We’ll start easy—can you tell me a bit about your journey as a writer? Where does your love of writing come from? Who inspires you?

I think I’m just born that way. That's probably the upside of my neurodiversity! I’ve always been drawn to story and language: I started talking when I was nine months old, taught myself to read in kindergarten and wrote my first novel in fifth grade. Like many other writers, I put pen to paper before I could ride a bike or tie my own shoes. There is one huge difference though: I never shared my writings. Somehow, I never thought I was allowed to. That came only when I was 27 and had just met my life partner. He’s an artist himself, and after the third date or so he asked me to send him something I had written. I had a steamy short story at hand, so I sent that — honestly, just to get him horny. But his answer really floored me. Because what he wrote back was: It makes me sad that you don’t share your words with the world, as it is your artistic duty to enrich it. I mean . . . that was something! It changed my whole perspective. Back then I was writing exclusively in German and I started sending out stuff to some magazines. I got a few short stories into magazines, won a small prize . . . then I wrote a quirky adventure novel, got signed by an agent, and published two books. But I was really unhappy. I hated the genre my agent had suggested as a “great fit” for my writing style and tonality and which I agreed to (it was chick-lit), hated what I felt was the cynicism of the publishing world, and hated myself for not writing what I truly wanted. So after a long time of not writing anything at all, I left the agency, quit my day job, and turned to English and to poetry. 

As to who inspires me, that’s really not an easy question at all! Because that changes all the time, depending on what point I’m at in my life and who might help me move on to the next, to grow. I’m sometimes embarrassed that I can’t pull out a list of writers and/or other people who inspire me. It would always be incomplete; bereft of those who came before, but who were needed to get to those who are on it now, but, maybe, wouldn’t be there anymore as soon as tomorrow.

Generally I feel inspired by people who do their own thing, no matter what—probably because that’s so fucking hard to do—or by those who have an inherent urge to explore themselves, the world, the universe. Also, anyone who writes a line that has me close the book, because it would feel sacrilegious to immediately read on.

You ended up writing two books in a genre you didn’t even like . . . and you’ve told me that, while they were published, that experience ended up being something that stalled your writing for a number of years. What were the pressures behind the writing of those two books? Why did that have such an impact on you creatively?

The pressure was mostly self-made. It’s not like anyone forced me. My contract was for two novels, yes, but I could have gotten out of it, when, after the first one, I realized that it wasn’t making me happy. But I felt I had gotten so lucky, you know? Finding an agent on the first try. Getting a contract with an excellent publisher, also on the first try. Getting immediately asked for not one, but two novels. How could I just walk away from that? Quite easily, actually, but at the time it seemed impossible. Ungrateful. So I pushed on, even though there was no joy in it.

I think that the impact of that experience was so big for two reasons. First: realizing that being a published author changes nothing was devastating. Well, at least it doesn’t change much when your book is not written from the heart. But I still expected it to. I thought I would feel different. Proud. Validated. As if I finally had arrived somewhere. But I was just as much in transit as before. So that was a huge disappointment, being aggravated by the sheer absurdity of genre fiction writing rules: for example, at one point I was asked to change my love interest’s hair color. For once, I actually stuck to my choice, because he was a redhead and needed to remain a redhead, but some readers did indeed critique that choice later. So it’s not like my editor didn’t know what she was doing. Not at all! But it was so depressing. So . . . small. 

Which leads me to the second reason: I didn’t think myself capable of even trying to write “big” instead. “Big” meaning: creative, innovative, striking, artful, meaningful, true to myself. I was afraid of moving outside of the safe — if suffocating — space I had accidentally created for my writing, outside of what was more or less a persona, not a person. A persona that didn’t really need to challenge herself creatively to accomplish what was asked of her. So I felt lost, and scared. And instead of confronting my emotions, I ran away from them. But of course it was ridiculous to think I might actually be done with writing. Of course I wasn’t. I probably never will be.

The pressure to “succeed” as a writer can be intense — do you think there is ever a time where a writer should write something they don’t love, but know will likely be published? When is it worth it, or when is it not?

