Public readings, literature-prizes & scholarships


Dear Nyana,
The literature week (LW) came to an end on Monday.
On Sunday evening there was the public reading with the winners of the literature prize: Marcel Beyer and Nadja Küchenmeister. Each of them got the prize for their book of poetry. That is uncommon (mostly authors get the prize who write prose), but maybe that´s the reason why there were not so many people in the audience like the last few years. I mean, there were around 120 people and that´s not bad, but that is less if you compare it to the last 5 or 6 years, when the winners read excerpts of their novels or of their short story collection. However, it was an interesting evening with excellent poems and talks about writing.
On Monday the LW came to the very end with the prize-giving ceremony in the old city hall of Bremen. The mayor made a speech in the beginning, then there were two laudatio speeches in honour of each winner and the winners made their thank you speeches. Nadja Küchenmeister talked in her speech about the process of writing poetry and about the power and strangeness of objects she is writing about in her poems. Marcel Beyer made a brilliant and very political speech about a protest movement we sadly have since the end of last year in Germany. Every Monday evening thousands of people (especially in Dresden) demonstrate against immigration (fortunately, also thousands of people demonstrate every Monday against that movement and for immigration). Beyer, who has lived in Dresden for 20 years made a courageous speech against that movement and their ideas. He quoted slogans these people use and mixed it up with phrases of Dantes Inferno, so that was quite fascinating.
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a report of the literature week


Dear Nyana,
As promised I will tell you about the literature week (LW) today.
Day 1
The LW opened in the Wall-Saal of the city library with a public reading of the Bremen online magazine BOM13. The magazine is conducted by a collective of journalists, editors, photographers, writers, illustrators, comic book artist, designers and programmers. The idea is to make a magazine with plenty of room and a content that is just in the interest of the collective, regardless of advertising, editors, specified formats and subjects. So, in there you can find comics, photo art, short stories, poems and articles, which may go beyond their “normal” length. Every edition has a particular topic. This edition is on the topic of monitoring, which is, as I told you, the topic of the LW. So, half a dozen of the collective read reports, stories and poems, and a singer-songwriter played a guitar song – all about monitoring.
Day 2
The same location as the day before, the same topic in one way, but more specific. The author and journalist Alexander Krutzfeld introduced his book about the Deep Web (also called Darknet or Hidden Web), this digital parallel world (if you compare it to the “normal” or surface internet). It was not a classical literature-reading, it was a mixture of a video-lecture, a reading and a discussion about the Deep Web. My job on stage was to introduce Alexander Krützfeld and his book, to ask him the right questions, to moderate the discussion with the audience and to finish the event at the right time. So, I would say all in all, it was a very interesting evening, everything worked well. There were more than 100 people in the audience and nearly all of them stayed to the end. Last but not least, there was a nice atmosphere on stage between the author and me, we both enjoyed working together (that´s important for the evening).
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Writing Routine


Hey Ronald,
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Finding the stories only we can tell
Recently there have been many very different reasons and occasions for me to think about my writing. One reason being the invitation to write a small contribution to this blog. So: what is important for and what is central to my writing? To my own surprise, the answers seemed all at once to stare me clearly in the face and were no longer an inextricable knot of thoughts, beliefs and vague notions.
I am convinced that there is nothing as important as finding “our own stories”. I think that we must develop something like an individual, literary fingerprint on to which flows everything we have ever experienced and read and written. All our nightmares and fears and concerns and our disappointed hopes. And above all our questions. Our surprise and our amazement. I believe that that is the source of each individual’s manner of perceiving the world; and I think that a large part of our job consists of finding a form and a tone for that. I know that the “stories which only we can tell” are not the first ones we encounter (and, unfortunately, mostly not the ones that follow either) – and that the search for it can be a long and laborious process.
Meanwhile I have been surprised at how much I have been wrong in the past about so many aspects of writing. I completely overestimated the relevance of talent and underestimated practical experience and constructive criticism. I used to believe that a person either had imagination and creativity at their disposal – or they didn’t. I didn’t realise that the need to write can also develop and grow. I didn’t know how important it is for us to be open to our own ideas and that we also have to endure this when these threaten to become uncomfortable. But above all I had no concept of the fact that it is necessary “to become the one person who can write the book which one has to write” (Jonathan Franzen). I believe that’s how it is.
