Sofia Andrukhovych: "Until the last sentence of writing it is always uncertainty"

Quarantine has hit the cultural industries hard. However, I would cautiously suggest that writers might benefit from this period. It encourages reflection and could potentially lead to a new direction in their work. How do you feel about this time?

No quarantine alone can drive creativity. It all depends on the individual—how they perceive and experience the world. For some, so many prohibitions and restrictions become the impetus for exploration and discovery. Any kind of scarcity always brings about the possibility—and necessity—of compensation. But for others, the loss of familiar sources of inspiration and energy may be overwhelming, leaving them unable to find or create new ones.

In a way, the pandemic’s impact feels like a natural progression of existing global trends. The world was already moving toward this mode of existence—the virus simply provided a compelling excuse. Yet, at its core, human life and relationships remain unchanged. While the ways we communicate may shift, and while physical distance and alienation may become more pronounced, the fundamental need for connection persists. People may begin to feel that physical presence is unnecessary, that long-standing gestures of openness and friendliness can be set aside. Perhaps this even makes our longing for closeness more acute—but does it actually increase? Or does its visibility simply make us more aware of it? Ultimately, such periods do not radically alter human nature; they merely highlight its underlying patterns.

Personally, quarantine did not affect my daily life too much. I was already used to working from home. Some important trips were canceled, and publishing processes slowed down. But this uncertainty does not outweigh the need to continue with my work.
 

Is that because meeting readers in person creates a sense of connection to the author’s world?

As it happened, my new novel Amadoka was published in March, right at the start of quarantine. As a result, I missed out on the usual experiences that accompany a book launch. I had to adapt, organizing online events instead. It was a valuable experience and gave me a lot. However, I found that the remote format required much more energy, yet much of that effort seemed to dissipate, reaching only a fraction of those who were truly interested. Still, of course, it was far better than nothing.

Do you get a lot of feedback on social networks?

I don’t actively seek feedback in that way. For example, I’m not present on social media. I have a Facebook page, but I never visit it — I only use Messenger. Most of the feedback I receive comes indirectly, mainly through my husband, Andriy Bondar, who follows these things more closely. But even then, I ask him not to share too much. If these were live meetings, I wouldn’t — and couldn’t — filter them like that. I value hearing a human voice and seeing the expression in someone’s eyes. That kind of interaction is far more meaningful to me.

Did this psychological challenge affect your willingness to write or the amount of writing you do?

It’s too early to say. Every writer has their own rhythm when working on a topic or a text. External events certainly influence this process, but there are also internal rhythms, tendencies, and capacities that don’t change drastically. Until now, my books have emerged about once every six or seven years. That’s the time I need to explore new languages and tones — to reset and transform. New themes arise, but the fundamental questions remain the same. Each of us spends a lifetime grappling with the same core issues. And that is normal. What matters is finding new ways to address them.

In an old interview, when asked what the writing process means to you, you said it was quite simple. Has your perception changed since then?

Now I’m surprised I ever said that writing is simple. In reality, it’s difficult on every level — even at the stage of forming an idea. Knowing what you want to write about isn’t enough; you can’t start until the idea fully matures.

There are no clear signposts to follow. These things are so hard to articulate that creative people often find themselves in a kind of suspension, lost in an undefined space. Over time, as the idea accumulates details, personal experiences, emotions, and additional discoveries, the path becomes clearer. But until the very last sentence, there is always uncertainty.

Until the last sentence? So you write the text linearly, part by part? You don’t start with the ending or key sections?

It varies. Sometimes fragments come to me that later end up at the end or in the middle of the text. Writing is a structured process, but my plans remain as open as possible. I keep many notes — quotes, thoughts, ideas, sequences of scenes, character dialogue. But often, I don’t even look at them while writing. To a large extent, they exist in my mind, yet the process itself is so immersive that these plans often lose their relevance.

Is writing for you more of a craft or a form of self-discovery through inspiration?

It’s a combination of both. I’m highly critical of my technical skills, though I deeply respect craftsmanship. To me, craft implies a clear understanding of how tools and functions interconnect — planning, precision, predictability, and the technical construction of a work, almost like engineering. But when it comes to creativity, that kind of control is an illusion. The essence of creativity is that it can’t be fully managed. You can strive for greater awareness, design and structure your work carefully, ensure that everything functions — but in the end, the true creative spark lies in letting go, surrendering, and trusting the process.

The novel Felix Austria has already been adapted for the screen. When work on Viddana began, you said that you acknowledged the fact that a film is a different work altogether. Were you able to detach yourself from the process?

Yes, because I understood that this is a field in which I have little practical experience. When I saw the entire production process, I realized that my ideas were far removed from the cinematic mode of expression. This realization helped me maintain a certain distance. I was very fortunate to work with the team behind the adaptation — it was an incredibly valuable experience. Plus, it had a positive effect on book sales, so there was mutual benefit and support.

