Stefano Maroni is an Italian-American writer and cultural thinker. He is best known for his honest and poetic take on American life.
His work appears in major outlets like The Atlantic, Harpers, and The New Yorker. His writing speaks to those searching for meaning in today’s fast-paced world.
Born in New Jersey to Italian immigrants, Stefano grew up between two cultures. He studied English and Philosophy in New York City. There, he started as a freelance journalist. Over time, he became a trusted voice in media and literature.
His latest book, The Distance Between Us, gained strong reviews. Critics praised it as a powerful look at identity and the American dream. Stefano writes often about masculinity, loneliness, immigration, and belonging. His work blends memoir, fiction, and social commentary. It’s deep but easy to read. He brings a rare voice to the table.
Today, Stefano lives in a quiet adobe home near Taos, New Mexico. He writes full-time and hikes the nearby mountain trails. Though he enjoys solitude, he still travels to New York for book events and literary salons. He shares essays and cultural thoughts on his growing Substack.
Stefano is a leader in his field. He doesn’t chase trends. Instead, he listens, reflects, and writes with care. His voice is calm, clear, and needed in our noisy world. As media changes fast, Stefano Maroni stands out by staying true to what matters: good stories, deep thought, and real connection.
Between Silence and Story: An Interview with Stefano Maroni
In this wide-ranging conversation, we sit down with Stefano Maroni — acclaimed author, essayist, and cultural commentator — to talk about the shape of his career, the shifts in modern publishing, and what it means to write with clarity in an age of noise. Speaking from his adobe home near Taos, New Mexico, Maroni reflects on the roads he’s travelled — from gritty New Jersey suburbs to literary salons in Manhattan — and how solitude fuels his creative process.
Q: Stefano, let’s start at the beginning. What first drew you to writing?
I grew up in a working-class neighbourhood in New Jersey. My parents were Italian immigrants — hard workers, very rooted in tradition. But books were always around. My mother read poetry aloud in the evenings, mostly in Italian. My father read newspapers front to back. I think I was drawn to the space writing gave me — a place to think more slowly, more carefully. By the time I moved to New York for university, I knew I wanted to write, though I didn’t yet know what that meant professionally.
Q: You studied English and Philosophy. How did that influence your early career?
It helped me ask better questions. I didn’t leave uni with a clear career path. I started freelancing — essays, book reviews, cultural commentary. I’d write about immigration, identity, class. At first, it was for smaller journals. Eventually The Atlantic picked something up. Then Harpers. I wasn’t trying to build a brand — I just followed what interested me and what I felt needed saying.
Q: What were the early days of your writing career like in New York?
Chaotic, in a good way. Rent was high. Deadlines were tighter. I worked out of cafés in the West Village and shared a flat with two other writers. But the energy of the city was fuel. There were always readings, debates, protests. I kept notebooks on the subway. I learned to write fast, but not sloppy. Editors in New York are demanding, which was good for me.
Q: Your most recent book, The Distance Between Us, has been widely praised. How did it come about?
That book came out of a quiet season. I had just finalised my divorce and moved to northern New Mexico. I wanted to be somewhere where silence wasn’t a luxury. The book isn’t strictly memoir, but it draws from personal moments — watching relationships fall apart, trying to belong in places that didn’t fit, observing how small towns carry big stories. It’s about distance — literal and emotional.
Q: How has your shift to rural life affected your work and writing process?
It’s changed everything. I live in an adobe house up near Taos. I wake early, hike the trails, and write in the afternoons. There’s no buzz, no constant alerts. Solitude helps me see more clearly. I think better in stillness. That’s hard to come by in the city. But I still return to New York — there’s a different kind of inspiration there.
Q: What topics continue to draw you in?
Masculinity, for one — especially how it’s evolving or fracturing. Also, loneliness. Not the kind people pity, but the quiet kind many live with and don’t name. I’m also interested in cultural migration — how people carry identity across borders, and what they lose or find in the process. These aren’t trends. These are conditions. They don’t expire.
Q: You now publish essays regularly through your Substack. Why that platform?
It allows for a direct connection with readers. No gatekeepers, no glossy headlines designed to perform well on social media. Just words and thoughts. I write about small-town life, culture, literature, sometimes just reflections from a walk in the mountains. It’s informal, but still careful. People write back — full paragraphs. That feels rare today.
Q: The publishing industry has changed rapidly in the last decade. How have you adapted?
By not chasing it. I’m not on TikTok. I don’t post every thought. But I’m not against change. I’ve embraced digital formats where they make sense. What I haven’t done is bend my voice to fit the algorithm. I think people can sense that. They want something slower, more grounded.
Q: Do you see yourself as a leader in your field?
That’s not for me to say. But I do take responsibility for the tone I set. I don’t want to add more noise. I want to write things that linger. If I’m leading, I hope it’s by showing that you don’t need to shout to be heard — you just need to say something worth listening to.