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Writing the Other? Let’s talk about ourselves! Blackness and Whiteness from our own experience

Katharina With our Critical Whiteness and Cultural Studies background, and our experiences and reflections during our anti-racist performance work in 2012, Carolin and I are curious to continue the talk on „Writing the Other & Authenticity“, held by Ronald and Nora on 8th January.
To give you just a few impressions of our performance Black/white. Strangely mine/ The Other Self, we posted some of the photos and a short explanation below. For our two-months group process from which we developed the performance, one idea was most central: Each one starts from and speaks only for his or her own experiences of being Black, white, „normal“, different, male, female, German, European, African etc. Our first condition was not to speak for or even define the Other, because we found that the Other is a product of our own relationships to the outer world, and it is always tied to our own identities.
To open this discussion, we would like to point out some aspects of Nora’s and Ronald’s talk. But before – to stay with our opinion that speaking for and about ourselves comes first – we want to make our own reflections on and experience of our whiteness visible. I should rather say, my and Carolin’s whitenesses, as they are not identical, although we grew up in the same white dominated German society.
Caro, how did you discover your whiteness and how did it change during the years?
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Like Jens; well, we are talking about writing, right? Personally, I came to the table as a writer interested in chatting with other writers in my city and the city of Bremen and of course other people from elsewhere. Anything beyond that was/is not central for me. I maybe curious about what someone may say or observe in relation to the topic above, and may ask a question or make a comment but, that is it. Do you Carolin and Katharina feel that this is something that we as writers with different backgrounds needed to have chatted about at length? Why? I am curious.
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How to tell their stories

When I visited Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, two years ago, I met a parliamentarian to talk about the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the governmental way of dealing with the brutal civil war that had shaken the country in the 1990s. It was quite early on a Tuesday morning in December; my driver had to wait in front of the bungalow in which the parliament was situated. After we were allowed to enter the grounds, we had to wait again in the parking lot, until finally I was guided by an employee to an office with thick leather sofas and a couch-table with bottled water on it.
‘My’ parliamentarian, let’s call him ‘A.’, entered the room, a well-dressed and very polite man in his mid-thirties. He was a member of the CNDD-FDD, the leading party in Burundi. The CNDD-FDD dominates the parliament, the country, and it controls most of the little money that circulates in the seventh poorest country in the world. A. told me how glad he was that I was willing to talk to him. Others, I learned, refused to talk to his party, preferring to make up their mind about the country by talking only to the NGOs, the ‘other side.’
Sitting in his office with the leather sofas and bottled water, A., referring to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, told me that people in his country had finally plucked up the courage to reappraise the events of the civil war. But due to bureaucratic procedures the commission had still not been finally approved, yet. The greatest shortcoming, which A. of course didn’t mention, was that it was all in the hands of the authoritarian CNDD-FDD party which ruled the country without a whisper of parliamentarian opposition.
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Hi Norah, these excellent observations of yours resonate with us in Uganda too. The war in Northern Uganda only ended in 2006, after spanning over 25 years of active hostilities. And yet the scars of war are still fresh and communities remain unhealed of trauma. (Un)like Burundi or South Africa, we’ve never had any significant Truth and Reconciliation processes to give closure to survivors of violent conflict. For me, the question of witnessing is very important. How do we bear witness? How do we bear the burden of memory when there is no political will to accommodate multiple truths?
When Adong Lucy Judith produced a ground breaking theatre play tilted Silent Voices, the house was full to capacity every time it played. (National Theatre 2012) What made it so refreshing was her intimate and brutal account of the conflict, which most people in the South were privileged not to experience directly. It was clear from civil society that there was a hunger for knowledge of these unspeakable truths. And as far as truth was concerned, it validated stories of those whose voices remained silent. Or were not captured in mainstream media.
The media tends to project only narratives that the dominant group deems correct. And in the absence of a free media, censorship stifles creativity. It imposes a culture of silence, and a veil of fear makes it extremely challenging for people to tell their stories, due to a fear of retribution.
In post conflict situations, media is heavily monitored and tightly controlled. This probably makes sense because experience has shown that it can be abused with devastating consequences. Unfortunately this control also enables only the views of the dominant group to filter through. As we saw in Adong’s play , it took courageous endeavour to produce a counter narrative. The challenge here was how to produce the counter narrative responsibly, honestly, and sensitively without causing gratuitous harm.
