
As part of the Barrio | Bairro Berlin literature festival, which takes place from October 10 to 17, there will be five events in the Lettrétage. The festival aims to make the Latin American literary scene in Berlin more visible and improve networking between its players. The events will focus on Berlin as a central location for Latin American writing outside Latin America and will be held in German & Spanish or German & Portuguese with simultaneous translation. Videos and sound interventions by various artists will also be shown during the talks and readings.
For the second interview in our series we have spoken with author J. A. Menéndez-Conde about his view on the Latin American literary scene in Berlin, his desicion to write short stories and the developement of his writing.
1. Which topics are particularly important to you with regard to Latin American literature in Berlin? Do you have specific hopes for the festival and its impact?
I had the fortune—or perhaps misfortune—of leaving Latin America when I was 18, still just a kid. What has stayed with me since then, no matter where I’ve lived, is the experience of being an immigrant—never fully returning to the place that was once called home, where you’re surrounded by people like you. Now, at 40, I’m still an immigrant, and I always will be.
Over time, I’ve stopped focusing on the specific topics that Latin American writers are “supposed” to be interested in. Instead, I’ve turned my attention to the bigger questions I find in any story I consider beautiful. The Big Questions: How should we be living? Are we here to accomplish something? What truly matters? What is truth, and how can we even recognize it? How do we live joyfully in a world that pushes us toward loving others, only to separate us from them in the end, no matter what?
What I hope to find in Barrio Berlin is a community of people who’ve made reading a central part of their lives because they know, from experience, that reading makes us more open and generous. To read and write is to say that we still believe in the possibility of connection.
2. How do you perceive the Latin American literary scene in Berlin? What distinguishes it from other literary scenes?
I read the other day that the Latin American literary scene in Berlin is growing. That is true—there are certainly more editorial projects, books, fairs and readings in Spanish. But it often feels like the same two or three people from Alfaguara get all the attention and dictate what Berlin should represent as a city, as well as what writers should be writing. Ironically, they’re usually just passing through, benefiting from scholarships and patronage, experiencing Berlin as the “cool” place to be. It’s similar to the art scene. Whether in Mexico City, Madrid, or Berlin, there are always people who prefer talking about writing rather than doing the actual thing.
3. Do you have projects and events that are part of the Latin American literature scene in Berlin that you would like to recommend? General tips for the literature scene are also very welcome.
There are some interesting and beautiful things growing in Berlin. There are literary projects like Siesta Verlag or weRstories, where I’m being published—both small houses that work hard to get their work out there, producing beautiful, carefully crafted things. There’s also Desbandada, a Spanish-speaking magazine that serves as a platform for Berlin writers. Another interesting spot is Salón Berlinés, where book presentations and events are held. And then there’s Bartleby & Co., a magical bookstore and workshop space. These are the places that help keep Berlin writers and literary scene afloat.
4. You started writing with short stories. What was it about the format that particularly appealed to you compared to other literary forms?
I was born a reader, so to speak. When I was thirteen, I was sent to a boarding school where, from 3:00 to 6:30 p.m., we were supposed to be in complete silence, doing homework in our rooms. I always finished quickly—not because I was particularly smart, but because I knew I could copy some of the work from friends. The rest of the time, I read stories. Whatever I could find, shared among the other kids. I remember reading amazing stories by Roald Dahl, about people who would bet their fingers or listen to trees with machines. I remember crows and cats brought to life by Edgar Allan Poe that scared me to the bone. Until I got to university, most of the books I read were short stories—perfect for reading on the metro, bus, or even in class, where I always sat in the back.
Then I started trying to write them. I won a prize before attending Samantha Schweblin’s workshop here in Berlin, and I felt invincible. Soon enough I realized that not only was I a bad writer, but I didn’t even know how to read properly.
I say I was born a reader because, after attempting to write stories myself, I slowly started to feel different. Writing is an illness; reading is the natural state. I now read in order to write. I read out of an obsession with writing. One doesn’t just study writers; one thinks, “I’d love to try that.” And I did—I tried creating worlds within a few pages, over and over again.
Short stories are like circles, bubbles that close in on themselves. Novels, on the other hand, tend to build highways, always offering a way back home—especially contemporary novels.
A few years ago, my editor at weRstories helped me realize that I had been writing about the same characters over and over. They were part of something bigger, more complex. She opened my eyes and gave me the push to write longer, more expansive stories—ones that could spill beyond the margins. That’s how my first novel, Huesos de Bolsillo, came to be.
5. How does your life in Berlin influence your writing? Are there linguistic and cultural interactions?
Berlin has been my home for over ten years and is the backdrop for most of my fiction. In my novels, it often takes on the role of another character, seen through the subjective lens of the people I write about. My interaction with reality can sometimes feel like a burden. There are subjects I’d love to explore, but I carry my obsessions with me, like a snail with its shell—a weight that follows me, even into my dreams.
In my fiction, I’m not really interested in mirroring reality. What I care about is shining a sharp light on the city. The more intense that light, the more distortions I see in the life around me. For a fiction writer, one place has to stand in for all places, and the challenge is to evoke that one place through the small, concrete details that make it feel real. While a writer can choose what to write about, they can’t always choose what truly comes to life on the page.
6. Are there certain themes that run through your writing and that you keep coming back to? Are there topics that have not yet found a place in your writing but that you would like to address?
I don’t usually think about a theme when I start a story. I approach each one in a chaotic way, without a set plan—like walking through a foggy room where I create the boundaries and the rules I have to follow. Most of the time, I write to discover what I already know. Instead of focusing on themes, I think about scenes I want to explore or structures and forms I want to experiment with.
It’s in the rewriting phase that I start shaping the story, figuring out what I’m trying to say, or what questions I’m asking. Looking back, the things I often end up asking the reader—or inviting them to explore in this room I’ve created—are about family, identity, home, and the act of writing and reading itself. What does art mean? Is there any truth in it?
I know that the stories I’ve always wanted to write never turned out the way I thought they would. Not even once. Fiction reminds us that everything remains uncertain, open to discovery. What I do know is this: writing is not therapy or a hobby. That’s the last thing it is. Writing is a disease, an obsession, an absurdity—fate. Those who must write, write. Those who don’t, see it as something charming. But a writer knows she must stay drunk on writing, or reality will destroy her.