Rob Mclennan's Blog, page 26

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lee Upton

LeeUpton is amulti-genre author of fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and literarycriticism. Her novel Wrongful, a literary mystery that deals withwriters behaving badly, is due out in May 2025 from Sagging Meniscus Press. Hercomic novel, Tabitha, Get Up, appeared in May 2024 from the samepublisher. Another novel, The Withers, is forthcoming in 2026 from RegalHouse Publishing. Her other books include The Day Every Day Is (Saturnalia2023); Visitations: Stories; Bottle the Bottles the Bottles the Bottles: Poems; The Tao of Humiliation: Stories; and the essay collection Swallowingthe Sea: On Writing & Ambition Boredom Purity & Secrecy. She isalso the author of an award-winning novella, The Guide to the Flying Island, as well as six additional books of poetry and four books ofliterary criticism. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, TheSouthern Review, The Massachusetts Review, and three editions of BestAmerican Poetry.

1 -How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent workcompare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Myfirst book was a collection of poetry, The Invention of Kindness. Itopened up new and gratifying friendships for me. Wrongful is a literarymystery and, as such, differs a great deal from my previous book, a comicnovel—Tabitha, Get Up. This new book, Wrongful, feels quitedifferent because questions about evil animate the book. It’s a romance, insome ways, but there’s terror lurking.

2 -How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

Poetrycame most naturally to me—the way rhythm and images unfold, the way associativelinks lead us through a poem.  It hastaken me a long time to learn how to orchestrate fiction in which cause andeffect propel at least some outward action. Writing both poetry and fiction issatisfying—you can’t help but find yourself inside mysteries within othermysteries.

3 -How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does yourwriting initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appearlooking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copiousnotes?

I tendto work on multiple manuscripts at the same time—and things move quite slowly.When I hit a wall in one area, I work on another manuscript. By the time Ireturn to the original trouble-making manuscript, I may discover a solution.This way of working means that multiple manuscripts finish at roughly the sametime. My final drafts often are very different from my first attempts.

4 -Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author ofshort pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working ona "book" from the very beginning?

Mypoems, short stories, and essays tend to have individual lives and often stubbornlyresist becoming part of a collection. Or so I tend to think at first. And thenI realize that the same obsessions are winding their way through much of thework.

5 -Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you thesort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I likereadings. It’s only the hours before readings that tend to be problematic forme. I’ve hardly ever not been a nervous person. Once I begin reading, however,I’m often very happy to voice the work.

6 -Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds ofquestions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think thecurrent questions are?

In Tabitha,Get Up (2024) I was concerned with issues of self-trust and how we mayattempt to defeat entropy and create sustaining meaning. In my new novel WrongfulI’m interested in questions of evil, how evil always has its “reasons” and aself-perpetuating vitality. Wrongful is not only about the temptationstoward bad behavior that writers and all of us face; it’s also about readersand reading—the intimate romance of reading

7 –What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do theyeven have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Thisis an individual matter, but it seems that writers should be profoundlygrateful to whoever taught them to read and write and find their way to newadventures through the imagination. We can help others find their way bymentoring and by allowing ourselves continual freedom to be bold in our own writing.

8 -Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult oressential (or both)?

I’ve beenable to work with marvelous editors and publishers and designers. Publishing takesa willing and devoted team, and I’ll always feel gratitude for those I’veworked with.

9 -What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to youdirectly)?

 “Relax.”It sounds so insulting, but it’s pretty good advice. If you can relax, your ownmind will give you something to imagine and consider…

10- How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to non-fiction)?What do you see as the appeal?

Eachform is difficult. Moving toward extended time and action frames in the novel wasespecially challenging for me, given my general proclivities. Each genre comesbearing its own gifts for discovering whatever mystery we might be avoidingotherwise.

11- What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one?How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I’mnow able to write full-time, and so my life is very different from the dayswhen I was working full-time and had small children and many other obligations.Typically, now, my day begins with too much coffee, and then maybe with mymaking a list about what I want to do, and then—if I don’t have any largerresponsibilities—I dive into working. Usually on my laptop first. Then I printout the manuscript and revise. Next, I put those revisions into my manuscripton the laptop, and the process begins again. And again.

12- When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack ofa better word) inspiration?

Iusually read poetry or fiction—to hear another voice. I might pace around thehouse…I might eat something, like chocolate. Chocolate needs no defense.

13- What fragrance reminds you of home?

Lilacs.

14- David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there anyother forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visualart?

Visualart, flowers, trees, talking with family members, overheard conversations

15- What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply yourlife outside of your work?

I’m inspiredby the writing of Muriel Spark, Iris Murdoch, Emily Dickinson, Tomas Transtromer, Anita Brookner, Tracy K. Smith, Margot Livesey, Timothy Liu, Charles Holdefer, Rachel Cusk….and so many others. I’m fortunate to have a number offriends who are writers, and they’re deeply important to me.

16- What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Ithink it would be nice to stay for a while in a cottage by the sea and takelong walks every day. And have marvelous hot soup on those days. (I sounddeluded. I’m actually serious. It would be so nice.)

17- If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or,alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been awriter?

If Icould pick up another gift and had the talent…I would still want to be awriter. For the freedom and the adventure of it. If I couldn’t be a writer andwere suddenly gifted with ability, I’d want to be a singer who worked onoriginal material. Which really means being a writer with vocal range…

18- What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I’vewanted to be a writer since childhood. I also, as a child, wanted to be a spy.Now I don’t want to be a spy. Although writing is a little like trying to spyinto the depths of the culture’s hidden life.

19- What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Lastgreat book: The Sea, The Sea, by Iris Murdoch.

 Lastgreat film: 1900, by Bernardo Bertolucci

20- What are you currently working on?

I’mworking on poems—always—and I’m redrafting a novel in which a younger visualartist believes her life has been dramatically damaged by her relationship withan older artist.  I’m also rewriting acouple of novel manuscripts that I lost faith in earlier. I’m now trying togive those manuscripts new and more exciting lives.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Spotlight series #106 : Micah Ballard

The one hundred and sixth in my monthly "spotlight" series, each featuring a different poet with a short statement and a new poem or two, is now online, featuring San Francisco poet Micah Ballard .