In the history of human civilization, one might argue that it’s the intellectuals who shape our sense of who we are, who interpret the zeitgeist and contribute to our national memory. It could be through writing, art, music or any creative undertaking.
Gramsci also said that, “One of the most important characteristics of any group that is developing towards dominance is its struggle to assimilate and to conquer ideologically the traditional intellectuals, but this assimilation and conquest is made quicker and more efficacious the more the group in question succeeds in simultaneously elaborating its own organic intellectuals.”
Perhaps Parliamentarian A, and the ruling party espouse the ideals of a government seeking dominance? Which means that in the national narrative, which is also the official narrative, certain truths may have more significance than others.
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Writing poetry for the page and for the stage

Hello authors, contributors and readers. It has been so interesting following the discussions on this blog and engaging in them as well. I was so grateful for the discussion that started on poetry slams. I am first and foremost (if not only) a poet who writes and performs frequently.
It has been an interesting experience moving between the page and stage. I often borrow from one arena to enrich the other but unfortunately find myself compromising my vision for the sake of the platform and audience.
The writing process
I find that when I sit to write for the page, I have a more critical eye but also tend to experiment more since there is no concern with responding to physical or real time feedback. It is also more likely readers will take their time to explore the writing and reflect on it, so I do not worry the work will be misunderstood.
(At this point it becomes clear how self-conscious of a writer I am.)
In writing for the stage, I worry more about the narrative and simplifying the work. I often sacrifice the concise line for a longer, more indulgent line that I believe the audience will enjoy. When I reflect on my performance pieces, they tend towards entertainment.
I have to appreciate that moving back and forth between the two platforms gives me a heightened awareness of an audience. I am a selfish writer, usually focused inwards especially in my initial drafts. But as I develop a piece I edit with the reader or audience in mind. This is only important in that it fulfils my need to feel I am putting something out there that is of use to others.
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Interestingly, that’s something I have never really been able to balance.
I have written pieces that were subsequently performed and there are pieces I thought would sound well performed but did better on paper.I heard a poet once share that in her experience, when she performs she only needs to have an idea and some basic lines written out for her. It’s not so much about memorising but expressing.
In fact in her writing, you will sense a more vocal tone and this does not take away from the beauty of writing.
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Writing in changing places – Concepts of being at home

I once asked my mentor how he defines home, and he said: “Home is where you hang your hat.” I pondered his words for a moment, and remembered that I had also read somewhere that home is where your heart is. Can one’s heart be in just one place though? Can one confine one’s heart? I think home can be the place where one lives, home may also be the place where one has lived before and has found peace and joy. Home may also be a place one longs for. Some people consider home to be a place where one can find love, protection, acceptance, security, peace, happiness, joy and a sense of belonging.
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Dear Deborah Asiimwe, I am allowed very much enthusiastically by this project, the wonderfully varied insights into very different social environments and manners of writing like yours and greet with a quotation of the author Sibylle Berg: „At home is where one reads obituaries. “ I held this first for a (successful) joke – but I think, it is more than this . . .
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Hello Jutta Reichelt,
Thank you very much for your comment, and thank you for sharing Sibylle Berg quotation. I could not help but chuckle after reading it. Home being a place where one reads “obituaries” may sound very funny, but I think you are right, there is another layer of meaning to it. The act of reading obituaries in itself has a certain level of steadiness and calmness it brings, and these could be associated with the concept of home. -
Very well put, Mariya Nikolova! Thank you for your comments and questions, and for touching on Merleau Ponty’s philosophy as well as sharing a quote from William Faulkner. My apologies for a tardy response. As Nikolas mentions below, I have been moving homes again, and I am currently trying to settle into “my new home”. I agree, moving has a voice of its own. I think that moving in itself is a story, and because of that, it has taken on a character of its own, and therefore its own distinct voice.
This “world’s homelessness” within the context of moving places, is a state of mind I believe. Do I regret it? I am fascinated by it. I am fascinated by the idea of departing, and arriving, and departing again. I am fascinated by how places have the capacity to embrace or be rejected. I am fascinated by stories that are born out of these experiences.
Thank you again for your deep thoughts on this subject! -
I relate a lot with what Mariya said ” If moving has bred (new) stories then it has a voice on its own (for me always in tune with some form and extent of nostalgia and melancholy)”.
