The Vanishing White Male Writer

It’s easy enough to trace the decline of young white men in American letters—just browse The New York Times ’s “ Notable Fiction” list. In 2012 the Times included seven white American men under the age of 43 (the cut-off for a millennial today); in 2013 there were six, in 2014 there were six.
And then the doors shut.
By 2021, there was not one white male millennial on the “Notable Fiction” list. There were none again in 2022, and just one apiece in 2023 and 2024 (since 2021, just 2 of 72 millennials featured were white American men). There were no white male millennials featured in Vulture ’s 2024 year-end fiction list, none in Vanity Fair’s , none in The Atlantic ’s. Esquire , a magazine ostensibly geared towards male millennials, has featured 53 millennial fiction writers on its year-end book lists since 2020. Only one was a white American man.
Over the course of the 2010s, the literary pipeline for white men was effectively shut down. Between 2001 and 2011, six white men won the New York Public Library’s Young Lions prize for debut fiction. Since 2020, not a single white man has even been nominated (of 25 total nominations). The past decade has seen 70 finalists for the Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize—with again, not a single straight white American millennial man. Of 14 millennial finalists for the National Book Award during that same time period, exactly zero are white men. The Wallace Stegner Fellowship at Stanford, a launching pad for young writers, currently has zero white male fiction and poetry fellows (of 25 fiction fellows since 2020, just one was a white man). Perhaps most astonishingly, not a single white American man born after 1984 has published a work of literary fiction in The New Yorker (at least 24, and probably closer to 30, younger millennials have been published in total).
“The kind of novel we think about as the literary novel, the Updike or DeLillo, I think it’s harder for white men,” a leading fiction agent told me. “In part because I don’t know the editors who are open to hearing a story of the sort of middle-to-upper-middle-class white male experience. The young agents and editors didn’t come up in that culture.” The agent proceeded to list white male writers who have carved out a niche for themselves—Nathan Hill, Joshua Cohen, Ben Lerner, Michael Connelly, Adam Ross—but none was younger than Cohen, who was born in 1980.
The more thoughtful pieces on this subject tend to frame the issue as a crisis of literary masculinity, the inevitable consequence of an insular, female-dominated publishing world. All true, to a point. But while there are no male Sally Rooneys or Ottessa Moshfeghs or Emma Clines—there are no white Tommy Oranges or Tao Lins or Tony Tulathimuttes.
Some of this is undoubtedly part of a dynamic that’s played out across countless industries. Publishing houses, like Hollywood writers’ rooms and academic tenure committees, had a glut of established white men on their rosters, and the path of least resistance wasn’t to send George Saunders or Jonathan Franzen out to pasture. But despite these pressures, there are white male millennial novelists. Diversity preferences may explain their absence from prize lists, but they can’t account for why they’ve so completely failed to capture the zeitgeist.
The reasons for that go deeper. All those attacks on the “litbro,” the mockery of male literary ambition—exemplified by the sudden cultural banishment of David Foster Wallace—have had a powerfully chilling effect. Unwilling to portray themselves as victims (cringe, politically wrong ), or as aggressors ( toxic masculinity ), unable to assume the authentic voices of others ( appropriation ), younger white men are no longer capable of describing the world around them. Instead they write genre, they write suffocatingly tight auto-fiction, they write fantastic and utterly terrible period pieces—anything to avoid grappling directly with the complicated nature of their own experience in contemporary America.
“The literary pipeline for white men was effectively shut down.”
“The antiseptic legacy of Obama-era MFA programs hangs over this generation.”
Imagine, for a moment, that you are a young-ish white male novelist attempting to write your Big Splashy Everything Novel. You want to understand your alienation from yourself, your family, the monoculture around you. You’re a bookish person—you’re a novelist, after all—so you take your toddler son to the bookstore. He’s been asking for a book about whales or fire trucks or trains. These are present, but prominent placement is given to a different kind of book. You see a large display for “Queens of the Jungle,” (“Meet the FEMALE ANIMALS who RULE the ANIMAL KINGDOM”), right next to a YA adaptation of Isabel Wilkerson’s Caste and a Ruth Bader Ginsburg board book for babies.
If you’re a normal white male millennial you probably roll your eyes; if you’re a maniac like me, you text photos of the display to your groupchats; and if you’re a hero or a Democratic congressman, you tell your two-and-a half year old son, come on, gender isn’t even a thing, we really should buy the book about girlboss animals, NPR said it’s great.
But for the last decade or so the question for our novelist has been trickier. That moment at the bookstore was, at worst, an annoyance. How do you describe a flickering moment of alienation without making your novel an exhaustive, and exhausting, chronicle of such things? On the other hand—how do you not describe it? If your own internal monologue can’t be adapted to the page, what can?
Most avoid the question altogether. Some, like Adam Ehrlich Sachs ( Gretel and the Great War ) retreat to the safety of history; others, like Zach Williams ( Beautiful Days ), employ genre (self-described “social science fiction”) to maintain a deep authorial remove from the real world. Still others seek a milieu so distant the cultural transformations on the homefront don’t register. Phil Klay’s Missionaries , a deep dive into American influence and imperialism in Colombia, could have been written at any point in the past 60 years.
