The Long Line of Storytellers: What Dublin Taught Me About My Writing DNA

It never fails that travel teaches me things. History I never learned in school, cultural nuances that make the world suddenly more layered and complex, the way different places solve the same human problems in completely different ways. But sometimes—and this is the part that always catches me off guard—travel teaches me something about myself.

Walking through Merrion Square in Dublin, Ireland, with our tour guide, Jay, I found myself staring at the statue of Oscar Wilde, lounging on a rock with that characteristic wit practically radiating from the bronze. Jay was telling us about Wilde and the other famous Irish writers who had ties to Dublin, like Bernard Shaw, James Joyce, and Samuel Beckett. Standing there surrounded by the literary ghosts of Dublin, I had one of those moments. Not the dramatic, lightning-bolt kind of revelation you read about in novels, but the quieter sort; the kind that makes you go "Hmmmm … I wonder…."

One of the things Jay explained as she led us through the streets of central Dublin was how storytelling wasn't just entertainment in Irish culture; it was how knowledge survived, how history lived, how communities stayed connected across generations. "Stories were the way we passed down everything that mattered," she told us as we stood outside Trinity College. "Before most people could read or write, the bards were the keepers of wisdom. They didn't just tell stories; they were living libraries."

I nodded along, fascinated by the cultural history, but I didn't expect it to land quite so personally.

That evening, Mike and I ducked into a cozy pub for dinner. The kind of place with dark wood, worn brass fixtures, and that particular Irish pub warmth that makes you want to settle in for hours. Our waiter approached with that easy friendliness I'd already noticed was distinctly Irish.

"Any questions about the menu?" he asked.

I pointed to one item. "I'm thinking about the beef and Guinness stew—is it good?"

He could have simply said yes. That would have been sufficient. Instead, he leaned against our table slightly and launched into what I can only describe as a mini-memoir.

"Well, my mum wasn't much of a cook, and she made beef and Guinness stew on a regular basis, and I wouldn't touch the stuff," he began, his eyes taking on that particular sparkle I was learning to recognize in Irish storytellers. "But this one? I eat it at least once a week. The gravy and our mash is outstanding and that makes all the difference. Nothing like what I grew up refusing to eat."

And there it was. Not just a recommendation, but a complete narrative arc with character development, conflict, and resolution. He'd given me his personal history with the dish, explained why I should trust his judgment, and painted a picture of exactly what to expect. All in response to a simple question about stew.

That's when Jay's words from earlier clicked into place like puzzle pieces I hadn't realized belonged together.

The Inevitable Inheritance

You see, I've been "accused" of answering questions with stories my entire life. Ask me why I wrote a book on interpreting Gypsy Oracle Cards and I'll launch into a story about my astrologer-psychic friend who gave me the cards, how my research led to discovering their Italian origins, and the journey I took to self-publishing my first book. Ask me for the recipe for my Nonna's chicken and I'll tell you the story of how it was the first dish she taught me to cook and her instructions for cooking time were that "it tells you when it's done." Ask me about a writing technique, and you'll get the full story of how I discovered it, which other authors use it brilliantly, and what it reminds me of from my science background.

I used to think this was just a quirk—maybe a little self-indulgent, certainly roundabout. But sitting in that Dublin pub, listening to our waiter weave a tale about beef stew, I realized I might have been looking at it all wrong.

What if this isn't a quirk at all? What if it's an inheritance?

My great-grandmother on my father's side was Irish. I don't know much about her story; family histories have a way of getting scattered like dandelion seeds, and her voice didn't make it down to me intact. But I'm starting to wonder if something else did. Something that skips generations sometimes, waiting for the right moment to resurface.

Maybe the reason I can't give a straight answer about anything, why I always need to tell you the whole story, provide the context, explain not just what but why and how and what it reminds me of—maybe that's not a modern Canadian author trying too hard to be interesting. Maybe that's an ancient Irish tradition finding its way through my DNA.

Stories as Survival

Jay explained that Irish storytellers weren't just entertainers; they were essential. In a world where most people couldn't read, stories carried everything important: history, law, genealogy, practical knowledge, moral instruction. The bards memorized thousands of tales, each one serving multiple purposes. A story about a hero's journey might also contain navigation instructions, warnings about dangerous places, or lessons about honour and family loyalty.

Stories weren't separate from practical life; they were how practical life got preserved and transmitted.

And suddenly I understood something about my own writing that I'd never quite been able to articulate. I thought I was just being thorough, maybe showing off a little. But what if I'm actually following a much older template? What if stories that carry extra weight—that teach while they entertain, that preserve knowledge while they delight—are exactly what my great-grandmother's people understood stories were supposed to do?

That waiter in Dublin wasn't just recommending a dish. He was demonstrating trust (by sharing his personal experience), providing context (the contrast with his mother's cooking), and giving me enough information to make a good decision. His story contained history, judgment, and prediction. It was, in miniature, exactly what Jay had been describing all day.

This is what I'd been trying to do my whole life without realizing it. When a reader asks me about writing dialogue, I can't just say "read it out loud." I have to tell them about the morning I discovered my characters were saying things I never consciously planned, about how, one time, I laughed out loud at what Maddie said as I wrote it because it caught me by surprise.

I wrap every answer in story because, apparently, that's how my brain believes knowledge should travel.

The DNA of Story

Maybe becoming a novelist wasn't really a choice I made in my fifties. Maybe it was something I'd been doing all along, just waiting for the right format to recognize itself.

Jay told us that in traditional Irish culture, everyone had stories, but some people were chosen to be the keepers of stories; the ones who remembered not just their own tales but the ones that needed to survive for the community. They weren't born knowing this was their role; they discovered it when they realized they couldn't stop collecting and sharing the stories that mattered.

I spent decades thinking I was a scientist who happened to like reading. Then I thought I was a scientist who accidentally wrote a novel. Now I'm wondering if I was always a storyteller who just took the long way home.

What Stories Carry Forward

There's something profound about realizing that the way you see the world might not be a personal quirk but a cultural inheritance. It makes you feel connected to something larger than yourself, part of a chain of voices stretching back through generations.

When I write Maddie and Nate's stories, I'm not just creating entertainment. I'm preserving something about what it meant to be a woman in the 1960s, what it felt like to choose love after loss, how scientific thinking and emotional intelligence can coexist. I'm tucking practical knowledge about resilience and second chances into narratives about people who find each other across multiple timelines.

My Irish great-grandmother's story is lost to me, but her gift isn't. Every time a reader tells me my stories helped them understand something about their own life, every time someone says Maddie's courage inspired them to take their own leap—that's the ancient tradition still working.

So the next time someone asks me why I can't give a simple answer to anything, I know what I'll say: Blame my Irish great-grandmother. Some things skip generations, but storytelling isn't one of them. It just waits, patient as a seed, for the right moment to grow.

And sometimes it takes a trip to Dublin—and a waiter with perfect timing—to help you remember what you've always known.

Have you ever discovered something about yourself that suddenly explained a lifetime of "quirks"? I'd love to hear about your own family inheritances—the gifts that traveled through generations to find you.