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Editor’s Note: Passages is a members-only monthly newsletter about life-changing encounters with stories. Each edition of Passages features a short essay in which one of our favorite writers explores their own life as a reader. Our first contributor, Maggie Shipstead, is an accomplished travel writer whose most recent novel, Great Circle, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize for Fiction.Join Longreads today to receive Passages in your inbox, along with our weekly Top 5 story recommendations and other member perks.
When I was a kid, my mom called the stack of books on my nightstand a “smorgasbord.” People use a lot of food language when they talk about reading. We devour; we gulp. I like to “graze” as a reader, moving through multiple books simultaneously, dipping in and out according to my mood. Romantic metaphors, too, come in handy, alluding to the vagaries of appetite and compatibility and taste. I would say that I’m still not a monogamous reader. I play the field; I read around.
The current count of books I’m partway through is eighteen: eight print books, eight e-books, and two audiobooks. There’s some nonfiction in there: Into the Ice by Mark Synnott, Boom by Michael Shnayerson, and the audiobook of Entitled by Andrew Lownie, which, if you need to be convinced that Prince Andrew is one of the most odious people on the planet, boy do I have the book for you. The majority of my docket is taken up by novels, though. A galley of Emily St. John Mandel’s new book Exit Party is on my nightstand, as is Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know. (Bad title! I hate titles that are unmemorable strings of nonspecific words!) I’m in a race to finish Venetian Vespers by John Banville before Libby, the public library app, takes it back for maybe the fourth time. The Banville is short and enjoyable but has been a victim of the smorgasbord approach, never quite seizing priority. Also on my Libby shelf are, among others, Lovers XXX by Allie Rowbottom, The Original by Nell Stevens, and Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. On my Bookshop.org app, I have The Remembered Soldier, a magnificent novel by the Dutch writer Anjet Daanje that is very long and that I ended up (happily) buying because I didn’t want to race Libby’s loan period.
I wasn’t an early adopter of e-books, partly because my first novel was published in 2012, at the height of e-book doomerism, when everyone was saying print books were soon to be a thing of the past and e-books were the enemy. (Interestingly—at least to me—the ratio of print copies to digital has gone up for each of my three successive books, with only that first one selling more e-books than physical.) The Kindle launched in 2007, but I didn’t have an e-reader until 2013, when I got a Kobo in a gift bag. I liked it, but the process of acquiring e-books and getting them on the device was cumbersome, and, anyway, within a year I left it on an airplane.
During the pandemic, I found myself meandering back toward e-books. I’d had an iPad for a while but didn’t really know what to do with it until a friend told me about Libby. Somehow I’d forgotten libraries existed, and I didn’t have a card for the Los Angeles system, even though I’d lived in the city for six years by then. I signed up for one online, downloaded the app, and everything changed. I didn’t even have to leave my house, which I wasn’t supposed to do anyway.
That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness.
I’d never lost the habit of reading in bed at night, but my intake of books had slowed dramatically over the years, probably starting in college. I was an English lit major, so reading was work. Then writing became my job in my mid-20s, and that professionalism wore away any playfulness that was left in reading. I’d gotten timid and precious in my choices, only buying books I felt confident I would enjoy but then often not enjoying them after all, at which point they would linger, stubbornly material, in my house until I rounded up a box or two to donate. With Libby, I could be capricious again. Every time I came across an intriguing mention of a book or someone recommended one, I placed a hold. I would then immediately and completely forget about the hold until, days, weeks, or months later, some vaguely recalled title appeared on my iPad, a gift from my past self. Something about the convenience and low stakes of Libby got me reading like I hadn’t in years. I became a filter-feeder, opening my maw to take in books indiscriminately, unbothered by the ones that must be spat out. In 2020 I read 60 books; last year I read 92. I started but didn’t finish dozens more.
The dream, though, even for a nonmonogamist like myself, is The One, the book that makes all others disappear, that enchants you completely and exclusively until the last page boots you back out into the world. That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness. Last week it was the audiobook of Patrick Radden Keefe’s London Falling. In January it was a re-read of Ariel Levy’s memoir The Rules Do Not Apply. Lately I’ve been immersed in Michelle Huneven’s back catalog. Possibly the most delicious experiences of The One emerge from a perfect alchemy of time, place, and book, like when I found an orange and white Penguin edition of The Secret History in a used bookshop in Bali in 2011 and, having somehow never heard of it, bought it on the basis of the title alone. Or when I read Persuasion on my phone in a tent in the Swedish Arctic. Or when, traveling alone in New Zealand, I read all the Twilight books in rapid succession, and upon finishing the last one, felt like I’d woken up in a bus stop, disheveled and hungover and utterly mystified as to how I’d gotten there.
