Colm Tóibín explores the art of short story writing

When I was 20 and tentatively trying to write, every single person I knew read Ian McEwan’s First Love, Last Rites (1975). It not only gave the short story a good name, but it also gave writing a good name. It was like a punk moment converted into fiction. People used the word “macabre,” but there was a sort of excitement about the characters, the strangeness of the stories, the shortness of some of the stories and just how much contemporary urban life was in them.

Often people suggest I investigate a writer. I was in Toronto about 20 years ago when someone told me about the extraordinary Canadian writer Alistair MacLeod. He had written two books of short stories which were republished in 2000 in one volume called Island: The Collected Stories. The 16 short stories are exceptional in the way they are constructed. They deal with the very fierce, rugged landscape of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. A lot of people living in very isolated ways, where the possibility of love or community is narrowed. It’s almost like having a book of poetry that you can keep to hand and reread.

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