L’Esprit Featured Writer || Issue Six

---

A conversation with author Nataliya Deleva about her creative practice, her previous books and her new writing project. Read an excerpt of her latest project here.

L’Esprit Literary Review: How did your piece come to be, and what do you want our readers to know about your new project? Is there any context you would like to provide to either the excerpt specifically or the novel in general?

Nataliya Deleva: Thank you for having me, and for the opportunity to talk about my work. 

The excerpt is from a fiction project I’ve just completed and I’m currently pitching to agents, with the working title Your Beautiful Life. I prefer not to talk much about any unpublished projects, because, naturally, they’re at a stage when things are still fluid and can change in the editing process. But, broadly speaking, I can say that it’s contemporary literary fiction which explores the ways we see and are being seen. It follows a young filmmaker as she navigates the complexities of losing her sight and redefining her identity in a society rife with misconceptions about blindness. It’s an intimate story – and also a love story – about identity and vulnerability.

The manuscript also aims to deconstruct the language of visibility and invisibility – both in the literal sense and in the societal context. What happens when people around you (including workplaces, schools, or institutions) refuse to accept you the way you are? How do the current socio-political narratives about disability and otherness reflect deeply lodged misconceptions about blindness and disability? I wanted to investigate the intersections of perception (and misconception), agency, and vulnerability. It’s an experimentation in both form and language, and it looks at how our interactions with others shape our own sense of self, and how these perceptions can construct but also deconstruct identity. 

Our pop culture, media, and literature often present an outdated picture of what it means to be blind or disabled. This is changing but very slowly. If you look back at films and literature, you’ll find mainly two narratives: the poor blind man begging for pity, or the ‘inspirational’ protagonist with supernatural abilities, sixth senses, etc. – the superhuman. Both are harmful stereotypes and not a true representation of blindness. My work is an attempt to break the stigma, and to shift some of the current socio-cultural narratives of disability – in an engaging, multisensory and sometimes humorous narrative rich in cinematic references.

You could say Your Beautiful Life echoes themes from my previous novels in the way it examines otherness, marginalisation and invisibility, although, in this work, the main protagonist re-shapes her vulnerability into a new identity – an independent woman with agency who owns her otherness. An interesting fact is that the main protagonist here appeared first in Arrival (but I won’t say more for now). The books are very different though, so don’t expect a sequence of sorts. But these are important questions I felt I needed to explore from different angles, in different socio-political contexts, and ultimately, through a different story. 

LLR: You’ve published novels in both Bulgarian (Four Minutes) and English (Arrival). What has that experience of working between languages been like? Do you find your projects taking on different narrative or stylistic impulses depending on which language-medium they’re pulled through?

ND: I love this question. Language to me is a lot more than just words and sentences; it’s the untranslatable spaces between them. It carries the textures and rhythms of its culture – the myths and beliefs ingrained in us, which we bring wherever we go, along with the influences of new cultures we immerse ourselves in –  cultures which enrich us, provoke our way of thinking, and ultimately make us who we are.

Writing in Bulgarian feels like sculpting from within, shaping something that is already a part of me. English, on the other hand, which is my adoptive language (or, rather the language I’ve adopted) is a more conscious act of translation – not just of words but of concepts, of feelings, of cultural echoes. 

The process of switching between the two is like walking between rooms of the same house – there are shared elements, but the light falls differently in each space. The shift between languages is not just a technical transition but an emotional and psychological one. Certain emotions are more accessible to me in my native language while English allows me to construct easier concepts and ideas closely related to the second part of my life, since moving to London. The rhythm in Bulgarian is also very different to the prose I craft in English, yet both can communicate similar meanings. Bulgarian is more instinctual for me, a place of memories, of deeply rooted emotions and inherited beliefs, while English offers a sense of distance that paradoxically allows for greater precision and experimentation.

