Francesco Grech: 'Social media can be a powerful tool for visibility, especially in a small country where the arts often struggle for attention'

Francesco Grech is a Gozitan writer, composer, and cultural strategist. He is chair of the literature sector within MEIA (Malta Entertainment Industry and Arts Association) and author of Kollox Jeħel Magħna and ‘ix-xita tinżel rasha ’l isfel’. His work blends the personal and political, the lyrical and the visual, across poetry, performance, and cultural advocacy.

1. What’s been the most defining moment in your career so far?

It’s hard to choose one moment because every project leaves a different imprint. But publishing my first book Kollox Jehel Maghna was a real shift, not just professionally, but personally. It taught me to see writing as both an act of creation and an act of reclamation. More recently, ‘ix-xita tinzel rasha ’l isfel’ feels like an even deeper reckoning, a return to the body, the voice, the self. Outside of writing, being part of the artistic team for Gozo’s bid for European Capital of Culture 2031 is also a defining milestone, not just for me, but for the island.

2. As a creative, how do you navigate the world and speed of social media?

With caution and a good dose of irony. Social media can be a powerful tool for visibility, especially in a small country where the arts often struggle for attention. But it can also be draining and performative. I try to show up honestly, share work in progress, highlight the voices of others, and stay close to community. I’m not interested in chasing virality; I’m more concerned with presence and integrity. Sometimes that means going quiet for a while, and I’ve learned that that’s okay too.

3. Do you consider artificial intelligence a threat to your career, or an opportunity?

Both, really. It’s a tool like any other; what matters is how it’s used, and by whom. I don’t believe AI can replace the raw humanity, the trauma, the contradictions that shape real creative work, especially in poetry. But I do think it can help with structure, idea generation, or even challenging one’s own thinking. That said, we need serious conversations about authorship, consent, and cultural memory, especially for smaller languages like Maltese, which risk being flattened or erased in global systems.

4. How do you stay motivated and inspired, especially during tough times or when the work feels hard?

I walk. I cry. I return to nature; the sea in winter, a field after rain. I listen to my body and to silence. Sometimes inspiration doesn’t come, and that’s part of the process. But I do believe that grief and pain can be composted into something beautiful, eventually. I also surround myself with other artists, poets, thinkers, their work reminds me why we do this. Why it matters.

5. How do you balance your creative instincts with the expectations of your audience or collaborators?

It’s a negotiation. I’ve learned to listen deeply but also to protect the seed of the idea. Not everyone will get your vision right away, and that’s okay. I try to ask: Does this change, strengthen, or dilute the work? I want to stay open, not defensive. But I also know that my best work usually comes from risk, from trusting my gut, even when it makes people uncomfortable.

6. How do you approach a new project? Do you have a specific process or routine you follow?

Each project asks for something different. Sometimes it starts with a single image, other times with a sound, a place, a memory. I usually don’t outline at first, I let the work breathe. Then, when I sense a shape, I begin to organise and build structure. Music helps. I work best in solitude but refine things in dialogue.

7. Can you let us in on some of the future projects, works?

Some are still very early seeds, but I’m exploring a collaborative poetry and performance piece that emerges from queer archives and oral history. I’m also part of the core team working on Gozo’s European Capital of Culture 2031 bid, which involves shaping cultural strategy in tandem with artistic dreaming. And quietly, I’m working on a third poetry collection, this time more grounded in touch, transformation, and tenderness. A bit softer, maybe. But still honest.

Extra round

What’s the most surprising thing you learned while writing?

That the body remembers everything, even the things the mind tries to forget. And that sometimes, writing doesn’t heal you the way you expect it to. It reopens, reframes, and reshapes. But maybe healing is less about closure and more about holding your wounds with gentleness, and inviting others to do the same.