A conversation with a young American novelist (English Version)
Ross Barkan on criticizing the United States while still loving its literary tradition, and why writers must just sit down and write.
Hola, ¿cómo están? Esta es la versión original de la entrevista con Ross. Si quieren leer la traducción al español está acá.
As you know, I’m quite new to Substack. I started writing Curva de aprendizaje a few months ago, and only now am I getting myself accustomed to a (not so) tight schedule of publishing. Early in the year, as I was navigating through newsletters and publications, I realized that in the corner I was interested in — literature, culture, and politics — one important figure on this platform was Ross Barkan (1989).
I discovered him when he and a group of writers launched The Metropolitan Review in January, a literary magazine mainly based on Substack, though it also has its own website, which revives the great traditions of American essays and reviews, but in the new format provided by the new technologies.
I recommend The Metropolitan Review to everyone who subscribes to my Substack, and really to anyone interested in insightful, high-quality writing.
I also started reading Ross’s own newsletter, Political Currents (with over 40,000 subscribers), where he writes political essays as well as literary and cultural pieces, in a lucid and free style, in tune with a new generation of authors who are choosing Substack over the rigid structures of big media, traditional publishing, and even academic circles.
Ross is a New Yorker, born and raised in the city. He went to college at Stony Brook, a prestigious university, though not particularly well-known to Argentines. He shares his story in the interview: a story that, as a still-aspiring writer from a third-world country, I can’t help but sympathize with. He didn’t attend an Ivy League school, or even an MFA program — so popular among American writers — and instead made his way by working hard and “writing through” his path.
And now, he’s sort of making it, as they say.
This year he also published Glass Century, a realist and ambitious novel about the lives of a group of characters in New York over fifty years, which was praised as a remarkable contribution to the tradition of the American social novel. Among other notable appearances, he spent an entire episode with literary star Bret Easton Ellis discussing the book on Ellis’s podcast.
Ross is very aware that he’s living a good moment right now, and he also knows that, to a large extent, he made it happen himself: not in the way the literary world used to work, with big agents and spectacular breakthroughs, but in the way it works now: through platforms, online writing, and the generous practice of building communities here.
But within that world, for him, the most important thing is still to sit down in front of the computer and do the work. I like that too about Ross.
Here is a version of our Zoom conversation, edited for clarity. We talked about his path as a writer and journalist, the challenges and rewards of publishing Glass Century, his thoughts on the American literary tradition, his criticism of autofiction, his vision for The Metropolitan Review, and his disciplined, almost compulsive dedication to writing. I’m grateful for his generosity and hope this interview helps more readers, in Spanish and beyond, discover his work.
Manuel: We could start with a brief overview of your journey, from an aspiring writer to where you are today. And could you tell me how you built a career and a livelihood around writing?
Ross: I always wanted to write. Writing has always been a great passion of mine. My original plan, though, was to be an English teacher because there aren’t a lot of writing or journalism jobs. In college, I wrote for my college newspaper and was working on novels, but I also realized (or felt) that it would be very hard to make a living just as a writer or just as a journalist, so I planned to become an English teacher. I got my degree in that, started teaching, and then applied for a journalism job at a small newspaper in New York City, and I got it. I was about 21 or 22 years old. That was really the beginning of my journey as a reporter.
I covered a lot of New York City politics. Then I moved on to another newspaper, The New York Observer, which at the time was owned by Jared Kushner — Donald Trump’s son-in-law — which was very interesting. I worked there for several years; it was a very good newspaper.
Manuel: What did you report on there?
Ross: I covered New York City Hall for two years, and I also wrote about national politics. I covered the mayor of New York at the time, and then in 2016, I traveled around the country reporting on the rise of Donald Trump. I visited different states and covered that story.
But at the same time, my job was getting more complicated because Jared Kushner was now working for the Trump campaign, while I was reporting on Trump. So that made things more challenging, as you can imagine.
I eventually left The Observer and started freelancing for other publications. I wrote for The Village Voice, The Guardian, and others. Mostly political reporting. And somewhat surprisingly, that became my way of making a living, and it still is today.
