Last year, you published a book entitled “Watermark Shadow”, which is the primary reason for our conversation, and which could be described as a chronicle of an era viewed through the prism of a family saga. How successful has the book been so far?
D.P. We could describe it that way too, yes. How successful has it been? That depends on what we consider the parameters of success. Given that it is a novel by an unknown—virtually non-existent—author, with no marketing support whatsoever, yet has somehow attracted media attention and coverage, made the longlist and shortlist for two major awards, and received an exceptionally warm response from readers, I think it has achieved no small measure of success. I certainly did not expect that.
And what did you hope for, and how did you experience that success?
D.P. My only hope, once I had begun it, was that I would finish it [laughs], and I hoped for little else. I experienced that modest success in two ways. Naturally, I was pleased for the book; on the other hand, as I received a large number of letters from readers expressing their enthusiasm, my first reaction to each one was a certain embarrassment, beneath which lay the conviction that I could have done more and done better. Then there is public exposure, even if only through a book, which is not always the most pleasant feeling.
Which aspect of everything mentioned means the most to you?
D.P. What means the most to me is the response from readers, particularly the fact that they cannot be placed into just one or two “target groups”, to use the inappropriate language of marketing. I was delighted by how diverse the readership was: men and women, members of the LGBT community, people of every age—from those in their seventies to those in their twenties—and people of different educational backgrounds, origins, and social classes. It is interesting that one word often appears in their responses: that the book was “needed”. I must say that moved me.
How do you interpret that response?
D.P. I do not interpret it, because I cannot substantiate other people’s statements. Different readers see different things in books and experience them differently, which is entirely legitimate.
But they experience it as something that was needed?
D.P. It would seem so, and that makes me immensely happy.
The novel contains an exceptionally large cast of characters, the vast majority of whom are women. Is the number of characters an unusual feature of the book? Is this a so-called women’s novel, an example of women’s writing, and is it intended primarily for women?
D.P. The novel is intended for readers, whoever they may be. It is true that it focuses to a considerable extent on women’s experience, not as a deliberate agenda, but because it reflects the author’s interests. Yet it has proved to appeal to men, women, and non-binary people alike, which refutes any attempt to assign the text itself a gender label. Moreover, the term “women’s writing” is already half a century old, if not older, and even when it was current, it had not much of theoretical foundation. Today, “women’s writing” tends to refer more to certain genres and modes of writing within the publishing industry and the mass production of books for entertainment than to literary fiction. Whether, and to what extent, “Watermark Shadow” belongs in that category is for others to decide. As for the book’s length, even a cursory glance at contemporary literary production worldwide shows that its 389 pages are hardly unusual, nor are the number and roles of its characters.
Where would you place your novel within today’s literary landscape? What are your writing routines, and did you have any intentions while writing it? Who were your literary influences?
D.P. Those are many different questions [laughs], some of which I cannot—and should not—answer. Some theorists classify the novel as metamodernist, which I find particularly interesting, since this is among the newest theoretical frameworks and has been developed especially vigorously in the Netherlands. I do not see how my writing routines, or any aspect of my personal life for that matter, would contribute to readers’ experience and interpretation of the book, so I will not answer that question. Nor will I answer the question about my influences; the book itself says enough about them.
You did not attend any of the book launches. Is that a matter of principle for you and, if so, how do you explain it?
D.P. It is true that I did not attend any of them, but the primary reason was my poor health at that moment. Beyond that, yes, I believe that a book—at least my book, this particular book—should travel on its own and speak to its readers by itself, and that they should speak to it, because that is what reading is, and that no image of me, no judgement or prejudice, should influence how it is received. That is how it began in the first place: I submitted the manuscript in the usual way, by email, to various publishing houses where I was entirely unknown. The editor Tatjana Čomić selected it, worked on it, and published it. In other words, the manuscript made its own way without being led by the hand, explained, or illustrated through me or my public or private personality. And it continued in the same way. It also brought me interesting new acquaintances and friendships. In other words, the book brought people to me and into my life, not the other way round—I did not “push” it through personal connections and friendships. I find that very encouraging for other emerging writers in this age of intrusive media personas, marketing and widespread clientelism. That is something I am truly proud of: the path my book has taken, which I follow with great interest. This does not mean, however, that I will not attend a presentation of some of my future books; I am leaving that possibility open.
