recent residency

nov 2024 - nuril basri at dif studio bristol

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Nuril joined us for a week as part of his writer residency-tour of the UK. Having known Nuril for a few years, we were interested in exploring that sense of him writing on the edge. He kindly write this piece for us, published here, unedited... 

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Writing from the edge?

The edge isn’t something I chose—it’s where I ended up. For me, writing has always felt like a fight, not just with words but with everything else: money, time, the constant feeling that I’m not supposed to be here. It’s a struggle that started long before I put fingers on the keyboard, long before I even dared to call myself a writer. Writing wasn’t even a dream for me. It was never on the horizon, not when you come from a family with a background of farming, where the only future you can imagine is harvesting the paddy and getting by. Art doesn’t exist in that world; it’s not even in our vocabulary.

 

I never saw writing as something I could do. It wasn’t a luxury or an option; it wasn’t even a thought. My parents don’t read. They never understood why I would want to write, and to this day, they don’t read my books. It's not sad because I don’t seek appreciation from them. What sad it that I had to create space for myself in a world that often didn’t make space for people like me; who is not normal enough for them, or people who don’t come from privilege. People who are from small, unremarkable places, where the idea of "art" is something for someone else.

 

What to write?

I don’t write polished stories about polished lives. That’s not where I come from. My stories are messy and raw, full of people who don’t fit in, who are overlooked, who don’t even realize they have a voice. Honestly, sometimes, I don’t know if I have a voice either.

 

In Not A Virgin, I wrote about four high school students staying in an Islamic boarding school while working at a gay bar. In The Sewer Rat, published in French as Le Rat d'Égout and winner of the Grand Prix du Roman Gay Traduit 2023, I told the story of a queer writer from the slums of Jakarta coming into the West. In Maya, I wrote about a girl stranded in Soho, roaming through its seedy streets, and in Gula, I explored boys partying in Bali with older German men, dreaming of a ticket to Europe.

 

These stories—raw, messy—aren’t about living in penthouses. They’re about what’s real to me. It’s not that those lives aren’t real, it’s just that I can’t relate to them. They’re not my world, and that’s what I write about. I’m not writing with an agenda—some might think otherwise—but for me, it’s about telling the stories that need to be told, because those stories are part of me. If there’s a message in my work, it’s not premeditated; it’s a manifestation of my psyche—something unconscious, a reflection of whatever seeps through when I’m not paying attention. How far readers can read between the lines, well, that’s up to them.

 

Mainstream or non-mainstream?

Do I want to be mainstream? I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t care about that, “mainstream” or “non-mainstream.” I’m not writing for a category or trying to fit into a box. I’m just writing.

 

The truth is, writing feels like something I have to do. It’s not a choice or a career move—it’s the way I make sense of the world, or at least, how I try to. Maybe it’s visible, maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s real, and that’s what matters to me.

There’s always this tension, though, in writing for a world that might never fully understand or embrace my work. I’ve felt that sad and depressing sometimes. But that’s okay. Writing isn’t about being understood by everyone; it’s something else, like the part about being true to myself, it's also a big deal.

 

And I’ll take being on the edge. I don’t need to be in the center. It’s not a space I’m fighting to claim. It’s just where I’m most comfortable. Where I can be my truest self without any expectations. There’s a certain kind of power in being on the outskirts, where things feel raw. It can be lonely; but it’s also liberating.

So, do I want to be mainstream? I don’t think it’s something I can decide. But what I do know is that I’ll keep writing, whether or not anyone is listening.

 

What about UK?

Coming to the UK feels strange. It’s a place where the idea of being a writer is this big thing, with residencies and studios and opportunities. But for me, it’s still tied to stress—to the feeling that I might run out of money, run out of words, run out of whatever it is that keeps me going. Writing is supposed to be brave, they say. But sometimes it’s just exhausting.

And yet, here I am. Writing because I don’t know what else to do.

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You can find out more , buy books and support Nuril via his website. 

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​​​​past residencies

 

​sep 24 - dif at islington mill salford​​

sam jenks and joana merlini ​​did a 5 day residency at islington mill studios - running hangout sessions at queerlit bookshop in manchester, a network development session at the studios as well as working on their own projects and establishing connections across Manchester and Salford. This also led to sam working with Lie Ning and Lavender Rodriguez the following month on a songwriting workshop as part of their residency.

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opportunities for online and in-person residencies with dif

if the fit is good then there are definitely possibilities to make these happen. get in touch and tell us about yourself and what you would be interested in doing. you can be based anywhere in the world.

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are you interested in offering dif a residency online or in-person?

​we are also interested in broadening our experience and practice through residencies. ​ if you are interested in offering dif an in-person or online residency, and it can be anywhere in the world, then we'd love you to get in touch.

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