Another solution is to set the aperture narrow enough the outside world barely intrudes. Jordan Castro ( The Novelist ) and Andrew Martin ( Early Work ) focus so intensely on the auto-fictional writing process, on their own literary ambitions and intimate personal dramas, that any larger social questions appear moot. The tech fable (Colin Winnette’s Users; Greg Jackson’s The Dimensions of a Cave ) is a related form of this solipsism—everything is subsumed into the horrors of tech.
Then there’s the millennial twist on socialist realism—except the goal isn’t to showcase an ideal society, but an ideal author . In his 2024 story collection The History of Sound , Ben Shattuck curates a playlist of signifiers—proud historical homosexuals, strong unwavering women, even a Radiolab episode—to reassure the reader that he is the right sort of white man. The title story, soon to be a major motion picture, is about two young men who travel across New England collecting old songs (in other words: Alan Lomax… but gay.). The language is flat, dull, humorless (“The memories of fireflies and swimming naked in the waterfall did nothing but make very fine and long incisions in the membrane of contentedness I’d built up over the years”). But Shattuck’s stories aren’t the product here—he is, oozing sympathy from his own beautiful membrane of contentedness.
Lee Cole, author of the 2022 novel Groundskeeping , follows a similar path, conveying the proper amount of shame at his working-class Kentucky background (“They supported Trump, chiefly because of his promise to bring back American manufacturing. Any hope I may have had for them to renounce their support was ... completely gone”). And Stephen Markley’s 2023 climate change epic The Deluge , replete with a Jamaican/Native American heroine and a queer neurodivergent Arab-American mathematician, shows that appropriation is acceptable so long as the politics are sufficiently on the nose (“The trauma of that time, especially the storming of the Capitol, lit a new fire under me…”).
The antiseptic legacy of Obama-era MFA programs hangs over this generation (all three of the above authors graduated from Iowa). Workshopped to death, shorn of swagger and toxicity —and above all, humor —these books serve more as authorial performances than as novels, a long-winded way of saying, “Don’t worry, I’m one of the good ones, my heart is in the right place.”
Having your heart in the wrong place, unfortunately, isn’t quite the answer either. The best stories by the flamboyantly transgressive and politically incorrect writer Delicious Tacos capture a wonderful samizdat feeling, but anti-woke literature exists in a sort of mirror opposition to a more dominant sensibility. The gonzo provocations of Peter Vack ( Sillyboi ) or Matthew Davis ( Let Me Try Again ) tell us less about the world than about how the author wants to be seen. These too are performances. As Sam Kriss pointed out, the anti-woke heel turn is just more identity-driven content—except in these cases, the marginalized identity is that of white men.
Julius Taranto may be the only white male millennial novelist who grasps just how poisonous the collapse of the distinction between author and character has been. In How I Won A Nobel Prize, he follows a young female physicist who accompanies her mentor to an island off the coast of Connecticut where a shadowy billionaire has created a haven for brilliant but cancelled men to pursue their research. By maintaining distance through the female narrator-protagonist (who, in her muted emotional palette, apolitical bent, and scientific expertise, suspiciously resembles a man), Taranto skillfully avoids the possibility a reader might confuse his character’s sympathies for his own—and nearly succeeds at crafting a novel that actually exists within our cultural moment.
Taranto’s canceled Boomers—licentious, playful, grotesque—feel startlingly real, but he’s unable to offer the same grace to Hew, the narrator’s white male millennial husband. There’s a singular moment in which Hew is asked how he feels:
What are the rules now? I feel there was a time when I could tell you with some confidence whether I had ever done anything very seriously wrong. Something gravely immoral. Now I don’t know. I’m just waiting to be accused of something. My only certainty is that I do not currently understand my past the way I will eventually understand it.
That’s the most we get. Hew disappears for much of the book, and eventually emerges as the novel’s improbable hero—but only by becoming an ultra-woke terrorist, and blowing up the island that Taranto has so intricately constructed. It feels like a cop-out.
It’s no accident that 2024’s best book about millennial rage and anomie, Tony Tulathimutte’s Rejection , wasn’t written by a white man. A Thai-American author, Tulathimutte captures something genuinely tragic about how identities liberate and trap us—how the frameworks meant to explain our alienation often deepen it. His portrayal of a white male incel enjoys unique vitality because he writes without fear of being identified with his character. No one could credibly accuse him of sharing his incel’s worldview, though even he felt the need to publicly distance himself from his character.
But if Tulathimutte, with his perfectly-curated political persona—the droll X posts interspersed with earnest pro-Palestine retweets, the exclusive but supportive writer’s workshop run out of his Brooklyn home—can barely pull it off, what hope is there for a white guy with more questionable politics?
No white male born after 1984 has been published in the New Yorker.
This is how "anti-racism" works. After 2009 or so, elite cultural institutions just stopped hiring white males, especially straight white males. Boomers and older Gen Xers who were already "in" weren't typically fired, but no more white males got hired. Hitting diversity metrics became the priority.
Southern males like William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote? All dead...
Astute observation there.
