How did you first come to writing poetry? What is it about the form that resonates?
One of my earliest memories is that my parents always had a lot of books on their shelves and when I was very young I’d grab the books and pick up my crayons and scribble all over the pages. Whenever my parents caught me doing that, they didn’t yell at me or punish me … they’d put the books back on the shelf and the next day I’d do it again. I think in a way that encouraged me to interact with books before I could even read. I like to think of those wild scribbles as my first poems. What resonates with me about the form is both the attention to detail and the freedom to write about whatever I want. That sense of freedom in particular has felt like a lifesaver for me in many ways.
How does a poem begin?
“Iktsuarpok” is an Inuit word that describes the feeling of anticipation when you’re expecting someone. Often for me a poem begins with that feeling. I’m not sure what will arrive, or how long it will take, but I prepare myself for the visit by listening for a knock at the door. It might be a few words, an image, or an idea. Anything, really. Hemmingway’s famous quotation about bankruptcy, that it happens two ways, “gradually, then suddenly,” is a pretty accurate description of how a poem begins for me.
You’ve published work in multiple genres. Do you see your writing as a single, extended project, or a series of disconnected threads? How do you keep the genres straight?
I tend to see my writing as a series of disconnected threads, and try to give each piece the freedom to be itself. I don’t see them as a puzzle piece that assembles into a bigger picture. I’d rather each piece be its own puzzle, with its own mystery, its own voice. When I reflect back on my work over the years, however, I’m always delighted to see connections, echoes, and relationships develop between disparate pieces. I’m not overly concerned about keeping different genres straight. On the contrary I feel mixing things up can yield some interesting hybrids. I’m currently focusing on a manuscript of prose poems and it’s been a blast exploring the ways prosaic narrative and lyrical elements can intersect and blend together.
Have you a daily schedule by which you work, or are you working to fit this in between other activities?
I’ve always had to fit writing in between other activities. For over a decade I kept a sprint-writing routine of writing 100 words a day, either early in the morning before work or on my lunch break at work. It helped generate material, which I would then sculpt over the weekend. For the last few years, as my non-literary work role has changed, it’s been challenging to block out the time for those writing sprints, so I’ve defaulted to writing whenever I can. Usually that means a few lines here and there on weekday evenings, and blocking out hours on the weekend. The shift has felt like a positive one for my writing. Less like an assembly line (100 words a day) and more like a foraging experience, gathering what I can depending on what happens to be growing around me.
What are your favourite print or online literary journals?
Arc, The New Quarterly, MoonPark Review, and Molecule Magazine, come to mind. I’m also a sucker for literary journals with odd and original names, and Talking About Strawberries All of the Time is at the top of that list.
Who are some of the writers you are reading lately that most excite you?
As I mentioned earlier I’ve been reading and writing prose
poems lately, and some of the exciting prose poets I’ve encountered recently
include Dag T. Straumsvag, Carsten Rene Nielsen, David Keplinger, and Eve
Joseph, to name a few.