I think regardless the number of times spaces change, there is always an anchor into the one place that we call home and this affects our writing because new spaces will be viewed in some sort of relation to home.
When Deborah writes the play, I believe she is looking at home in a comparison to where she has lived. And home may not neccessarily be a good place; of good memories; I think it is a place that has a Genesis/Eden factor about it. A place we instinctively knew. A place we grew up or were formed in.
” If a writer is to write from their gut, do they even need to think about these things?”
This is an important question. I would like to know what everyone else thinks.
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Thank you, Joel. I wrestle with the question above. I will not pretend that I have an answer to it, and would really love to hear what people have to say.
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As with Mariya, Bremen is my “second home”, with the difference that I left my first one – Ireland – not ten, but forty years ago. Since then I have lived in two communities and two languages – the language of my parents and the language of my wife and children. This means, of course, that I not only have two homes, which I take to be a great enrichment of my life and especially my writing, but also two “others”. On the one hand, flying into Belfast over small green fields is flying home, but so is returning to Bremen – you can actually see our house from the plane as it lands. On the other hand, however, as I think Nikolas has pointed out elsewhere, this “otherness” – the stranger’s view – is vital to writers. It is, in my opinion, only by seeing the familiar as “other” that we can write in an original way. So I’m very grateful to my two homes and my two “others”.
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Dear Mariya, Before I reply directly, I just want to say how much I am enjoying this thread; thanks, Deborah, for initiating it. Yes, Mariya, my voice, my music and my images are very different in English and German; in some ways I’m two different writers. As it happens, today I have been translating an English poem into German prose. It contains the line, “Regret strokes my skin like nettle feathers”, a line I was quite pleased with. Yet, however hard I try to get a decent translation, it ends up as pure kitsch in German. It may (?) have something to do with the fact that German is a much more explicit, much less ambiguous language (and culture). (Compare the very explicit translations of very ambivalent English-language film titles.) Hm, what do you think?
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Is “homelessness” the zeitgeist of our times? In her book “The New World Literature”, the German critic Sigrid Loeffler has argued that all the great post-1945 literature has been one of dislocation, hybrid personalities and so on. I agree with Jens (and not just about Bremen, which I also love!) that home is important, especially for writing. I, too, can – and do – write anywhere. But it always temporary, somehow still in the air, till I get home and type it up in my computer at home. P.S. With me, it’s Darjeeling, Jens, not cappuccino.
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Nikolas, “writing the other” is actually an interesting subject. I think we have to accept that we cannot truly fully portray other cultures from our own experiences or research. We can only go so far. When Ngugi writes “A Grain of Wheat”, he’s oscillating between two cultures, two peoples, the British Colonialists and the indigenous Kenyans. In my point of view, he does a good job, because he talks about premise from both sides. And the thing about the novel is that even though it is written by an African, if you put sentiment aside, you can understand the actions of both sides.
What I am saying is that, “Writing the Other” is not easy but I think with the necessary experience of the otherness, one can do a good job.
For reference, “A Wreath for Udomo” by Peter Abrahams also explores this concept.
I believe one should use their writing to communicate something, if it is a bias, or the avoidance of a bias, let it be done. Or we must ask, do we write to please the other, or to reveal the other in our eyes?
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Hello Nikolas,
Thanks for your questions. I also wrestle with the subject of writing the “other”, and I don’t think that there are easy answers to your questions. Since you lived in Uganda, you may be a bit familiar with the politics of the country. There was a time I was writing about the Northern Uganda civil war, and I constantly interrogated myself what legitimacy I had to write about a war that for the most part the Southern part of the country (where I come from) really ignored.
That is all to say that regardless of the platform, the themes, the geographical differences, the subject of “otherness” is not easy to tackle. I am glad that Joel mentions Ngugi’s book. I find it very honest in the way he writes about the colonialists and the colonized. You may also want to read one his plays “I will Marry when I want.”Anyway, when I think about the whole subject of “otherness” what comes to mind for me is; how would you define the “other”? I think the discomfort or even fear of how to talk about the “other”, to write about the “other” is a relationship complex in which we see someone who is different from us maybe as an object or as a means to an end. But, what would happen if we see the “other” as another “I”? Would that affect the way we would want to talk about them, to represent them in our work, in our writing? Wouldn’t that relationship or view of the other maybe take on a spiritual dimension? You have probably heard of the “Ubuntu”/”Obuntu” (Humanness) philosophy of “I am because we are, and because we are, therefore I am”.