The One is not singular but takes infinite forms. There is no heartbreak when you move on. In fact, the pleasure is additive. A writer friend reminded me of this once when I was expressing disgruntled envy about the reception of someone else’s book. “No one ever finishes a good book and says, ‘Now I’ll never read another book again,’” she said.
Free love prevails at the smorgasbord. And, I mean, there’s a title.
Three Reading Recommendations
In 2017, before a total solar eclipse made a nice long arc over the continental US, I read “Total Eclipse” by Annie Dillard for the first time. I’d had no plans to bestir myself to go see the eclipse, but I pretty much finished the last paragraph, bought a tent and some welder’s glass to look through, got in the car and drove from LA to Oregon. The eclipse—and you have to be in the path of totality—remains the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen. Conveying the power of natural phenomena is extremely difficult, and Dillard’s writing elicits both the visceral shock of seeing a total eclipse and the necessity to witness one with your own eyes.
Look, call me unexciting, but I would be pretending to be someone I’m not if I didn’t include a New Yorker piece. How to choose, though? I love an unsolved/unsolvable mystery, so should I pick Douglas Preston’s piece about the Dyatlov Pass incident? Or pretty much anything by PatrickRaddenKeefe? Or perhaps the 2009 profile of Caster Semenya by Ariel Levy that changed my understanding of gender and biological sex? I think because I can only pick one, I’ll go with Levy’s “Thanksgiving in Mongolia,” which you’ve either already read and been undone by or everyone you know has already told you to read and for some reason you haven’t. Her alchemy of experience into writing is somehow both raw and polished and hits with the force of a train.
Recently I was reminded of this piece by Alexandra Paul, “Stalked: A Baywatch star’s 13-Year Nightmare,” when I happened to interview her twin sister, Caroline. It’s a harrowing personal account of being stalked for many years, and also includes meaningful practical advice for how to protect ourselves in this age of frightening access. I’d always had deep ambivalence about not responding to a horrible poison pen DM I got on my wedding day, and Paul’s essay granted me total certainty that not engaging had been the right move all along.
Maggie Shipstead is the New York Times-bestselling author of three novels and a short story collection. Her novel Great Circle was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the winner of the Dylan Thomas Prize and the L.A. Times Book Prize for First Fiction. Her travel writing and essays have appeared lots of places. She lives in Los Angeles.
'Diary of a Wimpy Kid' author Jeff Kinney shares his parenting advice — and what he'd do differently.
Simon Simard for BI
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Jeff Kinney, the 55-year-old author of the "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" series, who lives in Plainville, Massachusetts. It has been edited for length and clarity.
When I wrote "Diary of a Wimpy Kid," I worked on it for eight or nine years without thinking I was writing a book for kids.
I thought I was writing a book for grown-ups that would feel like "The Wonder Years" or "A Christmas Story" — looking back on childhood through the lens of an adult.
The first thing that surprised me was that my publisher said I'd actually written a children's series; it caused a lot of cognitive dissonance.
But what also surprised me was that kids understood the irony in the books. They understand that Greg is an unreliable narrator; they seem to get the joke.
After writing the series, and after raising two kids of my own — ages 21 and 23 — I've learned a few things about kids. Here's my best advice about getting kids to read, screen time, and more — plus a few things I'd go back and change if I could.
1. To get kids to read, feed their interests
I recently heard author Jack Gantos say that after dinner, he and his family would get out their books and read. I think that's really cool and also very old-fashioned, in a way. I wish we'd done it when raising our kids.
With reading, I think the most important thing you can do is feed your kids' interests, whether they're interested in Pokémon cards or sharks or tornadoes. Get them books or magazines that speak to their interests, rather than trying to give them books that we read as kids or books that are too high-minded for their age level.
A lot of authors who write for kids start with some sort of a lesson, and there's a time and place for that. But kids read for the same reason that adults read: to be entertained. If we start from a position of trying to teach kids a lesson, they'll sniff that out and turn away from it.
It's really important to encourage kids down a path that gets them reaching for the next book. I want them to feel a feeling of success in having finished a book because that's an important act of completion. But mostly, I'd like them to keep reading, whatever form that might take.
2. Listen to them
In everyday parenting, sitting at dinner with our kids and hearing about their day without judgment is a really good foundation. Just about everything that kids today are going through, we've been through in some form. The most powerful thing that we can say to kids is "I understand," or "I've been there myself," and share stories, making sure that they feel seen and heard.
As parents, we should make ourselves vulnerable to our kids by telling them about the struggles that we went through.
If we do that without moralizing and without judgment, I think it draws us closer to our kids and turns us into a resource for them.
3. Envision your future relationship
I've always thought about my relationship with my kids by imagining, How do I want our relationship to look when my kids are adults? I've tried to anticipate that and treat my kids that way the whole time.
Kinney has two adult children, ages 21 and 23.
