumption as much as I do.
Did you bring any of your experiences into this book?
Yes, I can think of many parts of the novel where I’ve integrated my own life experience, but it’s not biographical to my own life. There are some aspects of my family’s history, and of the history here in Northern Ontario and Finland that are factual, so I did do quite a bit of research, but it’s largely a work of fiction. I’ve dealt with death, love, and betrayal as a person, so I think some of those experiences helped to colour the way in which I wrote my characters’ stories. These are universal themes that other women might relate to. As well, I think Lizzie has a complex relationship with the place where she’s from, and I know I have that same sort of relationship with Sudbury. I love it deeply, and its landscape is omnipresent in all my work—regardless of which genre I’m writing in—but I’m a Sagittarian, so I always feel torn between places, between worlds. I’ve got a restless soul, I think, and that’s likely reflected in Lizzie’s character, too.
What’s something you hope readers would take away from it?
I hope readers love the story, and the characters, as much as I do. I’m also hoping that they see Lizzie’s growing strength as she evolves into herself. She faces so many challenges and obstacles, but always is tenacious in the way she deals with them, and that resilience is really uplifting and hopeful. Lizzie is not my grandmother, Alice, although she takes her name from my grandmother’s middle name, Elizabeth. My grandmother and I were very, very close until her death, and she was a guardian and guide to me in so many ways. She never shared anything with me about her marriage to my grandfather, except very cursory details, and I guess I never really asked because she didn’t seem open to it. She raised five children on her own, in a house on Wembley Drive, and was so proud of all of them. That she was so strong and tenacious inspires me in how I’ve lived my own life. The best of who I am comes directly from my grandmother, and I always am missing her.
Do you have a favourite quote or scene in the book that you find yourself going back to?
Any scene in the book where Lizzie is standing her ground and challenging conventions of the time—whether they be societal, familial, or religious—no matter what the consequences of her speaking up are, are favourite scenes of mine. I love how she is really a woman who is ‘before her time,’ willing to speak up against her parents and new husband, even during a period when women weren’t expected to have their own voices or agency in what was an oppressively patriarchal world.
What is something you have learned on your author journey so far?
I’ve written and published poetry for over three decades now, but I’ve also written short stories and creative nonfiction essays, as well as some stage plays. Each genre is a different sort of animal, and each story needs to be told through a genre that best suits it. What I’ve learned, as a writer, is that writing is an all-encompassing thing. It takes time, commitment, and passion. It’s often solitary, but you get to slip into worlds you’ve created—whether in poems or in stories—and that’s a joy that only other writers will really understand. I’ve learned, too, that I’m grateful to have other writers as friends because they really know what it’s like to be a writer and how much dedication to craft is required.
What’s the best piece of advice you have received related to writing?
To read widely and to be open to learning how to become a better, stronger writer over time. It’s a “long game” as my father used to say. It’s not something you take up quickly and dive into, but a skill and craft that requires time and effort. The reward is in the creation of work itself, in so many ways, and what’s lovely is that maybe readers will find your work and love it, too. Larry Hill also told me once, when I said I was nervous about writing something that was fictionalized, but based on a real family story, that I shouldn’t be afraid to “mine” my own stories and I’ll never forget that conversation. Telling the truth, and telling it slant even by choosing to fictionalize it, as Emily Dickinson might say, is what writers do. Since writing the novel, I’ve begun completing a manuscript of creative non-fiction essays that will be done by the end of this year, so I’ve taken his advice to take risks to speak up more in my words, actions, and writing. It’s not always popular with other people in my life, but it’s my truth, so I’ll keep speaking it.
If you could give a shout out to someone(s) who has helped in your writer journey, please feel free to mention them below!
I have four mentors and friends who have helped me with believing in this book: Timothy Findley, Matthew Heiti, Lawrence Hill, and Marnie Woodrow. Each one has taught me something new and important about my prose work, at various stages in its growth, and I’m so grateful to all of them for their encouragement. I’m also grateful to Natalie Morrill, who was my editor, and to Heather Campbell, of Latitude 46 Publishing, who has given The Donoghue Girl a very good home.