My debut novel, Four Minutes (Невидими), was written in Bulgarian, as its story unfolds within Bulgaria and is shaped by events and narratives rooted in the country. When I began writing Arrival, I initially attempted to draft it in Bulgarian as well, particularly the scenes set in Bulgaria – fragments of the narrator’s childhood, and recollections of her past. However, when I reached the sections that take place in London, I found myself unable to continue. The manuscript remained untouched for half a year. Then, I came across the beautiful novel by Valeria Luiselli, Lost Children Archive – her first novel written in English. There was something uniquely delicate and striking about the linguistic choices in that book. I then attempted to write some notes in English, and it felt surprisingly effortless. I began experimenting with language, pushing linguistic and stylistic boundaries; I was really enjoying myself. I completed the rest of the novel in English and later returned to rework the earlier pages. It felt right. Just as the protagonist migrates geographically, I too experienced a linguistic transition while working on this book.

LLR: Did you feel that your work has been received by the world (maybe specifically vis-à-vis the marketplace, or more broadly) differently–or indeed the reverse; have you felt your use of the novel as a form has encountered the world differently–based on its original language?

ND: Interesting you ask; I’ve been reflecting on this recently.

I think there is always a difference in reception depending on the language of publication. With Four Minutes, readers familiar with Bulgaria’s socio-political landscape might read the novel through that lens (and, similarly, the Polish readers where the book has been quite successful, and it was also published in audio format recently), while an English-speaking audience engages more with its universality – the themes of identity, of children going through the care system, of marginalisation, of the search for belonging.

Arrival is seen in the UK as an immigration novel, a novel about resilience, as well as about motherhood and choice. It will be published in Bulgaria in May, so I’m yet to discover its perception there, but I can imagine the theme of domestic abuse through the lens of a child might resonate, especially now when the narratives of male masculinity are loud in the public space (so this is more about the current context rather than language or cultural differences), as well as the references to Slavic mythology which would sound familiar to the Bulgarian readers. But, let’s see when it goes out; I wouldn’t want to predict 

All of these interpretations are valid, and in a way, they show how literature adapts itself to the space it enters. The lens through which a book is read is shaped by the cultural and historical context of the reader. It fascinates me how one book can have multiple lives, how different audiences respond to different aspects of the same work. There is also the question of translation – how the process itself alters meaning, reinterprets tone, and sometimes even shifts emphasis. It’s an inevitable and beautiful part of literature’s migration across borders.

LLR: Jumping off the last two questions, what was your experience of having your work translated, perhaps especially into languages you speak (such as Four Minutes’ translation into English)? 

ND: Translation is an intimate act. As I mentioned in the previous question, it’s also a creative process – one in which meaning and human emotions relate to the new language and culture. It’s a process in which the translated words and sentences beat with their own rhythm and only a great translator can achieve this, without ruining the magic of the original text (sorry, AI).

I was fortunate to work closely with brilliant translators whose approach allowed for a more dynamic, fluid process of interpretation. However, no matter how involved an author might be, translation always demands certain surrender – an acceptance that your work will be reborn in another linguistic and cultural space.

Naturally, I’ve been much more involved in translations from Bulgarian to English and vice versa (for the translation of Arrival), as I have an intimate connection to both. (I open a small bracket to say that I published a short story about complicated love in an anthology a couple of years ago, in which I examined metaphorically my intimate relationship to both languages – don’t laugh, but it can feel as a love triangle sometimes; here’s the English translation of the story). 

The act of reading my own work in another language can be both exciting and unsettling, especially for someone like me who wants to have control over situations. There are moments when the translation breathes new life into the text, and at other times, I find myself almost mourning what cannot be carried across, what gets lost in the interstices between languages. Translation is never simply about fidelity to words; it is about capturing a text’s soul. And in that way, every translation is also a new creation.

LLR: What is your creative process like? When you sit down to write, how do you approach your work? More specifically, can you speak to the journey of working on this new project? 

ND: Because I write in pockets of time in between other things – my job, motherhood, you name it – I write in fragments, too. Maybe I can’t sustain a long chapter, or maybe I just enjoy the faceted form not only when I write but also in terms of the books I love reading. I find refuge in the luminal spaces, so it’s not a discomfort but an enjoyment to write in this way.

