12 or 20 (second series) questions with Katie Berta

Katie Berta’s debut poetry collection, retribution forthcoming , won theHollis Summers Prize and was published by Ohio University Press. Her poems haveappeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Cincinnati Review,The Kenyon Review, Prairie Schooner, Denver Quarterly, TheYale Review, The Massachusetts Review, and Bennington Review,among other magazines. She has received residencies from Millay Arts, Ragdale,and The Hambidge Center, fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center and theVirginia G. Piper Center for Creative Writing, and an Iowa Review Award. She isthe managing editor of The Iowa Review and teaches literary editing andpoetry at the University of Iowa and Arizona State University.

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

Writing this book changed my life, I think. Or my lifechanged as I wrote this book. When the earliest poems in the book were written,I was exiting a period of my life that was dense with gendered trauma that Iwasn’t able to describe or investigate—in my writing or with my loved ones. Bythe time I finished the book, those experiences became less charged and morearticulable. I’m not sure whether that happened because of the act of writingor whether those traumatic experiences just aged out of their charge. Eitherway, this book was there as my life changed. People who know the undergraduatewriter I was or the MFA student I was or even the early PhD student I was mightsay the work in this book isn’t trying to gesture at experiences, to suggestthings, as maybe I did previously. Instead the book clearly describes. I thinkthat’s a change—a habitual gesture of new poets is to always find ways ofsaying without saying. This book taught me (or told me) not to do that anymore.

2.     How didyou come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

As a kid, I was actually much more interested infiction—it’s what I read and could imitate—but it quickly became clear that Iwas never going to finish anything that required any real follow through. Iwrote a lot at school when I was supposed to be paying attention, and thatdoesn’t leave a lot of time for completing longer work. I’m not sure what myfirst encounters with poetry were, but I started writing it in middle school. Ikept trying to write short stories into my first years of college, butcompleted them the way I completed other assignments—they were all last minuteand half-assed. And it just never stuck like poetry did—I could write andcomplete poem after poem and fix them up later. That way of working was justmore suited to the type of writer I am.

3.    How long does it take to start any particular writingproject? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Dofirst drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work comeout of copious notes?

I think, usually, when a project is beginning, I don’trealize it’s a project at all. I’m just thinking, “Well, this is a new kind ofpoem!” And the newness piques your interest a little, so you try to dosomething similar in the next poem and the next and on and on. And that becomesa project—or something like a project. Usually, in that stage of my writingprocess, I’m excited and poems are easy to produce. They might be the jankiestversions of the new work you’ll do, but they’re the most excited to you, sothey’re quick. And those poems might need a lot of work later, but the poemsthat come after them, once you’ve learned whatever new mode you’re working in,need a little less.

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?

I’m never really thinking about a book when I write a poem.I’m writing single poems that hopefully will connect to each other thematicallyor by their voice and sound. I recently described the process of writing apoetry book as making and then collecting—you create and then curate your ownwork, which means you have to treat it like you’re an editor looking in fromoutside, deciding what’s good enough and what goes well enough with what youalready know you want. I’ve had to write many more poems than can fit in apoetry book so that I have choices between them, so I can make a book thatfeels cohesive and sturdy, as a piece of art.

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

I love readings because they’re one of the only situationswhen writers witness the unvarnished reactions of their audience. I’m greedyfor feedback, so I read poems that I expect will make the audience laugh orotherwise express themselves. I wouldn’t call this a part of my creativeprocess, per se, but it is something that keeps me going, that inspiresme and makes me feel I’m a part of a community.

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?

It feels like a lot of writers are asking why we write atall, in the face of the serious global concerns we all feel too puny to change.Does it matter whether you write the great American novel if our way of life isobliviated by climate change? If entire civilian populations are being obliviatedby war? Writing as an art and a profession is having to deal with the ways it’sobsolete culturally (Americans read an average of 12 books per year and manyread none at all) and obsolete functionally (can books be used to affect acultural or political climate that requires massive corporate interests tofunnel money toward or away from any cause or value-system or politician inorder for that cause or value system to succeed or fail?)—is it callous to keepwriting your little poems knowing they’re not for anything? Of course wecan’t help it—humans are built to make stuff. And poets were more likely thanmoney-making writers, I think, to know that their art doesn’t have to be foranything and to already have bemoaned their lack of impact, but I know I’m notimmune from asking why, crying over it, and trying to address somethingin the art I make. Usually those somethings are the concerns I brush upagainst in my own life (I always think of the title of a poem by a friend, Sara Sams: “But Think, Are You Authorized to Tell It?” she asks). It often dependson the identity and the perspective of the reader, though, whether thoseconcerns are considered political and theoretical rather than interior,personal, or private.

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?

Poems are speaking to very few people, which means they canbe as frank as they want. Maybe our very small role should be to speak very loudly,and in an annoying voice? I think of Solmaz Sharif’s amazing poem “Patronage”all the time, in which she critiques the system by which poets have to buildcareers (and depend, largely, on universities for support) and the ways itlimits what we think we can say: “They [poets] step/in as one steps in/to anursery and//quiet//calms the tantrum/attempts not to wake/the sleeping, themilk­drunk//and burped babe.” Of course, Sharif is a writer who is a great counterexamplefor that ultra-quiet, apolitical poet she describes.

8.     Do you findthe process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Are people reticent to edit poets? I don’t think I’ve had aneditor suggest large changes to my poetry. Maybe they know poets are especiallyprickly and will use our genre to justify even our most unhinged choices (speakingfrom my experience as a writer, not my experience as an editor—at TheIowa Review, our contributors in all genres are universally lovely).