In 2018, I took a break from writing and ran for political office at the state level in New York. That was an interesting experience. My campaign manager was Zohran Mamdani — who may very well become the next mayor of New York City. That’s fascinating to me, because I’ve known him for many years now. He’s a great guy and very smart, so it’s exciting to watch him rise.
I enjoyed running for office, but writing is really my passion. I started my Substack in 2020, during the pandemic. I was early to Substack. At first, it was focused on New York politics, but over time I began covering national politics as well, and eventually literary and cultural topics too.
Manuel: During all this time, did you always keep writing fiction on the side?
Ross: Yes. I published my first novel in 2018, Demolition Night. Then in 2022, I published my second, The Night Burns Bright, which is a kind of literary thriller about a cult in a rural area that’s killing people, but also an exploration of childhood.
During the pandemic, in 2020, I actually wrote Glass Century. I tried to get it published for several years without success. Finally, I went back to my old small publisher, and they took it. It came out this year. It was quite a fight to get it into the world, but I’m thrilled it’s finally out there, because I really love fiction. I love writing it. Journalism, nonfiction, commentary, I care about those too, but I’d say fiction is my true passion.
Manuel: A couple of months ago, you wrote a powerful post on Substack about social capital. You made two points: first, that traditional literary prestige doesn’t really exist anymore; and second, that what matters now is building a community, and that requires generosity toward fellow writers and artists. I wonder: in your journey through the literary world, did you find that generosity, or did you have to create it yourself?
Ross: You find some of it, for sure. Not always as much as you’d like, but you find some. Some writers are very helpful, they’ll answer your emails and support you. Others won’t. That’s just the reality of it. I always remember, when I was a young writer, if someone was generous to me, it meant a great deal. It really can change your life, you know. Even if someone just answers a question, agrees to read your work, or supports you in any way. That kind of thing, for a young writer, is everything.
As I became more successful, I felt that I didn’t want to treat people in a way that, as a younger writer, I wouldn’t have wanted to be treated. I hated when people ignored me. I hated when I was dismissed. I hated when I felt very small. And as I thought more about it, I realized I could be different. I don’t promote everyone, and I don’t lie. If I don’t like something, I’m not going to promote it or support it. But if I do like something, and it’s from a writer who isn’t as far along in their career, I want to help.
I think it’s important to uplift writers and writing you like or feel passionate about. If you don’t like something, don’t do it. But if you do, there’s no reason not to be generous. Just treat people the way you’d want to be treated. I mean, it’s the golden rule, and I really think it’s true.
Manuel: Let’s talk a little about Glass Century. The novel is out now and making quite a bit of noise. It’s a very ambitious work, and you’re gaining recognition as a fiction writer. How are you experiencing this? And in relation to the idea of prestige, what does it mean to be “prestigious” now in the American literary scene? Is it different from what you thought it would be?
Ross: It’s different. In some ways, it’s better. In some ways, I enjoy it more than maybe the old way because I feel there’s a real community around writers now, especially on Substack.
When you think about the literary prestige of 20 or 30 years ago, there’s a lot to admire in terms of the money, the financial support publishers gave you, and the level of conventional fame you could have. But at the same time, I’m much happier publishing a novel today than, say, ten years ago, because there’s this great Substack ecosystem now, and it’s getting stronger.
You really can get your work noticed, and in some ways it’s easier than it used to be. You don’t have to sit back and wait for the institution to do everything for you. You can put yourself out there. My book came out with a very small press, but I’ve been able to get reviews in many publications — The Wall Street Journal, Compact, and many others, including a lot of Substack reviews. And it’s actually been read more than a lot of books coming from so-called elite publishers.
And I’m not against the elite publishers. I’d be happy to be published by one at some point, and I’d also like to get paid, but I’ve really enjoyed what Substack has to offer, and I’m excited that Glass Century is getting recognition.
I’ve always wanted to be known as a fiction writer, as a novelist. Nonfiction pays the bills, and I care about it, but fiction excites me, and I hope people will know me for that. With Glass Century, that seems to be changing: people are coming to me for my fiction now. It used to be: “Oh, you’re a journalist who happens to write novels.” But now, I’m a novelist who also writes journalism, columns, and essays. And you can do all of those things. There are plenty of examples, like Gore Vidal or Joan Didion: writers who did both fiction and nonfiction. I see myself in that tradition.