Simon Simard for BI
I think it's working out because my kids will call me and want to go see the Patriots or the Celtics with me. I think that's partially because I've always had this version of our relationship in mind.
4. Don't get too wrapped up in kids' sports
As parents, we live and die by our kids' successes in sports. I certainly got too caught up in it and couldn't really anticipate that there would be a life beyond sports for my kids.
If I were to go back in time, I probably would change my approach on that. We like to see our kids succeed, and of course, sports is a big stage where there's a lot wrapped up in their success, including social issues and self-esteem.
When our kids are thriving, we feel really good for them, and when they're failing, it's tough for them and us. I can understand why that happens with parents, but I can also see that it's good to take a step back.
5. Help them understand that social media manipulates
Social media bullying is something that we never had to face growing up, and it's really unfortunate and damaging.
As parents, we can help kids by educating them and helping them understand that social media companies are incentivized to make you spend more time on your screens. The more that my kids, who grew up immersed in the social media world, began to understand that, the more they wanted to move away from it.
They get out there in the world — touch grass, play sports, and pick up basketball. My son will put lockouts on his social media.
It's important for us to think for ourselves before we turn to AI
As AI becomes a part of schoolwork and daily life, my concern is that AI makes a lot of things very easy.
At times, I look for solutions through AI that I could conjure up myself, so I worry about how that rewires the brain when you feel like there's always an agent that can solve your problem for you. It could reduce your own capacity for problem-solving.
It's really important for kids to be able to think for themselves before turning to the tool.
To counteract that, getting out in the world and interacting with one another is really important. Put kids into social situations; for example, my son has been working as a bookseller this past year, where he's had to interact with lots of different types of people and solve problems.
A lot of kids or young people in this generation are more isolated. They spend a lot more time in their rooms on their phones, and so I think that getting them out there interacting with other human beings is going to give them a competitive advantage.
Earlier this year, during an appearance on Kareem Rahma’s popular Subway Takes show, Jasper Craven explained line-crossing ceremonies, in which sailors celebrate first crossings of the equator. In US naval history, line-crossing ceremonies have at times involved violent hazing. But they have also involved pageantry, ritualistic performances of masculinity and femininity that tip over into drag. “Young men want love, support, community,” Craven said. “The military provides a permission structure to show love, often in very pure ways.”
It’s a characteristic insight from Craven, a freelance reporter who has made a singular beat from the intersection of masculinity and the American military. In his magazine features, Craven has scrutinized Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth’s opposition to women in the armed forces via Hegseth’s undergraduate fits over The Vagina Monologues, and profiled Bernarr McFadden, a bodybuilder and publisher who oversaw two military schools “to impose his love of physical strength onto American children, the War Department, and the world.” Craven’s recent book, God Forgives, Brothers Don’t, follows some of our most insidious models of masculinity back to the military education programs that have shaped them for centuries.
Craven is a dynamic counterexample to the men he writes about, less interested in bulking up the boundaries of his identity than testing their limits. For a memorable Harper’s feature, he spent six months undercover as an employee of the world’s largest private-security firm. (During his first shift, a supervisor criticized Craven for his non-detachable necktie, which could be used to strangle him.) He is at once stridently critical and deeply compassionate. (He is also, as you’ll learn, deeply and truly funny.)
“There are myriad other ways to prove your manhood, and they’re not simply being emotionally vulnerable or non-violent,” Craven told an interviewer earlier this year. “You can actually fight for things: fight for peace, be a little risky, be a little reckless, break the law, put your body on the line. If it’s around a morally sound mission, that can feel incredibly validating.” I don’t take a lot of heart from the men Craven writes about, but I take some heart from his work.
—Brendan Fitzgerald
Where did you grow up?
Peacham, Vermont.
What places feel like home?
The sluiceway at Gull Pond in Wellfleet, Massachusetts; Tom’s Diner in Brooklyn, New York; The St. Johnsbury Athenaeum in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.
Other than family members, who or what has shaped you the most?
My folks, both filmmakers, shielded me from television and other mainstream entertainment as a child. Much as I resented their restrictions at the time, they forced me to troubleshoot my taste through the physical media available in our home, a beautiful process of discovery tinged by family lineage that I wish was still widely practiced. Nothing got me more excited than the films of Charlie Chaplin. I’ve consumed all his films, and The Great Dictator is my favorite. It is what much of my journalism aspires to be: narratively compelling, funny, and unflinching.
What is your favorite time of day?
I’ll take any time on the weekend. On workdays: I like the mornings for research and making calls, and evenings for writing. To me, the midafternoon is almost always a slog.
What are you really good at?
Guessing what time it is without a watch.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?
I love Cold War ephemera. My two favorite gifts are a vintage poster of Dr. Strangelove and a Vietnam-era Snoopy Zippo.
Describe your favorite meal.
Negroni and a cheeseburger at Long Island Bar.
