12 or 20 (second series) questions with Paul Hlava Ceballos
Paul Hlava Ceballos
is the author of
banana [ ]
,winner of the AWP Donald Hall Prize for Poetry, the Norma Farber First BookAward from the Poetry Society of America, and a finalist for the National BookCritics Circle Award. His collaborative chapbook,
Banana [ ] / we pilot the blood
, shares pages with Quenton Baker and Christina Sharpe. He hasfellowships from CantoMundo, Artist Trust, and the Poets House. He has beenfeatured on the Poetry Magazine Podcast, Seattle’s the Stranger,and his work has been translated to Ukrainian. He currently lives in Seattle,where he practices echocardiography.1- How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your mostrecent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first bookchanged my life primarily in how I think about myself. Despite being a writerfor decades, and having some accomplishments in fellowships, magazinepublications, and organizing readings, I sometimes felt out of place inliterary spaces. Silly, I know! These feelings of underachievement or notenough-ness are mostly in our heads, but they are real feelings. At some point,after the book and the awards that came with it, I realized that people wereexpecting me to engage with them about our craft—I simply had to. So having thebook has been an opportunity to open up, have conversations about poetry, makenew writer friends, and fanboy out to my favorite writers. I got a lot morebooks signed at AWP this year than before.
Well, I should saythat our feelings of not enough-ness are in our heads but they do come fromsomewhere. For me, a lot of those feelings of not fitting in had to do withrace and class, from actually being an outsider in professional or moniedspaces. This book is different from my previous writing in that I wrote aboutthose subjects for the first time. In that way, it’s the most personal and truewriting I’ve done. So, it feels a bit disorienting and wonderful that peoplehave responded to it so positively.
2- How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
My abuelo was a poet. He wrote occasional poems to hischildren, my abuela on their anniversary, and even about the World Cup. Thesetypewritten pages are saved in plastic sheets and shared as near sacred objectsby my tíos. When I was a child, walking around with a book tucked under my arm,every relative I saw would tell me I resembled him.
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?
Oh my god, I am such a slow writer! banana [ ], as youcan imagine came from years of research and note-taking. I have to remindmyself that it’s ok to take months or even years to write a poem; art is a slowprocess.
4- Where does a poem 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?
My thinking can be very webby—I can’t help but see connectionsbetween everything. So as soon as I write one poem, I’m imagining a book! Youcan probably see that in banana [ ]—this was a singular thought workedand re-worked.
5- Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you thesort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I dread doing readings! Even now, after touring and havingdone dozens of them in the past few months—I want to run away and hide! I justwant to read or write instead. While I dislike the process, afterward, I lovehaving done readings. I love hearing other people’s writing and thoughtprocess. And the best part, of course, is getting drinks or ice-creamafterward.
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?
This book is drivenby the ways global resource extractive policies affect individual people. Whilethe title poem—the 40-page collage about the history of bananas—lies at itsheart, it begins with elegies to migrants to illustrate how historicalatrocities are directly connected to current ones, how the past and present areconcurrent.
7– What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Dothey even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think the cynicalpart of me would say “entertainer.” But I truly believe that the role of awriter—the real role of a writer as a thinker—is more profound than that.Writing should do more than re-form old tropes into new media. I believe thatwriting as an artform sees outside of structures of thought that we are raisedin, and shows us different stories that exist outside a kind of hegemonicthought. In journalism, for example, this is the difference between mediasimply restating what the police or political authority says about an event, versusdigging into history of the officers involved, background evidence, witnesstestimonies, etc.
8 - Do you find theprocess of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential, ofcourse! I truly believe all thought is communal. This means that what I writeshould be considered, re-considered, edited. My first editors are always myclosest writing friends. But after a few rounds with them, I try to show mywriting to someone I don’t know, and then, ideally, to the editor of a press.
9- What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to youdirectly)?
I tend to write inmany different styles, depending on the needs of the work, and my mood. Oneday, as a student, I went to Sharon Olds’s office, and she had my poems spreadacross her desk in a grid. She showed me how different styles I was practicingworked (or didn’t work) in relationship to one another. She told me where shethought my strengths were. I cherish that advice. It helps me remember the waysof writing that feel natural for me, so I can challenge myself by writing inother ways too.
10- 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 wish I had aroutine! The sad fact is that with a full-time job, a newborn, and trying tokeep my life in order, it’s tough to find time to write. Though I do considerwriting my life and career, with my paying job secondary, unfortunately, myculture does not value art enough to help me survive on writing alone.
This means that awriting day for me might be scribbling something in my Notes app during mylunchbreak. Or it might start with preparing food for the next day. Then, ifI’m not too exhausted after coming home from work, I can scarf some pre-madedinner, bring my computer down the hall to a quiet nook in my apartmentcomplex, pop in some earphones, and get a good hour of editing done.
11- When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack ofa better word) inspiration?
You know, I thinkthat sometimes the most rewarding and inspiring thing can be removing oneselffrom the page and getting involved in community work. Volunteer at a dayworkerscenter, march for Black lives, join your union’s picket. This has felt crucialfor me to remember what and who is actually important in our work on the page.
12- What fragrance reminds you of home?
The woody,spicy-sweet musk of a California pepper tree after it’s wetted in a hot summerrain.
13- 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?
Visual art hasalways been an inspiration. When I was in grad school in NY, I would take thesubway to the Met and spend all day walking and observing, or sitting in frontof a sculpture and free writing.
However, in the pastdecade, I’ve swung the other direction. My book banana [ ] was veryresearch-based, and I loved coming home from work and reading history books,writing down any fact about the fruit that struck me. Right now, I’m writingpoems that begin with cardiac studies that I perform at the hospital where Iwork. I’m very interested in what happens when we combine language that issupposedly “poetic” or “beautiful” with scientific or academic language thatintends to serve a different purpose.
14- What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply yourlife outside of your work?
Poetry is importantfor my work, of course, but history and critical theory are, too. Some of mythe books that were critical in the formation of my most recent book are: TheOpen Veins of Latin America, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, Howto Read Donald Duck, and Bananas, Beaches and Bases.
15- What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would love toconduct interviews of people in my mother’s hometown in Ecuador and in myhometown in California, as a starting point for my next writing project,thinking about immigration and displacement.
16- 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?
I would love to be aresearcher of some kind, so I could go deep into scientific rabbit holes butalso travel to, like, the arctic to collect ice samples or somethingadventurous like that.
17- What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
There’s somethingspecial about language as a medium, in its accessibility. Anyone can do it,anywhere, without expensive supplies.
18- What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I’m just finishingJane Wong’s memoir Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City, which is stunning.I really recommend you check it out. For movies, I’m still thinking about whata weird and funny movie Triangle of Sadness is.
19- What are you currently working on?
I work as an echocardiographer at the primary cardiologycenter for the Pacific Northwest. Currently, I’m writing poems using medicallanguage and thinking about how larger, political and structural decisionsaffect personal health outcomes.
