Maria Rider International Literary Agency

Working at the intersection of publishing, authorship and international collaboration

For years, readers had no idea that the graphic novel Nine Lives and the book Improvise were created by the same author. The two worlds seemed impossibly far apart. One unfolded as a philosophical fable, while the other moved like a stream of emotions, images, and fleeting states of mind. The characters, visual language, atmosphere, and artistic techniques were all strikingly different. It felt as though they had been created by entirely different artists.

But this is precisely what defines Songsin Tiewsomboon.

He does not have a single, unified style in the conventional sense. He does not seek a recognizable visual signature, repeat a once-discovered artistic formula, or build a personal brand around a fixed aesthetic. Instead, each new work searches for its own language, the one best suited to express the meaning at its core.

Over more than twenty years of creative practice, Songsin has created dozens of worlds through books, graphic novels, painting, music, and exhibition projects. His works have been published in Thailand, Japan, China, Taiwan, and Vietnam. The animated adaptation of Nine Lives received eleven international awards and was screened at twenty-two film festivals around the world. His novel Twilight Stained was shortlisted for the S.E.A. Write Award, one of Southeast Asia’s most prestigious literary honors.
Yet these achievements reveal only part of the story. What makes Songsin’s work distinctive is not a particular style, but his willingness to let each idea determine its own form.

Yet when you encounter his work, all of this unexpectedly ceases to be the most important thing. Something else comes to the forefront: an ability to express complex ideas through images and stories, and to create worlds where fantasy often feels more real than reality itself.

We spoke with Songsin Tiewsomboon about how characters come into being, why solitude is essential to the creative process, how art can help us reconcile with the past, and what that elusive “something that matters to everything” might truly mean.

Firehead has been with me for a very long time. I drew him and wrote short stories about him in countless notebooks that I carried with me over the years. By the time I came to write Beansprout & Firehead, I already felt as though I had known him intimately for a long time. All that remained was to tell his story.

Each character comes into being in a different way. In the case of Beansprout & Firehead, the characters themselves guided me into the stories of their world.

With Nine Lives, however, it felt as though each character was born from a particular meaning first, and that meaning eventually took shape as their appearance and their unique role within the story.

For example, there is the white cat who emerges through the mist and offers confidence in making bright, independent decisions.
Or the gray cat, who lives suspended between having everything one desires and forever losing the ability to feel love.

In your work, there is always something deeply personal beneath the surface. Is there a subject you are not yet ready to touch, but whose presence you can already feel?

A few years ago, I finally managed to approach a subject I had spent most of my life avoiding. It concerns my own birth.

My mother was born with a heart valve condition. Throughout her life, she had to carefully manage her health through medication, diet, and constant caution. Even physical exertion carried risks. Having children was an even greater challenge.

My older brother was born after careful planning and close medical supervision. My parents wanted a child very much, and thankfully both my brother and my mother came through safely. After that, however, doctors strongly advised against another pregnancy. The strain on her body could significantly worsen her condition.

And yet, somehow, I arrived.

According to the doctors, the chances were extraordinarily small. My parents used to tell the story almost as a joke when I was old enough to understand it. But over time, the meaning of it settled into me in a different way.

I gradually came to realize two things. First, that my existence was, in many ways, an accident. Second, that my birth may have shortened my mother’s life.

My mother has since passed away.

For a long time, I felt something moving quietly beneath the surface of my life. It was difficult to name. Perhaps it was a feeling that I should somehow justify my existence—that I should make my life meaningful, that I should contribute something of value to the world. Even now, I’m not entirely sure what that feeling is. I only know that it has always been there.

Some things become lighter once they are spoken aloud or written down.

What was once an unnamed ghost gradually becomes something else. A shadow that follows us turns into a truth we learn to live beside.

In my work, I often transform difficult emotions and unspoken experiences into symbols, weaving them into stories and surreal imagery. Sometimes, by giving shape to what is difficult to say, I find that the burden it carries begins to soften. The story does not disappear, nor does the loss. But it becomes something I can look at directly, something I can understand a little better. In that sense, art and storytelling have often helped me make peace with parts of myself that once felt impossible to face.

