12 or 20 (second series) questions with Anthony Immergluck

Anthony Immergluck is a poet, publishingprofessional, and musician out of Madison, Wisconsin. His debut poetrycollection, The Worried Well , received the Rising Writer Prize fromAutumn House Press, and his work has been widely published in journalsincluding Copper Nickel, Pleiades, Beloit Poetry Review,and TriQuarterly. Immergluck holds an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry)from NYU-Paris and works for W. W. Norton.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your mostrecent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

My debut book hasn’t been out for very long, so it’s a little early tosay if or how things will change materially in my life. But I certainly feeldifferent post-book. It’s always meant a lot to me to get a book professionallypublished and out in the world, which isn’t necessarily a healthy way to thinkabout writing. I believe, and I’ve always believed, that the value of someone’sart and artistic practice has nothing to do with any external measure of“success.” But despite my own advice, I put myself through plenty of darknights of the soul, wondering whether I was wasting my life chipping away at a vainfolly. The years of rejection really wore on me. But ever since the book gotaccepted for publication, I’ve felt like I have a broader capacity to focus moreof my energy in positive, external directions.

I’m also trying to reacclimatize to becoming a somewhat more publicfigure now that the book is out. Independent debut poets aren’t movie stars, ofcourse, but I’ve always been a very private person. After decades ofdesperately trying to avoid too much public exposure and embarrassment, itbecame trivially easy, literally overnight, for coworkers, relatives, andstrangers to access the types of vulnerabilities I’ve only ever shared withfour or five people over the course of my entire life. Obviously, this is the pathI pursued knowing exactly what I was getting myself into, so I don’t regret orresent it. I’m deeply grateful for it, and I think it will probably make me akinder and happier person in the long run. But it doesn’t come naturally to me.I’m going to have to learn how to navigate this awkward new social reality inwhich anyone I meet has the ability to get know me in this radically intimatebut totally one-sided way.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction ornon-fiction?

I’ve always written poetry, but I wouldn’t really say I came to it beforeother types of writing. As a kid, I wrote silly little fantasy epics.Songwriting was a major passion for most of my teenage years and earlytwenties. I’ve dabbled in criticism, drama, essays, and short stories, and I’mcurrently writing a novel. But poetry has always been the most constant andconsistent creative outlet for me, no matter what else I’m working on. Otherprojects ebb and flow, but If I go a few days without writing or readingpoetry, I get twitchy.  

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Doesyour writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first draftsappear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out ofcopious notes?

I’m a slow poet. Ideas have to germinate for a long time before they evermake it to a page. Then, I overwork the hell out of everything. Drafts ondrafts on drafts on drafts. Multiple documents with different edits over thecourse of months. At any given point, I have ten or twenty poems rotating inand out of the grinder, and it takes a long, long time for me to feelcomfortable submitting anything for publication. The Worried Wellactually contains a handful of poems that had existed, in some form, for tenyears or so. To be honest, I’m a little afraid it will take me another tenyears to pull my second collection together.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of shortpieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a"book" from the very beginning?

The poems in The Worried Well weren’t originally written as a“book,” for the most part. They existed as individual pieces first, and I triedto assemble them into lots of different book-length projects with different titles,structures, and themes. I have dozens of manuscript drafts buried in document foldersthat technically contain many or most of the poems that wound up in TheWorried Well, but they’re barely recognizable as part of the same process. OnceI discovered what I truly, finally wanted the arc of book to become, I cut outa lot of poems, wrote some new ones, and edited nearly all of them to engage ina richer conversation with one another. So, I guess the micro-projectsgenerated the macro-project, which then reflected its influence back onto thecomponent parts that made it.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Areyou the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I’ve only recently started giving public readings, at least for the firsttime since my early twenties. They terrify me, but I also find them deeplyfulfilling and enriching, especially when I have the opportunity to talk shopwith other writers and readers. I gather a lot of inspiration from publicevents, so hopefully the stage fright will subside over time.

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?

I think pretty obsessively about theory in the revision process, but Ialso try to remember that poems should always start and end from a place ofemotion. Poetics, and art theory in general, is a lot of fun for those of uswho have already bought in to its world, but it’s only really useful insofar asit helps us describe and understand our relationship with the things that moveus. I have a lot of theoretical questions I hope my poems ask or address,but I don’t really think I would be doing my job as an artist or art lover if Iwere attempting to answer any questions.

For example, I noticed early on that my poems tend to feature a lot ofrefrains. I didn’t “choose” this technique at first, necessarily. It just feltright to me, perhaps as a carry-over from my parallel interest in songwritingor my love for the poetic forms of Old Testament prayer. But as I started to seriouslyanalyze my poetic voice, I interrogated the function of this style moreintensely. I came to appreciate how the inclusion of refrains imposes a looseform upon contemporary free verse. Repetition implies a rhythmic structure andallows for a tighter control over emphasis via assonance and rhyme. But more importantlyfor a book about anxiety, it replicates the cyclical, recursive nature ofintrusive thoughts and other forms of neurodivergent experience. As I put thismanuscript together, I taught myself how writing or reading a poem can formallymirror, reframe, or elucidate the disorders and imprecisions of the mind. I’mfar from the first poet to tackle this idea, but I’ve been leaning into itheavily, both in my writing and reading projects.

