12 or 20 (second series) questions with A.D. Lauren-Abunassar
A.D. Lauren-Abunassar is an Arab-American writer. Her work hasappeared in Poetry, Narrative, Rattle, Boulevard,and elsewhere. Her first book,
Coriolis
, is forthcoming from theUniversity of Arkansas Press as winner of the 2023 Etel Adnan Poetry Prize. 1 - How did your firstbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous?How does it feel different?
My first book is filled with work from so many different stages inmy life. So it means a lot to me in that I can look at something and rememberthe exact moment I wrote it and what was happening in the world then. A weirdkind of time travel and such. To have the book selected by writers I respect somuch, and designed/read/edited by such a generous team, is just something I’mreally grateful for. It’s changed my life because it has taught me how much ateam can come around a bit of writing—teachers, editors, designers,typesetters, publishers, etc. I remember going to all of these poetry lecturesand readings as a student. Once, one writer talked about how the streets nearhis house were all letters of the alphabet. And so, “in learning the alphabet,I found my way home,” he said — or something like that. It reminded me oflearning the alphabet with my father. My dad, in his really thick accent,always pronounced it “etch” instead of H and I loved to mimic this, even thoughit drove my teacher crazy. Years later, I was doing some volunteer work,reading stories with this really little kid who used to say ache instead of H. Three different waysto say one letter and, in learning all of them, I also felt like I wasexploring some city, looking for home. I guess I bring up memories like thesebecause it feels like it says something about my own work and how it’s changedbut also stayed the same. I’m always looking for something, always a bitrestless. The way I look changes—maybe my more recent work is different in thatI’m turning more and more to the stories of others than my own—but the impulseto break something down, even to the letter, is a kind of play for me that’salways present in my writing.
2 - How did you come topoetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I came to poetry first as a reader, but a very narrow-minded one.Surrealists confused me. Modernists frustrated me. I struggled to see anythingof the world I grew up in reflected in work that felt, largely, distant tome—maybe a little elitist. So I went to college primarily interested infiction. Then I was so lucky to have some absolutely wonderful teachers. Onebrought a section of Adrienne Rich’s “Cartographies of Silence,” to my firstyear seminar. This has not only stayed my favorite poem, it also helped merealize that there was a world of poetry I never knew about. From there, I justkept reading. I returned to work that frustrated and confused me and hadtotally new experiences with it because I was so much more open to the utility(and importance!) of disorientation. More than anything, I think I began torealize that something doesn’t have to make sense to have meaning. And thatmeaning is a thing you build. You have to be accountable to it. For me, poetryhas always been a great reminder of that. Beyond art, it’s such a nicehuman/life lesson as well.
3 - How long does it taketo start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially comequickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to theirfinal shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
I’m a pretty slow writer. I do keep lots of different notebookswith single lines that will come to me while I’m reading or watching orlistening to something. Sometimes these grow into fuller pieces and sometimesthey just stay lost there. As slow as I usually am, every now and thensomething will come very quickly and usually these are the pieces that are inresponse to something external. For example, a poem I wrote about an article Iread on a lion who ate her cub. After I read the story, the responding poemcame very quickly afterwards because I was in such a hurry to try and live inthat narrative world for a moment. It’s sort of similar with revision—sometimesbecause the piece has taken so long to emerge, it emerges fairly “finished.”More often than not, though, I’m a proponent of really radical revision.Swapping the order of lines. Rewriting an entire poem keeping just one or twoimages from the initial draft etc. Sometimes I’ll find an earlier draft of apoem in a notebook and think, “wow that was totally fine? Why did I scramble itso much?” I think in those cases it comes down to that internal engine we allhave that tells us when we need to keep going to get at something different,even if not necessarily better.
4 - Where does a poem orwork of prose 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?
I would say I’m typically not writing with a book in mind. Thoughthat could certainly change as I’ve found I do start thinking of larger/longer projectsmore and more lately. I also find that often single poems of mine turn intolarger sequences or series. The same way an essay or a piece of journalism or astory often sets down an obsession that guides the next four or five pieces Iwork on. Maybe for me it has to do with an interest in transmutation (how muchthis mimics memory and life) and how you can constantly push to examine onecentral thing from a new lens/perspective. Maybe it has to do with restlessnessand a sense I’m not quite getting it right, even when I’m getting close enoughto call something ready. For all of these reasons though, questions often markthe beginning of a piece for me. The journalist in me is also very driven byexternal sources: a film I love, a piece of music, even the fun fact on aSnapple bottle cap. I like the idea that a single focused influence can veryoften take up more of me than I expect, growing into something like a book or alarger project as a result.