Gore Vidal was related to about a dozen southern US Senators...
Good. I’m glad you’ve heard of him.
Then what notable similarity do Faulkner, Williams, Capote and Vidal have in common? Besides being dead Southern writers?
I assume you are just listing writers you know. They sure don't bear any relation to the topic. Feel free to read the actual article though.
I suppose my point is that well connected well educated young white gay guys from the deep South today probably have more and better opportunities other than moving to New York City to write novels about other sexually suppressed southerners! A list 1950s genre. The obvious conclusion is that South just does not produce quality sophisticated "confirmed bachelors" nowadays!
From the New York Times best seller list, this appears to be false.
Best-selling white male authors include David Baldacci, James Patterson, Harlan Coben, Stephen King, John Grisham, Michael Crichton (posthumously), Jack Carr, Daniel Silva, TJ Klune, Nicholas Sparks, Michael Connelly, Lee and Andrew Child (brothers), Gregory Maguire, and Brandon Sanderson for fiction.
Nonfiction writers on the list included white male authors David Grann, Daniel James Brown, Peter Schweizer, Jesse Watters, Jonathan Haidt, Erik Larson, George Stephanoupolos, Bill Maher, Pete Hegseth, Anthony Fauci, J. D. Vance, Brian Tyler Cohen, Bill O'Reilly, Bob Woodward, and John Grisham.
White men are writing, publishing, and selling books.
Try reading the article again, if you just didn’t read the headline.. Stephen king, as I assume everyone knows, is not a young serious fiction writer and that your list includes a dead guy should have been a massive tip off that your point was mistaken.
Jack Carr is 49. Hardly about to vanish. TJ Klune is 42. Brandon Sanderson - 49.
Let's look at the ages of others on the list, shall we?
Rebecca Yarros is 43. J. D. Robb/Nora Roberts is 74. Sarah Maas is 39. Kristin Hanna - 64. Ana Huang - 33. Frieda McFaddan - 45ish. Deborah Harkness - 60ish. Colleen Hoover - 45. Louise Penny - 66. Percival Everett - 68. Liz Cheney - 58. Anne Lamott - 70. Doris Kearns Goodwin - 82. Hillary Rodham Clinton - 77. Melania Trump - 54. Cher - 78.
With the exception of 2 women, they're all over 40, male and female, for those whose birthdates were easily accessible.
It's almost like it takes time to develop one's craft as a writer and break into the market, regardless of one's sex or race.
I'll shave it down. Read this and then go back and see if anything you've written addresses the author's point. It doesn't. I can't make it any simpler.
"Straight White Millennial", well there you have it! Losers...
I disagree with the author's point, and backed it up with stats from actual book sales by actual authors, and their ages. I showed that white male authors aren't vanishing.
The author's white male grievance does not bear inspection.
He seems pretty hard to please, to be honest. While bemoaning the supposed lack of young white male authors, he excoriates them if they're in political disagreement with him.
It all reads like victimhood to me.
Why are straight white millennials losers? Very bigoted statement.
you've literally created a strawman argument. It's textbook.
Authors point: Young white male literary fiction authors aren't being published in elite publications and are no longer being recognized for awards, like other young writers of their generation.
Your point: "Dead and/or old white male writers of pop fiction have sold a lot of books!" You provide nothing that actually contradicts the author's point. Just strawman arguments and progressive slogans.
So you're saying the author wrote a title that didn't have anything to do with his article and is also untrue?
But somehow that's a "me" problem?
Sure.
Your author really wants to be oppressed, so he has imagined a display, and called himself oppressed. Victimhood.
Authors don't write titles, editors do, but of course the title is related to the subject. The article literally deals with the disappearance of a generation of literary fiction writers from the platforms that traditionally gives them exposure. Did you not understand what he wrote? Your refusal to actually engage with the evidence presented speaks volumes.
And is false. White male writers aren't vanishing.
Ah. They're not getting their backs patted enough? Well, that sucks. They're still publishing and selling books, though. Not vanishing. Not the victims the author would like to believe. Not oppressed by the fact that books written about women or even (gasp!) by women, or people of color, are on display in bookstores.
Such an unserious, dishonest response to the article.
hey're still publishing a
Do you really not understand the words used in the article? Not a single white male born after 1984 has been published in the fiction section of the New Yorker. Not one. That's not being published. Also, sci fi books are not literary novel, so please don't dredge up that strawman.
I'm sure your attitude will work wonders. Boomers who benefitted from the system and discrimination then turn around and tell while millenials and Gen Z "too bad for you" "you deserve to be discriminated against. No wonder there's so much disdain for old people among the young. Boomers cheering for discrimination and reveling in their suffering because it apparently obviates the guilt they feel for benefitting at at others expense. Just so long as they aren't the one being discriminated against, certain types of boomers have no problem causing others to suffer.
It's the response the article merits. The author whines on the basis of his own imaginary scenarios.
That's not being published in one particular publication. They're selling books, Sean. In order to be sold, those books are being published. Nobody is silencing them.
Indeed.
I'm not a Boomer, and you haven't proven discrimination here.
Add whining to the list Conservative 'men' have co-opted from their Liberal counterparts.