I’m also very interested in how the lessons of other artistic media canbe applied to poetry, and I spend a lot of time asking myself how I mightapproach a problem in a poem as if it were a photograph, stage play, etc. Forexample, I’ve discovered that I really prefer poems with some element of thecharacter conflict we expect in fiction. If my poems are written in the firstperson, I want the voice to demonstrate the types of “flaws,” hypocrisies, andidiosyncrasies we would expect in a good novel or memoir. I want the reader tofeel like they’re walking in on the “I” of the poem in the midst of some kindof moral or emotional uncertainty. And I want to be sure that moral or emotionaluncertainly is unresolved at the end of the poem. If anything, I want it to endwith further complications. Mise-en-scène is important to me. Shot composition.What is in the room, and how is it framed relative to the action? I wouldn’tsay I want my poems to “tell a story,” necessarily, but I do want them toappear as though they exist within a story. I want them to imply,insinuate, and ripple.

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?

This is an important question, but I’m afraid it’s one I can’t reallyanswer to my own satisfaction. I struggle with this a lot, especially in an erawhen reactionary, fascistic politics are snowballing across the world and thearts are becoming increasingly automated, mass produced, and algorithmicallycommodified. A part of me wonders whether it’s wasteful to write about anythingother than urgent human rights abuses or environmental degradation. But anotherpart of me feels that, while I respect and love plenty of explicitly “activist”art, there’s also something to be said for the creation and consumption of artthat deals primarily with the abstract or interior. Poetry addresses those thingsso well, and we need those things addressed.

Sometimes, writing a poem about my dumb little feelings seems like such anindulgence. Like I’m standing next to a burning building full of screamingpeople, and I take the opportunity to make s’mores. Other times, I remember howexistentially crucial other people’s art has always been for me. That includesimpassioned, well-researched exposés of injustice, but it also includes monstermovies and songs about breakups. I don’t want to take it for granted that myown art could meaningfully enrich someone else’s life one day, but I also don’twant to rule out the possibility.

I definitely believe all art is inherently political, but I don’t think Ibelieve all art necessarily has to be “activism” in order to be valuable oreven to affect political change. I think the primary function of good art, and goodwriting in particular, is for authors and readers to communicateempathetically, back and forth with one another and the people around them. Whenwe read and write, we’re honing our ability to relate to other people on anemotional and cognitive level. We’re asking ourselves to parse the differencebetween what was said and what was meant. We’re engaging with thepower of omission and emphasis, order, syntax, implication, reference, etc.We’re always exploring what if, why not, so what? And I think thoseskills are roundly applicable to local and global politics. I don’t want toimply that people who love literature are in any way superior to people whodon’t, but I will swear by literature as an effective method for broadening anddeepening one’s perspective on being a human and sharing a planet with otherhumans.

So maybe I’m naïve, or maybe I’m just trying to inject someself-importance into this thing that takes up all my time. But I hope and suspectthat the literary arts – and the humanities in general – make a positive culturalimpact just by virtue of existing. I know this has been a rambling,contradictory answer, but I promise it’s much less clear in my own head.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficultor essential (or both)?

Both, but with a special emphasis on essential. I’m as sensitiveand stubborn about my work as anyone else, and I’m not immune to having myfeelings hurt. But I’m a strong believer that the writing only really gets goodonce it’s been opened up to constructive criticism. My editors at Autumn HousePress have been spectacular to work with, and my book would never have gottenaccepted for publication in the first place without the wisdom of the friendsand peers that read early drafts. Writing is a lonely pursuit, and it oftenbenefits from the singularity of vision it represents. But the intimacy we allhave with our own work easily transforms into codependency, and we lose ourability to evaluate it with the kind of clarity a good edit requires. You don’talways have to take outside advice, of course, but it’s only ever healthy andproductive to receive and consider it. Even when you feel like your readers oreditors are missing the point, it’s invaluable to understand where theexperience of your work isn’t landing how you’d intend or expect it to. Notescan be painful, but they’re necessary for creative growth.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily givento you directly)?

I’ve heard a lot of variations on the idea that inspiration follows fromwriting, not the other way around, and I totally stand by that. If you wait foryour best ideas, they’ll never come. They generate in the process.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry tosongwriting)? What do you see as the appeal?

As I mentioned before, I write pretty fluidly between genres. Poetryabsolutely occupies the majority of my time and output simply because, forwhatever reason, most of my ideas happen to take shape in the form of poems. ButI love all the arts, even the ones I’ve never spent any time with, and I wish Icould live for thousands of years so I could dabble in everything. I resentthat I won’t be able to explore woodworking and tango dancing and oil paintingto the extent that they deserve. My problem isn’t fluidity – it’s focus. I haveto train myself to stop pivoting to writing a short story or a song midwaythrough writing a poem, or vice-versa.