A lot really depends on how one defines success as a writer. Once, very much in accordance with much of the rest of the world, I would have defined success as: making a living, getting recognition, praise. But because of my personal history as a writer, today I define it very differently: I’m successful if I resist compromise. Compromise for sellability. Compromise for applause. For admiration. For money. 

Now, that doesn’t mean I’m never gonna write anything just to make ends meet. A close friend of mine put it this way: it’s not choosing between writing what you love and writing what will sell, but between writing to earn money or going to an office to earn money. So she’ll write something the market has demand for, but use a pseudonym, until she manages to get a contract to write something that’s truly important to her. And this, I feel, is a model that can work very well. Who knows? Had I been smart enough to choose a pseudonym back in my chick-lit days, the whole experience might not have affected me so much. I might even still be writing those novels!

But connecting my name to something I don’t believe in? Not anymore. It feels disingenuous. As I said: for such a long time I wasn’t me, but simply a persona. Given that for most of my life I’ve felt like I was masking my true self, that’s really not an option anymore. But I don’t judge anyone who compromises for their definition of success. Those are my personal beliefs after all, not general guidelines!

We’ve gone back and forth in our personal correspondence on the difference (or not!) between literary vs. “genre” writing. What is your take on that? What would you like to see change?

It’s sad, and counterproductive, that we tend to make this distinction, sometimes unabashedly, sometimes only behind closed doors. But either way I feel that one side, more often than not, seems to judge the other: Oh, that shitty place? I wouldn’t be caught dead over there — they never sell anything/they’re all hacks! What a depressing way to look at the world, at art, at expression, at creativity. Where is the curiosity? The will to explore? 

Personally, I’m very frustrated by the insistence to pick a side, to choose a niche and stick to it. Sometimes I get the feeling there’s this conviction that readers will shun any author who dares to switch between worlds, or between genres/forms of expression. I’ve witnessed a lot of pressure to become a unified brand, instead of being the multi-faceted human beings — and writers — most of us are. And maybe that’s even reasonable, who knows? The hair color thing was reasonable, after all. But it certainly isn’t very helpful. In my opinion, we are making it very hard for most readers to ever be curious, to discover stuff they didn’t know they might like. As in many other areas of life, everyone stays inside their bubble, not least of all because we’re, as writers, often a bit too timid to leave ours. But it can be so rewarding to leave for both sides. I get to see that a lot when I post poetry on social media, where just a handful of my followers are from the literary world. Many give me feedback that goes something like: Oh, so this is poetry? I thought it would be complicated and boring, but hey, it’s actually really fun to read! That’s so cool! And yes! It is! It is fucking wonderful! Fall in love with that poem! Buy that smut romance! Read a fast-paced thriller, next a meandering essay collection! Go! Explore! Leave the confines of what is catered to you!

If we would mix it up more, if we would move between the two spheres with fun and ease instead of ignoring or bad-mouthing each other, maybe people would read out of their comfort zone more often. They’d get the thrill of discovering something new, we’d get an audience that is excited to engage with our work. Win-win! 

You self-identify as a bit of an “outsider” — what does that mean in the literary space? What challenges, and opportunities, do you think come from that? 

There’s two aspects to that. First, my general experience as an outsider: I’m bisexual, poly, kinky, and neurodivergent — that’s a lot of living outside the box. And for a long time I tried to squeeze myself into the box anyways, to appear and behave as normal as possible. Because like anyone else I want to feel accepted, feel a sense of belonging. Only that never worked. It just made me depressed and lonely. It also rendered my writing quite shallow and superficial. 

Which brings me to the second part: being an outsider in the literary world. I’m not well-connected or integrated in the literary world, and I didn’t study art or creative writing or come with the experience of a long immersion in spheres of shared creativity. That is happening only now, as I’m taking meds to help me deal with some of the downsides of my neurodiversity (like a crippling social anxiety), and as I’ve sworn to try and embrace my differences. To be proud of them instead of ashamed. 

