Martin Amis used to point out that he and his father Kingsley Amis were a rare thing—father and son both novelists—calling it a “literary curiosity” and a historical oddity. But they weren’t the only ones: Alexandre Dumas père and fils, Fanny and Anthony Trollope, and Arthur and Evelyn Waugh had all done it before them.
And if Amis’s claim wasn’t true back then, it’s even less true now. In recent years, more and more children of novelists have become writers themselves, and this year brings an especially strong group. Kazuo Ishiguro’s daughter, Naomi, is releasing the first book in her new fantasy series this month. Margaret Atwood’s daughter, Jess Gibson, published her first work of fiction this spring. And earlier this year, Patrick Charnley—son of poet and novelist Helen Dunmore—came out with his debut novel to wide praise.
What’s driving this trend? Does having a novelist as a parent make it more likely that a child will be inspired to follow the same path? Or is it simply easier for writers’ children to get published? I talked to some novelists who have kept it in the family to find out.
“I met Martin Amis briefly and tried to talk to him about it,” says Nick Harkaway, son of John le Carré. “I must have annoyed him, because he was going around insisting that he and Kingsley were unique, and then I came along and said, ‘Oh, I’m one too.'” Harkaway has published eight novels and recently started expanding on his father’s work, writing new novels that follow established le Carré characters.
Did he realize as a child that his father didn’t have a regular job? “I’m 53 now,” he says, “and it’s only just hit me that my childhood was pretty unusual. We could be driving through Greece or America on holiday, and if you stopped at a gas station, there was a le Carré novel. He was everywhere.” Home life could also be strange for a writer of his fame. Once, Harkaway recalls, “the house went quiet because Isaiah Berlin had dropped by.”
Still, as Harkaway suggests, growing up in a writer’s home didn’t feel strange at the time—it was all he knew. Deborah Moggach, whose novels include Tulip Fever and These Foolish Things (made into the film The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel), had two parents who were both authors. “I think if they’d been butchers, I’d have been a butcher,” she says. What the experience taught her was “how mysterious yet ordinary writing is, because I thought everyone’s parents must be writers.”
And Deborah’s daughter, Lottie, has also become a novelist—her fourth book, Mrs Pearcey, came out in February. But her mother’s writing didn’t fill the home; instead, Lottie says, it was kept hidden. “Mum’s writing time was very fixed and sacred.” Deborah agrees that her writing wasn’t part of family life. “I felt like I was neglecting my children because I was just a shell—my inner life was with my characters in my books.”
Le Carré also didn’t share his work with his children, says Harkaway, though he did “read last night’s manuscript” to his wife, Valerie Eustace—who helped him with his books—in bed in the mornings. “He wrote in a very isolated way. There was a rule that I couldn’t go into his office.”
Still, even when a writing parent isn’t visible at work, their presence shapes the child’s own expectations—whether or not the parent seems to enjoy it. For Amanda Craig, author of 11 novels including her latest, High and Low, writing is “absolute torture, and I’m always in a very bad mood unless I’ve had an extremely good day.”
That didn’t stop her daughter, Leon Craig, from becoming a writer. She published a story collection, Parallel Hells, and a no…Vel, The Decadence. “Mum always said: ‘Don’t ask me how it’s going, I’ll be happy when it’s done.’ That might not make it sound very appealing, but it’s really a way of life.” Harkaway agrees. His father had “a stormy relationship with his own creativity,” but “it’s more about showing what’s possible than endorsing the job.” He didn’t give an opinion on whether his son should become a writer: “What he did was show that it was possible to finish a book and get paid for it.” There’s another convincing factor: for Deborah Moggach, “keeping my door closed for three hours every morning” meant that “it seemed easy. That was the problem for Lottie: she thought being a writer would be easy.”
One writer who doesn’t have a stormy relationship with his creativity is Frank Cottrell-Boyce, who has written for film, TV, and many children’s books. When his kids were young, “It felt like Avalon. I couldn’t believe I was making a living as a writer. I’ve always thought this was a bit of a joke.” His son, Aidan Cottrell-Boyce, published his first novel, The End of Nightwork, in 2023. “I think you have a bit of a low tolerance for people who make a big deal out of creative tasks,” he tells his father. “It’s not just a bit,” Frank laughs. “But I think some of that has rubbed off on me,” Aidan adds.
Showbiz is full of nepo babies, but that’s different. What is writing if not an individual talent and vision?