I think we live in a world that constantly teaches that we are better off by denying the humanity of others. But in the process of that denial, we end up losing our own humanity before we have even had a chance to know who we really are. The question then is, how can we be comfortable writing about the other when we have lived in denial of our own humanness? In a sense, (I think) when we are writing about the other, we are asking ourselves to be one with another “I” (The other). The guilt then becomes our “safe” vantage point, which preserves us from the real commitment of being one with the “other”.
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That’s an interesting thought…. One needs to travel to find these experiences.
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Thanks Crystal! I would love to read that blog! There is no denying that Uganda is incredibly beautiful! Whether it is the pearl of Africa or not, that is another matter. That was Winston Churchhill’s conclusion after visiting British’s colonies. Even before I lived outside Uganda, I knew that there had to be better ways of doing things. That became so clear when I lived in Kampala, especially. I had spent 18 years of my life living in the country side. There were systems that worked well for the community in which I was raised. Then I moved to Kampala, and all I could see was chaos, as if everyone was disregarding anything that was considered beautiful and worth preserving. I knew that, that was not the way things were supposed to be. Like you mention in your comment above, moving and living outside Uganda makes me more realistic about my “home” country. Our society is very complex, and I think as a people we have learned to handle ourselves with kid gloves, we have learned not to take responsibility and not to have agency in our own affairs. We have learned to apportion blame. We have learned to not work because the politics of “aid” teach us dependency. We have embraced it and made it our culture. Yet, amidst all this, there is a section of Ugandans who dedicate themselves to make change in their small ways amidst inconceivable challenges. Regardless of how messed up the systems are, I know that our country has so much potential, and therefore we should not give up on her.
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Words in my favorite portrait as a girl, “You build a house with your hands, a home with your heart.” I agree Deborah that “homelessness” does indeed broaden our writings and as with the quote, the definition of home.
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Thank you, Cynthia!
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deborah,thnx for that brilliant piece.actually my nerves has been pulled to change places.hah…sometimes realising that home is where there is amother i get to miss certain interesting happenings,there is really great néed of changing places.oooh…that was fab.
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Thank you, Recho! If your feet are itching to move, obey them. They might be saying something very special to you. Happy adventuring!
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Tom, Greetings. You are right, Ubuntu is a Zulu word. But it is not confined only to the Zulu language, it is a word that comes from “Bantu”. Bantu is a group of linguistically related people who occupy the parts of East, Central and Southern Africa. The common characteristic of this group of people is that in their languages they use the word “ntu” or “tu” or sometimes written as “ndu” or “du” to mean people or a person. The prefix for “a person” is “(mu)ntu” or “(omu)ntu” or “(umu)ntu” or “mutu”. The prefix for “people” is “Ba” = “Bantu” etc.
Yes, indeed there is a philosophical movement behind “Ubuntu” or ”Obuntu” (as pronounced in my first language, Runyankore)
This philosophy of “Ubuntu” (“Human kindness”/ “Human goodness”) was especially popularized by Archbishop Desmond Tutu.
The philosophy of “Ubuntu”/”Obuntu” means that to be human is to be a collective, to belong to a community, to be an “ALL”. Not that an individual loses their individuality, but that when a part of the collective or community is affected, is suffering; the individual suffers and is equally/automatically affected. “The belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects ALL humanity”. In other words, an individual CANNOT live/exist without the “ALL”, and the “ALL” cannot be without the individual. The two cannot be separated. Thus, the interpretation of “Ubuntu”/”Obuntu” is “I am because we are, or we are because I am.”
I don’t speak any language in the Southern part of Africa, but I know that the idea of “Ubuntu”/”Obuntu” is basically the same among the Bantu speaking people. This idea is for example deeply rooted in Runyankore, Kinyarwanda, Luganda languages.
Something I would like to share that may sound far fetched to the topic at hand but, which I find quite related to this idea of “Ubuntu”; it is the way some people in Africa use three stone fire for their cooking needs. This is where three rocks/stones usually equal in size are placed circularly (depending on the size of the pot or cooking container, the circle can be small or relatively big. Also, the size of the rocks will depend on the size of the pot). Fire is built inside the circle space and a cooking pot or container sits on the three rocks, generally hanging well above the fire. The pot will not hold if one or two rocks are missing. The pot will be tilted if the rocks are placed haphazardly. The pot will not hold if any of the rocks is larger or smaller than the other rocks. The pot will not hold if any of the rocks is not as firm as the rest of the rocks. Whatever happens to the rocks, any of the rocks, will affect the pot and whatever happens to the pot will affect the rocks.