Sound or silence? (And if sound, what sound?)
Sound. Ideally jazz or a film score. I wrote my book about military masculinity mostly to the work of Bill Evans, Pharaoh Sanders, and the soundtracks from Jackie, Do the Right Thing, One Battle After Another, and Ken Burns’s The Vietnam War.
Where do you do your best thinking?
On bike rides.
What journey—physical, creative, intellectual, or otherwise—has meant the most to you?
Hauling a golden gorilla statute across America for a crypto concern during COVID.
Where do you like to read?
New York City’s Prospect Park, my clawfoot tub, the bed.
What’s the last rabbit hole you disappeared into?
Disney Adult YouTube vlogs. Still haven’t emerged.
Name three publications you enjoy reading these days.
What piece of nonfiction are you most proud of writing?
Probably my Harper’s dispatch on my six months undercover as a security guard.
What’s your most reliable way to get creatively unstuck?
Watching a movie or schvitzing at The Wall Street Bath & Spa.
Who’s a writer you turn to when you need some inspiration?
Right now, Don DeLillo.
What words do you overuse?
Tenacious. Hyperaggressive. Amped.
What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?
90 Day Fiancé.
What superpower would you like to have?
Like any good reporter, I’m very nosey, so probably superhuman eavesdropping. Lost about 20 percent of hearing in my right ear when a speaker blew out at a college party. Would love that back, and then some.
What animal or nonhuman being do you most identify with?
I’ve got the curiosity of a cat, but I often don’t land on my feet.
If you have a free solitary hour in your day, what do you typically do?
I’ll either go on a bike ride or veg out on YouTube. The duality of man.
What five items would you place in a time capsule?
A hanging chad ballot. The EV Hummer. Some Trump steaks. An AR-15. My medical bills after I fell off my bike.
What does your writing space look like?
I am someone who writes anywhere and everywhere. Amtrak. Delta. Starbucks. My bed. The Wertheim Room at the New York Public Library has been the best of them all.
Jasper Craven is a freelance reporter covering men and the military for outlets including Harper’s, The New Yorker, New York, Wired, The Baffler, and The New York Times. He’s also the author of a new book for Simon & Schuster about the military’s influence on masculinity, entitled God Forgives, Brothers Don’t.
Hundreds of newsletters land in my inbox each week. I use Gmail filters to route most of them into one big feed, and only a handful go into a separate folder for easier visibility. Erika Hayasaki’s The Reported Essay is one of them. In each edition, Hayasaki—a professor at the University of California, Irvine’sLiterary Journalism Program—writes about the craft of nonfiction and shares conversations with fellow journalists. She offers advice on the practice of reporting and storytelling and the business of freelancing, from balancing interiority and research to building a story’s structure to pitching stories.
Hayasaki is one of those writers whose new work I always make time to read. For Men’s Health, she told the intertwined stories of two men trying to understand and treat their long COVID symptoms. For The Cut, she wrote a memorable piece of romance and disaster about a Maui couple on the day Lahaina burned. For The Verge, she reported on an obsessive stalker who harassed Asian American professors online. Her narrative nonfiction illuminates the lives of individuals and communities, and the human connections within them. Her latest, for The Guardian, follows a New Jersey nurse assaulted by ICE, a woman she first wrote about in her bookThe Death Class. It’s yet another piece grounded in rigorous reporting.
After spending time with Hayasaki below, don’t forget to subscribe to The Reported Essay—it’s an indispensable resource for anyone who writes or reads the kind of nonfiction we recommend and celebrate at Longreads.
I was born in Champaign, Illinois, a college town surrounded by corn and soybean fields two hours south of Chicago. I lived there until I was 14, when my parents divorced and lost their home in a bankruptcy. I moved to Lynnwood, Washington, for high school, returning to Champaign for journalism school as an undergrad at the University of Illinois.
What places feel like home?
My current home in Southern California. I know it is my kids’ safe place. But I also think of my first childhood home, a one-story on Hathaway Drive in Champaign that my parents bought for $10,000 in the 1980s. When I am back in my hometown, I drive by it sometimes and glimpse the window I used to sneak out of, or the backyard jacuzzi deck that my dad built, or the strawberry patch where I winced eating unripened berries.
Other than family members, who or what has shaped you the most?
I often wonder how the same hometown that crafted my identity, and deepened my own humanity, could turn around and strip someone else’s away. Obviously, I haven’t let go of this place that shaped me. So for the last several years, I have been reporting and writing a book, College Town, which is based in Champaign.
What is your favorite time of day?
Early morning writing time, 4:30 to 6:30 a.m, when the house is quiet and I am not checking messages or getting interrupted.
What are youreallygood at?
Connecting people to other people I think they might get along with, or appreciate, or learn from. Or connecting them to useful resources. I sometimes do mini one-on-one Zoom sessions with my Substack readers, and I like giving each person I meet their own individualized mini-syllabus at the end of it.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?