The first eleven in the series were attached to the Drunken Boat blog, and the series has so far featured poets including Seattle, Washington poet Sarah Mangold, Colborne, Ontario poet Gil McElroy, Vancouver poet Renée Sarojini Saklikar, Ottawa poet Jason Christie, Montreal poet and performer Kaie Kellough, Ottawa poet Amanda Earl, American poet Elizabeth Robinson, American poet Jennifer Kronovet, Ottawa poet Michael Dennis, Vancouver poet Sonnet L’Abbé, Montreal writer Sarah Burgoyne, Fredericton poet Joe Blades, American poet Genève Chao, Northampton MA poet Brittany Billmeyer-Finn, Oji-Cree, Two-Spirit/Indigiqueer from Peguis First Nation (Treaty 1 territory) poet, critic and editor Joshua Whitehead, American expat/Barcelona poet, editor and publisher Edward Smallfield, Kentucky poet Amelia Martens, Ottawa poet Pearl Pirie, Burlington, Ontario poet Sacha Archer, Washington DC poet Buck Downs, Toronto poet Shannon Bramer, Vancouver poet and editor Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Vancouver poet Geoffrey Nilson, Oakland, California poets and editors Rusty Morrison and Jamie Townsend, Ottawa poet and editor Manahil Bandukwala, Toronto poet and editor Dani Spinosa, Kingston writer and editor Trish Salah, Calgary poet, editor and publisher Kyle Flemmer, Vancouver poet Adrienne Gruber, California poet and editor Susanne Dyckman, Brooklyn poet-filmmaker Stephanie Gray, Vernon, BC poet Kerry Gilbert, South Carolina poet and translator Lindsay Turner, Vancouver poet and editor Adèle Barclay, Thorold, Ontario poet Franco Cortese, Ottawa poet Conyer Clayton, Lawrence, Kansas poet Megan Kaminski, Ottawa poet and fiction writer Frances Boyle, Ithica, NY poet, editor and publisher Marty Cain, New York City poet Amanda Deutch, Iranian-born and Toronto-based writer/translator Khashayar Mohammadi, Mendocino County writer, librarian, and a visual artist Melissa Eleftherion, Ottawa poet and editor Sarah MacDonell, Montreal poet Simina Banu, Canadian-born UK-based artist, writer, and practice-led researcher J. R. Carpenter, Toronto poet MLA Chernoff, Boise, Idaho poet and critic Martin Corless-Smith, Canadian poet and fiction writer Erin Emily Ann Vance, Toronto poet, editor and publisher Kate Siklosi, Fredericton poet Matthew Gwathmey, Canadian poet Peter Jaeger, Birmingham, Alabama poet and editor Alina Stefanescu, Waterloo, Ontario poet Chris Banks, Chicago poet and editor Carrie Olivia Adams, Vancouver poet and editor Danielle Lafrance, Toronto-based poet and literary critic Dale Martin Smith, American poet, scholar and book-maker Genevieve Kaplan, Toronto-based poet, editor and critic ryan fitzpatrick, American poet and editor Carleen Tibbetts, British Columbia poet nathan dueck, Tiohtiá:ke-based sick slick, poet/critic em/ilie kneifel, writer, translator and lecturer Mark Tardi, New Mexico poet Kōan Anne Brink, Winnipeg poet, editor and critic Melanie Dennis Unrau, Vancouver poet, editor and critic Stephen Collis, poet and social justice coach Aja Couchois Duncan, Colorado poet Sara Renee Marshall, Toronto writer Bahar Orang, Ottawa writer Matthew Firth, Victoria poet Saba Pakdel, Winnipeg poet Julian Day, Ottawa poet, writer and performer nina jane drystek, Comox BC poet Jamie Sharpe, Canadian visual artist and poet Laura Kerr, Quebec City-area poet and translator Simon Brown, Ottawa poet Jennifer Baker, Rwandese Canadian Brooklyn-based writer Victoria Mbabazi, Nova Scotia-based poet and facilitator Nanci Lee, Irish-American poet Nathanael O'Reilly, Canadian poet Tom Prime, Regina-based poet and translator Jérôme Melançon, New York-based poet Emmalea Russo, Toronto-based poet, editor and critic Eric Schmaltz, San Francisco poet Maw Shein Win, Toronto-based writer, playwright and editor Daniel Sarah Karasik, Ottawa poet and editor Dessa Bayrock, Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia poet Alice Burdick, poet, writer and editor Jade Wallace, San Francisco-based poet Jennifer Hasegawa, California poet Kyla Houbolt, Toronto poet and editor Emma Rhodes, Canadian-in-Iowa writer Jon Cone, Edmonton/Sicily-based poet, educator, translator, researcher, editor and publisher Adriana Oniță, California-based poet, scholar and teacher Monica Mody, Ottawa poet and editor AJ Dolman, Sudbury poet, critic and fiction writer Kim Fahner, Canadian poet Kemeny Babineau, Indiana poet Nate Logan, Toronto poet and editor Michael Boughn, North Georgia poet and editor Gale Marie Thompson, award-winning poet Ellen Chang-Richardson, Montreal-based poet, professor and scholar of feminist poetics, Jessi MacEachern and Toronto poet and physician Dr. Conor Mc Donnell.
 
The whole series can be found online here .

snow day (new book!) + reading soon in Vancouver w Christine,

I’ve a new poetry book this month! My thirdtitle with American publisher Spuyten Duyvil, Snow day (2025)—following How the alphabet was made (2018) and Life sentence, (2019)—is nowavailable to order! A collection built out of a sequence of sequences, itincludes the title poem, “Snow day” (produced as an above/ground press chapbook in 2018), and “Somewhere in-between / cloud” (also produced as an above/ground press chapbook in 2019), was composed for and published as part of DusieKollektiv 9: “Somewhere in the Cloud and Inbetween”—A Tribute to Marthe Reed(1958-2018) as an unofficial/official element of the New Orleans PoetryFestival, April 18-21, 2019. Much thanks to Susana Gardner for her ongoingsupport. This poem, in places, utilizes the occasional word and phrase from thelate Marthe Reed (as well as a fragment quoted from Timothy Morton), includingfrom her co-editor afterward, “‘Somewhere Inbetween’ : Speaking-ThroughContiguity” from Counter-Desecration: AGlossary for Writing Within the Anthropocene, edited by Linda Russo andMarthe Reed (Middletown CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2018).

The poem “What they write in the snow” wasincluded in the first issue of Julian Day’s +doc: a journal of longer poems(Winnipeg MB: null pointer press, summer 2021). “for my fifty-first year,” appearedas the great silence of the poetic line through Derek Beaulieu’s № Press(Banff AB) in an edition of fifty copies, July 26, 2024. Thanks much to all theeditors/publishers involved, and the whole team over at Spuyten Duyvil! Now, ofcourse, we get to work on the final copy/proofs for another title with the samepublisher, my forty-page essay, A river runs through it: a writing diary ,collaborating with Julie Carr (2025); stay tuned!