Runyankore or any of the languages I have listed above that I am familiar with for example, don’t have gender specific pronouns. I think that is something that speaks to the idea of “We are because I am or I am because we are”.
There are many cultures and languages that occupy the Eastern part of Africa, and I hope that my fellow writers can give their views here on cultures they are familiar with. But, to specifically speak about my own cultures folklore and oral literature, it is very much similar to what Mariya shares in her post. Even in our epic poetry, there isn’t just ONE heroic character. One person may be a hero in one moment and another in another moment, and by the end of the poem, you have a thousand heroes.
Based on this, do you find any parallels in Plato’s definition of the “I” with the “Ubuntu” philosophy?
Sorry, this is a lengthy and long-winded response, but I hope that somewhere inside this rambling you will find an answer to your question(s). -
Deborah, having lived as a nomad for the last five years, I share quite a number of experiences with you. My recollection of all these encounters is that home is a concept, feeling, not a geographically confined location. I have come to understand and appreciate language as a site where sensibilities sociality, curiosity, tolerance, being, and living commune. The idea of home or homelessness is weaved in the multiple ways in which we interlace with a miscellany of languages, and the meaning and expression that we construct (or derive) from being caught up in this cobweb. I would like to hear your experiences about how language has defined, undermined, compromised, refined, re/configured your sense of home(lessness) in all your migratory undertakings. Does home(lessness) have any location in your oscillatory ‘linguisticity’?
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Getting out there! How to find an audience.

It was the end of the evening. I was the last one of twelve participants. I was 22 years old, extremely nervous, and maybe a little bit drunk. I’ve had three or four glasses of red wine, perhaps too much, but I had to calm myself down – this was my first stage appearance ever. I was standing in the spotlight which was too bright for me. I had a couple of pages with poems in my hands and a microphone in front of my face (I had never read with a mic before). The presenter introduced me and joked with the audience. I was too tense to listen. Then he addressed me directly, and from then on things were up to me. I bumped into the microphone and people in the audience started laughing, but I began reading – or rather: I tried to read. It was anything but a good performance. My voice was trembling, I was sweating, I read too fast, and (to be honest) my poems were actually really bad. But surprisingly, the event didn’t end in a disaster. I read my poems, I received my applause, and – most importantly – I survived.
This was my first experience of reading at a poetry slam. It was held at the culture centre Lagerhaus in Bremen – which was the only place in town that organized slams at that time. Nowadays there is a vivid slam culture in Bremen and these so-called ‘open mics’ are a good opportunity for authors to get out and present their texts to an audience. But, these kind of events are only suitable for specific types of texts. Where to go, if you are not a slammer? Where to go to present more complex poetry or prose writing to an audience? Why do people seem to be so much more interested in open mic sessions than in other forms of public readings? The Slammer Filet which is organized by the Tower club for instance is always crowded with students, whereas you usually don’t find more than a handful of people under the age of 60 at more conventional readings.
So, the question for me was and still is: how to create a space for local authors of all kinds of genres to present their work? And: is there a way to bring the above mentioned audiences and generations together? In collaboration with the Bremer Literaturkontor I started a reading series called Doppelpack at the culture centre Dete last spring. Each time we brought together two writers of different generations for a public reading of their works. Afterwards, we opened the stage for other writers of all age groups to participate. Almost one hundred people between the ages of 16 to 80 showed up for these readings. They listened with dedication and gave some terrific feedback after the event. I loved it, and I hope that we will continue to make this happen.
I loved reading The Long, Long River. So glad that I an Watson could let you publish it here!
Are there people who live outside Bremen that come to this? Is there a space for publishers (and other authors) to sell their books? Are there any events for children?
P.s: I am glad you are feeling better.
Yes, some people came from outside of Bremen to the literature week, but I suppose not many. It depends how famous the author is and who reads. On the events of the LW there are always book tables, where you can buy books by the authors who read during the LW. Two readings were for school classes and there was a workshop for the pupils, these events were not for young children, but for teenagers.