The ability to communicate.
Describe your favorite meal.
Merkato Ethiopian food in Los Angeles: asa tibs (fried trout), injera, honey wine.
Sound or silence? (And if sound, what sound?)
Silence during writing time. But I love the sound of laughter with family and friends—it is everything.
Where do you do your best thinking?
Long car rides (allowing the mind to rest and wander is key for creatives).
What journey—physical, creative, intellectual, or otherwise—has meant the most to you?
Right out of college, I was hired at the Los Angeles Times into METPRO (the Minority Editorial Program), which is now the Los Angeles Times Fellowship. Miriam Pawel, who just released a new book, California Dreams, was the Metro editor who hired me, and I was also mentored by people like Richard Kipling, Randy Hagihara, Steve Padilla, Richard E. Meyer (who wrote the piece I will never forget, linked below), as well as many other incredible writers and editors. The program also connected me to people who would become some of my best friends. This experience, in many ways, is why I also believe so deeply in the importance of being a mentor and connector.
Where do you like to read?
Home office.
What’s the last rabbit hole you disappeared into?
Every story I report leads to a rabbit hole, and that is part of the joy of reporting. Since the summer, I have disappeared into reporting rabbit holes about meditation scams, Accutane (the acne drug), Illinois history, abuse by ICE agents, international students, and the future of college.
Name three publications you enjoy reading these days.
Longreads, of course. Scratch, a newsletter of interviews, essays, and conversations about how writers are surviving. I also like catching up on long reads via Apple News audio during commutes and housework.
What’s one longread that you can’t stop thinking about?
“Julia Understands Everything,” by Richard E. Meyer, in the Los Angeles Times Magazine. I often assign this story to students. It was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Feature Writing in 1996. Reading it myself as a young journalist broke open what I realized is possible in nonfiction storytelling. Rick wrote about a woman paralyzed by a stroke that left her able to only communicate through eye and head movements. He spent nearly 450 hours interviewing her, as she raised her eyes while he pointed to letters of the alphabet on a card.
What was the last book you read?
California Dreams by Miriam Pawel, a fascinating historical portrait of the University of California told through a cast of compelling people. And The Black Shield by Wilbert L. Cooper, a feat of braided history, reported memoir, and narrative journalism that is engaging and nuanced.
What piece of nonfiction are you most proud of writing?
I recently came across a binder from high school with all of these articles and columns I wrote for my high school newspaper and for a teen newspaper run by The Seattle Times. These were earnest and idealistic pieces about discrimination, abuse, educational inequities. I look back at that kid trying to find her way in the world by asking questions and writing stories, and I’m just proud she kept going.
I see my undergrads doing the same—choosing to major in journalism in these difficult times because they care about what is happening in the world, and even in the age of AI they still yearn to think, question, and write—and that also makes me proud.
What’s your most reliable way to get creatively unstuck?
Sleep on it. Also talking to my writing friends. It’s important to have writing friends and if you don’t have any yet, make an effort to reach out to other writers and connect with them. Build a community (even if it’s intimidating).
Who’s a writer you turn to when you need some inspiration?
“Bunch of Friends,” YouTubers—but only with my daughter.
What superpower would you like to have?
Healing.
What animal or nonhuman being do you most identify with?
I’m a people person, which is also why you will find people at the center of all my stories. I am most interested in the human condition. My house is filled with portraits and photos of people. We don’t have pets. This question was harder for me to answer, so I asked my kids. They gave these answers:
“Alicorn. Because you can do everything.”
“A dragon, according to Chinese mythology, because you are wise.”
“Eevee from Pokemon, because you have gone through multiple evolutions.”
If you have a free solitary hour in your day, what do you typically do?
Lately, I am big on squeezing in a 20 to 30-minute midday nap.
What five items would you place in a time capsule?
I really don’t get attached to stuff. Over the last few years, my 75-year-old mother got rid of all her stuff. She also gave up her home, and is now living full time out of her Toyota Sienna. Full-on van life. Yes, one day I will write an essay about this. She’s living her best life right now. I do have a lot of stuff, as you see in my office photo below. But I don’t attach much sentimental value to it.
I’m much more about the moments that I know will not last. For my first book, The Death Class, I followed a professor of death and dying, Norma Bowe (whom I also published a follow-up story on this week for The Guardian, after she was assaulted by ICE and filed a legal claim). Her class and teachings also helped me learn to value moments and human connections.
What does your writing space look like?