You are listed as a co-author of the script. Did you actively work on it, given that screenwriting is essentially a different genre?

At first, I refused. Alina Semeryakova wrote the initial draft entirely. But later, I was asked to assist in preparing and adapting the dialogue. We spent a lot of time in the studio, going through every line, every scene. It was fascinating — analyzing characters and situations from a different perspective, discussing motivations and narrative development while considering the entirely different practical constraints of filmmaking. This time, my characters had to exist on screen; they needed a specific appearance, a specific voice. They were less dependent on the imagination of the reader or viewer. Many of my initial script contributions turned out to be too literary and unsuitable for film, so I rewrote them over and over again. It was a valuable learning process.

Felix Austria is largely a novel about illusions and autosuggestion. The film, however, seems to place more emphasis on relationships. Did this cause any dissonance for you?

Of course, I noticed it at the script level, but I understood that, for various reasons, it couldn’t be done differently. Accepting this from the outset helped me avoid frustration.

How does a writer feel when approached with an offer to adapt their work into a film?

It’s a mix of emotions. On the one hand, it’s incredibly exciting and gratifying. On the other, there’s the fear that your work might be ruined. That’s why my experience with Viddana felt like a middle ground. I had envisioned a film adaptation of Felix Austria quite differently. Viddana is essentially a different genre, a different interpretation, a different world. I’d say it presents the novel’s surface layer — a carefully retold plot.

Some writers refuse to have their complex works adapted for film, believing they cannot be adequately translated to the screen. Could Amadoka be adapted?

It’s possible, but it would be a much more difficult task. It might work better as a TV series. A lot of experimental techniques would likely be needed to differentiate the novel’s three distinct parts. Significant adaptation would be necessary — much of the book couldn’t be directly translated to film. When writing Amadoka, I deliberately played with different genres. The section on the Neoclassicists, for example, is essayistic, and essays cannot be made into a film. That’s crucial to recognize — each form of art has its own tools, which don’t always transfer seamlessly to another medium. These are different languages telling the same story. At the same time, there is translation. That said, films about the Neoclassicists are certainly possible — and needed.

You continued your family’s literary tradition, and when asked what shaped you, you’ve said that growing up in a creative environment influenced your early decision to study literature.

Yes, my development was deeply connected to books. And it wasn’t just about reading (though that, of course, played a role), but about the phenomenon of the written word itself — the creation of text. It was about the physical presence of books on shelves, their existence as a source of knowledge about the world, about people, about oneself. First came reading, then came the experience of life and human relationships. This shaped my perception of reality — even the most ordinary things were filtered through that lens. For example, you could call it a kind of professional deformation —

I can’t fully experience life without translating it, in some way, into text. To fully absorb an event, whether personal or observed, I need to imagine it as a narrative.

You went to a natural science school, yet your works, particularly your journalistic pieces, contain references to biology. Do you automatically draw on this knowledge, or do you specifically consult encyclopedias?

Initially, the school was called an "experimental school-laboratory," and I enrolled in a humanities class with a stronger focus on language and literature. However, after a year, the administration decided the experiment had failed and converted the school into a natural sciences lyceum. Our class remained the only humanities-focused one.

I definitely consult reference materials, and they also serve as an additional source of creativity for me. I find writing more engaging — and, in some ways, easier — when I incorporate external sources. While these sources are often dictated by the plot, they also act as catalysts, sparking new artistic techniques and adding deeper layers of meaning.

With Amadoka, there’s a temptation to trace your journey toward such a polyphonic novel. Felix Austria also has its own polyphony and versatility, but Amadoka is a large-scale work, both temporally and thematically, densely interwoven with metaphors — the modern russian-Ukrainian war, the Holocaust, the repressions of the 1930s, and self-awareness across centuries. How did you come to this?

It’s impossible to pinpoint the exact moment it began. Amadoka has several large thematic layers, many smaller narrative threads, and spans multiple time periods. The process of its formation took quite a long time. There were several major, parallel interests that unsettled me and wouldn’t let go — I moved from deep immersion in one topic to another. At one point, I was reading exclusively about the neoclassicists and everything related to them — criticism, memoirs, recollections. I did this intentionally because I was actively searching for ways to write about them. Meanwhile, the subject of the Holocaust became (and remains) a powerful force that seemed to draw me in against my will.

I never imagined I would dare to write about the Holocaust. Neoclassicism was the starting point I intended to focus on and limit myself to in this novel, but I couldn’t find the right tone. The themes of the literary process and the repressions of the 1930s felt insufficient. This may sound immodest, but the issue wasn’t a lack of material or scope — on the contrary, the topic is incredibly complex. I believe that what I managed to capture is only a small part of its vast possibilities.