All literary genres are load-bearing. Poetry is unique in its ability toreframe language and open the mind to new conceptual bridges. Song lyrics, attheir best, are able to interact with their melodic and rhythmic structures inways that transcend the sum of their parts. Theatre can play with artifice andthe chaos of live human interaction in a way that nothing else can. The noveloffers a type of depth and complexity that can only be achieved through time,and words, spent. There’s no weak or redundant genre.

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 a day job and a family and several chronic health issues, so I justneed to find little cracks in my day and cram in as much writing as I can.Early mornings work well, and I try to set aside time on the weekends. I alsotravel a lot for work, and airports and hotel rooms can offer the type ofisolation and boredom that tend to be conducive to writing. I’d love to have amore regular schedule, but it’s not usually an option.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (forlack of a better word) inspiration?

Reading! It takes me forever to read a great collection of poems, becauseI’m constantly getting new ideas that I have to go jot down.

13 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?

Samwise Gamgee

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?

Absolutely. All the above, really. As I touched on before, I drawinspiration across the arts. Music is my secondary creative love afterliterature, and I see the two disciplines as operating in constantconversation. I keep books of my favorite visual artists, like Hokusai andKlimpt, right on my desk and I regularly leaf through them for motivation and stimulation.I find video games to be extraordinarily meditative and centering, and I oftenfind that the “flow states” they generate help me disentangle the knots I writemyself into.

Outside of the arts, I get a huge amount of inspiration and joy fromnature and travel. A quiet walk in the woods with my wife and dog will almostalways generate poetry later on. And I think the ability to transplant oneselfinto a cultural environment one isn’t used to does wonders for the imagination.I know we’re not all lucky enough to travel the world whenever we want, buteven spending some time in unfamiliar parts of our own communities can reallyrefresh and rekindle our excitement for the world around us. I’m alsoprofoundly inspired by animals. I think watching another form of life closely,trying to understand how its patterns of motion and behavior echo or contrastwith our own, is very similar to the process of reading and writing poetry.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, orsimply your life outside of your work?

The book that made me fall in love with literature was The Lord of the Rings. And although I read and wrote poetry as a hobby since childhood, thebook that made me realize I wanted to “take it seriously” as a life pursuit wasActual Air by David Berman. As a teenager, I basically just wroterip-offs of his poems and songs. These days, some of my favorite poets are Mary Ruefle, Tracy K. Smith, Solmaz Sharif, and Larry Levis. But that’s just a tinyexcerpt of an enormous and ever-changing list.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I’ve never taught poetry formally, and I’d love to give that a go oneday. I’ve done lots of tutoring/mentoring/manuscript consulting, etc., but Iwonder how I’d do with a college class or writers’ workshop.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be?Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you notbeen a writer?

When I was younger, there came a point at which I did sort of choosewriting over music. The stage fright and imposter syndrome hit me hard, and Ifelt safer developing my skills in a medium that didn’t require such a heavyperformance component. I don’t regret focusing my energy on literaturewhatsoever, but I’ve always reserved a bit of grief for the opportunity cost. Iwrite as a serious vocation, and I play music as a serious hobby, but there’s asignificant part of me that wonders how life would have progressed if thatfocus had been flipped. I know it’s silly, but I get desperately jealous ofgreat musicians, particularly ones whose musical practice is an integral,scheduled part of their lifestyle. I realize I could always try to reopen thatavenue one day, but I’d have to shake off a lot of cobwebs and put a lot ofother projects on the backburner. Also, I’m pretty over-the-hill by musicianstandards, and I’m only getting sleepier and achier. Sometimes I try to look upwhich of my favorite musicians released their first albums in their thirties orlater, and it’s not an encouraging list. Leonard Cohen was 33. I’m older.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

Again, I wish I could spend a lifetime with all the arts. But writing hasalways felt obvious to me. Unavoidable. It’s just the way I process thoughtsand emotions whether I like it or not. That’s not to say writing comes easilyor that I think I have any natural aptitude that other people don’t have orcan’t learn. It’s just to say that I can’t imagine what a non-writing lifewould feel like.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

The last great book I read was Late to the Search Party, the debutpoetry collection from Madison’s poet laureate, Steven Espada Dawson. I can’tpossibly overstate how brilliant this book is. How moving, how delicate in itscraft, how dynamic and singular its voice. This is the type of book thatinspires people to become poets, and I urge everyone reading this interview toorder their copies immediately.

I’ll also join the chorus on Sinners. One of the most purelyentertaining movies I’ve seen in years, but also one that’s just dripping indepth and passion. It’s a crazy mish-mash of genres, overflowing with referencesto history, music, folklore, and other movies. But it maintains such a clearand focused vision, with so much to say and so much love for its characters andworld.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’mcurrently working on a novel! It’s a fairly big and ambitious project, at leastfor someone who’s more accustomed to writing poems. So it’s slow going, but I’mgiving it my love and attention.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;