Erika Hayasaki is the author of The Death Classand Somewhere Sisters, which was named an NPR Best Book of the Year in 2022 and received a Nautilus Book Award in Journalism and Investigative Reporting. She is a professor in the Literary Journalism Program at the University of California, Irvine, and a former national writer for the Los Angeles Times. As an independent journalist, her feature stories have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, New York, Wired, The Atlantic, The Guardian, National Geographic, and others. She recently received the Longform Narrative Award from the National Association of Science Writers, and her work is anthologized inThe Best American Science and Nature Writing 2025. Erika also served as chair of the 2026 Pulitzer Prize Nominating Jury in Feature Writing, and she publishes a Substack newsletter, The Reported Essay.
“I do unashamedly want to write page-turners,” Jon Ronson told The New Yorker in an interview. “I can never understand why most nonfiction books have such limited creative ambitions.” Ronson, who is “not a thrill-seeker,” then recounts fearing for his life while being pursued by members of a secretive political gathering—a chase that found its way into Them: Adventures with Extremists, his 2001 breakthrough book. Thrills have a way of finding Ronson, either through active pursuit or some subtler means of revelation. The Men Who Stare At Goats begins with a US Army general who attempts to walk through walls, repeatedly smacking into them. In the opening of The Psychopath Test, a neurologist hands Ronson a baffling package, copies of which have been anonymously mailed to academics throughout the world. The pages turn themselves.
Ronson’s latest, The Castle, earned a starred review from Publisher’s Weekly, which praised the book as “a blockbuster portrait of men gone mad” and Ronson’s style as “intuitive but rigorous.” His podcast, Things Fell Apart, was recently renewed for a third season, in which Ronson will shift focus from American culture wars to individual battles against institutions. He once told The Guardian, “I get called faux-naïf all the time. But I honestly think I am just genuinely naive.” It’s an observation that reminds me of Joan Didion’s own famous self-assessment: that she was “so physically small, so temperamentally unobtrusive . . . that people tend to forget that my presence runs counter to their best interests.” Ronson is warmer than that, but his access is no less astonishing. Time and again, someone allows him to get very close—closer, perhaps, than they might be aware of. Each of Ronson’s books is a testament to his depth of inquiry, his proximity to the surprising, and his conviction that a good narrative should be propulsive.
—Brendan Fitzgerald
Where did you grow up?
Cardiff, Wales. In a suburb called Lisvane.
What places feel like home?
London, for sure. As a child, when we’d visit my grandparents, I’d sneak away and jump on a bus and just get lost in the City. Even when it wasn’t home, it felt like home. Eventually I lived there for decades, loving especially Soho and Islington. I also love our tiny town in the Hudson Valley. We’ve lived here since 2019.
Other than family members, who or what has shaped you the most?
As a teenager, watching Nick Broomfield documentaries and reading the great nonfiction adventurers from the ’60s and ’70s like Hunter S. Thompson and PJ O’Rourke and the writers featured in Tom Wolfe’s The New Journalism. And when I started in journalism, the editors who first gave me a break: Ian Parker, Chris Heath, Deborah Orr, Ian Katz.
What is your favorite time of day?
Early morning. I make a coffee and for the first few hours my brain is at its best and I can write a lot.
What are you really good at?
Narrative nonfiction. If I go off on some journey, I know exactly how to make it work. It’s the only thing I’m good at.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?
Recently the BBC gave me a subscription to Descript, a text-based audio editing program. It’s a dream gift for a detail-oriented storyteller. I can finally do the audio editing myself. I sit there for hours.
Describe your favorite meal.
I guess some kind of salad with lots of fruit and vegetables and a good dressing. You can’t beat Greek dressing.
Sound or silence? (And if sound, what sound?)
Silence! I can’t believe how great the silence is here in the Hudson Valley. There’s something very comforting about knowing it won’t end. They’ll never turn this country lane into a big road.
Where do you do your best thinking?
When I’m out on a story, in some strange place, gathering material. I just instinctively know what’ll work, what the best moments are. Fiction people can do that in their imaginations. I can’t. But when I’m out on a story, I just know.
What journey—physical, creative, intellectual, or otherwise—has meant the most to you?
The journey of leaving Cardiff and moving to London when I was 18. I felt like finally my life could begin.
Shakespeare: The World as Stage by Bill Bryson. I listen to it over and over to get to sleep. So I still don’t know how he dies.
What piece of nonfiction are you most proud of writing?
Every book I’ve written has chapters I’m equally proud of: sneaking into Bohemian Grove with Alex Jones and getting chased by the Bilderberg Group in Them, the goat staring in The Men Who Stare At Goats, pretty much all of The Psychopath Test, much of Lost at Sea, Justine Sacco in So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed. The Castle feels really good. I felt very confident writing it, mixing up tones and styles in a way I don’t think I could have managed before.
What’s your most reliable way to get creatively unstuck?
Just wandering around Reddit can be good. The whole world is somewhere on Reddit. And if you don’t find your next story, it might still unlock some part of your brain.
Who’s a writer you turn to when you need some inspiration?