Hopefully I’ll even have copies of Snowday on-hand soon, including for the reading Christine and I are doing laterthis month in Vancouver. You are coming out to hear us, yes?

Poetry inCanada: Off the Shelf Reading Series Part 5
Featuring:CHRISTINE MCNAIR + rob mclennan

February 28,2025
Doors: 6:30 pm/  Event: 7 pm
SFU BelzbergLibrary
SFU HarbourCentre, 515 Hastings St. Vancouver BC

https://www.poetrycanada.org/

I'm also reading to launch the new book in Ottawa soon, the day after my birthday, with Jorge Etcheverry Arcaya, Rob Manery, Grant Wilkins + Chris Turnbull, so if you're around, that would be good to see you. Oh, and here are the blurbs on the backcover. Brilliant thanks to all three for their generous words:

There is snow and the school buses arecancelled. Letters come from afar in spite of the weather. In Snow Day,rob mclennan documents the detritus of living – the snow, the children, theirtoys, their resistance to naps, the accumulation of small daily events thatmake up this specific life. Except for what filters faintly through the media,there are no bombs, no daily fights for food or shelter. Even so, mortality isthe quiet accompaniment rumbling beneath this work. We live on and findconnection in spite of death. “How do [people] get strength to put theirclothes on in the morning?” notes rob, quoting Emily Dickinson. By observingthe private moments, specific to his world but common to many, he finds somekind of answer and some kind of grace.
            SamuelAce, author of I want to start by saying (CSU Poetry Center, 2024)

In Snow Day, rob mclennan squintsthrough the hazy weather of everyday life to wonder what value a writing lifemight offer. As time passes from his desk, his couch, his car, his books, hisscreens, mclennan looks forward and back in time, his continued commitment tothe process-based long poem working its way through a midwinter day boiled overinto weeks, months, years, decades, centuries. These poems show us how thesmallest gestures can open onto wider fields of connection, bringing thingsinto contact even when they feel distant.
             ryanfitzpatrick, author of No Depression in Heaven (Talonbooks, 2025)
                         and Sunny Ways (Invisible, 2023)

In Snow Day, rob mclennan offers aquiet sibling to Bernadette Mayer’s beloved Midwinter Day, a personalreverie to revisit each year as the world darkens. Part history, part elegy, SnowDay weaves together an international poetry community, reflecting mclennan’slong-term commitment to spinning and repairing that creative web.
            JessicaSmith, author of How to Know the Flowers (Veliz Books, 2019)

Erin Hoover, No Spare People

It is tempting to want alwaysto reduce the thing to its detail. To make it small.

That morning I woreheels, and because I had to walk forty blocks that way, I no longer wear them, I said forthe first time a year after 9/11 at an event commemorating the cataclysm. I don’tremember the walk home at all, but I would say it again and again. (“Deathparade”)

Thelatest from Tennessee-based poet Erin Hoover [see her ’12 or 20 questions’ interview here] is the full-length collection No Spare People (BlackLawrence Press, 2023), a follow-up to her full-length debut, Barnburner (ElixirPress, 2018). Hoover offers short, carved narratives in a sequence of compactlyric, articulating sharp images on and around domestic patters and patterns inthe author’s American south, and the complexity of writing through experiencesthat often feel far away from the possibilities of writing. “I was trying toexplain that transportation / between having thoughts and doing for others,”she writes, in the opening poem “On the metaphor, for women, of birthing to / creativeactivity,” “because in every household the metaphor is clear: / the caretakeris a woman, and so / when I began / writing, I listed out my mornings, thepreparations / and cleaning up of spills and toys, taking down / and fetching,the driving and carrying of people / that no one wants to know about / if we believein the reality of book contracts / and job offers.” She writes of income inequality,misogyny, motherhood and family, as the poems circle around the locus of homeand family, and the conflict between a weight of domestic expectation set againstthe desire for something else, also, beyond (such as writing). “You’d have tounderstand the home / as a unified construct,” the poem “Homewrecker” begins, “asa guarded entity, / locked up like a bank vault, a virgin / or like a rarifiedset of collectable dolls / with no inherent value but worth agreed / upon.” Thedensity of her lyrics are quite striking, moving through prose poems and moretraditional lyric shapes, moving through frustration, love, motherhood, helplessness,politics and rage, offering cutting moments, phrases and lines I’m tempted toendlessly quote. That line from “Death parade,” for example—“It is tempting towant always to reduce the thing to its detail. To make it small.”—or furthermoments, thoughtfully carved. “I drove to the border // of my dry county andbought a handle of vodka,” she writes, as part of “My generation is not lostbut we are losing,” “drank to blur my vision. I wanted to be as useless // as agovernor.” She tells stories with lyric punches, where the mind can’t help butcatch, consider.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Gwen Tuinman

GwenTuinman is descended fromIrish tenant farmers and English Quakers. Her storytelling influences includesoul searching, an interest in bygone days, and the complexities of living alife. Fascinated by the landscape of human tenacity, she writes about womennavigating the social restrictions of their era. Gwen lives with her husband ona small rural homestead in Ontario’s Kawartha Lakes region.

1 - Howdid your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare toyour previous? How does it feel different?

My first book, The Last Hoffman, affirmed that writing is my true calling. I’d begun writingthrough a set of fluke circumstances and it took time before I was comfortableintroducing myself to others as a writer. Through the years of producing thatmanuscript, I honed my craft and established a creative process. My secondnovel, Unrest, is a 19th-century feminist adventure involvinga deeper exploration of female rage, motherhood and class-divide. It’s set in1836 versus 1950 through to the early eighties when the first novel takes place.Unrest required more extensive research, but I loved it. For me, writingabout a more distant past feels like coming home.

2 -  How did you come to fiction first, as opposedto, say, non-fiction or poetry?

When I was an educator,I attended a professional development workshop at a gallery to learn aboutusing artworks as story writing prompts for children. During a writing exercisethat day, one painting inspired a scene which I wrote it down. Later, I was compelledto continue the story and it blossomed into a full novel. That’s how I wasdrawn to longform fiction. I have dabbled in writingpoetry, short stories and essays,but those shorter forms cannot pull me away from the lengthy embrace of thenovel.

3 - Howlong does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writinginitially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear lookingclose to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

I research casuallyfor my future novel while still writing my current work in progress. Oncefinished the WIP, I’ll research for about six months, recording character andplot ideas in a notebook as I go. When I can clearly envision the world thecharacters will inhabit, I start writing the draft in chronological order. I’ma slow and methodical writer. The first draft is but a shadow of the finalversion. I edit and revise heavily as I better my understanding of thecharacters, their motivations and the repercussions of their actions. So yes,the manuscript evolves from deep historical research and the layering in ofdetails from my ever-expanding notebook.  