Where can readers find you on the Internet?
X, Instagram, website: www.kimfahner.com
The Donoghue Girl
Historical fiction; literary fiction
Longing for a life bigger than the one she inhabits, Lizzie Donoghue thinks she’s found a simple escape route in Michael Power, but soon discovers that she might have been mistaken…
The Donoghue Girl is the story of Lizzie Donoghue, the spirited daughter of Irish immigrants who desperately wants to not only escape Creighton—the Northern Ontario mining town where her family runs a general store—but also the oppressive confines of twentieth century patriarchy. She believes her escape can be found in Michael Power, the handsome young mine manager recently arrived in Creighton from the Ottawa Valley.
Caught up in a complex familial love triangle, Michael first courts Lizzie’s older sister, Ann, but then finds himself more and more drawn to Lizzie. Their lives twist and turn as they are all forced to face the harsh reality of the broken expectations of marriage and family just before the onset of WWII in Europe.
This is Lizzie’s story, from beginning to end, and readers will fall in love with her bright spirit as she comes to realize her true strength.
Book Excerpt from
The Donoghue Girl
Prologue
In her own mind, she questioned what had happened that day. It was all a blur. Memory was like that. There had been a long walk through the northern woods, pushing past the limbs of birches and white pines, stepping over bits of moss, rocks, and blueberry bushes. There had been a rush of blood to her head, so that she could hear the sound of her own heart beating too loudly inside her skull. A flush of heat had swept up her body, from belly to breasts, to the spread of her shoulders and up her neck. A dizziness. A rush. A fainting.
Had it happened by mistake, when she had fallen? Had she somehow neglected to take proper care of herself, and her unborn child? Or, she wondered, had she lost her mind in the time of Michael’s having left her alone? She had, she knew, been out by herself when she ought not to have been. By accident, or on purpose? One side or the other. So many stories. There were the stories that people told you, and the ones you told yourself to make yourself feel better. Somewhere in the middle, there was the truth.
She could hear the train. Its whistle echoed, calling out and reminding her of thunder—how a storm could rumble in the distance, and then how it would creep across the landscape. That train would carry rough nickel ore from the north to the south, down to Toronto.
She wished she had taken a train, years ago, before she had been trapped here, on the shore of Mud Lake, on the edge of a mining town. If she could go back, she knew now, she might have chosen a different path, another story. Maybe even another man.
Chapter 1
Summer 1938
Seeing that she was alone now, she pulled off her shoes and stockings, and laid herself out like a starfish—arms and legs splayed out at sharp angles from her torso. The hot summer sun warmed the rock so that it heated her from the inside out. A shift of air travelled across her body; she wiggled her toes. She pulled at a bit of lichen on the rock, working it free and then replanting it in another nearby crack with blind fingers, trying to spread the ground cover out over the surface of the hill. It was much too black here, Lizzie thought, wishing desperately for something green. It was a nervous habit of hers, this playing with plants and twigs that just sat on the ground. It distracted her from thinking about how handsome Michael Power was when he smiled.
Lizzie let herself rest against the body of the grey rock. It overlooked Ramsey Lake and was surrounded by a bevy of pine and birch trees, the needles and leaves of which rustled in the breeze. She looked around, lifting the brim of her straw hat so that she could see if there was anyone else around. The picnic was further off, down near the water’s edge. She had escaped it to climb up here, ruining her black shoes in the process. Below, with the others, she felt trapped.
She couldn’t stand to see Ann with Michael Power. They were courting now. Her father had given Michael permission to see Ann more often, so a picnic was a good opportunity for them to get to know one another. Lizzie loved Ann, but found herself oddly drawn to Michael. Lizzie knew it was useless, to think of him so often, to fancy him when he quite obviously fancied her sister and wouldn’t look twice at her. She tried to let him go from her mind, but the more she tried, the harder it seemed to be. Her eyes drifted to him when she least expected it and she was angry with herself, knowing it was all so useless; she knew that she would break her own heart before any man would.