With my previous novels, I used to handwrite first in my notebook – on the train on my commutes to work or in cafes – and then when I had to ‘transfer’ my notes to the laptop, this process seemed like a very first edit. Even a snippet of time away from your writing can offer a slightly new perspective and help reshape the sentences. However, my writing process changed a lot recently – there’s been less commute to a physical work office, so I usually write in the evenings and weekends. I also became more aware of the limitations of sight through my personal experience, so I’ve been relying more often on typing directly or sometimes recording audio notes when I’m outside. I still can’t get used to audio notes though, not as a fully formed creative practice, at least, as I like to write in silence, to think things through, to start with a phrase I’ve overheard or read in a book, and stretch it in my mind and on the page to test its possibilities beyond the obvious and beyond the visible. Speaking is an instant act, and doesn’t allow for self-correction that much. 

I always start with an idea or a question I’d like to explore in my work. Then I figure out the best form for it – would it bear experimentation, is it emotionally dense to become a poem, doesn’t it contain enough in itself to expand into a novel or would a short story suit best? I know other writers prefer to start with a protagonist and take their characters through situations as the plot develops, ultimately unaware of where things will go and how the book will end. For me, it’s the idea always comes first, and in most cases, I’m aware of the ending before I’ve threaded the intricacies of the plot. Which doesn’t mean that I have it planned all in my head; I still experiment with different plot ideas and twists, add new characters and see them develop and grow – it’s a fun process, full of possibilities, and one I approach with curiosity.

With Your Beautiful Life, it all started with the questions I’d been asking myself for a long time: How do we construct our identity against a culture or society which may not be ready to accept us the way we are? How does the world perceive vulnerability? And how do we, in turn, reclaim agency in these circumstances? These questions led me to my protagonist, and from there, the novel started taking shape.

Some parts came fluidly, especially those where I experimented with sensory descriptions to shift the perspective away from the purely visual. I also loved the second-person voice for the main narrative, which required constant awareness of distance and intimacy. Other parts felt more challenging – particularly navigating scenes when my personal rage against rigid or ableist views had to be expressed creatively without sounding angry – in these situation narrating with wit was helpful. I’ve always been drawn to books that challenge traditional storytelling structures, and this work, in many ways, became an experiment in form as much as it was a narrative exploration.

LLR: How do you approach revision?

ND: It’s a painful process (laughing). I’m a very impatient person and usually a large part of my energy goes into the very first drafts. This is when I feel excited, experimenting, challenging the status quo of what a novel could be. Having said that, I had eight completely different reiterations of Arrival, and the book changed so much between the initial and the final draft that it almost feels like a different book now. Which was also fun to discover.

Sometimes, reading my work aloud helps to see those places where rhythm is broken, or where meaning is cluttered or unclear. Hearing the sentences out load, feeling their weight – or lightness – on my tongue, helps me pinpoint areas where the prose lags or where meaning gets lost in unnecessary complexity. I also approach revision in layers – first focusing on structure, then character depth, then language and atmosphere. It’s a gradual, sometimes painful, but ultimately rewarding process.

I had very helpful advice from another writer early on in my career, which I still return to every time I revisit and re-edit my work: ‘Kill your darlings’. The direct Bulgarian translation is something along the lines of: ‘Don’t guard your words like the hen shields her chicken’. I was not very good at letting chunks of my work go, but I’ve learned not to attach to words and sentences any more. 

LLR: This latest manuscript, Your Beautiful Life, is written in the second person, a somewhat rare choice for a full-length novel. Can you talk about that a bit; why you chose that approach and what you feel it’s brought to the project?

I experimented with first and third person initially, before trying a scene in the second person, and I just loved it. I had read recently Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson, which is one of my favourite contemporary novels in terms of the tender writing and the linguistic intimacy it offers, which I believe was achieved also through the second-person narrative. 

