12 or 20 (second series) questions with Peter Dubé
Peter Dubé is the author, co-author or editor of a dozen books of fiction,non-fiction and poetry. His novella, Subtle Bodies, an imagined life ofFrench surrealist René Crevel was a finalist for the Shirley Jackson Award, andhis recent work, a novel in prose poems entitled The Headless Man, wasshortlisted for both the A. M. Klein Prize and the ReLit award. He was a memberof the editorial committee of the contemporary art magazine Espace, artactuel for 18 years and is currently co-editor of The Philosophical Egg,an organ of living surrealism. He lives and works in his hometown of Montreal.
1 - How did your first book or chapbook change yourlife? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feeldifferent?
As is the case for so many questions, there are atleast two answers to this. One concerns the writing of the book, which involvedteaching myself how to write a “book” rather than a poem, a story, or an essay.Thus in some ways it changed my approach to writing, and assisted inshaping my process, which had a profound impact. A second answer regardspublication. The appearance of Hovering World (my first book)did not have a significant impact on my life in material terms, but it didexpand my community of writers as it led to new encounters through morereadings, touring, joining the Writers’ Union, and so on. And those encountersand friendships are things for which I am profoundly grateful. In terms of itseffects on later work, a first book can, and in my case did, lay the ground, asit were, It established a number of concerns which I continue to explore –-hopefully– in greater depth and in diverse formal permutations.
2 - How did you come to fictionfirst, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
The truth is I have written across genres (poetry,fiction, and nonfiction) for most of the time I’ve written in a serious way.Genre represents possibility for me, rather than constraint. Thus I willusually gravitate toward a form I feel suits a particular project particularlywell. This also partly accounts for my interest in hybrid forms. My earliestpublications were poems and short stories. They appeared in literary magazinesand journals; then I began to publish reviews and articles in newspapers andart magazines. My first book, however, was a novel, Hovering World. What unites my work across the plurality of genres,is an enduring interest in figuration, specifically metaphor: its possibilitiesas a mode of thought and perception rather than simply a literary technique,and its larger import in the realm of the social, the way it createsassociative leaps and consequently, connection.
3 - How long does it take to startany particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or isit a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape,or does your work come out of copious notes?
An honest answer to this question is tricky since itrequires one to define what is meant by “to start.” I raise the point because Imaintain a regular notebook practice and am constantly writing down notes,observations, fleeting thoughts, things I see on the street or overhear in themetro, and very often it is one such note or other that will spark some writing.This can happen weeks, months, or more after the note was initially taken. Oncethe spark is struck however and I begin writing. a form often emerges andsolidifies relatively quickly. That form may shift a bit over the course ofcomposition, but will generally still be at least somewhat recognizable at theend. What does shift a great deal is the details. (And I am a committedpolisher of my work, so the veneer or surface definitely changes.)
4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction usually beginfor you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a largerproject, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
The answer to this one is already present in my answerto question number 3 above. But perhaps I can offer a concrete example here asan elaboration. My book TheHeadless Man, for example,grew out of my interest in George Bataille’s image of the “acephale”. Myinterest in him led to a long period of reading, after which I’d thought I’dworked through the obsession. Of course, he resurfaced one day and insisted onbeing heard. I was looking through some old notebooks and found a few pagesrecording some of my findings regarding that acephalic figure. I wrote a poemresponding to the image, a single poem, in which I sought to tease out acontemporary significance for this figure. However, in no time at all it provedto need more room to grow. And, it became a book, a book as hybrid as the image’shistory. (The image first surfaces, as far I’ve been able to determine, in theGreek magical papyri, but subsequently mutates over time becoming anantifascist allegory in the Twentieth Century and then - in my hands — a novelin prose poems that I hope honours the complexity of his millennia longtrajectory.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to yourcreative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
The short answer to this one is: absolutely yes!Readings are important in all sorts of ways. First I see literature/writing aspartly (an important part) about sound, rhythm, voice (in a variety of senses),and - once again — connection. Reading directly to an audience centres thosethings. On top of that, it is a unique opportunity to see and hear from yourreaders/audience in real time and determine what is working especially well,and how. It is a conduit for feedback. And the conversationsafter a reading are often revelatory and engaging too.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind yourwriting? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? Whatdo you even think the current questions are?
Although ideas and questions certainly emerge in apiece during the writing process itself, I have noted that a number of recurringtheoretical/philosophical concerns run through the body of my work in ways bothmore and less subterranean. One of the main ones, for example, isphenomenological in nature, and about the tricky relationship betweenexperience and account — the manner in which our lives are made meaningful –- indeedare made — by how we talk about or explain them. Another, and clearly relatedone, might be language and its operations, the ways in which itembodies/enables/elaborates thought. Beyond such abstract philosophical mattershowever, the work tends to investigate the desire for, and experience of,community and its tricky relationship to individuality too.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer beingin larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of thewriter should be?
Needless to say, the present historical moment is adifficult one for writers. Social, political and technological change hascomplicated life for everyone, writers included. That said, I’m notprescriptivist by nature, so I hesitate to make blanket statements about therole of the writer as such. I am more inclined to feel that each writer willcreate her/his/their own role and such a role is likely to emerge naturallyfrom the kind of work they produce.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outsideeditor difficult or essential (or both)?
