For Eleanor O’Reilly, purpose sits at the centre of everything. It is there in the classroom, where language is both subject and tool. It is there in her writing, where discipline matters as much as inspiration. And it is there in the way she speaks about creativity, not as something decorative, but as something necessary.
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O’Reilly is an assistant principal at Gorey Community School in County Wexford, one of the largest schools in Ireland, with close to 2,000 students passing through the building each day. She teaches English and Classical Studies to Leaving Certificate honours level, and she also teaches creative writing to Transition Year students. For her, the connection between those disciplines is obvious. Classical Studies draws on ancient literature, mythology, architecture and archaeology. English is rooted in literary study. Both, in different ways, are about stories and how they are made.
“I love teaching both subjects,” she says. “Teaching is very creative, and that’s what keeps me going.”
That sense of creativity has not dimmed with time. After 26 years in the profession, O’Reilly still speaks about teaching with energy and clarity. “Every day is different, every class is different, every child is different,” she says. “It never bores me.”
She does not see teaching as the delivery of a fixed body of knowledge. She sees it as an encounter with language. In English, that means not simply reading texts, but studying how they are built. In poetry, prose and drama alike, the emphasis is on voice, structure and the mechanics of expression. In Classical Studies, the same instinct is at work, with mythology and ancient literature offering another route into narrative, character and meaning.
That focus has become more important, not less, as reading habits change. O’Reilly is alert to the difference between students who read deeply and students who consume information quickly. Literacy, she suggests, is under pressure. Screens have changed attention spans, retention and habits of thought. Students can scan rapidly and multitask impressively, but that does not always translate into strong written language or sustained engagement with text.
At senior level, this has consequences. Reading is no longer only about following story. It has become, in part, about helping students understand how language works. O’Reilly wants them to see not just what a poem or novel says, but how meaning is made. It is a practical response to changing literacy levels, but it is also a statement of belief. Language still matters, and mastery of it still matters.
That same measured approach shapes her view of artificial intelligence. She does not dismiss it. On the contrary, she recognises its value as a teaching aid and as an information-gathering tool. But she is wary of what happens when it replaces thinking rather than supports it. The issue is not technology itself, but passivity. “It is a tremendous teaching tool,” she says. “It’s just that they’re supplementing it, really, for their own thinking.”
If purpose defines O’Reilly’s work in education, it also defines her life as a writer. Writing came after painting, though not in opposition to it. She had been a visual artist before she was a writer, but when her daughter was born in 2012, painting became less practical. Writing, by contrast, was portable. It could be done in smaller spaces and in shorter bursts of time. What might have seemed like a change of direction was, for O’Reilly, a natural progression.
“I can’t not write,” she says.
That instinct was quickly matched by discipline. O’Reilly became, in her words, a serial competition entrant. She tracked deadlines, knew what was coming up, and wrote constantly. Competitions gave shape to the work. They imposed a timetable and a target. She is clear that their value was never only about winning.
“Deadlines are brilliant,” she says. “It’s not about winning the competition. It’s about having a deadline, having a focus.”
That matters because writing, for all its rewards, can be lonely. O’Reilly accepts that solitude is part of the work, but she rejects the idea that a writer must remain entirely isolated. She values the company of other writers, the exchange of ideas, and the sense that craft can be sharpened in conversation as well as in silence.
“Writing is a lonely business, but if you have a reason to write and you’re part of a community, then you’re part of a community of writers,” she says.
Her MFA in Creative Writing reinforced that view. What she took from it was not a formula for producing good prose, but a deeper understanding of reading, publishing and the practical realities of the literary world. The essential lesson of writing itself remained simple. “The only way to learn about writing is to write,” she says.
What distinguishes O’Reilly’s account of the creative process is its clarity. She has a precise understanding of the difference between drafting and editing, and she treats that distinction as fundamental. Too many writers, she suggests, sabotage themselves by trying to improve a sentence at the same moment they are trying to discover it.
“So, I always think of it as two rooms,” she says. “There’s a creative room and there’s the logical room.”
That image is more than a neat metaphor. It is a working principle. The first room is where the draft is made, without interference from the inner editor. The second is where the scalpel comes out, where structure, proportion and precision are addressed. One room is for making. The other is for refining. They cannot be occupied at the same time.
“You can’t be editor and writer at the same time,” she says. “You just can’t.”
That belief helped shape her first novel, M for Mammy, which grew out of a story submitted to the Francis MacManus competition. She had to cut the piece back sharply to meet the word limit, a process that taught her what mattered and what did not. The novel was later published by Hachette UK. Her second novel, currently titled Where the Quiet Man Stands, has already received mentorships and recognition of its own.
O’Reilly speaks about success without flourish. She acknowledges luck, but never at the expense of work. The effort is assumed. The process is long. The standards are high. What matters is continuing.
Songs That Shaped O’Reilly
Bohemian Rhapsody – Queen
O’Reilly admires the ambition of the song and the range within it. “It’s that fusion of high art and raw emotion.”
The Foggy Dew – Sinéad O’Connor
She is drawn to its poetic quality and to the emotional weight of O’Connor’s performance. “There’s something very haunting about everything that she sang.”
Hallelujah – Leonard Cohen, John Cale version
For O’Reilly, the song holds together beauty and vulnerability without strain. “It’s just such a profound meditation on human frailty.”
Epilogue: The Three Questions
Would you change anything about your life?
“I wouldn’t change anything, but if I was to go back, I would have started writing seriously much earlier on.”
What is your greatest achievement?
“My daughter is probably my best achievement.”
If you were in front of the Wishing Well, what would you wish for?
“I’d wish for stability in the world at the moment.”
Yes I am very familiar with Eleanor’s gifts. She’s such a gift to her students. I have done a short writing course with her and gleaned an amount of information about writing from this course
The loves of my life are my husband of course Art and writing poetry. God bless you Eleanor’.