12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lorri Neilsen Glenn
LorriNeilsen Glenn’smost recent books are The Old Moon in Her Arms: Women I Have Known and Beenand an updated edition of Threading Light: Explorations in Loss and Poetry (Nimbus,2024) and Following the River: Traces of Red River Women (Wolsak andWynn, 2017). Her work has appeared in Prairie Fire, The Malahat Review, ThisMagazine, Juniper and numerous anthologies (Bad Artist, Good Mom onPaper, Sharp Notions: Essays from the Stitching Life), among otherpublications. Poet Laureate Emerita of Halifax and Professor Emerita, sheteaches in the University of King’s College MFA program in Creative Nonfiction.Lorri lives in Nova Scotia.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recentwork compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book was my dissertation, published as a book. As a narrative,it sat somewhere between scholarly and trade and I recall the thrill of seeingit show up in the public library system. It was an ethnography filled withlocal stories and, although everyone had freely given permission for me towrite about them, it caused a fuss with a few people. It reinforced for me howpowerful the written word is. My recent book, The Old Moon in Her Arms,seems to be the closest I’ve come to telling my own story in ways that might appealto me as a reader.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction ornon-fiction?
After writing and editing scholarly books, I began to write poetry at 50at the suggestion of a novelist friend who’d read my work. I’d always chafed atthe often agonistic nature of academic writing, and back then it seemed usingfigurative language in research was a bit suspect, lacking gravitas perhaps, afrill or indulgence, when it was naturally how my mind works. Writing poetrymade me fall in love with the possibilities of language all over again.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project?Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do firstdrafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out ofcopious notes?
My writing comes slowly. My books come slowly. Unless it’s aresearch-informed work, I don’t take notes. I simply start writing and see whathappens. I’m a string-saver. Soon I become aware of themes emerging and if it’snonfiction, such as memoir, I typically need several drafts; if it’s poetry,sometimes dozens. Revising is my favourite part.
4 - Where does a poem or work of prose usually begin for you? Are you anauthor of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are youworking on a "book" from the very beginning?
Except for a couple of anthologies I’ve edited that had a specific goal(the lives of 1950s mothers, for example), I usually write short pieces orpoems about what’s on my mind at the time, then if the pieces seem to be gellingin some way, I will then write to that theme. My Red River book (Followingthe River: Traces of Red River Women) came about as a request from mycentenarian aunt who wanted to know the story of her grandmother’s death; aftera year or so, my field notes and journal entries from my travels to NorthernManitoba began to feel like the beginnings of a book. When I realized theprofound absence of the stories of Cree and Métis women in the archives and inhistory books—actually, the erasure—the personal search turned into a projectto try to give those women, along with my grandmothers, a presence, a voice.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Areyou the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I’m deeply introverted, but teaching and public events have forced me tolearn to override that part of my character. I like readings, yes, and writers’gatherings, and I love hearing other writers’ works. A voice in a room bringsanother dimension to the work, deepens it somehow. I’m not sure if my ownreadings are part of my creative process, but being inspired by others’ writingis.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kindsof questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even thinkthe current questions are?
What’s woven in my writing the last decade in particular includeenvironmental degradation, climate change and the global assaults on women andgirls (domestic, institutional, cultural, social, political and more). I mournthe loss of our ability to attend to one another and to honour the naturalworld. I refer a lot to wahkohtowin, the Cree concept of kinship, theinterrelationship of all things—land, people, flora, fauna, all of it—aconnection that implies responsibility and care.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in largerculture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer shouldbe?
While more books are being published than ever before, it seems fewerpeople are reading whole books, especially young people. Like all artists,writers can document, question, warn, remind, honour, celebrate and provoke,but only if we’re heard or seen and valued. The arts enlarge our perspective,offer us beauty or stimulation, introduce us to untold stories, particularlystories we need to make room for. I’m grateful for the Canadian writingcommunity—writers in this country seem to be more about the writing itself, howand why it matters, than about climbing a bestseller list.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficultor essential (or both)?
Editors are essential. I love working with them. We can’t see ourselvesclearly without a mirror. Books can take a long time to write, so why publishthem without a good edit? The strongest writers I’ve worked with seem to be themost enthusiastic about receiving editing suggestions. Regardless of ourexperience, we’re all still learning.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily givento you directly)?
Thenpractice losing farther, losing faster:
places,and names, and where it was you meant
totravel. None of these will bring disaster---Elizabeth Bishop
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry toessays to memoir)? What do you see as the appeal?
It’s not the genre that leads me—it’s the moment or the topic or theitch or the stone in my shoe. Only once I start writing do I learn whether thematerial wants to be poetry or prose. Both appeal to me—and I love blurring thelines between them. I try to resist hardening of the categories.
11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you evenhave one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I have no routine. Jamaica Kincaid said she’s always been amazed bywriters who have routines. “They seem mostly to be men,” she says. If I canfind a quiet hour or two with no one around—usually any time during the day—Ican write. By around 9 in the evening, though, my mind stops working—when I wasyounger, it was the other way around. Now that my children are grown, I havethe luxury of starting a day with coffee and staring off into the middledistance. If I’m lucky, it leads to writing.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for(for lack of a better word) inspiration?
Reading other people’s work—anything from science to research studies topoetry to fiction. An art gallery. A walk. Music of all kinds. Anything thatshakes up the neural pathways in my brain.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
I’m not sure. I couldn’t tell you what fragrance is in my home now (likethe fish who can’t see the water it swims in). Old Spice aftershave used toremind me of my father, the odour of rising dough reminds me of the early daysof being a mother when I seemed to bake a lot of bread. Dry grass in the hot summercalls forth my prairie years; the salt of the sea reminds me of days at thebeach with my children.
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but arethere any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, scienceor visual art?
All of them. Anything, really. I found a couple of ladybugs on thewindow this morning—they got me thinking. The roaring wind I hear as I’mwriting this. The whitecaps on the water. The sounds of the guy repairing theeaves on the house. Seeing a name in my contact list and remembering the friendhas died.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, orsimply your life outside of your work?
I’m a big fan of podcasts—and although they’re aural, not print, I canlisten to an author read their work, a scientist explain an aspect of thebrain, a psychologist describe personality disorders, a stoic describe dailyhabits. It’s all information that feeds my curiosity.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Sleep for eight hours at a stretch.
17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would itbe? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had younot been a writer?
Perhaps a visual artist of some kind. I often joke I’d like to have beena country singer. I have a couple of chords and partial truths, but I don’talways sing in tune.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Probably reading. Once I was of an age to fill the basket of my bikewith a pile of books from the library every week, my curiosity was piqued aboutlives beyond my own. Later, I realized we are all stories and it’s important wehear or read one another’s.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great filmyou saw?
Ooh, too hard, and too many. Claire Keegan’s So Late in the Day andSmall Things Like These stay with me. As do Christina Sharpe’s OrdinaryNotes and John Vaillant’s Fire Weather. Great film? I think theSouth Korean movie, Past Lives.
20 - What are you currently working on?
Since my most recent book was published, I’ve spent most of my timedoing readings and giving workshops. Occasionally, I’ll draft a poem. I’m in afallow period now, I think, so I read, live my life, try to stay open andcurious. Something will emerge.
