Douglas Cole has
published eight poetry collections, including The Cabin at the End of the World, winner of a Best Poetry Award in the American Book Fest, and the
novel The White Field,
winner of the American Fiction Award. His work has appeared in journals such as
Beloit Poetry, Fiction International, Valpariaso, The Gallway Review and Two Hawks Quarterly.
He
contributes a regular column, “Trading Fours,” to the magazine, Jerry Jazz Musician. He
also edits the American Writers section of Read
Carpet, a journal of international writing produced in Columbia.
In
addition to the American Fiction Award, his screenplay of The White Field won Best
Unproduced Screenplay award in the Elegant Film Festival. He has been
awarded the Leslie Hunt Memorial prize in poetry, the Best of Poetry Award from
Clapboard House, First Prize in the “Picture Worth 500 Words” from Tattoo Highway, and the
Editors’ Choice Award in fiction by RiverSedge.
He has been nominated Six times for a Pushcart and Eight times for Best of the
Net. His website is https://douglastcole.com.
1 - How did your first
book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous?
How does it feel different?
The first book I
published was a short collection of poetry. That opened some doors, I think,
that led to other publishers perhaps looking more seriously at my work. Each publication after that raised a few more
eyebrows, journal editors paid more attention, and it all changed my way of
thinking about the publishing process, the collaborative part of which I enjoy.
2 - How did you come to
poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I didn’t really come to
poetry first, but it was the first book form I published. I started writing
fiction and poetry and had no plan to focus on one or the other. So, fiction,
poetry, drama, essay and even screenplay writing all have poetry in them. The
forms are just different.
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?
I don’t tend to drag
through fallow periods, as such. I also waited to publish until I had what felt
like a good amount of work. When I’ve got something I feel pretty sure I want
to make public by publishing, I tend to work quickly in the sense that I know I’m
changing and given enough time I could change my thinking about a piece
infinitely, so I try to stay focused so that the style or vision or whatever
won’t suffer from gaps in attention. Some first drafts are just born ready and
require only minor adjustments. Some, and I enjoy this journey, might get torn
down to the studs and built up again, maybe unrecognizable to anyone else, but
I know where they came from.
4 - Where does a poem or
work of prose 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?
It’s fun to work on
something that can be more or less completed in a day: a poem draft or short
story draft. They build up and then, hmmm, that could make a book. Sometimes a
series of poems come together, and there’s a chapter. They don’t always go quicky,
though. But I have set out to craft a novel, knowing I am making a novel. In those
situations, I tend to set mini deadlines of manageable parts that will fit into
a book. Sometimes, there’s just this whole story in my head and I have to stick
to the road and get to the destination, the ending, if I have an idea what that
is.
5 - Are public readings
part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who
enjoys doing readings?
I’ve spent a lot of time
teaching as well, so that’s helped my confidence in front of a group. Depending
on the setting, reading can be a lot of fun, especially if the audience is into
it and I can feel that lock-in, like we’re having a collective dream. Also, a
good part about the idea of reading is that it reminds me that with poetry or
prose, the words have to travel elegantly through the mouth. I feel that’s a
target: not only to make whatever it is be beautiful on the page but beautiful
to the ear. Reading aloud puts a spotlight on that.
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?
Fascinating. I think of
writing as an exploration. I’m less attracted to presenting textbook cases than
doing a forensic close up. If the message is clear, what’s the point? I like a
little mystery in what I read and write. I want the work to be more than the
sum of my ideas and edits, even if that sounds odd. Art should be a window not
a sandwich board. In other words, being too attached to “meaning” is like
putting blinders on. Not that random, excruciatingly private references and
haphazard language or automatic writing are better, but in the process, a
little of that might open some thought, some vision I wouldn’t have had if I
stuck to thinking I want to say X or Y or whatever.
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?
The diversity of writers
and their creations is our culture. I think writers both clarify the
experience we’re having in this life in beautiful ways, acting as mirrors,
commentators, guides. And I think writers (like all artists) are the creators
of our religions, philosophies, laws, histories. All of them describing the
elephant and some dreaming of bigger fish than that.
8 - Do you find the
process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I’ve been pretty lucky to
work with good editors, some great. Only once did I ever work with an editor
who seemed less clear as the process continued. I pulled that piece eventually
because it seemed like the process was going in circles and had less to do with
the work than something else. So, by the time I’m ready to try and publish
something, I relish the input.
9 - What is the best
piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
“Get off the subject.”
(R. Hugo)
10 - How easy has it been
for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to screenplays)? What do you
see as the appeal?
They’re different clothes
that all fit well. And I like the way they inform each other. A little poetry
might help a flat piece of prose. A little narrative continuity might help an
impressionistic, lyrical poem keep its feet on the ground. In the same way you
should know all the religions and philosophies but keep them out of your art, I
think you should work in all the forms and treat them equally as language as
much as formal adventures.
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?
Well, I like to get up,
have a cup of coffee, read a little, write a little, start the day with my head
in the words. Sometimes a few fleeting dream images come along, and I often
like to write them down because I think that’s information, experience, we
largely dismiss as irrelevant or just too confusing to bother with. But it’s a
great mystery well we’re nightly dropped into, and I think worth exploring, and
good practice for getting beyond the limited, rational, conscious ways we think
and feel about our lives.
12 - When your writing
gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word)
inspiration?
Reading. Walking. Playing
guitar. And there’s no law against taking a break. While I love the mystery and
exploration of writing, I’ve never felt I must be brilliant every moment.
Sometimes writing is just a way to remind myself how to see, how to think more
openly. I tend to be pretty disciplined about writing something each day, just
for the fun of it. It doesn’t have to be on the way to a poem or story or
publication. In fact, I didn’t publish for a long time to avoid the mindset
that I need to “produce.”
13 - What fragrance
reminds you of home?
Rain, wisteria,
woodsmoke, the sea.
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?
All of it. Movies, songs,
paintings, dreams, but some of the very best sources have come from overheard
conversations or a moment a scene unfolds on the corner of 3rd and Pike
Street on the way to work. So, always be alert!
15 - What other writers
or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your
work?
Roethke. Great teacher of
the music. Patti Smith. I love the poetry of her language. She talks to you.
But it’s beautiful poetry too! Borges. I love the surreal but again poetic
language in his writing.
16 - What would you like
to do that you haven't yet done?
I think I really want to direct.
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?
I love music, but I’ve
never felt confident about my singing voice. I also teach, and I love that. I
would have liked to be an astronaut, but we’re not really going anywhere beyond
the solar system, so, I think I’ll wait.
18 - What made you write,
as opposed to doing something else?
It was just a fun thing I
could do on my own, anywhere, anytime, no technology beyond a pen and paper
needed.
19 - What was the last
great book you read? What was the last great film?
Great book…maybe
Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicle. I wrote a lot of notes in the
margins. I also really loved Joy Harjo’s Crazy Brave. The last great
film I saw…I liked Alejandro Iñárritu’s Bardo.
20 - What are you
currently working on?
I’m editing another Book
of poetry set for publication later this year called Drifter, poetry
based on Guy Debord (French writer, part of the Situationists International)
and his ideas on the dérive. “One of the basic situationist practices is the
dérive [literally: “drifting”], a technique of rapid passage through varied
ambiances. Dérives involve playful-constructive behavior and awareness of
psychogeographical effects, and are thus quite different from the classic
notions of journey or stroll.”
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
