I participated in the American Writers Conference in Texas just before the world entered lockdown due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Amidst panels and networking, I spent my time exploring the book fair, scanning titles, and bombarding publishers with inquiries.

“How many translated works do you showcase in your catalogs? How do you discover authors beyond the US? And how do you evaluate writing quality in languages you don’t know?”

My curiosity wasn’t just casual – I had a purpose. I aimed to understand what types of work American publishers favored and whether my writing could gain their interest. I didn’t mask my ambition.

One response lingered in my mind, hauntingly persistent. It came from a representative of one of the largest publishing houses in the United States. After I shared my background, mentioning phrases such as “the northern republic of the former Yugoslavia” and “not currently a war zone,” he imparted this advice:

“Consider stories and themes that are unique to your culture and the history of that place.”

“So,” I probed, “it’s not about, say, a woman who leaves a finance career, divorces her husband, and becomes a potter?”

“Well, if that story also tackles your cultural or historical issues, then yes.”

A wave of displeasure washed over me, but I thanked him courteously and walked away. Coffee and a cigarette suddenly became necessities.

In the subsequent years, I came to understand why his words had irked me so deeply. They revealed a recurring trend – one that continues to frustrate me.

For authors hailing from the Balkans, alongside those from other European nations and areas with cultures unfamiliar to North American readers, the journey to translation and publication by American or British houses often hinges on an unspoken requirement: our work must reflect the political or cultural landscape of our region, or at the very least, reference significant historical events. To find success, it must offer explanatory or illustrative value – preferably with a hint of didacticism.

“American readers should learn something about that place,” the publisher remarked.

At first glance, this expectation appears innocuous, even logical. After all, writers worldwide, including those from the Balkans, reflect upon their political and cultural contexts. Historically, literature serves as a mirror for societal reflection, analysis, and critique.

Yet, the underlying implication of this expectation is rather disturbing. It rests on the unspoken assumption that the Balkans are a lesser region – perpetually teetering on the edge of despair. As the publisher candidly stated: “It would be intriguing if the work delved into something culturally or historically contentious – or better yet, traumatic.”

By “traumatic,” did he refer to the horrors of World War II or the conflicts in the former Yugoslavia? Did he envision a region marred by poverty, inequality, and patriarchal norms? Perhaps he assumed that Balkan societies are uniquely vulnerable to violence or sorrow. Maybe he desired narratives of post-socialist disillusionment, reinforcing the notion that we are still grappling with the “trauma” of Yugoslav socialism.

For a Balkan author’s work to succeed, their protagonist must be a victim – a clear and definite one. Publishers favor stories that evoke compassion, moral outrage, heartbreak – or ideally, all of the above. In essence, we, Balkan writers, are expected to tackle universal themes, such as grief, alienation, love, and loss, through a narrow regional lens. This lens must also contain a sprinkle of the exotic.

I can’t be sure, but I know one thing: he wouldn’t be interested in a Balkan rendition of “My Year of Rest and Relaxation.” A novel featuring a Balkan protagonist simply fatigued by capitalism, egocentric, infuriated, or morally ambiguous wouldn’t meet his standards.

Regrettably for him, he would likely overlook the hybrid novel by Slovenian author Nataša Kramberger, who took over a farm in Styria after returning from Berlin. I suspect he wouldn’t appreciate the short stories by Croatian writer Luiza Bouharaoua, portraying the struggles and joys of millennials – though tinted by the colors of the Adriatic. Nor would he be intrigued by the poetry of Macedonian poet Kalija Dimitrova, who often mentions Capri and Berlin, but seldom Skopje.

To achieve success, a Balkan author’s protagonist must be a victim – a clear and unequivocal one. Publishers tend to favor tales that stir compassion, ethical indignation, and heartache – or, in an ideal scenario, all three.

In summary, we, writers from the Balkans, are often expected to address universal themes, such as sadness, alienation, love, and loss, through a limited regional perspective. This perspective must also encapsulate an element of exoticism.

Let’s clarify: The Balkans represent a distinct region with intricate cultural, political, and historical nuances. Authors from this area have profound insights on these matters, and many articulate them wonderfully. However, if English translations genuinely aim to broaden understanding about “that Balkan place,” publishers must be receptive to narratives that challenge existing perceptions.

The concern is not whether Balkan writers should reflect their context—they frequently do, quite naturally. The pressing question is whether publishers will be ready to embrace the diverse voices emerging from the region or if they will persist in favoring narratives that conveniently align with their expectations.

For the Balkans are not solely trauma, tragedy, or stories crafted to educate. There are also exquisitely written narratives about women who once toiled in finance, left their husbands, and embarked on pottery ventures. Some North American and British publishers have already welcomed such stories, evident in the International Booker Prize awarded to Georgi Gospodinov. In this way, they have fulfilled the mission of showcasing voices from across the globe, not merely as ambassadors of their geography, but as storytellers with full creative freedom. However, many have yet to do so.

The author is a Slovenian writer, editor, and critic

The text is sourced from “The Guardian”

Translation: NB

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