I am currently halfway through writing my latest book. Yesterday, I reread part of the manuscript and was surprised to discover that I barely remembered some sections at all. For a brief moment, I even wondered whether I might have a very mild case of multiple personalities.

The first chapter of this book began with an atmosphere.

Both happen. But my favorite experience is when I sense that a story already exists within something I have encountered—whether it is a place, a conversation, an event, or even an object—and it feels too important to let go.

When that happens, the experience feels incredibly pure. So pure that you have no choice but to surrender yourself to it.

It is like allowing art and instinct to lead the way, rather than trying to control them.

There was an imagined beach—a cold shoreline beneath a gray sky. That was the starting point. I saw some characters there, characters I knew well but had not written about for a long time. I missed them. Then something began to happen on that beach, and eventually it led to the writing of  the entire book.

What does a typical working day look like for you? Are there rituals you cannot work without? How do you know when a piece is finished?

I try to live well: waking up early, exercising, and maintaining a healthy routine.
But more often than not, I become so absorbed in my work that my life loses all structure.

I spent four months writing Twilight Stain, a novel inspired by my teenage years at art school. It evolved into a coming-of-age horror story.

The book blends reality and imagination while reflecting on themes of class and social alienation. It was also the first book in which I relied almost entirely on words, using only a small number of illustrations.

As a result, Twilight Stain became a finalist for the S.E.A. Write Award. Since the award traditionally evaluates literary works without considering visual elements, I had never submitted any of my previous books for consideration.

While writing Twilight Stain, I was consumed by a desire to convey not only the story and its meaning, but also the terrifying events that left deep and lasting scars on the lives of its characters.

At some point during the process, I felt as though I had created a new memory within myself—as if the events of the novel had genuinely happened during my own adolescence.

I have come to realize that sometimes a surreal story can illuminate truth more clearly than reality itself.

Last year, I painted a work titled Something That Means Everything.

It is a surreal image that I deliberately left open to interpretation. What fascinates me is that each person seems to notice a different detail first, and from that first moment, their reading of the work unfolds in a completely unique direction.

Are there ideas that cannot be expressed through words—and is that why they become images or music?

Many. When I want to leave room for interpretation, I often begin with an image and only a small amount of text. Then I expand upon the atmosphere and meaning through accompanying writing and music.

At my most recent painting exhibition, QR codes were placed beside the artworks so visitors could listen to music and stories connected to each piece. How far they wished to go was entirely their choice. Some viewers were perfectly content to simply look at the paintings and interpret them in their own way—and that freedom is one of the most beautiful aspects of experiencing art.

You are both a writer and an illustrator. How do those two selves negotiate with each other? Or do they sometimes conflict?

For me, it is the ideal way to create an illustrated book.

It is extraordinarily difficult for a writer to communicate exactly what exists in their mind, and equally difficult for an illustrator to interpret it with complete accuracy. When the writer and illustrator are the same person, both sides can see and understand the same vision.

That said, I argue with myself quite often.
One day I may feel completely satisfied with an image or a passage of text. Two days later, I may have an entirely different opinion and become convinced that it should be changed.

Then I revise the work again.

It is as if another personality—a relentless editor—refuses to let anything pass too easily. Sometimes it is exhausting. (laughs)

Nine Lives carries a distinctly Asian atmosphere. Bobby Swingers was published together with an original soundtrack CD, while Improvise has a raw energy all its own. Do you personally choose the paper stock, colors, cloth covers, and dust jackets, or are those decisions made together with publishers?

I choose every detail myself. I believe that beyond the content of a book, the physical form of the book is also a work of art.

The cover, the paper, and the overall design can deepen and reinforce the meaning of the story inside.

There was a time when my wife and I arranged for one of my books to be distributed in Japan. We chose to print the books in Thailand and ship them to Japan because I wanted to oversee the production process myself and work closely with printers who understood our approach.

For books published in Thailand, I usually spend entire days at the printing house reviewing proofs page by page. Sometimes this process lasts several days, from morning until evening.

When a book contains a large amount of artwork, print quality has a tremendous impact on the reader’s experience.

In other countries, such as Vietnam, China, and Taiwan, production is handled by the local publishers according to their own methods and practical considerations. Many times, their interpretations result in fascinating and unexpected editions as well.