5 - Are public readingspart of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer whoenjoys doing readings?
They’re definitely not counter to my creative process. I actuallythink attending readings and panel discussions was a monumental influence forme as a younger writer and as a writer to this day. It’s one of my favoritethings to do as an audience member—whether I’m in a creative drought or am veryactively writing. I haven’t quite gotten over that public speaking fear thatmakes reading my own work a little terrifying. But I try to keep pushing myselfand finding opportunities to read because it’s a lovely way to inch outside ofthe isolation writing sometimes enforces. Also, answering questions about mywork, or even just listening to the way something sounds in my voice or another’s,is a great way to get closer to understanding what I really want to be workingon or accomplishing with a given project.
6 - Do you have anytheoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are youtrying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questionsare?
I am someone that gets really paralyzed if I think too much abouttheoretical concerns. So I try to engage with them but limit them. When I wasin grad school, I wrote a poem about a character from Arabic literature. One ofthe critiques of the poem, in workshop, was whether or not I had a right totake on that voice. Several of my classmates spent the majority of the workshopdiscussing this question, not even really getting to the craft of the poemitself. They were concerned that the answer was no, I didn’t really seem tohave the right. It was a troubling experience for me because 1) The assumptionthat I was not Arab myself was incorrect 2) It brought up a whole lot ofexistential tailspinning (am I Arab enoughsince I don’t look as Arab as some of my family, for example, since I’m nottotally fluent in the language, etc.) and 3) It scared me that there was thispossibility we couldn’t engage with certain things that elicit our curiosity aswriters, and that this list of things we can’t engage with are constantlyshifting and hard to predict. Isn’t that an obstacle to empathy? At the sametime, yes—it’s hugely important to me that writing is genuine and that writersare aware of their own positionality AND do not obstruct or co-opt the voice ortradition of another. In that way, I suppose I’m always asking: where is mywork in relation to empathy, honesty, originality? And do I have a reason why I’ve written this? Those are thequestions that feel most important to me.
7 – What do you see thecurrent role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? Whatdo you think the role of the writer should be?
I guess this is a question I’m always asking (re: the abovequestion) and one I don’t think I ever get totally close to answering. Maybebecause the role of the writer is always changing, especially as the culturechanges. I think it’s important to question, to indict, to reflect, to listen.To engage (internally, externally). There are so many responsibilities androles. But I guess, at the end of the day, I keep coming back to empathy. And Idon’t want to project that onto every writer. I just know that for me, writingis a practice in empathy and is always something that shapes my own understandingof my work and what I feel my role is.
8 - Do you find theprocess of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Both. I think if you find an editor who reads work on its ownterms, it’s not difficult. When you’re editing with someone (say in a workshop)who tends to project the way they would write something on your work, not theway you’ve written it, it can get tricky. I’m constantly guided by thatworkshop mentality of always wanting to hear other people out and try and finda place for their edit in my work. You have to eventually get good at knowingwhich advice to follow though, and which advice to save for another piecealtogether. Still—I always seek feedback and editing from others when I write.It’s essential for me.
9 - What is the best pieceof advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Don’t be afraid if you’re lost. When you’re lost, you noticeeverything.
10 - How easy has it beenfor you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to journalism)? What do yousee as the appeal?
I think I work best, or at least most regularly, in a state ofdivided attention. Writing and watchinga film, for example. Indexing an essay andlistening to a podcast. Because of that, I find myself moving betweengenres constantly. I hesitate to say I move between them easily because writingrarely feels easy to me. But I guess for me the forms are always inconversation. So moving between them is sort of like moving from room to roomall within the same house. I’m turning to writing as a way to explore. Andthat’s where the appeal of working in different genres lies: there are so manynew ways to explore. Where poetry or fiction may feel a little insularsometimes, journalism allows me to engage with the stories of others. Wherejournalism may have more fixed “rules,” poetry or fiction lets me deconstructrules if I feel so inclined. I think it’s so important to embrace a sense ofcuriosity. And different forms of writing allow me to really lean into thatimpulse.
11 - What kind of writingroutine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day(for you) begin?
Unfortunately, I’m just not the kind of person who is good atroutine. I end up feeling a little bit too trapped or stilted in them. Thatsaid, I try to write at least a little every day. When I was going through areally bad creative drought, a friend told me to commit to writing fivesentences daily, even if they were really bad ones. And I have found that infollowing that rule, five sentences often turn into a lot more. It’s reallyabout just making yourself start which, for me, has always been the mostchallenging part. I also try to stop writing for the day when I still have alittle more to say. That way I can start the next day with something already onmy mind. Usually, my tendency is to spend the first half of the day gatheringcontent by reading or engaging with outside material of some sort. The writingalmost always comes later. So a typical day would probably start by goingoutside for a little while, taking a walk. Then sitting outside for somereading or research. Basically doing everything I can outside, which helps mesort of “boot up the system.” And though I don’t follow routine by way of doingsomething at certain times, I do have daily habits: Try for one walk a day, tryto watch one movie a day, practice my Spanish and Arabic everyday, write atleast one thing in my commonplace book, etc.