Escaping up to the peak of the rock outcrop also meant that she could close her eyes and listen to the birds. She didn’t have to listen to people talking about their relatives or spreading gossip. Enough of hearing how the Kellys lost that baby a few hours after her birth, or how Mr. Brown died in his sleep two nights ago. They hadn’t found him until this morning—a hot July day—so apparently he was the worse for wear when the doctor got there. Lizzie wondered if anyone would miss her if she died. She might turn into a spinster as it was going these days.
Michael Power had drifted into town a few months ago, looking lovely. He stood out; the rest of the men in Creighton looked shabby and haphazard in contrast. Ah, but he wouldn’t be able to see her amidst her sisters because they were all so gorgeous and looked like models for a Pears Soap advertisement in the Eaton’s catalogue. He was down there now, among the picnic crowd, making conversation with Ann most likely. In terms of courting, Maisie was too young for any man to consider yet, Lizzie was sure. She was in that murky world that existed between the edges of childhood and the blossoming. There was no accounting for what Maisie would become in terms of her beauty, but she too followed more in Ann’s looks than in Lizzie’s. For that, Lizzie thought, Maisie should be grateful.
There was the sound of a footstep off to her right, a scraping as someone tried to skirt the perimeter of Elephant Rock. Lizzie had christened the big rock that herself when she was little. They had always come here to swim in summer. Her parents had entertained her vivid imagination, thinking it would pass. She jerked, sat up quickly, and swivelled to the right.
“Who’s there?” The words were clipped and defensive.
Michael Power emerged from behind a small bank of wild ferns and loosely organized blueberry bushes. “Sorry to interrupt. The others sent me up to see if you were all right.”
Lizzie pulled herself up to standing, startled to see him there in front of her. He was so handsome—too handsome to resist, really. Lordy, she looked a mess now, having laid down on the rock to bask in the sun like a Maritime seal. With one hand, she reached down to gather up her stockings and shoes. With the other, she tried to fix her hair, pulling away a bit of lichen from a curled lock. She looked a mess, for certain. There was no point trying to deny it. She cleared her throat, attempted to seem put together even though she was anything but that with him in front of her, smelling of some lovely cologne that drifted across to where she stood. Fancy man, he was.
“Surely you have better things to do down there, by the lake, with the others? Ann must be missing you…”
“I apologize, Lizzie. Ann figured that maybe you had slipped or fallen. I had no intention of interrupting your wanderings. And Ann was the one who sent me up, so perhaps you ought to blame her?”
He stepped lightly across the table of the rock and gestured to its surface. She hesitated, uncertain of how she felt around him. He sat himself down, though, so she shifted to sitting and watched as he took off his shoes and socks. It was a gesture of unity, so she found herself smiling slightly. Father wouldn’t approve, she knew. Michael Power was much older than she was, by at least twelve or thirteen years, and he was just beginning to spend more time with Ann, so this wouldn’t do at all. She felt a thrill in knowing that she was disobeying her father without his knowledge—by being alone, this close to a man. Michael must be at least in his mid-thirties, and she herself had just turned twenty-three. It was rather a gap in ages and she found herself recognizing that he was much more worldly than she would ever be. He must have traveled far and wide already, while she had only ever lived in Creighton, one girl caught up in the net of a strict Irish Catholic family.
She snuck a glance at him, sideways, from under a fringe of hair. His voice interrupted her thoughts. “What are you pondering, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Thinking thoughts. Not ‘pondering.’ That’s too posh a word for me.” She turned her gaze back towards the lake, watching a crow caw itself through the air currents to land on a rock near the shore.
“Of course, you’re right. I mustn’t speak as if I’m in Toronto or somewhere fancy like that. They wouldn’t know what to do with the rock up here. They wouldn’t be able to stand the blackflies of summer or the deep bone chill of winter.” He paused, seemed to think a bit before continuing. “Seriously now. What were you thinking about? You can’t have too many worries, I imagine, at your age.”