—Amanda Craig
But for Aidan, like all the writers’ children I spoke to, it didn’t feel like a choice anyway: it’s harder not to write than to write. “I write every day,” Aidan says. Leon Craig agrees. She wrote “terrible poetry” as a teenager (“Terrible!” Amanda agrees), then as an undergraduate felt discouraged from writing because of “all the greats of the western canon.” But then “I was scolded by a friend’s mother, who said: ‘Why aren’t you writing anymore? I thought you wanted to be a writer.’ I was really annoyed with her for six months, and then I realized she was completely right.” Amanda adds: “You kind of have no choice. The only thing worse than writing is not writing.”
Once a writer’s child decides to—or can’t help but—do it themselves, do they share this with their parent? “I was very secretive about it,” Leon says. And “my mother hasn’t been allowed to read any of my writing until it’s in print, because we’re both very opinionated, and when it’s the person who taught you to read, those opinions carry a different weight.” “She was totally against being helped,” Amanda adds. “I was such a helicopter parent, you could practically hear my blades whirring. But she pushes me away with great determination.”
Even more secretive was Aidan Cottrell-Boyce—he didn’t tell his father he was writing at all. Frank explains: “What happened was [the actor] Shaun Evans came over to the house with a copy of Granta, saying: ‘I just read Aidan’s story, it’s brilliant.’ I was like: ‘What are you talking about?'” “There was something appealing in my mind,” says Aidan, “about the joke of [not telling him and then] going: ‘Look what I’ve been doing.’ But it’s a joke that only works once.”
It’s understandable for a writer’s child to want to create some distance, to make their own mark. It can be a sensitive topic. Some debut writers declined to speak to me for this piece, worried about being seen mainly as the sidekick of an established parent. One second-generation writer, wSeveral novelists I spoke to admitted that even for them, it was a very difficult topic. That might explain why every writer I talked to was determined to get published without help—or at least, without obvious help. Charnley, who worried people would recognize his name after he accepted the posthumous Costa prize on behalf of Dunmore, even submitted his first novel, This, My Second Life, under a false name. His first offers came from foreign publishers who didn’t know his mother, which “gave me a confidence boost.”
[Image: Lorna and Kazuo Ishiguro with their daughter Naomi. Photograph: Avalon.red]
Still, it’s impossible to stay completely anonymous. “My agent was my mum’s agent,” says Charnley, and “the UK publisher who bought the book did know it was me. So I had an advantage there.” For Harkaway, even though both he and his father publish under pseudonyms, “I couldn’t keep it a secret because half the publishers in London had literally changed my nappies.” Harkaway—whose real name is Nicholas Cornwell—used his pen name when submitting his first novel to an agent, Patrick Walsh. But another agent who knew who he was “called Patrick and said: ‘I’m not going to tell you why you need to read this, but you need to read it.'”
Does this approach work from a publisher’s perspective? Francis Bickmore, a publisher at Canongate, admits that having a famous writer as a parent might help get a manuscript read. “I’d be more likely to read it, but a harsher judge.” In other words, the connection would “make me more sceptical about how you establish a distance between that author and their famous forebear.”
Even when parents aren’t trying to help, having a literary family comes with built-in advantages. As Frank Cottrell-Boyce puts it: “If somebody in your family loves doing something, you’re going to pick it up. You’re going to have to find your voice, and your way of doing it, but you do know it’s there.”
“It makes it seem possible,” agrees Lottie Moggach. “Whereas for many people who want to write, it seems like a completely closed shop.” Deborah agrees. “I think that’s something you and I took for granted. When I teach and meet people who aren’t in a literary world, I realise how staggeringly difficult it is for them. You and I started with an advantage. Because my father was a writer, he knew the literary editor of the Daily Telegraph, and I reviewed a book for them, and saw my name in print. That makes a huge difference, not only for one’s career but for one’s confidence.” When it came to submitting her first novel, Kiss Me First (which Deborah suggested the title for), Lottie adds: “I was fully aware my name would be helpful in getting it read.” But she was satisfied that “the book was so different from Mum’s it would stand on its own.”
[Image: Jess Atwood Gibson with Margaret Atwood. Photograph: Diane Bondareff/Polaris/eyevine]
This point about difference may be important. Bickmore notes that in some commercial genres—like Dick Francis’s racing thrillers—a child can “take over the brand” of their parent’s books, “but that’s not really in the arena of literary writing,” where “you don’t want your style to be reminiscent of your parent’s style.”