Still, I often fear my outsider status might be a disadvantage in the literary world: I cannot point at an impressive publication list or to years of experience in the writing community. I feel I can also not take the role of a promising newcomer, as I’m far too old for that and also have done too much, if not things that will necessarily broaden my artistic appeal. But actually, the opposite of what I fear might also be true: thanks to not being influenced by much that exists inside the literary world, I’m able to approach that space with a lot of flexibility, a huge capacity for being open-minded, and a somewhat unique perspective. I’m not set in my ways nor in the way of others. So, thanks to a lack of imitation and influence, I might be able to bring something fresh and interesting to the table, something not yet absorbed by something else, not already formed and categorized. In the end, it’s very often our differences that make us appealing and interesting, those things that separate us from each other. To be aware of that, and to be proud of it instead of anxious, is really important. 

Additionally, anything that separates me — or you — from any given standard is a treasure chest of topics, themes, and emotions to reflect upon in any creative work. Examining my outsider status makes me incredibly productive: what I tried to push away when I was younger now makes me want to write, write, write . . . and that is always good. A lot of output means a lot of opportunities and possibilities! 

You’re also in the process of applying to MFA programs. Why are you drawn to getting a MFA in creative writing? What are your hopes, and concerns, if you do end up attending a program? 

Until the end of last year, I’ve always shied away from fully embracing my identity as a writer. Now, I’m determined to let art come first. To fully focus on the one thing I love more than anything. Also, I’m turning forty in December. Half my life is probably over. If I don’t try now, I probably never will. And an MFA seems like the perfect choice to not only allow myself to be a writer, to learn, to be productive and to refine my skills, but also to satisfy my curiosity for all the creativity that’s out there: the ideas, works, thoughts and personalities of others. To engage in a fruitful exchange of worldviews and perspectives, experiences and attitudes. 

So the application has a symbolic value for me, additionally to the very practical one of trying to get the chance to grow as a writer and person in a context that is committed to art and creativity. And that’s how far I’m allowing myself to think about the future. I’m honestly trying not to reflect on detailed hopes or concerns, because what would that help me now? I’d rather concentrate on making my application as good as I possibly can, so that, no matter the result, I’ll feel at peace with myself, knowing I have given it my very best. I can still start dreaming — or worrying — later.

I love that you came to write poetry in English as an act of defiance. Can you explain what that means to you? How does poetry shape and influence your life? 

When I turned to poetry, and at the same time to English, it was in no small part because I felt I needed something that would help me shed this writing persona I had accidentally created. And you can hardly get further away from German chick-lit than English poetry! But it soon became about more than just defying my past choices. It felt — feels — like I’m defying myself as well: my fear that I’ll never be a good enough writer to create something of value, my need to to normalize myself, to be as small as possible so that I fit in, and my tendency to only scratch the surface of what’s creatively possible because going deep fucking hurts. Poetry helps me dig. To not be satisfied with the easy way. Although, sometimes, I forget all of this: a few days ago I started crying, because I was judging myself for being lazy with only ever writing poetry. At that moment I felt that I wasn’t accomplishing anything of worth, because I’m having so much fun doing it. Isn’t that terrible? How we’re so very often infused by this idea of work as a chore or by fun as something you have to earn? Writing has never been a chore per se (except for my ill-fated stint in chick-lit) but I’m used to writing whole novels while holding a leadership position in TV production, working 11, 12, sometimes 14 hours a day, adding more almost every weekend. So writing was never hard in itself, but it always demanded sacrifice: I earned my fun with chronic exhaustion. Now that I’ve quit my job to concentrate on creativity for a while, it’s almost like I’m overwhelmed by not being overwhelmed. It’s so hard being okay with writing only a handful of lines a day! So that’s something I’m trying to defy as well: my fucked-up work ethic. 

Occasional tears notwithstanding, I honestly think poetry keeps me from giving up on life. It’s like there’s this whole incredibly versatile and unpredictable space hiding inside the mundane reality of everyday existence, and I get to slip into it and experience the world in a way that goes beyond looking or touching or tasting. Being inside this space gives me hope: as long as there is poetry, there is exploration. And as long as there is exploration, there's a chance that we’ll actually discover something of worth.

I’ve given you a magic wand, and it can do anything—what would you change about the literary world at this moment? 

I’d wish for more courage in publishing. Curiosity, the joyful will to try something different, to take risks. To be open and inviting to writers and readers alike, to enjoy surprises and seek out the unknown. To actively search for the interesting and unique, instead of looking for something as close as possible to what has proven successful already. I would love that — as a writer and as a reader.