4 - Wheredoes a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short piecesthat end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a"book" from the very beginning?

Story inspirationscome to me in the form of a historical scenario. I’ll wonder what it might havebeen like for working class and less privileged people to live through thatexperience. A full-length novel is always the goal. I write the book from startto finish, as if I were watching the story unfold in a movie.

5 - Arepublic readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sortof writer who enjoys doing readings?

As a new writer, I didpublic readings of my works-in-progress. Now, I prefer to keep the unfinished workunder wraps while it’s evolving. It is a pleasure to do public readings from acompleted novel. What a privilege to witness how the writing is received by anaudience of readers or fellow writers.

6 - Do youhave any theoreticalconcerns  behindyour writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work?What do you even think the current questions are?

I don’t pre-identifythemes to explore through the work. My focus remains on the thrill of spinningan engaging story. I’m propelled by a fascination with how women of the pastnavigated the social restrictions of their era in order to survive, andhopefully, attain some level of fulfilment. As I write, themes revealthemselves. I may be nearly finished the book before I fully recognize whatI’ve written about.

7 – Whatdo you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they evenhave one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I think the role ofwriters is to hold a mirror up to society. We are capturing the zeitgeistthrough story telling. Our art challenges what people believe about themselvesand humankind. It’s important that we also offer hope and possibility. For me,writing about contemporary issues against the backdrop of a historical setting,can make some revelations more palatable for readers.

8 - Do youfind the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (orboth)?

Unrest was published by Random House Canada(RHC). My experience of working with RHC editors is a phenomenally creativeadventure. A quality edit is a part of my publication journey that I relishbecause closely examining every page and line of a 130,000-word manuscript,through the eyes of a second reader, allows me to see the story in a fresh way.This perspective is helpful during the revision phase.

9 - Whatis the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to youdirectly)?

“Don’t think it up,get it down.” I adopt the mindset that the story has already happened and I’mrecounting it. The pressure is removed when I think of myself as a conduit forthe story versus being its inventor.

10 - Howeasy has it been for you to move between genres (non-fiction to the novel)?What do you see as the appeal?

When I do write an essay,I can only focus on that singular project. Until I finish, the novel remainsdormant and my nerves buzz until I return home to my characters. Inside thenovel is where I live. I love reimagining the past and exploring charactersinterior lives.

11 - Whatkind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How doesa typical day (for you) begin?

My writing routinevaries according to the seasonal demands of our one-acre homestead. Ideally, Iwork on the manuscript for one or two hours before breakfast. Afterward I dochores, meditate and exercise, then continue writing for two to three hours.I’ll often wake in the night thinking of the novel. There’s no cure for it, soI embrace the opportunity to get up and write. Some of my best ideas have cometo me at such times.

12 - Whenyour writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of abetter word) inspiration?

Writers block isn’tsomething I experience. I say this with relief, not arrogance. If I’m unsure ofa story event or a character’s next move, I list all the possibilities, nomatter how outrageous, on a paper. Then I whittle down the list until I decideon the most plausible option for the circumstances. As writers, we have to getcomfortable with being uncomfortable. We may not have the answer right now, butwe trust that it’ll come to us. A plot problem is not really a “problem”. It’san opportunity to interject the story with an unexpected solution that’ssuperior to our original plan. The work is always elevated as a result.

13 - Whatfragrance reminds you of home?

Smells I associatewith home include: fresh bread baked by my husband, wafts of woodstove smoke,rich soil after a rain, and cattle from a neighbouring farm.

14 - DavidW. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other formsthat influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

I sometimes listen toinstrumental music that captures a dramatic mood present in a scene I’mwriting. Also, once I develop the characters in my story, I’ll search for paintingsor vintage photographs of people who embody their energy. Because I’m drawn to writeabout rural or small-town settings in past eras, walking our rural sideroads orhiking trails helps me visualize aspects of my stories. I’ve amassed acollection of antique books that help me see into the past as well.

15 - Whatother writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your lifeoutside of your work?

There are so manymarvelous writers whose books I enjoy. These are authors whose work nourishes mywriting life: Lauren Groff, Louise Erdrich, Alissa York, Maggie O’Farrell,Michael Crummey, Elif Shafak, Alix Hawley, Ann-Marie MacDonald, Margaret Atwood, Heather O’Neill, and Zadie Smith.

16 - Whatwould you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Writing my next book will always be the answer to thatquestion. The opportunity to inhabit another era and lives of new characters willopen my mind further to the experiences of women before me. I can’t wait to getstarted.

17 - Ifyou could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or,alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been awriter?

I’m so married towriting that it pains me to think of doing something else. But if pressed, I’dhave continued as an educator.

18 - Whatmade you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I came to writing inmy 40s, so I did other things first like fulltime parenting, clerical work andteaching. Once my children were in school every day, I returned to universitywhere I studied psychology and became a teacher. Through it all, I loved thetransporting possibilities of reading. It was through an experience in myteaching days, as mentioned earlier, that I came to writing. So, in a strangeway, the writing life chose me. Regardless, there’s no other professionalpursuit I’d prefer.

19 - Whatwas the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

I’d have to choose thenovel There are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shafak and the film Women Talking which was based on Miriam Toews novel of the same name and directedby Sarah Polley.

20 - Whatare you currently working on?

I’m currently writing anew historical novel set against the backdrop of Canada’s past.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

 

 [GT1]Scratched lines:The honest answer is, I say this with a smile, that I don’t knowwhat a “theoretical concern behind my writing” is. I’m happy about that. I’drather not paralyse my creativity by thinking about what it might be.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with sophie anne edwards

sophie anne edwards is anenvironmental artist and writer who works on and off the page, at her desk andin the bush. Her first collection of visual and text-based poetry, Conversations with the Kagawong River(Talonbooks) was recommended by CBC as an October 'must read', and made bothCBC's and Quill & Quire's most anticipated fall release lists. Herwork has appeared in Empty Mirror, The Capilano Review, CNQ, and the Pi Reviewamong others. A graduate of the Humber College creative writing certificateprogram, she was longlisted for the 2021 CBC poetry prize, as well as ArcPoetry Magazine's 2019 Poem of the Year. Recently, she was long-listed forOmnidawn's 1st/2nd book prize. She's been generously supported by the CanadaCouncil for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council. Born and raised in NorthernOntario, she lives on Manitoulin Island with her dog Bea and a roster of other Wooferswho help in the garden.