Kurt Vonnegut, for his brevity and his clashes between comedy and horror.
What words do you overuse?
It used to be “There was a silence” but I’ve cured myself of that, thank God.
What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?
I don’t know if this counts, but every book I read for pleasure is a celebrity memoir, mostly musicians and actors. Cher. Anthony Hopkins. Bruce Springsteen. I LOVED the English actor Kathy Burke’s one, A Mind Of My Own. Right now it’s Johnny Marr.
What superpower would you like to have?
I think I’d like to be able to shoot fire out of my hands. No. Teleportation through space and time.
What animal or nonhuman being do you most identify with?
I really identified with my dog, Floppy—how he wanted to be around people but didn’t want to interact with them.
If you have a free solitary hour in your day, what do you typically do?
Run or walk.
What five items would you place in a time capsule?
Talking Heads’ Stop Making Sense. The Pitt. Succession. All of NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts, especially Doechii, Sierra Ferrell, and Chappell Roan. Bruce Springsteen’s 1979 No Nukes concert video. Huh, it’s almost all music. I guess that’s the stuff we should remember. People being their best.
What does your writing space look like?
Jon Ronson’s nonfiction books include So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, The Psychopath Test, Them: Adventures with Extremists, Lost at Sea, and The Men Who Stare At Goats.They have all been international and/or New York Times bestsellers and have been translated into more than 30 languages. His latest book, The Castle, is now available.
I was sad last fall when I read and recommended Jaya Saxena’s final story for Eater. Saxena is a food writer the Longreads editors have followed for years, and a journalist I’ve always counted on for food writing that both informs and entertains; she goes deep on aspects of cuisine, dining, the restaurant industry, and food culture in a way that’s relatable and unpretentious. (She’s also the series editor of The Best AmericanFood and Travel Writing anthology; you can preorder the 2026 edition now.) So I was glad to hear, earlier this year, that Saxena and other former Eater writers were cooking up something new.
That something is Ravenous, a worker-owned, subscriber-supported food and culture site founded by Saxena, Amy McCarthy, Ashok Selvam, Courtney E. Smith, and Frances Dumlao. The five journalists are “sick and tired of the conversation around food being reduced to AI-generated pablum, ‘best of’ lists, and influencer-driven trends,” and are building a home for the kind of thoughtful, curious reporting that’s become harder to publish in a broken media landscape. Or, as they put it: food media with teeth.
Next week, Ravenous launches a monthlong fundraiser, so now is the perfect time to support the site. Seven dollars a month, or $70 a year, gets you access to everything they publish; higher-tier plans come with more perks. (Sign up for the Regular plan—$25 a month, or $250 a year—and you get to give the Ravenous raven a nickname, which they include in their Sunday newsletters.)
If anyone can build a publication around engaging, relevant food reporting and storytelling, it’s Saxena and this crew. Have a look around Ravenous and consider subscribing. But be warned: Don’t browse when you’re hungry.
I was born and raised in New York City, and aside from a brief stint in New Orleans for college, I’m still here. Except now I’m over in Queens instead of my hometown of Manhattan.
What places feel like home?
Aside from my actual apartment and the one I grew up in: Various NYC beaches, the backyard of my local bar, a punk show, Ray’s Pizza & Bagel Cafe on St. Mark’s Place, and one specific rock in Central Park.
Other than family members, who or what has shaped you the most?
For high school I went to a Quaker school in Manhattan, and though I don’t consider myself religious in any way, Quaker values began shaping my future politics then. It’s where I first started learning about the value of consensus-based community decision making, and given that this was in the early 2000s, anti-war and anti-violence politics. I even remember a teacher making the case that cars should be banned in Manhattan. It was a big influence on my politics and value systems.
What is your favorite time of day?
To work, right after I wake up, around 8 a.m., when my mind hasn’t filled with the noise of the day. Otherwise, early evening when it’s still light out, and everything is just beginning.
What are you really good at?
Untangling necklaces.
What’s the best gift you’ve ever received?
One year my wife bought me a Cameo of the cow from First Cow, whose handler fed her a treat in my honor. The video is one of my most prized possessions.
Describe your favorite meal.
Of course as a food writer this is tripping me up, because are we talking about a single great meal I’ve experienced, or a dish I could eat every day? If it’s the former, it’s the time my wife and I walked into a random seafood counter in Valencia, Spain, and spent the night eating sardines in garlic oil and sparkling wine from ceramic cups. If it’s the latter, my mom’s mac and cheese.
Sound or silence? (And if sound, what sound?)
I’m a city kid, so too much silence scares me. I need the background noise of people on the street to get anything done.
Where do you do your best thinking?
In the shower or walking around listening to music.
What journey—physical, creative, intellectual, or otherwise—has meant the most to you?
