“Dennis Mombauer lives in Colombo, Sri Lanka, where he works as Director: Research & Knowledge Management at SLYCAN Trust, a non-profit think tank focused on climate change. He is also a writer of weird fiction and climate fiction as well as co-publisher of a German magazine for experimental fiction. His English debut novella, “The House of Drought,” was published by Stelliform Press in July 2022. He has also published a collection of short stories under the title “The House of the Dark Whale.“

The Asian Review had the opportunity to interview Mombauer in Colombo and hear about his writing, shortlisted fiction “House of Drought”, and his sentiments about being shortlisted in this highly anticipative time as the World Fantasy Award will be announced in October. 

“The House of Drought” is your debut English novel, but you are not a novice to the world of literature. Can you introduce yourself to our readers across the world? 

Thank you for this opportunity! I’ve been writing for quite a few years now, starting in German and then gradually moving into English. In addition to “The House of Drought,” which was published in 2022 with Stelliform Press, I have also published a German novel, a chapbook, and around a hundred short stories in magazines, anthologies, and podcasts, some of which have been translated into other languages (Chinese, Estonian, Romanian, Spanish). Furthermore, I’m co-founder and publisher of a German magazine for experimental fiction (“Die Novelle”) and also write a lot of non-fiction related to my work on climate change at SLYCAN Trust, a non-profit think tank based in Sri Lanka.

Congratulations on The House of Drought being shortlisted for the World Fantasy Awards; what are your thoughts about that?

Again, thank you. My first reaction was actually surprise, as I really didn’t expect this—but it’s a wonderful surprise, and I’m excited to see what’ll happen with the nomination for the World Fantasy Awards as well as the one for the Utopia Awards, which are both going to be decided in October. I hope that the inclusion of “The House of Drought” on the ballot might help to create attention for climate change as a crucial global challenge with complex impacts across the world, and for Sri Lanka as a place with interesting and captivating stories. There are many stories from Sri Lanka being told by Sri Lankan authors, and I really encourage everyone to check them out.

What is in the backdrop of setting a significant part of this story in Sri Lanka? 

I’ve been living in Sri Lanka for almost seven years now, and I draw a lot of inspiration from my daily observations, my life, and my work here. However, while “The House of Drought” is set in Sri Lanka, I wouldn’t necessarily describe it as a story about Sri Lanka. It covers topics and themes that are relevant to the country and have unique local shapes and forms, but I wanted to also use this in a more symbolic way and talk about climate change as a global issue, in a global language, with a global mythology. So, in a way, everything in the book is based on symbolism, it is a weird, alienated version of Sri Lanka where nothing can be accurately placed (the location, the people, the names), and where the house is more than just a house, the forest more than just a forest, and the drought more than just a drought.

Throughout the novel, there are characters interacting with the house, and I would say that the house represents different things to them. For example, it could be argued that the house is a symbol for our home on this planet, but it could also be seen as a specific way of interacting with the environment, namely colonialism and capitalism. The house was built by someone who didn’t understand the land, and it was forced upon both the surrounding communities and the natural ecosystem. However, there is also a character in the novel who seeks safety in the house and feels threatened by the Sap Mother, which perhaps presents the forces of nature, indicating that not everything about the house is bad, but that something about it has gone deeply wrong.

Setting stories across borders is often challenging—what are the challenges you face in setting this story in Sri Lanka, and how did you overcome them? 

I see the key challenges as getting it right and showing respect. I’m aware that there are many uniquely Sri Lankan stories that aren’t mine to tell, and that there is always a danger of appropriating a culture or mythology. However, three things: Firstly, my writing is based on observation, conversations, and living here for several years, which has given me a certain exposure to Sri Lanka. While I’m still a foreigner, my writing is based on first-hand experience, which hopefully helps to ground it and avoid the biggest inaccuracies. Secondly, as I mentioned, the book isn’t necessarily about Sri Lanka, and it isn’t a naturalist novel but a work of weird fiction. It has no fixed location on the island, it can’t be easily pinned down, it’s slightly off, de-familiarized, alienated. Thirdly and finally, the novel itself incorporates something similar to my viewpoint through its framing plot, which follows a foreign documentary filmmaker as he begins to investigate the story of the house and its various inhabitants.

Wolf has demonstrated an outstanding awareness of the place, and Ondaatje has notable false references in his books set in Sri Lanka for which he is criticised despite the fact that “English Patient” and “Running in the Family” are great stories—how do you see this as a foreign writer who has written about Sri Lanka? 

I try to get it right within the constraints outlined above, i.e., me being a foreigner and the book not aiming to provide a 100% realistic version of Sri Lanka. In general, though, it isn’t necessarily about every detail, but about telling a story that feels real to its readers, a story that treats its setting and subject with respect. A foreign writer might never get every single detail right—and indeed, even a local writer might struggle, as there are a thousand different locations, subcultures, and experiences in any country—, but he can take care to convey the overall spirit, to capture the essence while also telling a compelling and important story. Furthermore, I believe there is also value to seeing the familiar from an outsider’s perspective and trying to make sense of it, as it can highlight things that a local writer might take for granted, and call attention to issues that transcend the local and national level, such as climate change.