1 -How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recentwork compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Seeingmy debut book of poetry out in the world is wonderful, but really, it’s thewriting itself that changed my life, not the book itself. Writing after wantingto write for so very long has been very healing and fulfilling for me,confidence- and community-building. In the process of writing the book Iconnected with so many incredible writers and had the opportunity to attend anumber of writing residencies. I remember people in the upper years of myliterature program being very competitive, so I think I was half expectingsomething similar in the writing community, but instead I’ve found that writershave been generous, thoughtful, and supportive, which has been so uplifting.

2 -How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I’dsay it came to me. I didn’t aim to write a book, and not a book of poetry whenI started spending time at the River. I followed the process and found my wayto what became a very interdisciplinary, multi-tributary book.

3 -How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does yourwriting initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appearlooking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copiousnotes?

Thirty-fiveyears? Almost forty? I was seven when I decided I wanted to write books. Butchildhood aside, I’ve had a number of books floating in my head for many years.Some of the writing happens in my head – it floats around, gathers threads,forms and reforms itself – and comes out on the page ‘quickly’ once I getstarted, then I build it up, or edit it down. Other stuff is very slow – Istart something and it just doesn't gel, so I leave it. I’m obsessed withnotebooks. I don’t journal anymore, but I have loads of sketch- and notebooksin which I jot thoughts, gather quotes and references. I’ve learned to numberthe pages, and keep a reference at the back of each notebook so I can findvarious thoughts later when I sit down to write. My work feels like research. Ithink of my poetry as non-fiction, so I tend to approach the process in a fieldresearch way, probably influenced by my time working on a Geography PhD. Ioften work in analogue ways, as with the notebooks. I use my typewriters a lot.I write drafts in them, or build up notes as I type, then I eventuallytranscribe those to the computer and rework or edit them on the computer. Icreate visual maps of what I’m thinking, and spread stuff around. So, the shortanswer is it sometimes comes out in a way that might seem quick after a long,slow, thinking and gathering process.

4 -Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces thatend up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a"book" from the very beginning?

I’mpretty new to all this, but I’m finding each ‘thing’ has its own demands, itsown energy and process. My second book, coming out in the fall, is anexperimental novel. The first twenty pages ‘just’ came out of me (again, aftersome of the words circulating in my brain for twenty or so years). The text ofthose pages have pretty much not changed since (although their order has).Those pages defined the shape of the book, the energy of it, the style – I justfollowed those first pages and wrote the rest. The hardest part was finding theorder as it’s not a traditional novel with an arc, more of a twining narrative.For another project – non-fiction – that I’m mid-way on, the concept came firstin combination with some note-taking that didn’t know it was note-taking for aproject. This one needs more development to find its shape, which isn’t quitethere yet.

5 -Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you thesort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Ididn’t know I would enjoy readings. I live in a pretty rural place, so readingsare a rarity. The Talon launch in Vancouver was my first public reading (apartfrom reading stuff in workshops and at residencies). So now, as a seasoned (ha)reader after four or five events, I’m finding that I enjoy reading the workaloud. The voice does something with the work that isn’t found on the page, andI love the quiet vibe when folks are really into it.

6 -Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds ofquestions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think thecurrent questions are?

Underneatha lot of my writing are my attempts to situate and to understand my love ofthis place as a settler, and to not be complacent about, nostalgic with, or toromanticize that love. I’m also very interested in form, and work thatchallenges the dominance of the page in terms of size, shape, and scale, andwhat that means for language, form, and reading.

7 –What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do theyeven have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Ilove Naropa’s slogan – Making the World Safe for Poetry – and what Anne Waldmansays about that slogan: that if the world is safe for poetry it's safe for manyother things. I think poetry can also make poetry safe for all kinds of ideas,people, histories and make them visible too. Words do work in the world, and Ithink we need to take that seriously. We’ve imagined and constructed a veryparticular kind of world, and I hope writers and poets can help us re-imagine adifferent one.

8 -Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult oressential (or both)?

Mylimited experience so far shows me it’s kinda like working with a really goodtherapist who’ll call you on your shit, redirect you, and push you to work onstuff between sessions. Writing seems to find itself on/through the page, andsometimes I don’t quite see the connections, the ribbons, the tangles that areeither working for me, or tripping me up. My readers have been like goodtherapists, helping me to see what I need to see more clearly, and alsoreminding me to not be so hard on myself, and encouraging me to go out in theworld.

9 -What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to youdirectly)?

Thereis so much stuff out there about being disciplined, getting up early andstaying up late to get a certain number of words written a day, to beproductive and focused. I’ve found that quite debilitating and difficult givenwhat I have to balance and needing to work within my very variable capacity.Chris Turnbull encouraged me with writing slowly, in my head, to not beburdened by productivity. My own best advice, which I always tell the writers Isupport, is to keep the best hour of each day for myself – whether that’sreading or writing, or thinking about either.

10 -How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to prose tophotography)? What do you see as the appeal?

Inmy River book, prose, poetry and photography are interconnected. I was workingon site-specific, or installation-based poetry as the base, so documentation(photography) went hand-in-hand with that process. The prose was part of myreflection process and just happened as I went. I am always reflecting upon thework I do, it’s just part of the process. I suppose the poetry bit – thetext-based poetry bits – were the hardest part, in terms of requiring moreresearch, more thought, more pen to paper thoughtfulness.

11 -What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? Howdoes a typical day (for you) begin?

Ilove it when I spend an hour or so writing or thinking about writing or readingand taking notes in the morning. But that doesn’t happen regularly, as life andthose in my life have their own demands and rhythms. I also have to go by myenergy as I have a couple of chronic conditions that mean I never know how I’llfeel in a day.

12 -When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of abetter word) inspiration?

Thebush. Water. Books. Quiet. I really need quiet and rest to be creative.

13 -What fragrance reminds you of home?

Juniperbushes, pine, lake breeze.

14 -David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any otherforms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Bookscome from (out of) life and its traumas and inspirations, and for me are alsoentwined with visual art, particularly drawing, installation, and site-specificwork. They resonate and speak with everything, really.

15 -What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your lifeoutside of your work?

That’sa hard one to answer. I have a continually shifting stack(s) of books beside mybed, my desk, the couch … a lot of it is poetry (particularly experimentaland/or visual), but also novels, gardening books. I really love The Capilano Review, Brick, and TNQ. I love spending time with those each time they comeout.

16 -What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Writing’skinda the thing I hadn’t been doing until my 50’s. So I just want to write. Iam saddened that there is so little time left (certainly the dial is on theshorter side of my life at this point), certainly not enough to write all thebooks in my head. I’ve done all kinds of things before this: curator, waitress,houseplant manager, tomato picker, grant-writer, executive director, organizer,facilitator, after-school art teacher, co-operative sector educator … I wouldlike to write a novel, but I’m not sure I have that kind of steam in me.