In 2018, my wife and I traveled with my dad to his hometown in India. It was the first time he had been back since before I was born, and being able to experience that with him was so important. We also ate absolutely the best kebab I’ve ever had in my life. Maybe I should have put that as my favorite meal.
Where do you like to read?
On the subway.
What’s the last rabbit hole you disappeared into?
My friend recently introduced me to the case of Judy Smith, a woman who went missing during a trip to Philadelphia and was discovered murdered in the woods outside Asheville, North Carolina. I have now spent a lot of time reading conspiracies about what happened to her.
Name three publications you enjoy reading these days.
Defector has fantastic culture coverage, I love every issue Cake Zine puts out, and some of the best money I’ve spent recently is on the monthly print issue of The Onion.
What’s one longread that you can’t stop thinking about?
This piece in The New Yorker by Lauren Collins about El Mordjene, an Algerian hazelnut spread that white French people are being very racist about. It’s just such a good exploration of how something innocuous becomes the center of a culture war. I was also thrilled to find the spread at an Egyptian grocer in my neighborhood, and sorry white French people, it is better than Nutella.
What was the last book you read?
I had somehow never read Interview With the Vampire by Anne Rice, but after watching the TV series my friends and I decided to read it together.
What piece of nonfiction are you most proud of writing?
“The Food That Makes You Gay,” for Eater. I had editors that really trusted me to follow my instincts, and I managed to thread together some things I had an inkling were related. I’m also just glad I could get a full throated defense of bodily autonomy and the right to change one’s body in a piece that started out talking about straight men being afraid to eat bananas in public.
What’s your most reliable way to get creatively unstuck?
Walk away from the computer. I just need to do something else, anything else, for a while.
Who’s a writer you turn to when you need some inspiration?
Reading just about anything will definitely help me, but I love Helen Rosner’s food writing. And I tend to listen to a lot of music when I need inspiration, so as far as lyricists go, probably Aimee Mann, Fiona Apple, Joni Mitchell, Prince, and Paul Simon.
What words do you overuse?
I write pretty conversationally, so I sprinkle in a lot of “just” and “of course” and “perhaps” that I usually have to go back and delete.
What’s your favorite guilty pleasure?
I am a firm believer that there is no such thing as a “guilty” pleasure (unless it’s like, continuing to read Harry Potter after J.K. Rowling has made it clear that doing so supports her transphobic work). No one should feel guilty about doing something that brings them joy. But in terms of indulgences that make little sense to others, I love a Hershey’s Cookies ‘N’ Creme bar.
What superpower would you like to have?
Generously, the power to instantly heal others. Selfishly, the power to have three cocktails and sleep through the night.
What animal or nonhuman being do you most identify with?
Any time I see a photo of a magpie standing on its nest made of shiny, pretty things, that’s me.
If you have a free solitary hour in your day, what do you typically do?
Unfortunately, I’m probably looking on my phone. I have a very dumb “project” where I am trying to train my Instagram algorithm to show me the absolute worst videos out there. But I am trying to get better about doing things like taking a walk to the river, or practicing a new hobby (my latest one is trying to learn some card tricks).
What five items would you place in a time capsule?
A copy of The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, a bootleg Knicks champion shirt, a fortune teller fish, a bottle of 4711 cologne, and a DVD of Velvet Goldmine.
What does your writing space look like?
You should know for this photo I am standing directly against my bed, which my cats sit on all day and scream at me from. You should also know half the time I’m not even here, and instead writing with my laptop on the couch.
Jaya Saxena is an IACP Award-winning, James Beard Award-nominated writer and editor, and a lifelong New Yorker. She enjoys covering the intersections of food and immigration, business, history, policy, queerness, and just about every way we use food to say something about ourselves. She is the series editor for The Best American Food and Travel Writing. Her work has appeared in Eater, Slate, Gourmet, GQ, The New York Times, Defector, and more. You can email her at jaya@weareravenous.com.
For China Books Review, Zhang Er reflects on growing up in Beijing during the Cultural Revolution, and how she owes her love of reading to Auntie Zou, a librarian who stripped banned books of their covers and any pages marked with the library seal of the Workers’ Club, smuggled them home, and secretly loaned them to her. Even amid the chaos of that era, Er remembers this part of her childhood as magical, a time “where characters sprung from their pages and interwove with each other’s lives,” and she imagined worlds far beyond the one she lived in.
By the time I was 12 or 13, I could read fast enough to finish the weekly book loan in two days, so I had time to spare before returning it to Auntie Zou. By then I had made a good friend, Yu Ping, who loved reading too. Her home was three blocks from mine. I would bicycle to her place and deliver the book to her. Yu Ping would read day and night to finish the book and return it to me before the due date. We would keep the book wrapped in old newspapers, so that we could read in class without getting into trouble, while our teachers repeated the same quotations from Mao, week after week.
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