I attended an American writers’ conference in Texas, just before the world plunged into Covid-19 lockdowns. Between panels and networking, I spent my time wandering around the book fair, leafing through titles and peppering publishers with questions.

“How many translated works are in your catalogues? How do you discover authors from outside the US? And how do you evaluate the quality of writing in languages you don’t speak?”

I wasn’t just curious – I was on a mission. I wanted to know what kind of work appealed to American publishers and whether mine might catch their interest. I didn’t bother hiding my ambition.

One response has stayed with me, lodged in my mind like a spore. It came from a representative of one of the largest US publishing houses. After I explained where I was from, using buzzwords like “former Yugoslavia’s northern republic” and “not a war zone at the moment”, he offered this piece of advice:

“Think about stories and themes specific to your culture and the history of the place.”

“So,” I ventured, “not a story about, say, a woman who leaves her career in finance, divorces her husband, and becomes a potter?”

“Well, if that story also explored your cultural or historical issues, then yes.”

I felt a prick of annoyance but thanked him politely and walked away. A coffee and cigarette suddenly felt essential.

In the years since, I’ve come to understand why his words irritated me so much. They exposed a pattern – one that still frustrates me.

For authors from the Balkans, and other European nations and countries worldwide whose........

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