17 -If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or,alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been awriter?

Sameanswer at #16. I guess if I wasn’t writing now, I’d probably be doing more workwith the early learning community. I would have liked to have been abiologist/ecologist. I’d love to be a full time gardener.

18 -What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

Couldn’tnot do it anymore.

19 -What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Itook a class with Hoa Nguyen recently, and read her A Thousand Times You Lose Your Treasure. So good. Through her, Iread a number of books that just floored me, including Alice Notley’s BeingReflected Upon, WandaColeman’s, WickedEnchantment: Selected Poems, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge’s, ATreatise on Stars (I’ll berereading that one several times for sure), and Cecilia Vicuña’s, SpitTemple.

Ihaven't watched a great film in a while. I have a fond memory of cuddling witha friend; we watched a black and white Japanese film that she picked (I can’tremember the name of the film, sadly). It was slow and gorgeous. Just like ourevening.

20 -What are you currently working on?

...

A couple of early learning books that extend mythinking in the early two. I’m in the editing process of an experimental novel,and am about mid-way on a non-fiction project.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

the green notebook : , regarding a snow day,

Todayis a snow day, with school buses cancelled for both children, as well as Rose’sbasketball tournament. Her team was scheduled to land at Ashbury College, aprivate school in Rockcliffe Park. The late Matthew Perry (1969-2023) wentthere, you know, as did Ottawa poet Max Middle (pseudonym of Mark Robertson).Up to 10cm today, online sources suggest. I should probably move the car up thedriveway, for the sake of the snowplow.

Todayis a snow day. Each school sends an email, and Christine forwards, to make sureI saw. She is in Edmonton all this week running courses for work. Edmonton, farwarmer than here, at least this week. Above zero, she says. Yesterday, we wereminus twelve, which was an improvement over the prior few days. Once again, Ipick up Etel Adnan, her Surge (2018):

I also hear the airflowing with it, its unbroken surface leading one’s imagination to more water,more destabilization, more wind.

Overthe past couple of weeks, I’ve gone through four drafts of proofs for mycollection Snow day (2025), a book out as soon as we clear allcorrections. A sequence of sequences, held by the title sequence, one composedat the prompt of another snow day, back in 2019. The snow fell and it fell andboth children remained home.

I’mall for a snow day. I’m tempted to return to the extended prose poem, as I didfor the original “snow day” poem, six years ago. How different or similar Imight play with the form. Where might this go.

Our young ladies in theircorners, on their devices. They are eight and eleven years old. The snow,falls. Outside, the snowplow. If everything, seasons. The snowplow, attends.The ground, and the groundless. A stellar cold. For why, the lament. Alta Vista:snow descends in straight lines. These shadows, blue. The rules of the game.Nothing rests. What the tides don’t permit.

Yesterday, a cluster ofbirds.

Rose is attending acraft. If anyone, to witness. Can I have this box. I want to make something outof this box. Yes, you can have that box.

*

A temporality. Emails,from both of their schools, from the snowplow company. It is here, it iscoming. Snow. How many words for it. Remain in your homes, they say. Our youngladies, relieved. Blizzard, onding. An outcrop of flurries.

The air, a crispness. Asharp edge. I brush layers from the car, abandon sentences. Return to thehouse.

Mid-morning,I tell the young ladies to put away their devices. They spend the rest of theday taking turns coming in to request things or register their complaints ofthe other. By early afternoon, a silence. They are in the dining room, quietlyplaying a card game.

AsI wrote on social media, responding to another: my poems these days seem to becomposed through me stepping directly into the middle of the poem and pushingout in every direction, until I am finally able to free myself.

Iused to write poems that began at the beginning and moved their ways forward untilfinding the end. It seems I do something else, now.

*

JeffWeingarten prods me via email, reminding me that I agreed to write a blurb forthe collected letters of John Newlove, which he’s been working on for moreyears than he would probably wish to consider. Apparently the collection is dueto land in print this year. After a few back-and-forths, we agree on this as myblurb for the back cover:

It is good to hear John’svoice again through these letters, back from those days when letters (wellbefore the advent of emails, text messages) were a stronger means ofcommunication between writers, between poets. As Weingarten offers in hisdetailed introduction, this is where battles were fought, shots were lobbied,generosities offered and questions answered, all of which John composed inthoughtful detail. Every gesture was for the sake of the work. Weingarten putsthe spotlight on an important Canadian poet and the context in which heexisted, across a wide-ranging literature.

Winnipeg poet and lawyer Chimwemwe Undi is announced as Canada’s 11th Parliamentary Poet Laureate. From her Scientific Marvel (2024): “All that distance, /built.”

*

Thesnowfall eases, drifts. By mid-afternoon, the streets and sidewalks plowed,some more than once. More than a few times. I convince the young ladies to getdressed, and we prepare to head out for Aoife’s ukulele lesson. Our first andonly outing.

 

DM Bradford, Bottom Rail on Top

 

                                                Not a poem

but plantation diningroom
    ceiling pulley fan
boy fatherlands and rope

I’mjust now seeing a copy of Montreal-based poet and translator DM Bradford’ssecond full-length collection, Bottom Rail on Top (Kingston ON: BrickBooks, 2024), a follow-up to Dream of No One but Myself (Brick Books,2021) [see my review of such here]. Composed across an accumulated thirteenpoem-sections, from “rope to” and “ashes to” to “new corps” and “lil chug,” theshort poems of Bottom Rail on Top exist as sketch-notes, lyric burststhat suggest the gesture but are intricate and precise in their execution. As theback cover offers: “Somewhere in the cut between Harriet Jacobs andsurveillance, Southampton and sneaker game, Lake Providence and the supplychain, Bottom Rail on Top sees D.M. Bradford stage one personal presentalongside American histories of antebellum Black life and emancipation—a calland response between the complications of legacy and selfhood.” There is a kindof call-and-response to how these poems assemble, a through-line of notes andtheir commentary, akin to a kind of Greek chorus or counter-narrative. Each section,a cluster of short sketch-poems, with the occasional prose-commentary,providing a blend of further narrative, additional information and a kind ofsumming-up, set at the end of a handful of sections. The third section, “stock,”for example, ends with a prose block that begins: “Not a poem but a successionof little cuts. You hear about Sally Hemings over and over again. You don’t hearthat much about Martha Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson’s first wife, being Sally’shalf-sister. You don’t hear much about Betty Hemings, Martha’s father’s enslavedmistress, Sally’s mother. You don’t hear much about the other half-siblings,how many of them Martha, along with Thomas, inherited, the Hemings family among135. Commonplace horrors.” Not a poem, Bradford repeats as a mantra across thetitle of each poem and the opening of each commentary, suggesting a pushagainst the impossibility of the lyric while simultaneously offering its artifice,even as the poems work through and across it, connecting Bottom Rail on Topto works such as M NourbeSe Philip’s Zong! (Toronto ON: The MercuryPress, 2008) [see my archived review from The Antigonish Review here], for example. “Not a poem,” Bradford writes, near the end of thefifth section, “but to write at last / past the old place / one last time // byboat / the breeze and the sunshine / north by fatherlands / ten days and tennights [.]”