One reason writers are hesitant to openly rely on their parents is, as Amanda Craig puts it, “People assume that it’s nepotism that got your child published at all. Showbiz is full of nepo babies, but that’s a different thing. What is writing if not an individual talent and vision of how the world is?” Leon adds, “I’m still sending out lots of short stories on submission and getting knocked back. None of these people care who my mother is, they just care about wh”Whether they want to put the story in their magazine.” Once it’s published, connections are bound to come out—either from a publisher looking for publicity or the media eager to tell the writer’s backstory. For Charnley, that wasn’t a problem. “I’m proud of the connection. When I saw the Telegraph’s review headline for my book—something like ‘Helen Dunmore’s magic lives on’—I was thrilled. I see it as a huge compliment. It also made me feel like I haven’t let her down.”
“For the first two or three books,” Harkaway says, “every article had to mention Dad.” Was that annoying? “It always bothered me a bit. But it’s part of the price you pay for being here, and the benefits are so great that you can’t really argue.” Besides, he adds, “As you get older, you care less. As your body of work grows, you can just point to it.”
This is a key point. Having a famous writer parent might open the first door—Martin Amis admitted that any publisher would have taken his first book out of pure curiosity—but it can’t sustain a career unless the books are good. Bickmore agrees. “I still hope there’s a meritocracy where the best books succeed. You want judgments to be based on the quality of the work, not other factors.” He does note, though, that a famous literary parent might offer some marketing appeal and media attention, like “brand recognition. If they have an excellent book, they’re in a good position.”
“I thought I would inherit my mother’s work ethic. I didn’t. I’m more distracted and more anxious.” — Lottie Moggach
Why do there seem to be more second-generation novelists today? “Maybe there’s a sense now that anyone can be a writer,” Bickmore suggests. The publishing world, he argues, “has opened up a bit—not radically, but a bit—and maybe more people feel they can do it.”
But could there be more to it? Is literary talent inherited? “I don’t really believe in talent,” says Frank Cottrell-Boyce—before quickly passing the question to Aidan, who hesitantly agrees. “I don’t believe in any mystical thing inside you. More than anything else, it’s that you read to us throughout our childhood, and we were always surrounded by books and storytelling.” Harkaway shares a similar view. “If you’re in a household where stories are the currency, it’s an environment that helps you learn those tricks.”
View image in fullscreen: Martin Amis (left) with his father, Kingsley Amis, and Elizabeth Jane Howard. Photograph: Dmitri Kasterine/Camera Press
On inheritance, Lottie Moggach offers one sobering thought. “I thought I would inherit my mother’s work ethic. I didn’t. I’m more distracted and more anxious.” Deborah responds: “I try to encourage her by telling her how wonderful she is, but I’m her mother! Mothers say that about their children.” “I appreciate it!” Lottie adds.
Deborah points out that “Kingsley [Amis] was jealous of Martin’s books.” (In 1979, he wrote to his friend Philip Larkin about his son: “Did I tell you Martin is spending a year abroad as a TAX EXILE? … Little shit. He’s 29.”) Deborah concludes: “That’s the last thing you should be, because a parent should want their children to do better than them.”
But Charnley’s view probably sums up the only thing we can say for sure about the cross-generational writing experience. “I don’t know if it’s genetic, or just watching the process and seeing that it’s something that can be done,” he says. “All I know is that my mother was a writer, and now I’m a writer.”
Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs about the rise of literary nepo babies based on the topic of famous novelists children following in their parents footsteps
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What exactly is a literary nepo baby
A literary nepo baby is a writerusually a novelist or poetwho has a parent who is a famous or wellestablished author The term suggests they may have an easier path to getting published or noticed because of their family connections
2 Why is this becoming a hot topic now
Its part of a larger cultural conversation about privilege and opportunity People are noticing that many highprofile debut novels are written by the children of famous authors making the publishing world seem less meritbased and more like a family business
3 Is it bad to be a literary nepo baby
Not inherently Many of these writers are talented and work hard The criticism isnt about their skill but about the unfair advantage they haveaccess to agents blurbs from famous friends and automatic media attention that unknown writers dont get
4 Can you give me a few wellknown examples
Lena Dunham
Emma Cline
Megan Hunter
More recently the children of Stephen King Margaret Atwood and Zadie Smith have been discussed
IntermediateLevel Questions
5 How does the nepo baby advantage actually work in publishing
It works in three key ways
Access They can get an agent or editor through a family friend skipping the slush pile
Blurbs A famous parent can ask their famous friends for a book blurb which is gold for marketing
Publicity Media outlets are more likely to review or feature a book by a known surname
6 Do these writers ever talk about their privilege
Yes many do Some are very open about it acknowledging the silver spoon
