A deep conversation with publisher Andrej Janushkevich on the price of literary success, what makes a book truly good, the rise of literary stars and hits, and how writers are (or aren’t) motivated by money and public recognition.
“I became an ‘adventurer’ not out of luxury — I simply had no other choice!”
At one point, you took the risk of publishing a writer you knew almost nothing about — not even their real name, just a pseudonym.
Yes — Kamila Tsien’. What intrigued me most was that it was a detective novel — a genre that’s sorely lacking in Belarusian literature. And the text itself was engaging and distinctive. I reached out to this unknown author by email, we made an agreement, and I took the risk. Readers appreciated it. A win for all three sides.
That really worked out well. Have there been many such “adventurous” cases?
This so-called “adventure” wasn’t driven by comfort — far from it. Here’s the paradox: officially, we have hundreds of prose writers, poets, and playwrights. And yet… I call out into the void: Where have you all gone? Where are your new works?! I appeal on social media: Write, send us your manuscripts! If you’re still in Belarus, we’ll publish you under a pseudonym…
And how do they respond?
It gets almost absurd: some writers are afraid to submit their manuscripts — they’re scared of rejection, imagine that! But hey, if you’re afraid of wolves, don’t go into the forest!
Honestly, this initiative of mine — knocking on authors’ doors asking “Have you written anything?” — that’s not how it should be. The offer, especially a persistent one, should come from the writer.
Why are Belarusian writers producing so little?
It’s complicated, and we shouldn’t be too quick to hand down verdicts — not from publishers, nor from readers. We shouldn’t blame writers for creative laziness or fear without understanding the context.
We must remember: books are rarely written “just because.” Most writers hope for some form of recognition or success — because that might bring direct dividends in the form of royalties, media attention, or social prestige.
In other words, media visibility and financial incentives do matter for most authors. But in the Belarusian literary and publishing world, these factors are practically nonexistent! As a result, a writer doesn’t want to work “into the void.”
“Only those who feel truly called to write — who can’t not write — keep creating tirelessly.”
That’s what I see, for example, in Alhierd Bacharevič and Zaraslava Kaminskaya.
A star debut: Martynovich soared, Horvat faded
Let me say something controversial. We have an excellent prize to encourage young writers — the Debut Award. A sort of literary launchpad. But from what I’ve observed over the past 10 years, the emergence and development of new literary voices hasn’t become a consistent phenomenon.
You’re sure? That’s debatable!
I’ll clarify: for example, Viktar Martynovich received this award early in his literary career.
And what about Andrej Horvat?
Well… after “Radziwa ‘Pruŭdok’,” he released one more book — and that was it. He seems like someone who stumbled into writing by chance. Although I’d be happy to be wrong.
So have you lost faith in emerging talent?
Not at all. I see great potential in someone like Zaraslava Kaminskaya. She loves to write, has already published three books — all solid, and you can clearly see her growth.
But take another example: Uladzimir Sadouski. Back in 2017, he made a splash with “1813” — the first Belarusian zombie horror novel. And then silence. Life circumstances didn’t allow him to continue writing.
Let me offer a comparison. In Ukraine, there’s a writer named Andriy Kokotiukha. He’s in his fifties now and has published nearly a hundred books! He writes nonfiction, retro detective stories, romance novels, and children’s books — and people say they’re quite good. That’s an example of literary productivity in an environment where creative work matters — where it brings both recognition and financial stability.
As a counterpoint: during roughly the same period, our own journalist and author Alyaksandr Tamkovich published around 30 documentary books. Not bad either!
But few people heard about them!
I wouldn’t say that. The difference is, Tamkovich didn’t gain much in terms of acclaim or income — as you said…
Exactly! That points to another issue: sometimes we publish things solely “for the archive.”
Bestsellers and literary hits — can we predict them?
It’s a complex topic — care to explain?
Do you remember those famous lines by Maksim Bahdanovič about the joy of having a book printed by Martsin Kuchta? Have you ever considered how ambiguous that line is? To me, it speaks purely to the emotional value of publication — the fact that your work exists in print.
Sometimes I even tell authors: for the sake of economy, why don’t we print just two copies — one for the National Book Chamber (so your name enters the bibliographic record of Belarusian literature), and one for your own bookshelf. You can show it to guests, kids, friends — be proud of it…
That’s a simplified reading of Bahdanovič.
It fits the topic of vanity publishing. But there’s also a deeper meaning: you hope, you expect, you believe your work will reach a wide audience — that it will become an anticipated cultural event!
I’m also against writing only for some narrowly defined “inner circle.”
What publisher doesn’t dream of a breakthrough hit?
“What I really mean is this: we must get rid of the illusion that every book you write will be a bestseller.”
In our context, aiming for such heights of recognition is only realistic if you have a strong, established author brand. Like Alhierd Bacharevič, for example. But he’s earned it — through talent and years of tireless work.