When I speak of "insufficiency," I mean certain aspects of myself as a writer, particularly how my mental space is structured. It’s an inner world composed of very different elements — diverse in nature and inclination — that exist in a complex relationship. The connections between them aren’t always obvious, and at times, they even contradict one another. This makes life more complicated, but it also creates new opportunities. My decision to merge different time periods, themes, and narrative approaches in Amadoka was my way of reconciling these disparate parts and bringing them into a shared space. In a way, it serves as a metaphor for how we piece together different aspects of our collective history — a history we often perceive as fragmented, whether on a national or personal level. With Amadoka, I was integrating different parts of myself, and I couldn’t have done it any other way. This, in part, is why I combined these three narrative threads into one novel instead of writing three separate books — I simply couldn’t do otherwise. And in the end, it worked.

Lake Amadoka itself is a powerful overarching metaphor. You have often explained that it represents the complexity of deep memory — whether real or false, inspired or forgotten. To what extent can such a text serve as therapy for an individual? And on a larger scale, for a nation?

It’s difficult for me to judge since I am the one who created this text. I can only speak to what I intended. I wanted to offer solace, to find a way to articulate complex topics, to tell the truth, and to confront the intricacy of life and its resistance to simplification. I can, however, reflect on how writing this novel affected me and how similar books function.

For example, if we consider The Museum of Abandoned Secrets by Oksana Zabuzhko, the works of Martin Pollack, or literature that engages with painful, traumatic subjects, these texts often inflict deep pain on the reader. Yet, at the same time, they are transformative. They compel me to endure difficult emotions and to acknowledge that some things — like the existence of unchanging human evil — cannot be altered. But accepting this reality also makes it possible to recognize the good that exists and what we can still do to preserve it.

In your works, extreme dilemmas of good and evil are often veiled and appear in unexpected moments or details. Likewise, love and hate are not portrayed in the classical sense.

Art involves amplifying certain elements to make them more visible. At the same time, it is also about revealing nuances and subtleties that often go unnoticed in daily life. Writing allows me to bring attention to seemingly insignificant details, which is something I also value in other authors' works.

Literature teaches me to notice, to be more aware.

In the third part of Amadoka, which focuses on the Neoclassicists and Viktor Petrov, you deliberately shift literary style, adopting a more formal, journalistic tone. Looking at readers’ reactions, not everyone understood this transition. What effect did you hope to achieve with such a stylistic shift within a single novel?

I wasn’t thinking about the effect. I understood that this approach would make reading more challenging, but I simply knew I couldn’t do it any other way. I was drawn to exploring this genre: it offered a different level of distance while simultaneously allowing for more subjectivity, space for speculation, reasoning, and unanswered questions. And I love unanswered questions — they represent freedom, openness, and shared creativity in the thinking process.

At the same time, this approach felt particularly fitting for the story of Viktor Petrov. His fictional biographies and essays resonate with me the most. Writing this section was extremely difficult, requiring constant effort, but I never questioned the necessity of doing it this way. I realize some readers may stop at this point in the novel. That’s unfortunate, but I accept that this part of the journey is more complex.

Any text as a journey, and I believe that this journey does not have to be smooth and flat. As a reader, I’m drawn to challenges - —to confronting and reshaping my own expectations, to shaking up the habitual flow of my thoughts. I like to tune myself as an instrument when reading such complex and challenging texts as the works of W. G. Sebald, Thomas Bernhard, or Klaus Hoffer.

As a writer, I wanted to create a challenging journey for reader-travelers. Some parts of Amadoka are fast and swift, some are emotionally intense, with the gentleness of the text easing that complexity, while others must be waded through, like crossing a river against the current.

I’ve come across reviews comparing the reading process of Amadoka to a sexual act, which I find remarkably accurate. An act can be predictable, pleasant, and fleeting. But it can also unfold in multiple stages — some bordering on failure, others revealing unsettling truths from the subconscious. Some moments demand effort, others happen effortlessly. And the act doesn’t simply end in a climax — because too much remains unresolved. It’s about self-discovery, about understanding the other, about the joy and value of difficulty and persistence.

In Europe today, there seems to be a resurgence of complex, multi-layered narratives — family sagas, epic novels, multi-generational series. Why do you think this trend is emerging now?

Perhaps this is due to the fact that information technology has filled the space around us and requires a person to change the way their brain works and perceives information. Our ability to focus is shrinking — it’s happening to all of us. Long novels might be a response to this phenomenon, a form of compensation, maybe even an antidote.

You incorporate modern digital tools into the narrative — your character Romana, for example, posts on Instagram. Is this a deliberate narrative device, or simply a way to ground the novel in the present?