One of my first short stories which was published in Granta Magazine (Bulgaria), was written in the second person. It’s easier to sustain it in a short story but I wanted to see how it can enrich a full-length novel. When it’s used for the right reasons (beyond satisfying an attempt for originality), it can bring this intimacy I referred to in Open Water. I think this is exactly what it does for Your Beautiful Life. A few people who’ve read the early pages praised my choice for the second person as for them it offered connection and closeness to the story, as if they own the narrative and the way it meanders between vulnerability and agency. It almost asks the question: What would you do? How would you behave? And, a friend of mine was honest to say he was not perhaps as accustomed to reading such books, which is also understandable – I like to challenge others and I’m also aware people have different taste and comfort zones; but ultimately, no one writes to please absolutely everyone. 

Still, maintaining the integrity of that second-person perspective felt challenging at times. It’s a voice that can be incredibly immersive, but it can also alienate if not handled carefully. Finding that balance between proximity and detachment took several rounds of refining, but I believe it ultimately serves the novel’s themes in a powerful way.

LLR: Which books, writers, and movements do you cite as your principal influences on your work?

ND: Where do I start! There are a few writers I always mention as they truly influenced my writing not only while writing a particular novel, but in terms of my style, the themes I engage, the way I think about literature, the world, life. The International Booker Prize Winner Georgi Gospdinov’s novels and short stories were perhaps my strongest influence while writing Four Minutes, and I was lucky to have worked with him as my editor. I also owe him the confidence to submit my writing for publication: first, after he selected my short story for Granta Bulgaria, and a year later when my work was shortlisted at a competition for unpublished novels, where he was in the jury and his words of encouragement and his offer to help me edit the book were formative for my career as a writer.

I am deeply drawn to narratives that challenge conventional storytelling. Han Kang’s The White Book, with its poetic exploration of grief, absence, and language, has resonated with me on a thematic and stylistic level. I explored the idea of invisibility in Four Minutes the way she meditated on the colour white. Sheila Hetti’s Motherhood, Rachel Cusk’s A Life’s Work, Sophie Mackintosh’s Blue Ticket were books which challenged perceptions of choice vs. expectations and gender roles, and the ambivalence to motherhood – ideas I engaged in Arrival.

Other writers I admire whose books have influenced my writing at different times, are Dubravka Ugrešić, Naja-Marie Aidt, Jhumpa Lahiri, Leila Slimani, Valeria Luicelli whom I mentioned already, Rene Karabash (another Bulgarian writer, whom I cannot wait for you to read in English) – I’m aware these are non-British writes which probably tells a lot about my love for translated literature. As a teenager though, the formative literature for me was everything from Salinger to Kafka to Camus to Eco, and last but not least, Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. I absolutely love the works of Yaa Gyasi, Natasha Brown, Maggie Smith and Maggie Nelson, and lately, I’ve noticed that I’ve been drawn to memoirs like never before: I’m still haunted by Naja-Marie Aidt’s Carl’s Book, and Catherine Cho’s Inferno, for instance, and I can re-read Octavia Bright’s This Ragged Grace many times.

I’d also like to mention a few books that explore the social model of disability and question traditional notions of perception and embodiment. These are non-fiction books like Being Seen by Elsa Sjunneson, Blind Spot by Maud Rowell, Georgina Kleege’s Sight Unseen, and Andrew Leland’s The Country of the Blind. These books have played a large part in my research while working on my latest project.

LLR: At L’Esprit we like to talk about literary ancestry, a concept somewhat removed from influences that encompasses the work that, much like genealogical ancestry, finds its way into one’s writing—intentionally or otherwise. Are there writers or works that you might see as your literary ancestors, as a writer generally and/or with regards towards this project?

ND: If influences are those we consciously absorb, literary ancestry is perhaps what shapes us subconsciously, whether or not we intend them to. In that sense, my literary ancestors include Georgi Gospodinov whom I mentioned already, and whose explorations of empathy, acceptance and labyrinth-like fragmented narratives have informed my approach to storytelling.