This is an interesting, if difficult, question; I willsimply say, my experience has varied. The occasions on which I have foundworking with an editor incredibly helpful and rewarding have consistently beenwhen the editor was sufficiently widely-read to recognize a variety ofaesthetic traditions and consequently able to look at, and work with, aparticular text on its own terms, with an understanding of its specific stakes,interests and project, and without attemptingto impose some other, arbitrary, form on it. The less successful cases for mewere those in which the editor had a fixed preconception of what made for “good”or “literary” writing. This invariably, in the end, produces a mutilated andinauthentic text.
Happily, I have worked with more editors of the formertype.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (notnecessarily given to you directly)?
If we are talking about writing advice specifically,then it would be the caution I received years ago to not worry about “writing a‘perfect’ first draft. That a first draft is “a starting point, and not afinishing line.” Happily I did take that to heart; my first complete drafts arenow always a place to begin polishing. If we mean advice for getting throughlife’s tougher moments, I’d have to hearken back to the wise words of PatsyStone (in Absolutely Fabulous) when she said “Darling, finishthe beaujolais and walk away from it.” That’s a handy recommendation forsomeone like me, who might have a tendency to take the small stuff a little tooseriously at times.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move betweengenres (novels to short stories to essays to poems)? What do you see as theappeal?
In fact, this comes quite naturally to me; I’ve beenwriting poetry and fiction in tandem since I was a teenager. I suppose thisstems from my deep interest in all of the possibilities of language, all thecool stuff one might be able to do with it, and the desire to investigate thosepossibilities. Nonfiction and critical writing came to me a little later in mytwenties, I suppose… but those too arise from the same curiosity in many ways.
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 am a morning writer; I prefer to get out new writingearly, as close to when I get up as possible –- while the gates to theunconscious, as it were, are still somewhat ajar, and the business of the dayhas not yet cluttered my mind. Afternoons I tend to focus on looking over andediting stuff.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turnor return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
A nice walk is usually helpful to me. I get up and gooutside to get my blood pumping in time to the rhythms of the city. Theexercise and the sights, sounds and energy help recharge the battery and almostinvariably provide me with some image or snippet of talk that will get me backto work. For really serious blockages I have also been known to use some of thetechniques I’ve learned from surrealism; a little bit of automatic writing willget the words flowing again and is likely to provide an image or phrase as akind of starting point for beginning anew.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Chanel No. 5, in some ways. (That was my Mum’s perfumewhen I was a little fella and it always calls up my childhood for me. Hence thedeepest sense of home.) The odour of a particular type of cookie has the sameeffect on me too, I might note.
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come frombooks, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature,music, science or visual art?
Given that I’ve written about and reviewed art fordecades, my imagination is clearly fed by works of visual art: contemporary,modern, and some earlier periods as well. Further, since I’m a movie buff and did graduate studies in cinema, themovies are just about omnipresent in my consciousness. Finally, I shouldreprise something I said above too: the city. I am an urban creature, and thepresence, energy, beauty and brilliant noise of a large city feed myimagination in particular ways few other things can.
15 - What other writers or writings are important foryour work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My personal canon would clearly include thesurrealists for sure, as well as gay liberationist writers and the New Narrative group. Those streams of writing are vital sources for my work, mythinking, and my politics. They also help provide a sort-of framework for myapproach to daily life at the same time. Finally, there’s no way for me to talkabout the important influences on my literary work properly understood withoutnaming Angela Carter. My encounter with her books was absolutelytransformational.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yetdone?
The list of things that interest and tempt me is verylong indeed and features travel destinations, workout objectives, and variouspossible encounters and experiences, but if I restrict myself to just mycreative output: I am presently working on a friend’s film project, and am verymuch enjoying it. This has somehow triggered my long set-aside interest inmovie-making, so who knows… thoughtime and money are a factor here needless to say.
17 - If you could pick any other occupation toattempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would haveended up doing had you not been a writer?
As a teenager, I trained as an actor for severalyears, and was fairly serious about it; I suppose, if writing hadn’tintervened, I might have pursued that path. I also, at some point in myundergraduate studies, entertained the notion of studying the law, so thatcould have been a possibility too, if it hadn’t lost its appeal so quickly. Inthe end, writing was the only choice that really worked for me.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doingsomething else?
That decision surely begins with a natural inclinationor predisposition, and with being a reader. Being someone who loved words,stories, and poems and found real joy in them led me to understand their powerto move. That in turn made me want totry it out myself. Once I began, I discovered exercising the imagination helpedone engage with what is in excess of reality: all the vital potential andcomplex possibility underlying some situations and experiences. Writing aboutthem — putting them down on paper — made that potential feel more real somehow,and –– as importantly –– gave them anenduring trace. That closed the circle for me, and I was hooked.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What wasthe last great film?
I recently read Brendan Connell's Metrophilias which struck me as walking the line between shortfiction and prose poetry wonderfully, and doing so while being imbued with anicely realized, frequently weird, and sometime disturbing, eroticism.
As for a film, well, I recently enjoyed Jan Svankmajer’sInsect which was, to put it simply, astounding. I watched itas half of a double feature that also included a rewatch of Cruising. (That, I must say — as a sidebar — was an a veryinteresting combination of viewing.)
20 - What are you currently working on?
Having just published a new chapbook of poems and a hefty work ofnonfiction/poetics I am back to fiction and midway through a new novel.
