Translation of the Dutch text by Marjolein de Jong | Photo: David Meulenbeld | 16 December 2025
In a café in his native Amsterdam, where Christmas lights contrast with the gray morning light, Heerma van Voss (35) looks back on his first period at VU and talks about how being a writer is subject to change.
Since this academic year, you have been walking around campus as Writer in Residence. How are you fulfilling your role?
"In my lectures we really engage with literature: we read stories or novel fragments and we talk about how such a text is constructed and what effect a writer is aiming for. What strikes me is how dedicated the students are. When I say, "Read these two stories for next week," I feel like everyone does.
Next time, we will visit writers at home. Then one week we'll read a book by Adriaan van Dis and go to see him the following week - the same goes for Marijke Schermer and Maartje Wortel. For the students, I think that's really great. Suddenly you hear the writer himself, in his own home.'
You yourself studied Dutch at the University of Amsterdam. What were you like as a student?
'I was quite an outsider: quiet, by myself and rather busy with my own stories than studying. I found the course amusing, but in terms of content it didn't amount to much. It was all about linguistics, a sub-course that did not interest me. The biggest shortcoming of the course was how little we really read. There was hardly any room for fiction, while that was what I liked best.
In your novels you often stay close to your own life: the main character is a writer, or works at a literary magazine. Do you ever consider something completely different?
'For me, there is value in staying close to my own life. Write about what you know is a cliché, of course, but certain areas are best understood from the inside. At the same time, I do fantasize about other worlds. I was talking to a judge the other day who said, "You should sit in the back of the courtroom for a day, then you will hear so many bizarre stories." And I know a man who goes to faraway countries to build beaches with a dredger. Then I sometimes think: I'd love to go along, but so far in my writing I often return to what is most familiar to me.'
We are now in December. How does this year stick with you most?
'For me, this was mainly the year in which my bond with friends became stronger. At the launch of my book, I felt that very concretely: there were many people I love, and I felt really embedded. At the same time, I find it hard to dwell on what has succeeded. I am quick to move on to the next thing and always feel a certain rush. Others sometimes say I could dwell on that a little longer.'
Does this haste spring from a sense of necessity?
'It is rather restlessness. If I have nothing to do, I feel restless. This in no way means that I spend ten hours a day writing in utmost concentration, but in my head I am always working on a story or a piece. Then I link experiences to it. It's not that I walk the streets like a vulture, constantly looking for details for my books, but I think a few times a day: does this fit somewhere? Is this a nice phrasing?
If I'm in the middle of a novel, I might think during this conversation: this fits a character. A darning word, or a little tic. Now I don't even notice it, because I'm not currently working on fiction. But when I am, I think about the story I'm working on just before I fall asleep.'
How did the students make you think?
"While reading a story by Rob van Essen - in which a group of characters cut off the dirty hair of a homeless person - I was struck by how moral many students were reading. They mostly said: this should not be, what a pernicious person.
I see this more and more often: even on websites like Goodreads and Hebban moral judgments are made about characters. I honestly miss protagonists in Dutch literature who are very unsympathetic and with whom you still sympathize. I have the idea that this is getting further and further away. A classic example, of course, is the novel Lolita. You're inside the head of a perverted brain, and yet it's a great book because of how it's written. It's in the language: full of camouflage, with lots of lyrical excesses. I wonder if such a novel would still make the same impression now, or whether people would still be more likely to say: this is not allowed.'
In your novel Condities, you incorporated your own experiences with Crohn's disease. Why?
'When I was dealing with a permanent illness myself, I missed stories that connected to it. When movies or books deal with illness, they are often the most intense versions, with a clear build-up: struggle, up or down, all or nothing. Instead, I wanted to read stories about invisible patients who are not headed for a dramatic end, but also cannot fully participate in what society asks of them.
Moreover, writing gave me back a certain sense of direction. The "suffering" felt so useless, and that endless drudgery in hospital waiting rooms at least got a purpose when I thought up a story around it. I felt strongly that I wanted to make something of it myself, to think for myself: now it is going to be this story, here I have something to say about it.'
In your latest book, De Prullenmand heeft veel plezier aan mij, you go back to writers who did a self-portrait for the literary magazine De Revisor in 1977. What was it like meeting this generation?
"Fascinating. I was allowed to visit everyone, and they just enjoyed talking about it. Some writers were even surprised that they are still considered part of Dutch literature. With a few I noticed how long it had been since anyone had taken an interest in them; they had sort of slipped into silence.
What struck me was that hardly anyone was being difficult. No one even wanted to edit my piece afterwards: something a younger generation would probably do. I thought that argued for them.
In your novel Het Archief, marketing and the pressure to be visible actually plays a striking role. How do you yourself view the visibility expected of writers these days?
'Being visible is not my favourite part of being a writer, but I do see that it is necessary. At a time when attention is so fragmented, I think as a writer you have to have some presence, including online. Not daily, but enough so that people know something of yours appears.
I have one friend who writes books and hates social media. He publishes wonderful books, but almost nothing happens with them. That's not entirely due to his online absence, but I think it illustrates how decisive visibility has become. With the older writers I visited for my book, I saw just the opposite: they were totally unconcerned with their image.'
In the book De Prullenmand heeft veel plezier aan mij, you also visit poet Jan Kal, who lives in a house that is barely habitable. How do you approach such a visit without shortchanging anyone?
'It was intense to step into his house. There were things everywhere, piles of books, and it was incredibly dirty. I had to breathe through my mouth. But at a time like that I try to look at what I can use. That makes it more bearable for me: then I think: at least it makes sense for the piece.
Yesterday someone asked if I feel very committed to the writers and have the feeling that I have to take care of them. I actually don't, except with Jan Kal, who came across as most needy. I need to message him again. After that visit, it feels as though a trace of responsibility has remained, however small.'