This technique makes sense because one of the novel’s key themes is the contrast between the real and the imaginary. What appears convincing on the surface often has another side. Social media is a heightened example of this — it allows people to selectively present themselves, to curate an image, to erase anything undesirable. When individuals do this, it’s one thing. When the same methods are used for mass manipulation, it’s far more dangerous.

These digital tools have shifted the way we experience life. It’s no longer enough to simply feel, see, or do something. Eating a meal or traveling somewhere doesn’t seem to “count” unless it’s documented online. If you don’t post a photo of your dinner, did you really eat it? And even if you did, but no one liked the post, will your body even absorb the nutrients?

Thus, it creates the impression that only those who are present in the network truly exist — those whose presence is validated by the digital attention of countless people. It fascinates me. Sometimes I check live streams on social media: one moment, 10,000 people are watching someone feed chickens in a remote village. The next, 7,000 switch to a bearded man painting on canvas while running on a treadmill. It’s effortless, yet addictive. It’s about totality, speed, dependency, and passivity. But here’s the trick — real life hasn’t disappeared. We’re the ones vanishing from it, allowing ourselves to be confined by the digital world. Meanwhile, life itself remains, along with all its possibilities.

You said that in your works, you are interested not so much in love as in absolute love in a broad sense. You also pay attention to its extreme manifestations.

I am interested in finding love in configurations where it seems there is no place for it. For example, in the relationship between an executioner and a victim. These are very abnormal and distorted manifestations. In the part about the Holocaust, I tried to portray a situation where a very clear, natural, and sincere love, under the pressure of external circumstances — war and violence — becomes so refracted in the minds of the characters that they begin to interpret this feeling completely wrong. The world around them is so broken that the heroine perceives her love as broken and decides to act in the opposite way from what love would usually dictate. This theme allows for a deeper understanding of human nature and its centers of gravity.

Is the Holocaust a little-explored topic in Ukrainian literature?

Very little. I hope this topic will arise more often. Until now, we have hardly spoken about it. This is a kind of catastrophe because Ukraine is a territory where the Holocaust took place on a large scale. This silence is understandable. But there is a need to break it. We know how painful it can be to correct the memory of Soviet repression and pressure in the USSR, or how problematic it was to uncover the truth about the Holodomor. You traveled to Holocaust memorial sites. 

How ready is Ukrainian society to face this tragedy?

Even from the responses to this part of Amadoka, I can say that younger generations have great readiness — for them, it is even a need. It seems that many people have long sought to read, think, and talk about this topic but did not always realize it. Some readers even said they had considered the Holocaust something distant, something that happened in faraway concentration camps, and only now realized its proximity. However, if we talk about specific places tied to this trauma, especially outside major centers, there is much less readiness and need among older generations and those who live physically close to these sites. This is understandable because they are directly closer to this pain. They inherited from their parents a sense of danger in stirring up these topics.

Is it the fear of acknowledging certain things or of being punished for that knowledge? How do we avoid the feeling of general accusations — what is called collective responsibility?

It is an irrational fear that learning about and acknowledging painful events witnessed by one's grandparents will automatically mean personal guilt and, therefore, some form of punishment.

It is important to understand that within such a great tragedy, each situation is also deeply individual. There are very few clear manifestations of outright evil or indisputable self-sacrificing good. The most difficult part is that many cases are highly contradictory. This is something I also tried to depict: the motive for saving a person can stem from selfish, mercantile considerations, while someone else might sacrifice their life out of guilt over past wrongdoing. Only by attempting to learn as much as possible, by listening to different voices, and by going beyond one’s own perspective, can we come closer to understanding.

The novel reflects the context of Ukraine’s current situation. The ongoing war remains in the background, but its presence is evident. The thread of resolution and hope in all three stories is tied to those already called the three sages: Hryhorii Skovoroda, Baal Shem Tov, and Johann Georg Pinsel. Are they our saviors today?

All three are symbols of wisdom that transcend time and events. Each of these sages surpassed human nature in the way he realized himself. Their paths testify to a universal love that exists beyond gender or interpersonal relationships. And each of them shows that a person can become something greater than what they were born as.

Amadoka is a novel about love — about its many different manifestations. In most cases, this love is born in its purest form, but under the pressure of circumstances that deform a person and their fate, it becomes "wrong," twisted to the opposite side, sick, or even poisonous. For me, Skovoroda, Pinsel, and Baal Shem Tov are those who managed to cultivate love in its purest form. Those who surrendered to it and allowed it to transform them.

These figures in the novel also embody the unpredictability I spoke about. For a long time, I even resisted including them in the text because it was already expanding significantly. Yet each of them is directly connected to one of the parts, to a setting, to a particular character. Each embodies a certain ideal that proved unattainable for the novel’s protagonists. I might have thought that I alone decided whether or not to write about them. But, in truth, they decided.

Translated by Kateryna Kazimirova and Anna Petelina

Photo by Valentyn Kuzan