Roddy Doyle: A life in writing'Anything you want – love stories, murders, whatever – can be written in these few streets'

Roddy Doyle: A life in writing'Anything you want – love stories, murders, whatever – can be written in these few streets'

Sarah Crown The Guardian, Saturday 16 April 2011

The author Roddy Doyle. Photograph: Patrick Bolger

The first book written by Dublin's latest literary star had nothing to do with his home city at all. A sprawling state-of-the-nation saga, promisingly titled Your Granny Is a Hunger Striker, it languishes these days in his archive in the National Library, doomed to remain unread. "It's never been published and it never will be," Roddy Doyle says now, nearly 30 years after he wrote it. "Because it's utter shite. I sent it to every agent and publisher I could find – and either it wasn't coming back, or it was coming back unopened. There's nothing at all in it of the area I grew up in. It's absent."

He didn't make the same mistake twice. "Paul Mercier [the playwright] was teaching in the same school as me at the time; he was writing these plays set in working-class Dublin, and they were brilliant. He shoved me in the right direction. In the winter of 1986 I started writing the book that became The Commitments, and it's riddled with the place I come from. It made me realise the area's worth writing about. Anything you want – love stories, murders, whatever – can be written in these few streets."

Doyle grew up in Kilbarrack, a straggle of shops and houses on Dublin's fringes. It resurfaces in his novels as Barrytown, the name lifted from a 1974 Steely Dan song: Doyle, like Jimmy Rabbitte, hero of The Commitments, knows his music. These days, Doyle's name is better known than the official one; he recounts tales of taxi drivers who've made a mint out of people demanding to be taken to see it. "I suppose it was a defence, to a degree," he says of the decision to rename it. "If I'd called it Kilbarrack it would've been restricting. There's a pub there, for example, that's not 100 miles from the pub in The Snapper and The Van [the second and third volumes of his Barrytown trilogy], but the point is meant to be that it could be any pub on the outskirts of Dublin. Changing the name gave me freedom."

It also served to derail any search for real-life counterparts of the hyper-ordinary men and women who shuttle through his pages. Doyle's novels, particularly the earlier ones, are fundamentally exercises in people watching. Nothing much happens; in fact, the books are remarkable for their unremarkability: the three Barrytown novels can be summarised, respectively, as "kids form a band then split up", "girl accidentally gets pregnant and has the baby" and "man loses his job and runs a chip van with his mate". Their urgency lies rather in the psychological realism Doyle brings to his characters' responses to their commonplace dramas, the sympathetic warmth with which he paints their unexceptional lives.

This sympathy is particularly evident in Doyle's latest story collection, Bullfighting. Once again, the substance of the stories – middle-aged men, coping, or failing to, with decline – is mundane; once again, the remarkable thing about them is the compassion with which Doyle, 52, treats his protagonists. While he invokes all the usual signifiers – the hair loss, the cancer scares – customarily reached for when writing about men whose lives have passed their highwater mark, he nevertheless permits his heroes to be happy.
These are men who love their wives, by and large; who take their physical failings more or less in their stride. The one thing they appear unable to accommodate, however, is unemployment. Several of the stories were written in the wake of the Irish bailout, and over them the shadow of the scrapheap looms. "It's happening anyway," Doyle says of the crash. "Why wouldn't you write about it?"

Full piece at The Guardian.