AsBradford’s debut worked through an absent father, Bottom Rail on Top alsoruns as a book-length project wrapping around layers and application of lyricstudy around history, ancestry and echoes of slavery and the American south. Toclose the first section, Bradford’s untitled prose-block begins: “Not a poem,but a big house is a big house. Imagine I’m standing in one being told everybrick that makes it up was made on site by children. That said children didn’t notlook like me, and kept the fire going around the clock. Imagine the tour guideannouncing all this, dressed to look like the mistress of the house. Someonehelps dress her in the morning, pile the whole thing on, button it up the back.”The shadow of history is long indeed, even moreso if one doesn’t attempt tounderstand it, as Bradford writes to open the acknowledgments:

This work would not existwithout the tether of ancestors enslaved in the so-called United States andJamaica. In these outgrowths of the simple history I was raised with, that wasmeant to raise a Black man and an American, I look for them and find I can’tpossibly know them. Looking at my life, I’m certain those ancestors, along withthe many enslaved Africans this book is indebted to, would sooner recognize itsmastery than its subjection. This work was in no small part shaped bythat thought. And everything that connects me to them despite it.

 

Ongoing notes: late January, 2025: Spencer Folkins, Katherine Duckworth + Michael Sikkema,

Okay,so I’m doing another one of these. Folk should send me chapbooks for review. Areyou out there making chapbooks? I like chapbooks. And you know that above/ground press is running a sale right now, yes? Given the recent increase in mailingcosts, I haven’t much of a choice.

Fredericton NB: It is good to see new chapbook presses poppingup in various corners of the country, recently seeing a copy of new Fredericton,New Brunswick chapbook publisher Gridlock Lit’s POEMS FOR BURNING(2024), the debut chapbook by Fredericton poet Spencer Folkins. I wonder ifFolkins was aware of the late bpNichol’s small item, Cold Mountain(1992), a poem set for assembling and dropping a lit match into? Folkins’ poemsare slightly wider, which prompted the publisher to set the title lengthways(instead of using legal-sized paper), which does make for a slightly trickierreading experience, admittedly. Across some thirty pages, Folkins has composed asuite of narrative first-person poems that offer declaratives and descriptionsamid meditative wandering. “We came to convince ourselves / and others / we arestill alive,” Folkins writes, as part of “POEM FOR BURNING II,” ‘still here, /hearts / beating.” These are poems of observation, seeking to articulate whatis already there, reaching for insight and wisdom through uncertain paths. Seekingout, as the original “POEM FOR BURNING” ends: “a desire innate / for the end isin everything / we touch [.]”

Brooklyn NY: I only saw a copy recently, but I’ve beengoing through Brooklyn poet Katherine Duckworth’s chapbook Slow Violence(Beautiful Days Press, 2023), numbered third in their chapbook series. Slow Violenceis a stunning and expansive fifty page suite constructed via lyric and prosefragments held together in a beautiful coherence around sports, survival, socialjustice and resistance, pinging from the intimate to the immediate to the political.“This fracture, or / a small breach on screen or // stadium,” she writes, earlyon in the collection. The lyric moves from UAW workers on strike in the 1980sto the Detroit Tigers winning the World Series, collision and exhaustion,metaphor and purpose, Hank Williams Jr. and Bubba Helms, providing a lyric ofwork and working class ethos, comparable to works by Philadelphia poet ryan eckes[see my review of his latest here] or some of those Kootenay School of Writerspoets such as the late Peter Culley [see my review of his Parkway here]. This reallyis a remarkable collection, and clearly from a poet that we should all bepaying attention to. “Severed hands gather. Relocate. Consider / the concretesuspended, shipwrecked. About / Bubba, he’s working at the Nike employee store./ He becomes again. Contains. Rises and falls in / the mind, like a market.”

A moment of catharsis, mybrothers collide

over a handful of laundryquarters

Weaving syllabics insleep, scrims that burn off in the sun

The imagination hovers,untethered. Revision, too. But it is

constructed through the life,the I confined to material, to

a specificity. I use afilter to identify the value of

Whitman’s Live Oak withMoss in the NYC parks database.

I choose one in Queens.Number 4141699 has a total

annual benefits value of$82.07. Its diameter is 5 inches

Across the street a greenpanel says POST NO BILLS

Philadelphia PA: One of the first quartet of titles fromthe “Cul-de-sac of Blood Series #1” is Grand Rapids, Michigan poet Michael Sikkema’swatch for deer (2024). Obviously, I’ve been attempting to attend thework of Sikkema for years, and have even produced a couple of chapbooks by him through above/ground press. This recent chapbook, watch for deer, isconstructed as a sequence of untitled fragments, centred around a particularwarning, which he turns in on itself, expanding a clarification into unexpecteddirections. “watch for deer,” he writes, “their fangs shine / for profit andonce // you haggle in / that palace you’ll // yell at the dotted / yellow linewhile // a pool of ungulates / swamps your / best BBQ plans [.]” The poems aresearching, reaching, stretching out into the absurd from that reasonableopening, leaning into similar absurdities as do Canadian poets Stuart Ross orGary Barwin. From this slow accumulation of pages, Sikkema manages to simultaneouslyreturn from that central moment of thought, “watch for deer,” swirling out intoan array of impossibilities (akin to Robert Kroetsch, perhaps, the notion ofthe long poem as one of perpetual beginning). Or perhaps there is somethingabout Michigan deer entirely different from those we see up this way:

they kick out of theireggs
sniff out soft targets
lean into the blur

watch for deer

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Angel T. Dionne

Angel T. Dionne is an associate professorof English literature at the University of Moncton's Edmundston campus. Sheholds a PhD in creative writing from the University of Pretoria and is thefounding editor of Vroom Lit Magazine. Her writing and art have beenfeatured in several experimental publications.

She is the author of a full-length collection of short fiction, Sardines(ClarionLit, 2023) and two chapbooks, Inanimate Objects (BottlecapPress, 2022) and Mormyridae (LJMcD Communications, 2024). She is alsothe co-editor of Rape Culture 101: Programming Change (Demeter Press,2020). Her full-length poetry collection, Bird Ornaments, is forthcomingwith Broken Tribe Press in early 2025. 

