12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jade Wallace
Jade Wallace (they/them) [photo credit: MarkLaliberte] is the author of a poetry collection
Love Is A Place But You Cannot LiveThere
(Guernica Editions 2023), a novel Anomia(Palimpsest Press 2024), and the co-author of ZZOO (Palimpsest Press2025), as well as several chapbooks, most recently
Expression Follows Grim Harmony
(JackPine Press 2023). Wallace is alsothe book reviews editor for
CAROUSEL
and co-founder of the collaborative writing entity MA|DE. Keep in touch: jadewallace.ca1 - How didyour first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent workcompare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Now is when Irealize that I actually can’t remember my first chapbook specifically. It wasthirteen years ago, and a few of them came out in quick succession. I’m notsure anymore which was first.
My first book,however, just came out in April: Love Is A Place But You Cannot LiveThere (Guernica Editions). Mostly I feelrelief. Yes, I am a person capable of writing a book other people will want topublish and read. Whatever doubts I still have (and there are many), I can’thave that one anymore.
From my firstchapbook to my debut poetry collection to what I’m working on now, I would saythe general trajectory is toward the stranger, the more complicated, and themore plural.
2 - How didyou come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
Absolutelypoetry was first for me. Poetry is still first for me. I have no idea why, Ijust accept the inevitability of it. If my prose doesn’t sound a bit likepoetry, I invariably think it’s no good. I have a novel coming out next year, Anomia,with Palimpsest Press, and a lot of the “chapters” probably read more likeprose poems than fiction. Some may see that as a fault, but even the prose Iprefer to read is the kind that’s preoccupied with imagery, and the sound ofwords, and enigma at the heart of language, and whatever else poetry is about.
3 - How longdoes 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 do everythingquite slowly. I thought about my novel for years before I started it. Then ittook still more years to write. Poems are not quite so bad, but I often thinkabout a poem for weeks or months before I sit down to it. For any genre ofwriting, there is usually one atrocious draft, sometimes short and sometimeslong but always a mess, and then there is a draft that looks like a story orpoem, and then usually there is a third version that is readable and needs onlya little more prodding to be done. No one, not even the people I trust most,sees anything until it’s at least at the second draft stage.
4 - Wheredoes a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that endup combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book"from the very beginning?
A poem alwaysbegins with a problem I cannot solve. At any given time in my life, I tend tobe preoccupied with a certain problem or set of related problems, and all thepoems I write orbit around that fixation. Sometimes I realize what’s happeningin advance, and the book concept precedes the poems, but even when I don’t it’susually apparent pretty early on.
Like with whatI hope will be my second full-length poetry collection, The Work Is DoneWhen We Are Dead, I was thinking a lot about the problems of labour. Ithought about it while I was at my day job, I thought about it when I wasvolunteering, I thought about it when I was trying to manage my personalrelationships, I thought about it when even making art had begun to feel likework. It was easy to write a big set of poems about the same subject; it washard to make that particular subject fun. I think I succeeded, but then again Ihave very dowdy notions of what’s fun. Crossword puzzles are deeply exciting tome, for example.
5 - Arepublic readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sortof writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love doingreadings. In every book, I feel it’s essential to have at least a few poems orstories or excerpts that will be thrilling (for me at least) to read aloud.Usually they are pieces where the voice is very distinct, or the rhythm isquite pronounced, or the language is slippery and playful. If I feel a piecewill lend itself well to being read, I will turn up the volume on thosequalities during editing.
I love doingreadings but I loathe being away from home, so it can be a struggle. When Icame back from my first tiny book tour in August, which was only a week long,by the way, I was about ready for a nervous breakdown.
6 - Do youhave any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions areyou trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the currentquestions are?
Always, butthey vary from project to project. I started reading philosophy as a teenagerbecause I was very interested in the questions it attempts to answer, but Ifound the way it answered them to be desperately unfulfilling. The philosophersI ended up enjoying most were the very literary ones, like Camus, and Ieventually realized I wanted the promises of philosophy in the package offiction or poetry. So that’s what I try to write.
I guess if youwanted the very simple version, there are two basic questions at the crux of mywork: “Why do we bother?” and “What shall we bother with?” Each project answersthose questions differently.
7 – What doyou 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?
For me,literature and sunlight are about the only consistent things that make me wantto go on with life day to day. There seem to be some writers who don’t feel agreat need to read, and maybe they would be happy being the only scribes onearth, but I experience reading and writing as a kind of ongoing conversationwith the world around me. As in any social situation, I prefer to listen morethan I speak.
If writing hasany purpose other than this, I don’t know about it.
8 - Do youfind the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (orboth)?
Certainly both.Unless you’re keeping a diary, writing is a communal practice. I want to knowhow other people will respond to my work, and to control for their reactions tosome extent, while also being aware that the extent of my control is extremelylimited, which is both exciting and horrifying.
9 - What isthe best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Keep at it.
10 - Howeasy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to collaboration)? Whatdo you see as the appeal?
In my work,poetry and collaboration are overlapping genres. Strangely, I findcollaboration easier to dig into sometimes. Maybe because you can’t have an egoabout the kind of writing I do as MA|DE with my partner Mark Laliberte. “My”voice and “his” voice dissolve, and MA|DE has a single, unified “third” voicethat I am a part of but that doesn’t belong to me, so I can’t feel particularlyself-conscious about anything I contribute. It’s easier to sing in a choir thansing solo I guess. That is very freeing, at least at the drafting stage. Laterwe go back in together and edit everything so it’s harmonious and precise,which is not freeing but it is as easy as editing ever is.