12 - When your writinggets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word)inspiration?
For me, there is a certain amount of waiting involved in enduring amoment of stall. I’ve found that trying too hard to unblock myself just makesme more frustrated and, as a result, more blocked. Even when I’m stalledthough, I’ll write those crappy five sentences (a teacher once told me toalways remember, “you can’t edit nothing,” and that is something that’s reallyalways stayed with me) and then I’ll step away and just try and stopoverthinking things. Reading has always been my surefire way to get inspired. Ialso go back to old writing prompts. Ekphrastic pieces based on paint swatches,something that responds to something I’ve read in the news, etc. One time, Itold a teacher that I felt blocked because I just kept writing about the sameobsessions over and over and how could I get new obsessions? And he (verywisely) told me it was not about getting new obsessions but finding new ways towrite about the obsessions you have. So doing things like writing a poem aboutgrief using only words found in the dictionary entry for joy, for example, areways I’ll try and look for new light, new perspective. And really, it’s oftenabout churning out a lot of bad stuff so that you can get to what has potentialunderneath it all.
13 - What fragrancereminds you of home?
Wet grass. New tennis balls. Sawdust. Sumac. Horse hair. LizClaiborne perfume. Elkalub. Too many!
14 - David W. McFaddenonce said that books come from books, but are there any other forms thatinfluence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
I’m a really big collector. Old gas lamps, empty cigar boxes,typewriters, whiskey decanters, rolodexes, etc. And I think that instinct tocollect is there in my influences. Which is my way of saying I’m justinfluenced by so much. Nature, always. But also things like John Cage’s “As Slow As Possible,” Ann Hamilton’s “face to face,” Elizabeth Cotten’s folk songsor John Fahey’s requiems. , , Marjane Satrapi, Luis Buñuel, Katie Paterson, Wes Montgomery, Katherine Toukhy, Sarah Knobel, Gordon Parks, Henri Cartier-Bresson… And then yes, science — everything from the pheromones of ants(and animal behavior more generally) to botany to modern and antiquated medicalpractices. I started getting really into watching tennis with my brother a fewyears ago and even something like that feels like an influence, albeit maybe alittle less legible. The movement, the fluidity, the physicality, the sound.And while I find it difficult to actually write without reading, I’d say that maybethe inspiration for actual narratives or thematic obsessions come more oftenfrom things outside of books altogether.
15 - What other writers orwritings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
This list is massive. But a few examples: Adrienne Rich’s “Cartographies of Silence” and the entirety of The Dream of a Common Language beyond that. Etel Adnan — maybe Surge in particular. Joan Retallack’s Memnoir. Anything at all by Lorca.Maggie Nelson (also anything but Bluets first).Toni Morrison (also also anything but I’ve probably reread Song of Solomon the most, especially the section on how the cloudslove a mountain). The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy. Humanimal, Bhanu Kapil. Leslie Jamison, The Empathy Exams.James Agee, Let us Now Praise Famous Men. David Foster Wallace, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. There are just too many more tolist.
16 - What would you liketo do that you haven't yet done?
Writing-wise, I’d love to try writing a play or a screenplay. Idon’t think I’d be any good at either but I’m such a fan of both forms.Non-writing: too many things to list but certainly one of them would be to hikethe Camino de Santiago.
17 - If you could pick anyother occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do youthink you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I would have loved to work in a library or a bookstore. Or, Ithink, as either a photojournalist or filmmaker. When I was a kid, I used tosay I’d be a professional tree climber.
18 - What made you write,as opposed to doing something else?
It’s hard to say because writing was just always the thing I wasgoing to do. Even if I wanted to be a soccer star or an equestrian or a riverguide, I always wanted to also write. Iguess I think of writing as a place to go as much as a thing to do. And it wasalways a place I kept coming back to.
19 - What was the lastgreat book you read? What was the last great film?
I just reread A Tale for theTime Being by Ruth Ozecki and that book never fails to knock me out.Films—maybe The Worst Person in the World.
20 - What are youcurrently working on?
I’ve currently been doing a lot ofresearch on pilgrimages. And I find that that, along with the concept ofwalking and believing, is finding its way into everything I write at themoment.