As a writer, I also feel a deep connection to Eastern European writers like Olga Tokarczuk and Dubravka Ugrešić, whose works navigate the boundaries between reality and myth, between personal memory and collective history. The sense of exile vs. choice, both literal and metaphorical, is something that has been a recurring theme in my work, and I suspect that’s part of the inheritance I carry from these writers. 

LLR: A more specific version of that same question: Which novels, stories, literary movements, traditions, or ideas do you see this novel as being in conversation with? 

ND: Good question. Not many fiction works have challenged the societal misconceptions about disability and blindness in particular, so if I need to name a few, I’d have to be very specific about their role in shaping or influencing my creative practice. One novel that comes to mind is So Lucky by Nicola Griffith, which critiques ableism within both activist circles and the medical world. In terms of the experimentation and use of visual and cinematic narratives, I can think of Ali Smith’s How to Be Both, which also plays with visual and textual fragmentation. Books which explore feminist and migration narratives which I love, are Elif Shafak’s 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World, Jhumpa Lahiri’s Whereabouts, and Olga Tokarczuk’s Flights.

Stylistically, I could say that this work is in conversation with books that challenge traditional forms of storytelling – novels like The White Book by Han Kang and The Years by Annie Ernaux, which push linguistic and conceptual boundaries.

But, I do believe that there’s an urgent need to move away from outdated rhetoric about disability and blindness and instead represent disability as a complex, nuanced experience. Voices like mine which explore the intersection of disability with other marginalised identities are still broadly underrepresented in literature, unfortunately. In that sense, my work is in dialogue with the broader cultural movement advocating for disability justice and increased – and accurate – representation in the arts, literature and media.

LLR: The New East Digital Archive named Arrival as one of ten books to connect with Eastern European literature and culture in 2022; reviews of Four Minutes often noted the poignancy with which the book considers the lived experiences of those on the fringes of society in Eastern Europe generally, and Bulgarian specifically. Your new project continues to incorporate themes of immigration, identity, and trauma. In this way, it seems your work is sometimes defined as representative of “Bulgarian writing.” How do you think about your work in relation to these ideas? How would you define your artistic practice, if at all? 

ND: My work is deeply rooted in my heritage, but I resist being confined to a singular national or regional label. While my writing is undeniably shaped by my Bulgarian background, it is equally influenced by the British culture and my experiences of living in the UK, by the intersection of cultures and histories. I don’t see myself as a representative of “Bulgarian writing” per se – I see myself as part of a broader literary landscape that is transnational, fluid, and ever-evolving.

LLR: What was the last book, story, poem, or work of art that moved you?

ND: I was fascinated by Leila Slimani’s delicate and introspective writing in her book The Scent of Flowers at Night, which depicts the ways we behold art beyond the visual, and the fragile interplay between memory, identity and perception. 

I can also mention People, Places and Things – a West End theatre play I saw a few months ago and still find impossible to detach myself from. Everything about this production, from the idea of how we confront and navigate addiction to the extraordinary performance of Denise Gough, was pure brilliance.

Nataliya Deleva is a British-Bulgarian writer, living in London. Her debut novel, Four Minutes, was originally published in Bulgaria (Janet 45, 2017), where the book received the most prestigious Bulgarian prize for emerging literature in 2018 and was shortlisted for several other national awards. It has since been translated into German (eta Verlag, 2018), English (Open Letter Books, 2021) and Polish (Wydawnictwo EZOP, 2021). Her second novel Arrival, written originally in English, was published by The Indigo Press, UK (2022). Her shorter work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies, such as Stories from the 90s (ICU Publishing, 2019), Words Without Borders, Fence, Psyche, Asymptote, Lunate, Review31 and Granta.

Photo Credit: Jay Shifman believes no one is free until we are all free. When he’s not creating beauty on the page as a poet and writer, he’s photographing it in the world. His photography style features vibrant colors, stark contrasts, and overt messages. You can regularly find Jay documenting protests and the often-brutal response from the police. He lives in South Philly with his primary partner/wife, Lauren, and their dogs Nell and Crash.