Or take our recent release — “The Shining” by Stephen King. His second novel, published in 1977, became a global literary legend. We released it as a collector’s edition and invested heavily in the cover and design — big thanks to Nastassia Pazniak (and another designer whose name we’ll keep anonymous for now). This was Nastassia’s second design for Janushkevich, after her work on “The Lord of the Rings.” I also consider the translation by Nasta Karnatskaya excellent — and by the way, it was her debut.
King, of course, ended his cooperation with Russian publishers, right?
The red light is on for his new works, but existing contracts for older titles remain valid for the agreed term. Right now, we’re aiming to publish something new by him. If we had subsidies or external funding, we wouldn’t hesitate! Still, I have to say — even a classic like King doesn’t guarantee that every new book will be a hit. And we can’t afford to publish him “just because it’s King.” Any misstep in our situation comes at a painful cost.
Russian and Ukrainian publishers release everything by King, so their audiences expect and notice each new title automatically. Unfortunately, the situation for Belarusians is different.
So what titles do top the charts in Belarus?
One consistent success is “What Are You Looking For, Wolf?” by Eva Vezhnavets. It’s a phenomenon — three years of strong, steady reader demand!
Could her media presence be one of the reasons? Even if most of her interviews aren’t about literature, her name still circulates — and her bestseller is always mentioned in passing. So we return to that eternal question of promotion, don’t we?
From what I’ve seen, she became a media personality only in the past year and a half. But the book was published in 2020.
No, the main reason for the book’s popularity is the theme — it resonated deeply with a wide audience. And of course, the prose itself is of high quality. Let me remind you: the novel won the highest literary award in Belarus — the Giedroyc Prize. And that win came with full agreement from both the jury and the public. That kind of alignment is rare in any creative competition — national or international.
Translations, peer buzz, and the true signal of quality
An objective marker of a book’s quality is when it gets translated into several European languages. Yes, this depends in part on the effort and activism of Eva Vezhnavets’s publishers — but let’s be honest, Western publishers won’t invest in a work that lacks literary value or potential. Media presence certainly helps, but in our conditions, the best advertising is still good old word of mouth. Someone hears something somewhere — and suddenly people are sharing impressions across social media…
Popularity: unpredictable as a plot twist
So you’re saying the path to fame and public recognition is anything but straightforward?
Exactly. Even with all my experience, the success of any given new release — not even a bestseller, just a notable title — remains a mystery. It’s like the suspense of a well-crafted plot. Once a book starts gaining traction, it spreads like ripples in water: each new circle wider than the last, triggering the next.
Can you name a recent title from Janushkevich that caused such ripples?
The Time of Weeds (Čas pustazelʹlia) by Hanna Yankuta.
Do you also experience the opposite — books with prominent authors, strong media coverage, and solid promo campaigns that simply don’t move?
Absolutely. Every book I publish is good — I can guarantee that. But some fly, and others just don’t take off.
And it hurts — not just the author, but the publisher too. It’s deeply frustrating when a great work gets undeservedly overlooked.
Still, here’s an important clarification: not every book is intended for a wide audience. And unfortunately, you can’t know just how wide that audience is until you try.
Have you had misjudged expectations?
I have a background in history, so I understand nonfiction quite well. I was certain that Sliunkou by Dzianis Martinovich would be a huge success. But it didn’t catch on as expected — though a niche group of readers was absolutely thrilled.
Another example: we published the outstanding and talented novel Mesopotamia by renowned Ukrainian author Serhiy Zhadan. But we didn’t fully consider certain factors — maybe the closeness of our languages, which allowed many to read the original, or again, the narrowness of the target audience. Financially, it was a painful failure.
What did you learn from that?
A seemingly obvious thing: you have to clearly understand who the audience is. And your promo strategy must be built around that understanding. A simple slogan like “Buy Zhadan’s book!” probably won’t even reach his core fans. You need to explain to readers why this particular book matters — what makes it original and worth reading.
And yet I’ll contradict myself: even with a well-planned campaign, it’s entirely possible that I, the publisher, am the one who’s mistaken — that it’s me who believes the book suits the moment, while readers decide otherwise. They might say: “Yes, it’s destined to be a classic — but not now. Maybe in a few decades…”
We can’t read Karatkevich or Kupala and Kolas forever. And yet…
Time really does make its own unexpected corrections.
You worked for nearly nine years with a Russian-speaking readership, for whom Belarusian books were often perceived as something exotic — a sign of originality or even elitism. Would you say that perception has now shifted? That owning a Belarusian book abroad today is more a sign of patriotism — sincere patriotism?
Yes, I’d say that’s a fair observation. It used to be a kind of cultural curiosity: “Oh, you have a Belarusian book? That’s niche!” Now, for many readers — especially those in exile or part of the diaspora — buying and reading a Belarusian-language book has become an act of commitment. A statement. An expression of belonging. And that’s a deeply honest motivation — perhaps the most honest kind of reader a book can have.