“Well, I imagine that you wouldn’t understand, being a man and being so much older than me. There are things that young girls wonder and worry about as they grow up. Like how I might disappoint my father in a hundred different ways before I turn twenty-five.” Lizzie felt herself blushing a bright red, irritated by his dismissive, condescending tone.
“I apologize. I was presumptuous to think that you wouldn’t have worries. Of course, everyone must have some, I suppose. I hate to think that you would be bothered by them too much, though.” She pulled inwards, wary now. She felt nervous, aware of his stature in the town, and of his new relationship with Ann. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and continued. All she could smell was his cologne. It pulled at her, this scent of his, and she found herself jittery, all shivers and uncertainty at being near him. “On other matters, Mr. Power, how are you liking our town?
It must be so much less interesting than Pembroke, I’m sure.” “It’s a fine town, Pembroke. Well, it’s lovely, but my parents live there. Part of the problem, I guess you could say.”
Lizzie tried to keep her face still, not to show her surprise at his frank admission about his family. “You don’t like your parents?” She questioned him a bit carefully now. It was slightly shocking that he’d speak so freely with her, but she found his honesty refreshing. “I know it sounds awful when I say it out loud.” His voice was uncertain, she noticed, as if he were looking for some kind of agreement to make himself feel less guilty or less alone in the world. Lizzie grabbed at more lichen, unsure of how to respond. She yanked it loose and then re-planted it in another little crack in the rock. “Yes, yes, I do understand. I never say it out loud, mind you, but I understand how a family can sometimes smother you.” “Yes. That’s it exactly.” He said it quietly as he began dislodging bits of lichen as well. He shifted his position so that he tilted towards her and she was aware again of his presence. He seemed so tall compared to her. “I think I came northwards to avoid them. They wanted no part in it, my moving here. My father came from Ireland, just after the Famine. He feels he has to prove himself, to show everyone that he deserves to be here, whereas I don’t. He expects me to, but I never do.”
“That must be hard. To have to prove yourself all the time.
Hard to live up to other people’s expectations…”
“Well, we have that in common. More than most, I’d imagine.” Michael ran his palm along the rock’s surface. “Do you think, maybe, we could be friends?”
“I only hope you won’t tire of me as soon as others have, Mr. Power.” Lizzie bent her knees, hugging them inwards. “I’m not the easiest of people to know, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, so I won’t hold it against you if you find it too much to bear.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be fine friends, Lizzie. Just fine.” He laughed at her own description of herself so that she felt herself blushing again.
She unravelled herself, stretching out her pale legs so that her toes pointed out—like a knife’s edge—towards the island in the middle of the lake. All she could see was the deep green-blue of water, the pale eggshell of sky, the gulls dancing on unpredictable air currents, and the trees weaving themselves a deep green. It was a primary colour kind of day. Sighing, she reached down to quickly pull on her stockings, sliding her feet into her black shoes, and lifting herself up to standing. She stumbled, though, so she found herself righted by Michael Power, his hand quickly grasping her elbow and his arm making her more sturdy, his hands brushing against her waist. A sparkle of energy shot through her so that she felt her heart speed up. She pulled away, breathless.
“Careful there, Lizzie. You nearly fell.”
To her, he seemed not to notice her flushed face and how she felt stupid in front of such a man. She was thankful for that small grace, pulling her elbow free of his grasp and brushing off her skirt so that bits of lichen fell to the rock. “Thank you.” Her voice seemed small, even to her. “I’ll see you at the bottom, Mr. Power.”
“You can call me Michael.”
She nodded. “Right. That’s grand, Michael.”
Forcing herself not to look back at him, to see him outlined against that blue sky, shook her. She could not fancy him, not Michael Power, not the man who seemed to have just begun courting Ann. She could not. Shaking her head, she leaned down to pick up a loose stone and put it in her pocket. It would mark the day, this tiny stone, so she would not forget that ripple of connection she had felt. It might never come again, that ripple, so she intended to remember it for later.
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