I have no complaints about Glass Century. In a way, it was published at the right time. I used to feel very bitter that it didn’t come out sooner, because I finished the draft in 2020, and I wanted it out by 2021 or 2022. But now I see it came into the world at the perfect moment. I was already on Substack, I had an audience, a community, an ecosystem. And it's a real thing, a tangible thing. You meet these people. I met a lot of them at the launch party, people who already knew who I was, who had read my work.
This platform has been great for promoting books and making connections. It really has. I’m very gratified. You can lament how things used to be, but at some point you have to look forward and help build the new world you want to see. That’s happening with Substack.
Manuel: What’s your routine as a writer? Are you disciplined? Do you write more now than you used to? Do you think productivity and discipline are what improve a writer?
Ross: I’ve been productive for a long time. In my twenties I wrote a lot. Some of it was when I was a newspaper reporter. I had to write every day. You’re filing pieces on something happening at City Hall, you’re on deadline. So I came through a system where you couldn’t just wait for inspiration. You couldn’t be too precious because an editor was breathing down your neck and you had to get your work out there. That was good training.
And I always just loved writing. I loved writing fiction from the time I was 18 years old. I have all these unpublished novels, which should stay unpublished because they’re not that good, but they were really good ways for me to get stronger at the craft. I really believe in repetition and trying things out. If you fail, that’s okay. I don’t think you should just stare at a blank page for hours. My philosophy is to try to write something. Some days you feel it, some days you don’t. Put a sentence on the page. Put two sentences on the page.
I don’t think I’m any more productive than I was ten years ago. I think I’ve become a stronger writer. I believe I’ve evolved. And I don’t necessarily have one routine. My approach for fiction is: if I have free time, if I’m not socializing, if I’m not working on a nonfiction assignment, if I’m just sitting at home, I write. I don’t watch a lot of TV anymore. I like going to the movies — I actually enjoy going to a theater — but I don’t watch that much at home. I go on a lot of podcasts, but I don’t listen to podcasts that often. For me it’s really listening to music and writing.
I think a lot of people would be surprised by how much time they spend in the day just not doing very much. That’s okay sometimes, but there are lots of moments when we’re just scrolling on our phones or mindlessly streaming a show.
If you want to be a writer, you have to do the deed, you have to write. And that’s always been how I felt.
I’m fortunate that I can write either in the morning or at night. I can also write through distractions. Noise doesn’t bother me much. I use writing as a coping mechanism too. When my father passed away a few years ago, that didn’t really deter me. I remember writing a Substack the next day. Grief didn’t slow me down either. If anything, it felt more natural to be writing.
I don’t really need the conditions to line up to do it. I don’t need to be in a certain mood. I don’t need to have my room arranged in a certain way. I can sit at my desk or sit on a couch. I can sit in a coffee shop. If I have a laptop or a notebook, I’m ready to go.
It is a job, and I treat it that way. You know, a worker has to be at a certain place at a certain time, or they’re fired. A writer too. You’re a writer when you write, so you’ve got to just push yourself and put things down on the page. That has always been my approach.
Manuel: You don’t feel anxiety when you’re about to sit down?
Ross: No. I feel anxious if I don’t write. It’s funny: my anxiety comes from not writing. Maybe it’s a kind of compulsion. I don’t do drugs, and I drink socially, but I don’t like to drink at home by myself. I’m not a heavy drinker.
My anxiety comes from not writing. Even now, sitting here and talking — and I’m enjoying this — but I’m sort of asking myself, “When do I go back and get working on a Substack, or get working on this piece of fiction?” And I think, “I have to, because later I have to do something else: I have to go for a run, or meet a friend, but I can’t write then.” So I’ve got to get it in at some point.
If anything, my anxiety actually comes from not having opportunities to do it. There’s this little voice inside me asking, “Why aren’t you writing? What are you doing right now? Why didn’t you write anything today?” For some people that kind of pressure is stressful. For me, it’s a very positive stress. I don’t feel overwhelmed, I just feel motivated.
But once I sit down, I’m on the page, and I keep going. That’s really how it is.