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does yourmost recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My first book, a chapbook of what I call “strange” flash fiction titled InanimateObjects, gave me a big confidence boost. I remember getting the acceptanceemail and thinking, “Hey, maybe my work is worth reading.” That validationpushed me to send in my full-length story collection, Sardines andeventually, my forthcoming collection of surrealist poetry. I feel less constrainedby self-doubt.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction ornon-fiction?

I came to fiction first. I toyed with poetry here and there in my lateteens and early twenties, but fiction always felt like home. It wasn’t until Ibecame interested in the surrealist movement that I began to seriously considerwriting poetry. I love the freedom that surrealism offers. Before, I viewedpoetry as more constrained and “stuffier” than prose. I write fiction, ofcourse, but I have a much deeper appreciation for poetry than I did when I wasyounger.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Doesyour writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first draftsappear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out ofcopious notes?

I call my first drafts dumpster fires because that’s exactly what theyare – flaming messes. Over time, I’ve learned that this part of my writingprocess. If I try to write a first drafts that’s too close to its final shape,I become paralyzed by the idea of perfection. I usually write my poetry andprose in a fit of wild inspiration, followed by a much slower and moremethodical editing process. 

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction usually begin for you? Are youan author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or areyou working on a "book" from the very beginning?

I’m drawn to short forms. My first book, Sardines, is a collection ofshort stories. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stretch a story into afull-length novel. I focus on what I call “cramped” stories – stories that takeplace in limited settings, stories that have one or two characters at most,etc. It’s difficult to stretch this style of writing into a novel that peoplewould want to read. It’s the same with poetry. I prefer shorter pieces. Ibelieve there’s real beauty in brevity.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Areyou the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Would it be wrong to call them a necessary evil? Public readings sellbooks. They give you a very important opportunity to meet people and network. Thebest readings are those that take place in bars and little cafés because thevibe tends to be more casual. I often try to advertise my readings as “openmic.” After I do my reading and sign a few books, I open the floor to otherwriters and musicians who want to come share. That takes the pressure off. Istruggle with readings because I’m extremely introverted.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kindsof questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even thinkthe current questions are?

With Sardines, I used fiction to explore the concept ofunresolved, existential guilt. Martin Buber’s paper, “Guilt and Guilt Feeling,”was a big inspiration for this collection. The characters in the storiesstruggle with guilt in one form or another but are ultimately unable to resolveit in a meaningful way. Bird Ornaments is a bit more difficult to define.The poems the juxtaposition of unrelated elements to focus on the language ofthe body and the dream-like that exists within the mundane.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in largerculture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer shouldbe?

Five years ago, I might have given a different answer. Now with AI beingat our fingertips, I think the writer’s role is to be uniquely human. Sure, AIcan generate text and visual images, but can it truly create? True art andwriting necessitates lived experience and emotion. These forms of expressionare ultimately going to separate human from machine.

I once had my students use AI to generate poems about loss. Then, theyread a poem written by a former student of mine. All agreed that the AI poemlacked that human experience of what it means to deal with loss. At best, itwas an empty husk of a poem. The role of a writer, and my role as I see it, isto show others that creation is necessary and that it forms the foundation ofwhat it means to be human.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficultor essential (or both)?

I’m extremely fortunate to be working on Bird Ornaments withWilliam Lawrence from Broken Tribe Press. He’s the head editor and working withhim has been an absolute pleasure. He’s helped me refine my work without losingits essence.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily givento you directly)?

A good first draft is a done first draft.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry tofiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

Since discovering surrealist writing, I’ve found it easier to move betweenpoetry to fiction rather. I’ve also started experimenting with surrealistvisual art, which nicely complements my writing. My fiction tends more towardsthe literary, while my poetry is almost always surrealist or experimental. Ithink my earlier attempts to limit myself to just “literary” writing might bewhy I struggled with poetry in the past. I don’t have much to say about thechanging of seasons, but I can certainly tell you about flowers blooming froman infected gout toe.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you evenhave one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I wish I had a routine! I tell my students to try and find one, but Ialso tell them that some people work better without them. It’s funny because inmy daily life, I thrive on routine. When it comes to writing, I work in spurts– weeks of nothing, then suddenly a burst of frenzied productivity.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (forlack of a better word) inspiration?

I don’t force it. I was once told that writing is a job. You don’t waitfor the muses to descend; you sit down, and you write no matter what. Thatnever worked for me personally. I’ve learned that trying to say something whenI really have nothing to say is counterproductive. I need to trust my ownprocess.  

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Vick’s vapour rub brings me back to my childhood. I still use it when I’msick, of course, but sometimes I’ll use a little when I’m feeling anxious.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but arethere any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, scienceor visual art?

Visual art has over the years been a huge influence on me as a writer.I’m inspired by artists like Rene Magritte, Leonora Carrington, Unica Zürn, andFelix Nussbaum. I also think there are some wonderful young artists to discoveron social media. Toby Ross, a young surrealist painter from the UK, has a knackfor creating work that feels like a fever dream.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, orsimply your life outside of your work?

For fiction: Bernard Malamud, Anzia Yezierska, and the philosophy ofMartin Buber.

For poetry: the surrealists, especially Andre Breton.

I can’t forget my students, who are always willing to experiment withtheir writing. They each have something to teach me.  

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I’d love to learn the violin but unlike my grandfather and my brother,I’m not musically gifted.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be?Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you notbeen a writer?

I’m a writer, but I’m also a professor, which has always been my dreamjob. If I wasn’t a writer or professor, maybe I’d be a veterinarian. I imagineit would be emotionally exhausting, though.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

My mother made me into a storyteller.  I grew up in a challenging home environment,and she would tell me bedtime stories to make sure I went to bed with apositive mindset. She’d then have me make up my own stories. This helpeddevelop my creativity and love of storytelling at a young age.

She always hoped I’d become a writer but when I started my undergraduatestudies, I chose biology and pre-med. I ended up switching to literature andwriting. She was happy that I switched, which is sort of the opposite reactionmost parents would have.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch was a brilliant, disturbing read. I alsorecently reread Bernard Malamud’s TheFixer.

One film that I recently enjoyed was Hereditary. It’s an artfully done piece of horror cinema.I discover something new, like a small (yet meaningful) word etched into thewall behind a character’s bed, each time I watch it.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m working on another surrealist collection. It doesn’t have a titleyet, but it’s coming together in in small bursts. It’s likely going to be ahybrid collection of surrealist poetry and prose vignettes.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;