8 Irish Writers to Read Before You Die

Annie Cosby
March 13, 2024 | 2 min read

The island of Ireland is small but mighty. With a population of just over 7 million — that's fewer people than New York City — the island has had an outsize effect on the world of literature.

From novelists to poets, Ireland has created many powerful writers with a unique perspective and style.

The Freewrite team gathered a list of some favorites so you can experience the magic of Irish literature for yourself...

 

Maggie O'Farrell

Lovers of historical fiction will be entranced by O’Farrell’s intriguing and oftentimes heartbreaking plots.

Her novel Hamnet,which centers on the death of Shakespeare’s son, won the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2020, while the more recent The Marriage Portrait takes readers to the beautiful — and brutal — Italian Renaissance.

 

Roddy Doyle

Known for his gritty realism and humor, Doyle's books often depict working-class Dublin life. We recommend The Commitments (which was made into a great movie, as well), Booker Prize winner Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, and Doyle's latest, Love.

 

Maeve Binchy

A beloved author of heartwarming stories set in Ireland, Binchy's novels often explore themes of friendship, love, and community. Check out Freewrite favorites like A Week in WinterCircle of Friends,and Tara Road.

She also wrote a great book on writing called The Maeve Binchy Writers' Club!

 

Sally Rooney

Rooney's work has been making quite the splash lately, and you may even have seen the screen adaptation of her second novel, Normal People, on Netflix.

With sharp prose and engaging characters, Rooney's books explore love, complex relationships, and societal dynamics among young people in contemporary Ireland.

 

W.B. Yeats

You probably didn't get through school without being assigned at least one Yeats poem. And that's for good reason. A poet and playwright, Yeats was one of the foremost figures in 20th-century literature, his work often dealing with Irish mythology, history, and the occult.

Try "The Wild Swans at Coole" and "The Tower," his first collection after receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature for giving "expression to the spirit of a whole nation."

 

 


Oscar Wilde

Known for his wit and satire, Wilde was a playwright, novelist, and essayist who was pretty scandalous in his day (the late 19th century). He's even been called one of the first celebrities!

We recommend reading Wilde's only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray, because who wouldn't want a portrait that ages so that you don't have to? (Spoiler alert: It doesn't go well.)

For a laugh, try Wilde's plays, like The Importance of Being Earnest and An Ideal Husband.

 


Cecelia Ahern

Ahern is perhaps best known for her debut novel, P.S. I Love You, which was published when she was just 21 years old and adapted into a successful film. Her books often blend romance, drama, and magical realism.

 

 

James Joyce

No list of Irish authors would be complete without James Joyce. If you were forced to read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in lit class and didn't fare well, we recommend trying again as an adult.

Known for groundbreaking modernist works like Ulysses and Dubliners, Joyce was a major pioneer in the use of stream of consciousness in literature.

 


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Irish authors offer a diverse range of perspectives and styles, making Irish literature rich and captivating. Do you have a favorite? Tweet @ us.

 

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I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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