Fiction is the toughest, I’ll say. Nonfiction is mainly about research and knowledge: it’s very workmanlike, and you don’t have to fret over style as much. But with fiction it’s different. It’s not exactly anxiety, but some days are better than others. Some days you’re in a flow, you knock out what you want to do. And some days are tougher.
I find the easier fiction days are when I already have a good idea of where I want to go in a scene: when I can see the scene in my head, when I have a clear sense of how I want something to resolve itself. Then the writing comes much more easily.
It’s more difficult if I’m still struggling to see where the characters are going — if they’re in dialogue and I’m asking myself, “What happens next? Where’s the pivot point?” That’s harder. But you write through it. That’s always been my approach: if you’re stuck, just keep going.
Manuel: I feel that when I’m writing fiction, what you’re calling the flow happens when I find the voice, the point of view, through which to approach a scene. But that probably has to do with writing in the first person, since I write a lot in the first person. How did you find the point of view in Glass Century?
Ross: There are four main characters. I knew Mona Glass was going to be the heart of it, and that was a voice I really had to cultivate. You start with an idea of a character: what they’re going to sound like, what they’re going to be like, and you try to inhabit them. But I also find that the more you write with a character, the more they grow, the more you can live inside them. And sometimes they surprise you. You find yourself writing in a way you didn’t plan, the dialogue or the style comes out differently than you expected.
I’m not a meticulous outliner. I like to start with a character and a voice. If I have that voice, that’s very helpful: once you have it, you can pursue it. Glass Century uses a kind of close third person, which is shaped by the characters but also allows a certain level of range.
I actually wrote another novel — coming out next year — that’s entirely in the first person. That was a different challenge: one single perspective for the whole book. That’s exciting, but also limiting in a way that really tests you. You can’t drop back into a narrator voice or something more authorial, you’re stuck in that one person’s world. I didn’t do as much of that in Glass Century. There I had more range.
But certainly, I started with a sense of who was in the book and who was going to be featured. And sometimes it just takes a while to really find the voice. It doesn’t come right away. You write your way into it. You can hear it faintly at first, but it’s not always instantaneous.
Manuel: I see you in the tradition of writers like Franzen and Mailer, and I have this idea that you’re sort of a proud American writer, which isn’t very common nowadays, to be proud of the American tradition, the American novel. Maybe for political reasons.
Ross: Yeah, I think that’s right. I think a lot of the American literary establishment now looks to other countries. Novels in translation are very popular. Foreign writers like Sally Rooney are very popular.
It’s not that there aren’t well-regarded Americans, there are, but there is a bit of self-consciousness about the American tradition.
One can be a critic of America. I myself write very critically about the United States in my essays and other writing. I’m very aware of our history, the disasters, the chaos, the tragedies that certainly accompany American foreign policy. But at the same time, you have to be proud of the American artistic tradition.
I think it’s a great tradition. The American writer, in particular, has been an important part of modern literature. And I do think young writers in America need to reclaim that tradition. It’s not about being jingoistic. It’s not about ignoring the sins of America. It’s about championing works from here, championing the many different voices of the United States. It’s a very big country, a very diverse country. There are a lot of interesting people and places that deserve more attention.
I wrote what was consciously an American book — a New York book, yes, but above all an American book — with a kind of scope you’d see from someone like Franzen, DeLillo, or Roth. Those writers have always drawn me.
And the great American writers take stock of all of it — the failures, the sins, the terror, but also the great energy, dynamism, and hope that exists here. All of it is true simultaneously. America is a nation that has caused great damage, but also a nation that has been a beacon in the world. I think sometimes people struggle with that nuance.
I find writers on the left who don’t want to be too associated with American imperialism, and I get it. I myself am a strong critic of American imperialism. But you can’t just ignore the American artistic tradition. I do feel the literary establishment can sometimes be uncomfortable with that tradition. But I’m not. I’m able to hold several ideas in my head at the same time.
Manuel: You launched The Metropolitan Review in January, and in just a few months the magazine reached over 22,000 followers, which is quite amazing. You’ve been publishing long, ambitious essays and book criticism. They’re read, and they’re not tied to academia, nor are they trying to be either woke or anti-woke. Is that your editorial vision? Or is it also something about Substack? What’s your view of how the magazine has been received?
