Michael Idov is a novelist, director, and screenwriter. A Latvian-born American raised in Riga under Soviet occupation, he moved to New York after graduating from the University of Michigan. Michael’s writing career began at New York Magazine, where his features won three National Magazine Awards. His first book, 2009’s satirical novel Ground Up, sold over 100,000 copies worldwide and was optioned for a series by HBO. From 2012 to 2014, he was the editor-in-chief of GQ Russia, an experience that became the basis for his 2018 memoir Dressed Up for a Riot.
In addition to spy novels The Collaborators (2024) and Cormorant Hunt (2026), Michael has worked on numerous film and TV projects, including Londongrad, Deutschland 83, Cannes Main Competition title Leto, and his own 2019 directing debut The Humorist. He and his wife and screenwriting partner, Lily, divide their time between Los Angeles, Berlin, and Portugal. @michaelidov
Can you describe how growing up in Latvia influenced the themes you are drawn to? I was born in Latvia under Soviet occupation. In fact, I was part of that occupation without realizing it at the time (my grandparents, both school teachers, had moved there from Belarus and Ukraine after WWII). The country gained independence, the U.S.S.R. fell apart, and my family moved to the U.S. all before I could finish high school. It won't be an exaggeration to say that this sequence of events has predetermined my entire worldview, and consequently all of my writing. (Once you've seen one empire crumble, you've seen them all, and learn to recognize the signs). It also made me a devout internationalist with a lifelong allergy to every kind of Blut und Boden, a view that inevitably nudged me toward spy fiction.
What kind of reader were you as a child? What books made you fall in love with reading as a child? My native language is Russian, so my first exposure to literature was via Soviet lit-kid canon (which included many lovely translations of Western authors — Lewis Carroll, A. A. Milne, Astrud Lindgren et al.). The first "serious" novel I remember reading was Bulgakov's The Master & Margarita, picked up far too early at eleven or so. My teen reading list was your classic angsty-poser starter pack (Camus, A Clockwork Orange, etc) leavened with some interesting Russians (Vasily Aksyonov was a particular hero) and science fiction.
When you're writing at your most productive, what does a typical day look like? I wish I had a "typical" writing day I could describe without sounding like a chaotic slob. Usually, I either start writing the first thing in the morning or not at all. The rest depends on how many distractions or deadlines the world throws my way. That said, I outline my work pretty thoroughly: years as a screenwriter and a journalist have drilled some structural discipline into me. Plus, any good spy novel has to be diagrammed to hell and back before the first word is written. I like to "discover the story" within individual scenes, I like playing with dialogue to find a character's spoken voice, but that's as far as it goes.
Tell us about the creative process behind your most well-known work or your current writing project. The Collaborators started with the main character, Ari Falk, and with identifying my own wants as a reader. I remember watching some iteration of Jack Ryan when something struck me here’s an iconic character who’s been played by some of the most iconic actors in Hollywood, and I don’t know what his favorite band or movie is. And I thought of this as a challenge. I wanted to create a spy character in his thirties, with relatable millennial interests, perspectives, and a healthy skepticism about what his organization does. I also wanted the book to be exciting but authentic in its settings. Since I myself am not a spy, this meant tapping into my own peripatetic life: my time in Latvia, Portugal, Berlin, Moscow, New York, Thailand. As a result, my first "genre" novel ended up being my most autobiographical.
Do you keep a journal or notebook? If so, what’s in it? The only time in my life I kept a journal was 2012-2014, my surreal years as the editor in chief of GQ Russia. I knew that what was happening to me was absurd and would probably make a good book, so I ended each day by jotting down contemporaneous notes like a diplomat (or spy). I hated that process, to be honest. But the resulting memoir, 2018's Dressed Up for a Riot, wouldn't happen without it. When I look at that diary now, I don't remember half of the things I describe there. It's amazing how much we forget unless write it down.
Are there any authors you’d dream of having as a dinner guest? Nabokov, obviously, though I have a strong suspicion I would leave that dinner utterly humiliated. I'm very sad I will never have a chance to meet John le Carré. Out of the living, Colson Whitehead.
Do you draw inspiration from music, art, or other disciplines? Music frankly means more to me than literature; I'm only a writer because I can't sing. So, nearly every page I write has some kind of music behind it — be it a song I obsessively listened to while writing it, or something the characters would listen to (I always have to know my characters' music taste, even when it doesn't come up in the text).
AI and technology is changing the ways we write and receive stories. How is your own writing practice affected—or challenged—by new technologies? What role should ethics and imagination play in how we adopt creative tech like AI? I am an anti-generative-AI absolutist. Burn it with fire. A plagiarism machine optimized to endlessly refract mediocrity, designed by vengeful little freaks who once lost a crush to a kid who played guitar and now think creativity is the enemy of progress.
Tell us about some books you've recently enjoyed and your favorite books and writers of all time. My all-time favorites are Vladimir Nabokov, John le Carré, and Steven Millhauser. The most important author I discovered most recently is, without a doubt, Percival Everett.
In your view, what do the arts and the creative process offer us as individuals and as a society? I am definitely one of those fools who think that individual creative expression — and not, say, colonizing outer planets or merging into one megabrain — is the point of our existence. This doesn't mean that all art is of equal merit, or that most of it should even be seen by anyone, but the act of engaging in it is worthy in itself, a moment when we function at our highest level. That someone would voluntarily cede this privilege to machines is wild.
