I haven't tackled a novel on this subject, but I did write a number of short stories, beginning soon after the attacks, that in some way reflected the event. At the time I was an MFA student, and some of the reactions my classmates offered--basically, that it was "too soon" to be writing about this--really irked me. It didn't help when the instructor chose to stay silent, either.
So you can imagine how this section of Glass's essay resonated for me:
Lurking behind the notion that novelists have jumped the gun is the illusion that the dust of 9/11 will settle anytime soon; that we will, at some point in the near future, stand at a lofty peak looking down at that day as if it were a museum diorama. That's a genre called historical fiction, which no author writing today will be able to render about this event. Historical fiction is narrative set in a time predating the author's own memory, beyond the reach of conscious, personal experience. To reflect on our own times is something else entirely, and of equal value. When we write about a shared catastrophe whose pain is still raw the effect is sometimes that much more powerful. Was Going After Cacciato written too soon after the Vietnam War? The Normal Heart too soon after the beginning of the AIDS epidemic? All Quiet on the Western Front a premature creation? What of Mrs. Miniver, William Wyler's 1942 film about World War II? How about Suite Francaise?
Storytellers who dramatize their own era embrace its most resounding moments, moments when the spiritual compass by which we live (and write) has spun out of alignment. Realigning that compass, searching for a new magnetic north, is some of the best work fiction writers do. We seize something that everyone around us has taken for granted and, whether tenderly or violently, ironically or tragically, we upend it, dissect or shatter it. We write not about you or them or then. We write about us; we write about now. Reader, we say, the view has changed; let me show you how.