“It’s not about patriotism — a book requires silence, privacy, and something profoundly personal”
I don’t think it’s about patriotism per se. A book demands stillness and privacy. I’m not a fan of the overly simplistic logic: I love my country — therefore, I must read in Belarusian. What I do see is that, especially since the war in Ukraine began, more and more thoughtful Belarusians are reflecting on their identity — on their desire not to be associated with Russia, even in a “Belarusian version.”
If you want to feel Belarusian, you must consume your own culture. That’s the first point.
The second: you need a quality, meaningful cultural product to return to — something you’ll seek out with intention and, sometimes, unexpectedly. To put it bluntly: if someone decides to buy Tolkien and can’t find it in Belarusian, they’ll read it in the next-closest available language — which in our case is usually Russian.
I’m convinced: if you can’t find engaging books in Belarusian, you won’t suddenly switch to reading Kupala and Kolas just out of principle. That would be absurd. Once again: we can’t spend our whole lives rereading Karatkevich. And the fact that he remains the most popular “contemporary” author in polls and rankings — even though he died in 1984 — is, frankly, more a reason for concern than for pride.
So you wouldn’t describe the current interest in Belarusian literature as purely patriotic?
No, I’d say something else is at play. Right now, the key challenge is meeting people’s cultural needs. It’s like why we go to hypermarkets — there are endless options for whatever we feel like buying at the moment. We want choice, variety, precision. The same is true for books: the more selection, the better.
This applies to broader cultural consumption, too.
Are readers becoming more selective?
Absolutely. People won’t read Belarusian books indiscriminately just because they’re printed in Belarusian. What they seek now is something personal — something that feels like theirs for many different reasons, in this specific moment. And preferably in their native language. Because the times are finally right for it.
Compared to our neighbors — are we falling behind?
Unfortunately, yes. Take Lithuania. They have no problem accessing either the classics or the latest world literature — literally all the major European and American titles are available in Lithuanian.
And how many books by local authors?
More than Belarusians ever had during their best publishing years.
Ukraine is another success story.
Has the war not slowed that down?
On the contrary, the last two years have brought a real boom. New bookstores and publishers are opening. Book sales have grown several times over.
And Russian books?
They’ve vanished from Ukraine. That’s it — done. Even though in the past, there were lots of quasi-legal operations: Moscow companies setting up branches in Kyiv or Odesa, printing Russian-language books by Russian authors and distributing them across the country. But now — it’s the era of Ukrainian and international writers.
So the writer-reader bond is not only possible — it’s real?
It is. And it’s growing stronger.
From a business perspective — what are you hearing now? What’s the current “tick”?
One signal is a cooling of interest in children’s literature, which used to be one of our strongholds. For instance, we republished two Cat Shprots books by Hanna Yankuta — and a third is on the way. Valer Hapeyeu’s fantasy series Volniary for teens and adults has become quite popular. There’s also a new, still largely undiscovered book for younger readers: The Sea in the City by Belarusian author Elha Papova. But the wave of excitement is waning…
What’s causing this negative trend?
Maybe it’s because for emigrant parents, the top priority now is helping their kids integrate into a new school and social environment. Without mastering the local language, they’ll be outsiders. So they’re more likely to buy a Polish book — because at this moment, they don’t see a practical purpose in a Belarusian one.
But keeping a connection to one’s homeland?
Of course, it matters deeply. But that’s more of an inner, personal thing. Meanwhile, the external world — the new context of exile — is starting to dominate. Right now (hopefully only temporarily), the priority has shifted toward adaptation and socialization.
Still, has overall interest in Belarusian books declined?
Quite the opposite — it’s encouraging. For the past year and a half, national authors consistently hold top spots in our sales rankings. When we were just starting back home in Belarus, that wasn’t the case — those lists were always led by translated bestsellers.
Now you’ll find Alhierd Bacharevič standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Márquez, Hemingway, and Remarque. The same goes for Eva Vezhnavets, Kamila Tsienʹ, and Hanna Yankuta.
That’s why we’re so eager for more original Belarusian literature — because people have a very specific, very real need for it.
“No one else will tell our story in literature — except us.”
Let’s take, for example, Polish or German literature. In essence, they largely exist within their own national space. These countries have their own literary megastars — and yet no one knows them in France, the UK, or the US. They’re mostly writing for internal consumption. Now and then, someone breaks into the global arena — like recent Nobel laureate Olga Tokarczuk.
But my focus is on something else: it turns out you can thrive within your own cultural boundaries. You can become a star at home, write bestsellers simply because you’re grounded in your own soil.
Detective novels written from within the Polish context. Domestic dramas based on national realities. Not to mention historical or documentary literature. The result? An ordinary person can look into such a book like a mirror — and see themselves reflected there.
That’s not going to happen when you read French, English, or American novels. Those authors tell stories about themselves, their countries, their contexts.
So Belarusian writers have that chance too?
Yes. But it has to be done well. If you write about yourself in a compelling, truthful way — then your work will resonate. Then the writer-reader connection becomes complete and mutual. And that’s a beautiful thing.
Unfortunately, that’s often exactly what’s missing. In the past two years, we’ve had — at best — five such books. And other publishing houses aren’t seeing better results either.