You have worked across diverse genres, and some of your work, including “The House of Drought”, is written beyond the so-called borders of “genres” on the shelf— how do you find writing across the genres? 

My writing has always been experimental, and I try to utilise a story’s form as much as its content to achieve maximum effect. Genres are obviously useful when it comes to selling books, marketing books, structuring bookstores, buying books, or writing a history of fiction—but they shouldn’t be cages for stories to be locked into. Many of my favourite works, such as “House of Leaves,” “Invisible Cities,” or “The Instrumentality of Mankind” stories, defy genres and are bold literary experiments that really break free from expectations in various ways. With my writing, I try to put the story first and worry about getting published second, although of course, that might not be great advice for anyone looking to become a best-selling writer.

Also, just to add this, writing weird fiction is something I really enjoy, and which allows me to explore things that are beyond my ability to express directly, using a variety of techniques and stylistic devices. In the “House of Drought,” for example, the titular house exerts its influence throughout the pages by twisting the story structure and turning it as upside down as its own hidden interior: the chapters start at the climax and then jump back, and even some individual scenes have inverted or untraditional structures.

In an ideal world of publishing, cross-genre literature should get more attention from agents and publishers, but still, the publishing world has its conventional genres; in recent years, there has been a growth of readership for cross-genre literature, and books belonging to this zone have won prestigious prizes. As an author, could you tell me what your thoughts are about this situation? 

As I said above, genres certainly have utility, but they can also constrain the imagination or banish non-genre-conforming books to obscurity. On the one hand, writing “between” genres presents a barrier for getting published, as many (especially big) publishers are looking strictly in terms of genres, and to some extent, disincentivise novel approaches, as they require an established market and comparison to existing titles. On the other hand, I feel that there are publishers looking to find genre-bending or genre-defying works now, and who are more than happy to take the risk with something that is unique and innovative. For “The House of Drought,” I was fortunate to find an amazing publisher in Stelliform Press, and they have a wonderful range of other cross-genre, inventive, idiosyncratic, and fascinating books, many of which focus on climate change. There is change in the publishing world, but it’s often the small, niche publishers who are at the forefront, even though they have much lesser safety nets and resources than the big established houses.

“The House of Drought” and most of your work reflect on critical issues such as climate change; what are your thoughts about literature as a tool of Social Behavioural Change Communication and Community Mobilisation? 

Climate change has become a defining global challenge with far-reaching, complex, compound, and cascading impacts across the world. Human and natural systems are changing at a speed and scale that poses a challenge not only for addressing but also for comprehending, visualising, and communicating them—and I feel this isn’t adequately addressed in current fiction and culture. Through my research and policy work on climate change, I try to bridge the communication and comprehension gap through outreach and knowledge products that provide a basis for action—but there are certain elements that non-fiction has a hard time conveying.

For me, the weird mode of writing circumvents the limitations of non-fiction and the rational exploration of climate change. It opens new spaces of ideas and connects to readers on a deeper level than just conscious thinking, letting them experience the emotion of being affected by climate change. This is something that has precedents: for example, when American journalists during World War II struggled to grasp the immensity and almost incomprehensible scale of the war, they often switched to using words such as “weird,” “haunted,” “eerie,” “uncanny,” or “ghostly.” By using the logic of the supernatural, the war became tangible and experiential again, allowing these writers to translate the reality of the frontlines for their readers at home. Similarly, the genre of cyberpunk was, at least in my opinion, not primarily focused on predicting specific technologies or social configurations, but about a feeling of the future, the experience of being lost in an increasingly complex, inhuman, and unintelligible world.

With my writing, I aim to make climate change tangible and offer a glimpse into what it means to be exposed and vulnerable to its impacts. By doing this through a non-realist mode and using supernatural and weird writing, it allows readers to leave their own empirical world and connect on a deeper level, which could then also be seen as a tool of advocacy and a way to complement research and traditional awareness creation.

Do you have new work in the pipeline? Please give a hint to our readers across the world. 

I’m currently working on two projects that will explore climate change from very different perspectives. One has the working title “Urban Patchwork” and is set in a fictional city between Europe and Asia, combining attributes of both in sometimes contradictory ways. It explores the intersecting stories of twelve characters from different walks of life—such as a garbage man, a rail worker, a kiosk owner, a cab driver, a bicycle courier, an urban explorer, a homeless veteran, and more—who encounter either the mysterious figure of the Fisherman or get lost in the dry wasteland of the tangle, two aspects of (climate) change that beleaguer the city and want to transform it. The other project is a secondary world fantasy novel about politics, refugees, academia, and architecture against the backdrop of a different, yet familiar, kind of climate change. Again, this has a diverse set of characters, but their stories are told in a more traditional way and through a richly realized setting.

Again, thank you so much for interviewing me—if any of your readers have any other questions or want to reach out to me, I would be very happy to connect.