1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book was very impassioned. Back then, I experienced intense nostalgia for moments that were happening in real-time. My depression was eroding, and I wanted so badly to keep the few “good moments” I had. Writing my first book allowed me to capture and preserve them, in a sense. What was visceral and ephemeral was mine forever. And once published, I had a variety of readers reach out and tell me about their lives—hollow, queer, young people that wanted to feel happier and couldn’t figure out how. Two of them told me my book kept them from taking their own lives. These responses gave my writing a new purpose: to be a mirror and to be a vehicle for grief. I committed to refining and developing my craft, and I would say that my newest poetry collection, Ribgrass, demonstrates this. Unlike my first collection, which took less than a year to write, Ribgrass took close to eight years. My life expanded, so my writing did too. Ribgrass is written through themes of queer ecology, Hungarian diaspora, romantic love, prairie land, disability, bugs, memory food, and mourning family.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I’ve been writing ever since I was young, but poetry wasn’t a genre I initially gravitated to. I have a handful of finished manuscripts in my studio—a fantasy, a western, an essay collection, etc. But there are two specific reasons I became a poet despite writing in other genres first. 1) My high school creative writing teacher wanted me to attend a writing retreat. I was unconfident and hesitant to go, but she really believed in my potential and encouraged me to try it out. During those weeks at the retreat, I met several friends and mentors, all of whom tried convincing me to write poetry. They would say something along the lines of; “Have you ever thought about writing poetry? This piece is personal and vivid—it sounds like a poem.” I would say, “Nah, not interested.” 2) I fell in love. I met someone when I was eighteen that practically changed my nervous system. I lived and breathed love in a way I had never experienced before. Suddenly, writing fictional stories and abstract essays didn’t cut it anymore. I needed to find a new way to write—to explore this unveiled layer of myself and to express the depth of our relationship. I thought back to the writing retreat and started writing poetry. And I never stopped.
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 first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
A little bit of everything! Some poems reveal themselves to me—beginning to end—within a matter of seconds. Other poems take months of shaping and revisions. I would say the first draft is never too far off from the final one. But I’ve also had my fair share of written works that are chopped up, changed, and workshopped with five or more people.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
I’ve always written poetry as an extension to life. I don’t have an end goal, nor a project at large. I write about the seasons, what I taste and smell, what I learn about myself, and the memories that resurface and haunt. There’s always a notebook with me—in my car, beside my bed, near the shower, and out on a walk. I write poems like a craving. It can strike any time.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I attend public readings more than I participate in them. Reading my poems out loud and to others is important to my work, but it is best done within small groups—friends or other poets. I have stage fright (no matter how much I try to work on it) and feel the emotions of that much more than the rhythms of my poetry. Within a larger public reading, I would rather show up and support others than present my own work.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
1) What does it mean to be bonded with nature more than others? 2) Is there a way to write about my estranged family, accurately, while keeping their dignity (and why do I want to)? 3) Will writing in grief relieve it or deepen it (are others crying while writing)? 4) Are ghosts nonbinary? The questions are abundant and ever-changing. My answer will be different tomorrow.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I think the role of a writer is that of an artist, a musician, a performer, a filmmaker: to create a resonant, beautiful piece of work that allows people to pause, appreciate, listen, consider, sob, console, reflect, and want to experience it all again. We should strive to enliven each other.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential. I’ve never found working with an editor difficult. I love when beta readers, proofreaders, and content/copy editors rip me apart. And I always encourage my workshopping groups to be brutal in their critiques too. My poems are masochists.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Everything Ocean Vuong has ever said in an interview.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to film to artwork)? What do you see as the appeal?
Being an interdisciplinary artist has always come naturally to me. I photograph what wouldn’t look good as a painting. I paint what language can’t fully capture. I write about concepts you’ve never seen in films. I create films that are too expansive for a singular photo. These mediums are of service to the life around me, not the other way around. By paying attention to how I can communicate and express this life most fervently, I switch and mix my mediums.
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 don’t have a routine, but I write most days. I journal, work on lines of poetry, and slowly chip away at the first draft of my eventual novel. I also write a personal essays once a month for my multimedia snail mail subscription called Love Letters.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
Truthfully, I don’t experience writer’s block. I’ve always found ways to move forth with my ideas. The speed of which I write or the degree of motivation I may have will change. But I’m always inspired and always making progress.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
It depends on the season. In summer, home smells like windblown gravel and cottonwood trees. In the fall, dried leaves and bonfire smoke. In winter, home smells solely of nose hair icicles. And in the spring, horse manure from creek runoff.
14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?
Everything that surrounds me is an influence. Nature, music, conversations with friends, strangers on a walk, strangers in Walmart, laundromats, waiting rooms, graffiti, missing person’s posters, street cats, tall grass, the lines in my partner’s hands, the loose floorboards my cat likes to squeak, childhood memories, and the repetitive life of a vending machine.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
This is likely predictable given my answer to question nine, but Ocean Vuong has been a huge inspiration to me—both his written works and selfhood. Same with Bell Hooks and Kathy Acker.
There are many songwriters that’ve been important for my work too: Jelani Aryeh, Frank Ocean, and Ethel Cain, for example.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d love to publish other genres of writing. Although poetry has been my focus for many years, I hope to grow older having a diverse range of works published.
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 not been a writer?
Aside from adjacent creative jobs (within writing, film, and art), the follow occupations would be in my career roster: lawyer, union organizer, nature conservationist, dentist.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing feels intrinsic to who I am. It's something I've never lost interest in and have always wanted to do more of. Playing with language, form, and word experimentation is endlessly fascinating.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I read Vidh: A Book of Mourning a few months back. It made me cry so hard I could barely see the pages. It’s an essay collection about widowhood and grief. I related to a lot of it, and what I hadn’t experienced first-hand, still felt extremely poignant. The author, Phyllis, did an incredible job incarnating the harrowing and melancholic sensations of loss. As for a film: Crip Camp. It’s a documentary showcasing a summer camp for disabled teens back in the 1960s/1970s. Alumni from this camp later joined a disability rights movement which fundamentally changed ableist legislation and urban planning. It also made me cry (tears of joy though).
20 - What are you currently working on?
I’m working on a short literary fiction novel concurrent to an eventual, fourth poetry collection. Otherwise, I’m continuing Love Letters for the foreseeable future and documenting my life through essays and art pieces.