11 - Whatkind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How doesa typical day (for you) begin?
Not to be toobohemian about it, but for me art and routine are antithetical. If my writingprocess is too prescribed, I start to resent it. Instead I try to have severalwriting projects, and a never-ending list of related administrative tasks,bouncing around at any given time, and I’ll tackle at least one of them almostevery day. How much time I spend and which one I do depend on my mood.
It’s like howsomeone who loves reading tends to have stacks of books all over their houseand will on most days probably pick up one or two books and read a bit fromthem, without a need for scheduling the books they’ll read or how many pagesthey’ll read each day.
12 - Whenyour writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of abetter word) inspiration?
If I feel likeI lack ideas, I pick a book off my shelf that interests me and read. I don’tthink too hard about which one. It usually ends up being relevant. If I feelrestless or uninterested in the project, I’ll go for a walk or play guitar ordo literally anything else. Life is too short to spend trying to force myselfto be interested in things that are not urgent. If it’s a good project, myinterest will return soon enough anyways.
13 - Whatfragrance reminds you of home?
My parentsbuilt a log house and that’s where I lived for the first twenty years of mylife, so pine always smells like home. My mom hung pomanders whenever citruswas in season, so oranges and cloves smell like home. My dad did automotivework in our basement and driveway so gasoline and engine grease smell likehome. I spent all the spare hours of my childhood and adolescence in a horsestable, so hay smells like home, too.
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?
It’s only booksthat make me want to write books, but it’s the other things in my life thatgive me things to write books about. I spend an awful lot of time thinkingabout our home garden, and how it’s a way of interacting with the local floraand fauna. Just before I started this interview, I was reading this great thread by writer Leah Bobet on practicalthings we can all do for the environment—and no it’s not a list of things youcan give up, it’s about constructively beneficial actions we can take, likemaking pollinator gardens in any space, no matter how small.
I also spend alot of time with “true crime” media, which might seem odd because I am adie-hard pacifist who hates causing or experiencing harm (I get genuinely upsetwhen bugs die), and who has enormous qualms about judicial and prison systems,but my interest in “true crime” goes back to my preoccupation with problems wecan’t solve. Murder is a rather fascinating example of a problem that can’t besolved, per se, and yet there are so many ways to lessen the likelihood of ithappening and to deal with the aftermath when it does, if we can understand howand why it occurs in the first place and what the far-flung effects of it are.
15 - Whatother writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your lifeoutside of your work?
Unexpectedly,Tennessee Williams has remained a long-time love of mine ever since I read TheGlass Menagerie in high school. I hardly read plays, and there are fewthings from high school I still enjoy, but I’m well on my way to collectingevery work of his that was ever published. To me he’s a great example ofsomeone who’s not writing poetry but always has poetry in his writing.
Otherwise I’m abit of a goldfish—whatever I’m reading at the time is probably what’s mostimportant to me. Right now I’m absolutely delighted by The Ants bySawako Nakyasu (Les Figues Press), a charming and unnerving collection of prosepoem type pieces that “takes the human to the level of the ant, and the ant tothe level of the human.”
16 - Whatwould you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Relax.
17 - If youcould 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 a writer?
Well, like mostwriters, I have no choice but to do other jobs as well. Most of that work, forme, has been in legal clinics, but I’ve also spent a lot of time being a gradstudent, and some amount of time being an editor, and in previous lives I’veworked in a horse stable and a Chinese restaurant. I suppose if I weren’tfrittering away my time with poetry I’d be trying harder to become a lawyer orprofessor. All of my other hobbies—growing plants, baking cakes, playinginstruments—are not things I would want to do full-time.
18 - Whatmade you write, as opposed to doing something else?
There wasnothing else.
19 - Whatwas the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
For this I’llneed to consult my records.
According to mybooklist, some of my favourite reads of 2023 included poetry collections likeCecily Nicholson’s Harrowings (Talon Books), Anahita Jamali Rad’s still(Talon Books), natalie hanna’s lisan al’asfour (ARP Books), andHollay Ghadery’s Rebellion Box (Radiant Press); short story collectionslike Corinna Chong’s The Whole Animal (Arsenal Pulp Press) and JeanToomer’s Cane (Mint Editions); and graphic novels like Joe Kessler’s TheGull Yettin (New York Review Comics).
According to myLetterboxd account, my favourite recently watched films are George Kane’s Crashing(2016), which is only debatably a film, but I enjoy everything writes, Sarah Polley’s Take This Waltz (2011), though thatmight only be because it too closely mirrors my twenties, Donna Deitch’s DesertHearts (1985), which is a queer classic and hard not to like, and ParkChan-wook’s Decision to Leave (2022), which was generally brilliantthough I confess I was disappointed by the ending.
20 - Whatare you currently working on?
I think myaforementioned, hopefully sophomore poetry collection, The Work Is Done WhenWe Are Dead, is basically complete, less a few nitpicking edits I willcontinue to make until a publisher takes it out of my hands, so I am planningto spend more time with a couple of MA|DE’s many projects:
Waste Not the Marrow, a hybrid collection of collage-sculptures and ekphrastic poetry (as previously featured in The Ex-Puritan, for example).
I’m alsogrudgingly contemplating what I need to do to finish and fix up my firstmanuscript of short fiction—the most significant challenge is trying toresist the urge to turn all the pieces into poems.