Has anyone ever discovered a meaning in your work that you did not intentionally place there? Did it change something in you?

A middle-aged man once stood before a painting of mine called Moment of Decision.

I told him honestly that when I painted it, I had no idea how people might feel when looking at it. Different viewers seemed to experience it in entirely different ways.

He smiled. I can still remember his eyes so clearly that I could almost draw them right now. And he said:

“That’s the beautiful thing about art, isn’t it?”

In truth, readers and viewers never cease to surprise me.

They are an essential part of what ultimately makes a work of art complete and meaningful.

When you work, do you think about readers? Or do you simply present the finished work as an artistic outcome?

Every project I create—whether a painting, a piece of writing, music, or another form of art—feels like a journey into another world.

I return carrying whatever I have discovered there and offer it to others. In that sense, the work exists first and foremost as an artistic outcome.

Only after it is complete do I begin thinking about the audience, with a sense of excitement, hoping that they might experience some of what I found.

Is there a meeting with a reader that you still remember today?

More than ten years ago, two writer friends invited me to join a tree-planting trip in the mountains of northern Thailand.

A small group of readers came along as well.

During that trip, I met a reader who was not actually a fan of my books.

But I discovered that we shared the same birthday, differing only in the year we were born.

Today, she is my wife—and my partner in everything I do.

Do readers’ opinions influence your work? Or do you try to protect yourself from that influence?

The truth is that no matter what readers or viewers think, I cannot really control the kind of art I end up making.

There have been many occasions when I carefully planned how a project should unfold, only to abandon those plans because of a fleeting idea that appeared for a split second yet felt too compelling to ignore.

When collaborating with others—for example, while creating a book cover—I often tell them:

“I cannot promise anything except that I will do my very best. Can you trust me?”

Is solitude important to your work, or are you inspired by being around people?

Solitude is essential.

When I am among people—traveling, sitting on an airplane, or spending time in a café—I often jot down ideas or make small sketches in the notebook I carry with me.

But to transform those ideas into a finished work, I need to be alone. Only silence allows me to do that.

The hours before dawn are my favorite time to create.

What is inspiration to you: something you wait for, or something you can control?

To me, inspiration is like a dear friend with a fiercely independent heart. Sometimes it arrives unexpectedly. Sometimes it disappears and forces you to search for it.

Occasionally it appears in places you would never expect and points toward things you have never noticed before.

Yet when an important moment arrives and I know I must finish a piece of work, I sit down with this friend and carefully write down everything it wants to tell me, so that I can bring those ideas into the real world.

Painting once helped save you. What helps sustain everything now?

I feel there are still countless things I hope to create, explore, and see unfold in the world, and the kindness and light we exchange as fellow human beings.

I have been fortunate enough to encounter these things through art and through many people.

They continue to strengthen my faith in the beauty of humanity.

And sometimes, even the darker aspects of our nature can create reflections that become sources of light as well.

Songsin Tiewsomboon lives and works in Bangkok. He creates books, graphic novels, paintings, and music that have long since reached audiences far beyond the borders of Thailand. His works have been translated into Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Taiwanese, and negotiations are currently underway for the publication of his work in Russia.

The kind of art Songsin speaks about truly has the power to connect people who live in different countries, speak different languages, and might otherwise never have met.

And perhaps it is from such chance encounters that the most important stories begin.
One of them may already have begun for you.

My own discovery of his work began almost by accident. I walked into the small Trendy Gallery at River City and found myself standing still in front of his paintings. Sometimes there is an immediate recognition between a person and a work of art, something that cannot be explained logically. That is exactly what happened to me.

First came the paintings. Then the books. After that came interviews, articles, translations, and an attempt to understand how the world of a person who creates such stories is shaped. Later, I learned that the artist himself is often present at the gallery on weekends. That is how we met.

Maria Rider is a publisher, literary agent, author, and researcher of the creative journey. For more than twenty-five years, she has worked in the publishing industry, helping authors transform ideas, experience, and personal exploration into books.

At the heart of her own projects are themes of creativity, spiritual inquiry, the inner world of the creative individual, and the alternative paths of life that unfold beyond ordinary reality. Her books and research explore memory, imagination, meaning, choice, and the ways in which creativity helps people better understand themselves

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