Literature often feels unfair and arbitrary, much like life itself. That sense helps explain why certain authors receive widespread critical acclaim while others with similar talent remain overlooked, especially in some places. Jennifer Egan, born in Chicago in 1962, has long inspired readers and critics alike. A conversation with her in a Brooklyn home reveals a writer who embodies the profile of the great contemporary novelists. In 2011 she won the Pulitzer Prize for a work centered on the music industry, later translated for Spanish readers. Egan’s storytelling plays with past, present, and future in a way that highlights how digital networks shape society and personal lives.
Let’s revisit the 1990s, a period when she collaborated with a key influence. How have her personal and literary journeys evolved since then?
I sometimes struggle with self-confidence and hear a harsh inner voice. The guiding thought—progress often comes through trying rather than fearing failure—remains. With several books published, the fear seems less paralyzing now, even though there were moments when the fear of not succeeding loomed large in earlier years.
What were her beginnings like?
The start was far from flawless. While studying on a scholarship in England, she produced an early novel that did not meet expectations. Returning to New York, she hoped for a quick path to readers and success, but the reception was not kind. The persistence that followed kept her moving forward, even amid doubt.
So what happened then?
There was no easy answer. Trust was scarce, and the sense of having a clear path was missing. Yet she believed in the process and in knowing why she was writing, which helped maintain momentum through uncertain times.
What is the link between literature and journalism in her work?
They are deeply intertwined. A recent long piece for a major magazine explored homelessness in a large city, drawn from a year of immersion with people facing severe mental health challenges and addiction. Listening to those stories had a transformative effect, giving fresh life to her writing. The experience connected with her own world while reminding her that human lives are more connected than they sometimes seem. This contribution has become a meaningful part of her life, to the point where fiction sometimes shares the stage with nonfiction work.
Has this shift been fully recognized?
Yes, yet there is a sense of longing for more. She expects to keep writing fiction as long as she can meet her own standards of craft and depth.
Is there something inherent in her voice that transcends gender?
A single voice does not define her because each book requires a different approach. The challenge is to discover a fresh voice for every project. Once a voice emerges, the rest tends to flow with clarity.
What is her writing process like and does it vary by book?
The process remains consistent. First drafts are written by hand without a clear map of what will unfold. Five to seven pages per day are typical. The rule is to move forward each day, to read just enough to keep momentum, and to avoid clinging to remembered names and details. After a period of struggle, a revision comes, and a writing group provides crucial feedback. Nonfiction topics, such as journalism, also find their place on the keyboard.
Is the reader considered in her work?
There is a strong concern for entertaining the reader and providing a compelling experience. Entertainment is the heart of literature for her. A book should be addictive; if reading becomes a chore, the project has failed.
Her latest novel Sugar House examines the erosion of privacy in modern life. How did readers arrive at this point in a world saturated with data?
Privacy remains a personal issue. Public personas and private lives often diverge, and many people are not keen on broadcasting every detail online. The author acknowledges the lure of social networks but expresses skepticism about sharing everything. The theme resonates with the broader conversation about data fueled by the digital era, where everything is captured as data points. The public event landscape can seem unpredictable, sometimes defying expectations despite the abundance of information. The modern world feels like a stream of ones and zeros—visible yet easy to misinterpret.
Technology is central to the novel. How is the utopian promise of innovation tempered by real-world use?
There is a clear utopian impulse at the start. A central character creates a device to access memories and share them, a tool that promises connection and insight. Yet the story unfolds to reveal the fragility of that promise. In the real world, many tech creators restrict access for their own families, a sharp critique of the ethical paradox in Silicon Valley. There is a belief that such utopian visions can improve lives, even as caution grows. The current moment marks a shift where caution and ethical scrutiny outrun hype, a notable turning point in how technology is perceived.
Memory itself acts as an invisible character in the book. What is literature’s role in life and memory?
Memory shapes consciousness, filtering raw experience into narrative. Stories give meaning to events, and nostalgia should be avoided when crafting fiction. Nostalgia can lull a writer into a false sense of comfort, while genuine storytelling seeks to illuminate and challenge.
The tool developed by the fictional inventor allows looking both backward and forward, inviting reflection on the relationship between time and storytelling. Every work of fiction emphasizes time, and space also plays a crucial role. The pandemic underscored how place shapes our sense of the world and our interactions with it.
Where do stories come from?
Places inspire the author, and a strong spatial memory helps map the environments she has lived in. Memoir writing often accompanies fiction as a way to preserve who she has been and what she has seen. Autobiography is not her current focus, but memories accumulate as potential material for future projects. Bearing witness to one’s life is a meaningful act, a service to future readers who will carry memories long after they fade from living memory.
Memory is a powerful driver of creativity. In conversations with peers, she has expressed concern about memory loss in families and the fragility of cognitive health. This awareness shapes her approach to hard, ambitious projects, undertaken with the hope of preserving capabilities for years to come. The fear of losing memory is a personal reality that informs her work and choices, reinforcing the responsibility of writing as a form of cultural memory for generations ahead.