Ross: I don’t want to impose a hard party line on The Metropolitan Review. I feel it needs to be a place for great writing, for writing that’s been ignored elsewhere. It needs to be a place that praises interesting and innovative work.
It’s certainly a place that’s unafraid of seeming anti-woke, but it’s also not just another anti-woke factory pumping out predictable takes. I really want to move beyond that binary, that’s very important to me, to get out of that mindset as much as possible. And I think we have, which I’m proud of. I think we’ve moved beyond it.
I care about art. I care about the review. I want there to be reviews of new work. I feel like a lot of publications don’t review enough anymore, they just don’t publish reviews of books, and that’s distressing to me. I wanted to change that a little. I want more vibrant book review publications, like what The Village Voice once was, like the old New York Review of Books. That’s what I admired, and that’s what I wanted to bring with The Metropolitan Review.
I’ve also been discovering new writers, which is a big part of what we do. That’s deeply thrilling to me, to get these young writers out there who haven’t really been given a chance yet.
Manuel: You’ve been developing this idea of a new era of Romanticism — a reaction against technology and the false promises of science, looking instead toward the arts, in-person gatherings, meaningful exchange, even the printing press. Do you see this happening around you? Is The Metropolitan Review part of this? Do you see yourself as a neo-Romantic writer?
Ross: It’s a good question. Glass Century was written long before all of this, and I don’t know if my literature itself fits into any particular current.
I do feel that we’re in an era that’s much more skeptical of technology, more interested in art and literature again, but also one that’s very politically unstable. I think there are signs of this everywhere. There’s also a movement back toward in-person institutions, trying to build literary organizations that aren’t just digital, that are about actually meeting people again, not purely mediated through a screen.
I think we’re in the slow birth of this era. It’s going to take different twists and turns and still has a long way to go. But it already feels very different from the 2010s.
As for my own work, I’m not sure I would situate it there yet. I don’t know what a neo-Romantic work really is at this point. We’re so early in it. For me, I’m excited about the possibilities, but as a writer, I think less about movements and frameworks and more about what works for this book, on its own terms.
Manuel: You’ve expressed a criticism of autofiction in your writing. What’s your main issue with it.
Ross: I don’t have a problem with the concept. One of my favorite writers, Henry Miller, can even be grouped with autofiction.
My issue is that a lot of autofiction, not all, but a lot, is often devoid of an interesting style and far too narrow in scope. Miller wrote about himself, but his books are full of these wonderful, surrealistic, metaphysical flourishes. They range all over the place, while still tied to the person of Henry Miller. I wish more autofiction were like that.
I find it tiring to read book after book about anxious writers with anxious writer problems and upper-middle-class, minor-league concerns. Those books just don’t excite me.
They’re not all bad. Ben Lerner is a good writer. Sheila Heti is a good writer. Rachel Cusk I haven’t read, but I’ve heard good things. I just can’t get excited about books that stay so confined to one perspective without really pushing the boundaries the way Miller did, or the modernists did with consciousness.
I love the plotless Virginia Woolf novels — To the Lighthouse, Mrs. Dalloway, The Waves — but she was such a fantastic writer. I don’t always see that level of craft in autofiction today. I think that’s been my issue with it.
Manuel: When creating realist fiction, like Glass Century, where do you look for details and that sense of reality when you’re writing?
Ross: It’s a good question. It’s just your everyday life. As a writer, you’re constantly observing: listening to people, watching, trying to take in a lot of information.
Fiction is still fiction. You’re always going to imagine, stretch possibilities, and add your own flourishes. But if you’re working in a mode of realism, you also want to do research. You want to ask people how things really were. I remember in an earlier draft of my book, I mentioned in passing a VHS store. Then a reader caught it and said, “No, in the 1970s there were no VHS stores in New York City — the technology didn’t exist widely yet.” So I had to take the video store out of the book.
You have to make sure you don’t fall into too many anachronisms, you need to know what was happening when. And that’s just a matter of paying attention. But in general, being a good observer means keeping your eyes open, your ears open, noticing how the world actually moves and proceeds.
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