Kiwi author Megan Dunn on her new book The Mermaid Chronicles

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In her latest work, Megan Dunn intertwines personal experiences with tales of “real-life” mermaids.
In this exclusive essay, Megan Dunn, author of Things I Learnt at Art School, explores the inspiration behind her latest book The Mermaid Chronicles.

“I’ve put you all in my book,” I said,
lifting my head up from the surgical table and peering down at my legs now coated in invisible slime. The nice nurse with aqua blue eyes and a shower cap on her head gazed at me lovingly, as though I was a charismatic fool, which of course I am.

Dr Lupe was already seated on her chair, at my waist, rolling on a pair of surgical gloves with minimal fuss. When I first arrived for the appointment, she quickly felt along each leg, then drew some felt tip lines along my left calf where some cheeky varicose veins still lurked beneath the skin. I was in for a top-up on my veins.
“What’s your book about?” Dr Lupe asked, beneath her blue mask. Her brown eyes still focused on the task at hand, getting the needle ready, then inserting it into my leg. “Sorry, friend,” she said.
“Ouch!” I cried, then continued, “It’s about my mid-life journey to meet the real mermaids, and you’re all in it as nurse-sirens.”
“Aren’t sirens trouble?” the nice nurse asked. She’s the one who held my hand on my first appointment because I was scared and wanted my mother. I’m 49. She is older.
“Sirens can be problematic,” I said. “The first sirens appear in Homer’s Odyssey and Odysseus has to strap himself to the mast of his ship so he can hear the sirens’ song without jumping into the waves to his death.”
“Is it fiction?” Christine asked. She is the brisk no-nonsense nurse that always asks if I have remembered to bring my stockings. Yes. I have remembered the flesh-coloured anaconda-like stockings that are rolled on to my legs after each treatment.
“No, it’s all true,” I said. “It’s a MER-moir. Like a memoir but better because it has more mermaids in it,” I said. “All over the world are women, and some men, and other non-binary-identifying people, who own silicone or fabric swimmable mermaid tails. Professional mermaids do everything from work in bars and aquariums to ocean activism and children’s birthday parties. I have met some of the top mermaids in the world,” I gushed.
Dr Lupe said, “Sorry, friend,” and slipped the needle into a new vein.
“Ouch!”
“Can you send us the scene about us?” the nice nurse asked.
“Yes. You might even get some more clients from it,” I said.
“Hmmm. I will buy a copy of your mer-moir,” Dr Lupe said, still focused on my legs.
“She should write a book,” the nice nurse pointed at Christine, whose own wrinkled face bore the expression of one who has seen a lot of gnarly varicose veins and even worse human behaviour.
“It’s not exactly thrilling stuff, veins,” Christine said.
She had a point, but I’ve never read a book with any varicose veins mentioned in it, and I don’t think Lee Child is ever gonna cover it, so I will.
“Is it your first book?” Christine asked.
“No, it’s my third!”
This really surprised them. They all looked at me proudly, and for a fleeting second, I felt once again like someone’s daughter. As though I was a little buck-toothed redhead basking in my mum’s approving gaze instead of a perimenopausal mermaid writer with dark brown hair, a matching age spot and a door-stopping silver ring with bulbous blue cubic zirconia studs.
“I love your ring,” Dr Lupe said. “I can’t wear rings like that. I’m not cool enough.”
“You’ve got too much glove action going on,” I said, looking at her surgically covered hands.
The nurses laughed. “Glove action.”
“Are my legs meant to be tingling?” I asked, as strange hot prickles swept along my calves and into my feet. I could be turning into a mermaid, you know – instead I’m turning into an older woman.
“Yes,” Dr Lupe replied.
“Did you all have good mums?” I asked.
Three heads nodded yes. The room quietened for a second and I sensed these other mothers like mermaids rising from the deep.
“I had my daughter by IVF at 40,” I said. “And then my mum died suddenly when my daughter was 4. This is why you’re meant to have babies young, so everyone is still alive,” I bleated.
The nice nurse told us her daughter’s best friend’s mum had died only a year ago. And the daughter was amazed her friend still hadn’t got over it.
“But you never get over your mum,” she said.
“Yes,” I agreed. Dr Lupe seconded me.
“Except your daughter,” Christine joked.
“Oh yes, my daughter will get over me,” the nice nurse said. “She’s very tough.”
We all laughed. “Well, you want them to be resilient,” I said.
The siren-nurses looked at me knowingly. It’s a strange place to get a dose of maternal care, at a specialist vein clinic, but I take my top-up wherever I can these days.
The Mermaid Chronicles: A Mid-Life Mermoir by Megan Dunn is available in bookshops now.
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