Irish Accent In Writing Novels & Stories

“Can we go see sheep today?” Keller put on a mock serious face. “That’s Ireland’s national sport.” “Really?” “Nope.” Her kid scowled. “You always lie.” “Only when it’s fun.” Selana shook her head, trying not to laugh, but the smile stuck around. By midmorning, they were driving. The sky stayed gray, endless fields rolled out, and Ireland seemed to run on its own slow schedule. Music drifted through the car—something easy, something that made you want to linger.

My mother launched into questions about Fao — where in Ireland was he from (County Cork), what was his novel about (wolves, which made Trevor snort into his wine), how did he like America (very much, especially the forests). Fao answered each question carefully. He used his fork correctly — only stabbed the plate once. He ate the salad without grimacing. He was, by all appearances, a perfectly normal human being. "You don't have much of an accent," my mother observed. "For someone from Ireland." I tensed, but Fao just shrugged. "Watched a lot of American television growing up. Friends teased me about it. Learned to let it go." "Ah." My mother nodded, accepting this. "Well, your English is lo

Empty IKEA boxes cluttered the curbs, while music played well into the night as students partied the last week of summer away. “Lochlann!” Liam practically shouted. A few students looked in his direction. Loud, tall, and charming, Liam was almost my polar opposite, except for our similar Irish accents. His had softened and sounded more American to me since he’d lived here for over a decade. I’d teased him about it when we first saw each other in Ireland for his wedding. You sound like a bloody Yank. Liam had given me such a pissed-off look that I’d laughed.

Maybe a different topic. "Are you from Ireland originally," I ask, and Fiadh nods? "Your English sounds so American," I reply with a cautious smile, and she looks at Jali with a confused expression. "It's the translator. Krystal sounds Irish to you, and you sound American to her. Zalu and I sound different than we normally do as well. The tone of our voice is correct, but our pronunciation is different. If you knew how to read lips, you would realize our mouths don't match the words you hear," Jali explains, and my brain basically implodes with realization.

Sandra spat. “Wow, you’re not only ignorant, you’re an idiot, too.” I replied in mock surprise, “Take a trip to Ireland and say that to someone there, Sandra. Not all Irish people have red hair and green eyes. Black Irish people have a darker complexion, black or dark brown hair, and typically dark brown eyes, but I was born lucky.” “She’s right, Sandra. My great-grandfather is a quarter Black Irish, and you are ignorant.” Nathan scoffed at his girlfriend, “We’re done. Staying with you would just be an insult to myself and my family.”

I whisper, and I can sense her discomfort as she looks away from me quickly. "Are you from Ireland originally," she asks suddenly, and I nod? Isn't she from Ireland too? How can she not tell by my accent? "Your English sounds so American," she replies with a cautious smile, and utter confusion hits me before I look at Jali for an answer.

He’s more invested in something out on the ice–a group of wolves sprinting around several stories below us in the frigid cold. “Do you really want to know, or are you asking because you think I’m only where I am because of my ties?” “I actually want to know. I’m curious.” He meets my gaze, all blue eyes and sharp lines. His accent is so strange, and sometimes I find myself caught up on the way he rolls his vowels and bites each consonant. I’ve never heard it before, even in Eastonia, where the dialect changes rapidly as one moves from Veiled Valley through Moonrise and into the Roguelands, the Deadlands, and Tarsian. Even Crescent City has a dialect–sharper, quicker.

I feel so much worse and I am starting to sweat, despite shivering crazily. ‘’Just need shelter for a moment before I brave the weather again.’’ I answer with haughtiness and my accent alone makes her pipe down. It’s one of the reasons I worked so hard on perfecting that well known English dialect over the more common one I was given in life. It exudes class and sexiness and now it is as natural as breathing and I don’t have to try anymore. People here tend to immediately assume you’re royalty or upper-crust with the exact and lazy slurring of some syllables. It’s why I drop the R in ‘‘Dahling’’ in such a dramatic way … people eat it up like I’m the Princess of Wales.

He shrugged getting a quizzical look from Iris before she took her seat right across from him. Iris raised her brows as she looked at him. He seemed quite handsome, in his dark shirt and jean pants. But then, something felt not in place with him. She couldn't place his accent, as it was quite obvious he was trying so hard to mimic the London accent, but his American accent slipped out too. Iris was too observant for her liking and she hated the most of it. Since she lost her mother, she had literally been on her toes, always watching her back and paying full attention to her surrounding.

My heart skitters in my chest. “How do you know that I’m from Ireland?” I can barely breathe past the clenching in my chest. My heart continues to kick at my ribs, and I can feel my face draining of color. “It’s just the way you talk sometimes. You have almost no accent, but it comes out here and there. Why? What’s wrong with Ireland?” It takes every ounce of my courage to stand my ground and pretend that I don’t notice his temper or how it’s weird as shit. “I’ve always wanted to go there. It’s a nice place. I’m not sure I’d take this over Ireland.”