Are you currently working on anything, and do you have any manuscripts ready for publication?
D.P. There is always something written, and yes, I am writing a new novel.
Can you tell us more about it?
D.P. I cannot [laughs], except to say that it will be shorter, that it will not be full of women, and that it deals with themes different from those in “Watermark Shadow”.
Your country is currently undergoing turbulent political upheaval. How do you view it?
D.P. With all due respect, it is difficult to explain this to people from the developed West, but I will try. My great-grandmother lived in four different states, spanning systems from empire to socialism. On hearing this, one might assume that she travelled extensively and had an adventurous spirit. Yet she spent her entire life as a modest homemaker and mother, rarely venturing beyond a radius of fifty kilometres. My grandfather, her son, also lived in those same four states without ever changing his place of residence. His daughter, my mother, lived in four different states without geographically moving from the same place; I am now living in my fourth homeland as well, while my son is already in his third, though he is not yet even thirty. Changes in social order and shifting borders mean continual political upheaval, wars, conflicts, and changes of state and society. For someone living in the Balkans, this is a permanent situation. That is why the verb “to view” is somewhat imprecise: we live through it; we are not observers, and we have no possibility of retreat or detachment, since the entire region—which was once a single country—carries a complex historical legacy of ethnic, religious, ideological, and political conflicts reaching far into the past and recurring to this day. Also, everything currently happening in Serbia is inseparable from international politics and the global situation.
The student movement is Serbia’s newest political movement. How do you view its activities and goals?
D.P. The student movement is first and foremost a social phenomenon, and only then a political one. Nor is it taking place only in Serbia. We are witnessing student demonstrations across Europe and throughout the world in a way. Gen Z is a generation that has inherited, globally, the worst of all worlds—with a troubled past, an even more troubled present, and an opaque future overshadowed by ecological collapse. What distinguishes them from previous generations is a keen awareness of centres of power and of their own position in relation to them, as well as a different perspective—enabled by advanced information technologies—on a world that has shrunk even further since McLuhan’s “global village” of the latter half of the previous century. Gen Z sees the world through the lens of the saying “the world is my oyster” and acts accordingly—in our case, without a provincial complex or any sense of being on the margins. On the other hand, perhaps for that very reason, I have the impression that they are prone to depression and, at times, cynicism; and it is difficult to predict how their struggle for a world of their own will develop, since its youngest members are still in primary school. Moreover, the universal point is that student movements have a long history worldwide, and that young people’s rebellion and claiming the right to shape their own world and their own future are not new. In other words, they have a tradition from which they draw experience and on which they build.
How present is all of this in literary writing, and how present should it be?
D.P. I would say it has always been present and will remain so for as long as literature exists, whether in the form it has taken until now or in altered forms dictated by the future. I do not think this is a question of whether it should be present, but rather of inevitable conditioning, because literature is neither created nor experienced in a vacuum, but under sociopolitical conditions in which its subjects, its authors, and its readers live.
Would you describe yourself as an engaged writer?
D.P. I do not yet consider myself a writer [laughs]. Every writer is engaged in their own way. If you mean engagement in the narrower sense of the word—as advocating ideas, an ideology, or something similar through a literary work—then not especially. I am more focused on documentary human values than on systems of thought or politics, although every artist’s worldview can be easily reconstructed. If, however, we focus on politics as the tension between the individual and the community, then engagement is inevitable. It should not be forgotten that I come from a region marked by major historical and social ruptures, and from a post-transition society. That is a distinctive perspective fully experienced by only one generation—or an even narrower part of it, say, the older members of Generation X. With them, that perspective will disappear, and they should write, create, and bear witness.
Thank you for accepting our invitation to this conversation, Divna. Betje and I wish you every success in your future work and literary endeavors.
D.P. Thank you for inviting me. The pleasure is mine.
(Interview with Divna Popov for the Dutch fanzine “Het fantoom van de vrijheid”, conducted by Betje Elzinga and Arjen Van Leeuwen. October 2026)