9.     What isthe best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

I was just at a reading and conversation between Sally Ball and Ellen Bryant Voigt and Voigt said, to revise, make the poem ugly. If it’sugly to you, you’ll be able to change it. I think this is a brilliant idea—andwe really do depend on our impulse to “fix” the “broken” poem to fuel ourrevision efforts—but I also just liked that piece of advice on its own: “Makethe poem ugly.” Why not? There’s nothing “good” (in any innate, intellectual,or moral way) about writing a pretty poem. We write pretty poems to show thatwe know what pretty is and to show that we can be pretty—and because webelieve beauty gives pleasure. But I (we?) get pleasure out of ugliness too.I’ll be working on some ugly poems this year, I think.

10.  How easyhas it been for you to move between genres (poetry to critical prose)? What doyou see as the appeal?

These genres serve such different purposes for me. Lately, I’vebeen telling people that poems are a place of internal quiet in which I get toexplicate what I think and feel without the invading presence of another mind.In conversation, I often (always?) feel myself distorting in order to servewhat I believe the other person thinks and feels. This often gets me intotrouble, as whatever I’m reflecting to them/expecting of them isn’t always (isnever?) what they meant or wanted. In the poem, I’m in conversation with myselfand am following, to me, my most authentic intellectual impulse instead ofserving anyone else. Writing critical prose, on the other hand, feels like I’mapplying my mind to someone else’s work and should, on some level, be serving theirwork first. I like writing criticism because it gives me an occasion to thinkreally deeply about a book or poem—but it’s less about finding out what I thinkand more about practicing a kind of attention that I love to give to writingand art.

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

I wouldn’t say I have a routine. Instead, I will beg,borrow, or steal any moment during which a poem arises. And the impulse towrite a poem comes and goes. Over the last year, I wrote, maybe, the fewestpoems of my life. I work from home and I suspect I just encountered less stuff,fewer things to make an image out of or to spark a bit of language. SinceJanuary, I’ve been writing about two poems per week. They happen when theyhappen—and that’s the luxury of being a poet rather than a prose writer—I scrawlsomething down in the car before going into the grocery store, if needed.

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

I’ve been feeling devoted to Terrance Hayes for a littlewhile—his new book, So to Speak, has taught me a lot about patterningand repetition, a lot about using pattern and  repetition to make an impact on the reader(see his “American Sonnet for the New Year,” whichbegins the book). The speed and funniness of poems like that one inspire me toget going again when things stall out. I’ve also returned to Frank Bidart thisyear—he’s another favorite, and I’ve been reading a poem a day from hiscollected since January. I think having a practice like that helps poems come alittle more easily—like priming your mind for later poetry use. Also,walking—writing and walking are accessory activities.

13.  Whatfragrance reminds you of home?

The smell of rain in Arizona reminds me of my childhood insouthern California.

14.  David W.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 really am a one-form girl, and mostly books made my book,but I also think my book came from the people—and the animals—that livealongside me. I also didn’t think I was engaged with the natural world, butsince coming back to Arizona, I’ve been lucky enough to experience awe in theface of natural things. I think books come from that feeling too.

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

I always come back to Anne Carson, who I was introduced toas an undergrad and who I still love to think and write about now. Sylvia Plathwas an early influence who is always popping up in my poetry. As I said above,Terrance Hayes is really important to my ideas about how poems work, why theywork. Ghost Of is also a book that influenced me really deeply (I don’tsay Diana Khoi Nguyen because I haven’t read her new book yet)—her ability tocreate a voice that exhibits to the reader/generates in the reader a certain emotionalmode. Tommy Pico, Rachel Zucker, Bernadette Mayer, Morgan Parker are all swimmingaround in the same brain pool, for me. Mary Ruefle, Chelsey Minnis, Jay Hopler,on and on…

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

Everything, it still feels like! Invite me anywhere! I’llbe happy to get out of the house!

17.  If you couldpick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, whatdo you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I think I’d be a lawyer or in some other wordy job. Gettinga JD and using it in the much more urgent ways one can use a law degree (vs. anMFA, which feels very useless at the end of the world) still sometimes seemsattractive to me.

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

Really, there was nothing else. I don’t think there wasanything else I wanted, or that wanted me.

19.  What wasthe last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Favorite books I encountered for the first time last year: NoOne Is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood, Just Us by ClaudiaRankine, Great Exodus, Great Wall, Great Party by Chessy Normile, Blackfishingthe IUD by Caren Beilin, Repetition Nineteen by Mónica de la Torre, Aug9 – Fog by Kathryn Scanlan, Spectral Evidence by Gregory Pardlo, andPerson of Interest by Susan Choi. It’s still too early to tell aboutthis year’s books. I also recently encountered Taste of Cherry, the 1997film by Abbas Kiarostami, for the first time. I’ll take that one with mewherever I go now.

20.  What areyou currently working on?

I recently started writing poems in a more associative modethat are starting to cohere into something like a manuscript—many of the poemshave ended up called “The Internet.” I’ve been thinking on those and trying tokeep that impulse going. And I’m working on a review of a new novel for theEmily Dickinson International Society Bulletin. And I’m trying to decidewhether a verse novel I was writing is really a verse novel or if it’s just abook of poems. Lots of little things to tinker with. Lots of things to keep mebusy.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;