Sophia Hembeck: Between the Personal and Political

Thoughts turn into words. For Sophia Hembeck, they become writing, as if the act itself is second nature. She speaks about it like breathing, something essential that needs to be released. Now, after publishing two books in five years, she is preparing to complete her essay trilogy with a third. 

The trilogy wasn’t planned—it began as an essay, which grew into a book and then evolved into a series, almost like a living organism. Yet, in reality, it was simply the outpouring of Hembeck’s mind. Her books are autobiographical, bearing herself open; to an extent at least. Writing from a female perspective doesn’t make her a feminist writer, yet her prose—steeped in existential dread, personal excavation— reads as political. Where does the line fall? What does it mean to write as a woman today?

When she answered the call from Edinburgh she spoke as I imagined, meticulously like an author writing sentences and passages. Ahead of Feminist Fight Day, we sit down to talk about the freedom of self-publishing, the fluidity between fiction and nonfiction, and the art of shaping a literary identity on your own terms.

SLEEK: When you write as a woman, does it automatically take on a female perspective, or are there specific themes that define it?

Sophia Hembeck: I experience life as a woman, which naturally shapes my perspective. When I think about it, all my books reflect this because being perceived as a woman puts you in situations that a heterosexual white man wouldn’t experience. That’s why I’m constantly engaging with the concept of womanhood. But in literature, there’s this terrible tendency to label everything a woman writes as women’s literature as so called “chick-lit”. If I write an essay about my life, it’s seen as a diary entry; if a man does the same, it’s considered an autobiography. That being said, these categories are becoming more fluid.

S: Do you think it’s ever possible to separate your writing from your identity as a woman?

SH: I also have a lot of male readers, and what I’ve noticed is that, in the end, the core themes—existential dread, how to live a good life—are universal. Everyone can relate to navigating life, regardless of gender.

S: You’ve said that writing from a female perspective doesn’t necessarily make you a feminist writer. But would you still consider your work political?

SH: I am a feminist, I’m just not sure if the label feminist writer fits completely in regard to my work. Perhaps I am overthinking it. There’s this classic feminist phrase: The personal is political. The moment I write about my own experiences, they automatically exist on a political level. In my first book there’s an essay where I write about studying creative writing which, of course, was shaped by the experience of being perceived as a woman. The power dynamics were obvious—how male and female authors were criticized differently. My second book had a long essay that dealt with domestic violence and the way my generation was often raised with these softened forms of violence that are still deeply traumatic. That, too, was a political topic for me, because it’s something that often goes unspoken.

S: You always seem to be creating, always writing. How do you sustain that constant output?

SH: I try not to analyse my creative process too much because it’s magical to me. And dissecting it too much would take away that magic. But I would say that I have a deep curiosity for life and for experiencing it fully. Just last week, before finishing my book, I had a crisis and went for a walk. There’s a sentence that always grounds me: Just make it beautiful. Beautiful doesn’t mean perfect—it means making the process beautiful. That night, I bought myself snacks, lit a candle, and decided to flirt with my book, seduce my book. The success of publishing something is fleeting—it lasts five minutes, maybe a day. The real motivation comes from making the act of writing itself enjoyable. I don’t think writing is about discipline. I write because I have to, because there’s a need inside me. My job is just to create the best conditions for it to take form.

S: You self-publish your books, how does this influence your process of writing?

SH: There’s a tendency in traditional publishing or the art scene that often feels a bit like being treated like a child. You have an agent, a publisher, people who give you a platform, and in theory, you just need to focus on your work. But often, there’s a power imbalance. As an author, you have little say over crucial decisions—how your book is marketed, what the cover looks like—all things that matter deeply to me. That’s why self-publishing made sense. It aligns with how I live my life: as autonomously and freely as possible.

Another aspect of self-publishing was that I didn’t have initial funding. I crowdfunded my book, which, for me, was also a way of asking: Do people actually want to read this? Is it relevant enough? Instead of convincing a handful of people at a publishing house, I wanted to gain the trust of actual readers.

S: Do you think your books would have been published traditionally if you hadn’t taken the self-publishing route?

SH: In Germany, there’s a kind of personality cult in literature—some people are allowed to write about their lives, and others aren’t. It’s not that it’s forbidden, but rather how it’s perceived. If you’re not a famous figure, your story is quickly dismissed as mere introspection. For me, self-publishing happened because my first book was born during the pandemic. So who knows? For me, self-publishing sort of happened naturally to me. I never tried to get a publisher. At first, it was just an essay that kept growing, and suddenly, I had a book. I wrote it in two and a half months—it was like a rush. Two and a half years later, I just knew there was another one coming, that it would be a trilogy.

S: Writing seems like a necessity for you. But do you ever feel like you take on different voices or personas in your work?

SH: In my third book, I reflect a lot on identity—who is this person on the page? Writing nonfiction already creates an abstracted version of myself. People say I share a lot in my books, but they don’t realize how much I leave out. I do write to process things, but I’m also always trying to connect to the read and share things that will be of value to them. Now that the trilogy is coming to an end, I feel a pull toward fiction. I have the sense that, for now, I’ve said everything I need- ed to in nonfiction.

S: Does writing nonfiction change something in how you approach writing?

SH: Right now, I feel drawn to film and TV, to dialogue, to crafting stories. That’s the thing with nonfiction—you can’t change reality, or at least only to an extent. But my goal as a writer has always been to get as close to the truth as possible. Fiction is also about truth—it just manifests differently. In some ways, fiction gives you more responsibility, but also more possibilities. When I first started writing, I was drawn to nonfiction because I was searching for honesty. But now, I’m realizing that sometimes, it’s easier to be honest in fiction.

S: You also give writing classes, in which way do those impulses shape your work?

SH: It’s funny—when I give writing advice, I often catch myself needing to follow it, too. If I hit a writer’s block, I have to hold myself accountable. But that’s also what helps me understand writing as a craft. The only thing I can’t teach, though, is having something to say. That’s something no technique can give you. I believe that every creative field requires a certain level of inner peace. The more at peace you are with yourself, the easier it is to create.

Sophia Hembeck is set to release Things That Are Different Now on May 15. The celebration of the premiere on the same day will take place at ocelot Berlin, hosted by Josephine Apraku.