Jes Battis (they/them) teaches literature and creative writing at the University of Regina. They’ve published poems in The Ex-Puritan, The Malahat Review, The Capilano Review and Poetry Is Dead, among other literary magazines. They’ve also published creative nonfiction in The Los Angeles Review of Books and Strange Horizons. They are the author of the Occult Special Investigator series (shortlisted for the Sunburst Award), the Parallel Parks series and, most recently, The Winter Knight with ECW.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book was academic (a study of horror television), and then my first novel, Night Child, was a forensic thriller. That book was life-changing in a way, because it got some attention and made me wonder if I could write full-time and support myself (I couldn’t). I Hate Parties is my debut poetry collection, and it’s made a more subtle appearance, with some events scheduled and a few interviews. But I think poetry tends to feel a bit more quiet and reflective than a novel, which always requires a marketing push.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I came to fiction first, though I started writing poetry when I was fairly young. I have more experience working with fiction, but I’ve been warming up to poetry, and I’ve been publishing poems in the background for almost a decade. I think a lot of writers hesitate to call themselves poets, even when they have a collection or two out in the world. A friend had to assure me that I was a poet, and so I reluctantly believe her.
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 poem usually appears with an image, or a line that I add to my notes app (or scrawl down in a notebook if I don’t want to grab my phone). The draft poem will usually coalesce pretty quickly around that line—I’ll hammer out something very rough in one sitting, and then keep coming back for edits. Sometimes I have to sneak up on a poem to figure out what it’s really doing, and that can take anywhere from a few edits to several years. With fiction, I’ll usually fumble through a first draft over the course of a few months, and then spend about a year or more in edits, until it’s ready to show someone.
4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction 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?
With I Hate Parties, the title poem ended up being central, but it was written fairly late compared with the other poems. Sometimes several poems will set a kind of mood, and then the work involves figuring out how to attach them to similar poems, but the mood itself can be enigmatic. My editors told me that these poems were about anxiety, which I suppose I did know, but it helps to hear it from an outside reader as well. With fiction, I usually see a scene or a few linked scenes, and then I spend a lot of time thinking who those flashes of character might be, and how they can populate the scenes in a meaningful way. Some characters will still appear late in the game and surprise you.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I do like reading—both poetry and prose—because there’s a performance aspect to it that can be quite fun. I always learn a bit more about the work by reading it. But reading personal/lyrical poetry can also be challenging, and I’m not always sure if a poem wants to be read aloud until I’m in the middle of it. Festivals can be energizing but also extremely draining, and I always need a few days to recover.
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?
I’m a queer, nonbinary, autistic person, and all of those ways of being are regularly challenged by conservative governments and medical ableism. I’m inspired by theorists like Eli Clare, Lauren Berlant, and Sara Ahmed, who talk about the regulatory forces that are always trying to write queer, trans, and disabled people out of existence. I think it’s still rare to see queer autistic representation, in spite of the fact that I have so many friends who are queer, trans, and neurodiverse in some way. In general, I try to approach questions that I’ve always found challenging, like: How do people communicate with each other? How do we experience time and space in different ways? What does it mean to be social? What does it mean to experience gender in a creative way? How can we be fiercely queer and trans in conservative spaces that would rather we not exist?
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’m not sure there’s one role for a writer, but our concept of “writer” is heavily involved in capitalism and colonialism. Maybe one role or goal of writing is to challenge that. For some, existing as a writer is an act of resistance—existing at all—is an act of resistance. I don’t think queer and trans writers “owe” a particular kind of story to a particular audience, but we can certainly model different stories and lives for a variety of readers. We should also ask what the publishing industry owes us as writers who engage in traditional publishing. A living wage, and freedom to criticize the systems that facilitate our erasure, seems like a good start.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
A good editorial relationship, even if it’s transactional, can improve your work and even help you get to the bottom of what you’re trying to say. When I first receive an editorial memo or feedback, it can be a bit overwhelming. But good editors will work with you patiently, and respect your voice as a writer. Still—don’t be afraid to write stet (“let it stand”) next to a line or sentence that you want to keep, even if your copy-editor doesn’t necessarily get it.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Annie Dillard says, in her manual on writing, that we should all write the stories that we’ve never heard before—the ones clawing to get out. I do think it’s good to write things that scare you, and things that make you feel simultaneously seen and vulnerable. Writing for a community can be helpful (and challenging); writing for a specific audience or marketing demographic will often just get in the way of the story you want to tell and need to hear.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to essays)? What do you see as the appeal?
I think both poetry and fiction can share qualities—particularly the idea of confession—but poetry sometimes feels a bit more urgent. Conversely, it can also be enigmatic enough to surround a difficult moment in syntactic bubble wrap, so you can approach it and re-experience it more easily. Both essays and poems can challenge ideas of centrality and chronology as well—Michael Trussler does this in lovely ways in work like The Sunday Book.
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?
This depends on health, schedule, energy, and capacity. Generally, I like to write for a bit in the morning, but not every day. If I’m close to finishing a fiction manuscript, I’ll work on it more regularly, but I still have to factor in time off because I can’t write every day. With poetry, it’s a bit more sporadic. I might write several draft poems over the course of a few weeks, and then nothing for a month after. I went six years between novels, as well. The writing always takes longer than you think it will, and it has to find its way into the cracks. Living can feel like a full-time job, and there are stretches of time when I’m just trying to exist, but the writing is always collecting like dust in the background—one day I’ll swipe my finger across the mental furniture and realize that there are multiple stories there.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I get a lot of inspiration from working with creative writing students, though I don’t often write a lot while I’m teaching. But being in proximity to their work can help to keep the energy circulating. I also watch shows with a narrative emphasis, listen to podcasts, and try to read as much as I can. The idea of it being stalled—that writing might be a Ford F150 stuck on the side of the road—is, I think, an outgrowth of capitalism. Maybe we can think of it more as resting.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Earl Gray tea, or spaghetti sauce thickening. Also cow shit, because I grew up in a farm town.
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?
Music is a big influence for crafting the mood of a particular scene. I also love interacting with animals and seeing how they view the world, and how we can communicate when we don’t speak the same language. Well-crafted films can help with narrative work, and bad films can also remind you what to avoid. I also just love wandering around with my partner, walking through small-town malls, talking pictures of everyday life—ideas will often materialize when I’m vagabonding.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I grew up on the work of feminist fantasy and science-fiction writers like Ursula K. Le Guin, Mercedes Lackey, and Tanya Huff—their particular styles helped me to think about the ethics of worldbuilding. I read a lot of trans writers because their perspective often feels like home to me: Casey Plett, Hazel Jane Plante, Joss Lake, Kai Cheng Thom, Lee Mandelo. In terms of poetry, I tend to like narrative poetry with a queer slant: Kayla Czaga, Ben Ladouceur, Saeed Jones, Anne Carson.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Learn Scottish Gaelic to reconnect with part of my heritage. Learn ASL. Keep unmasking socially until I can actually just be who I am in a social setting, without all the internal regulation and anxiety.
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 think I’d enjoy being a librarian, though I’m sure a lot of writers and academics say that. I actually loved working in a photo lab in the 90s, and wouldn’t mind developing pictures again, if there’s ever some kind of 35mm renaissance.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Easy: I would have died if I couldn’t write.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I really enjoyed Any Other City, by Hazel Jane Plante. I also loved watching I Saw the TV Glow and All Of Us Strangers.
20 - What are you currently working on?
A few different projects. A small-town queer romance with witches. A novella about dragons in the nineties. A story about Scottish myths. And a poetry manuscript focused on TV.
No comments:
Post a Comment