sophie anne edwards is an environmental artist and writer who works on and off the page, at her desk and in the bush. Her first collection of visual and text-based poetry, Conversations with the Kagawong River (Talonbooks) was recommended by CBC as an October 'must read', and made both CBC's and Quill & Quire's most anticipated fall release lists. Her work has appeared in Empty Mirror, The Capilano Review, CNQ, and the Pi Review among others. A graduate of the Humber College creative writing certificate program, she was longlisted for the 2021 CBC poetry prize, as well as Arc Poetry Magazine's 2019 Poem of the Year. Recently, she was long-listed for Omnidawn's 1st/2nd book prize. She's been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council. Born and raised in Northern Ontario, she lives on Manitoulin Island with her dog Bea and a roster of other Woofers who help in the garden.
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?
Seeing my debut book of poetry out in the world is wonderful, but really, it’s the writing itself that changed my life, not the book itself. Writing after wanting to write for so very long has been very healing and fulfilling for me, confidence- and community-building. In the process of writing the book I connected with so many incredible writers and had the opportunity to attend a number of writing residencies. I remember people in the upper years of my literature program being very competitive, so I think I was half expecting something similar in the writing community, but instead I’ve found that writers have been generous, thoughtful, and supportive, which has been so uplifting.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I’d say it came to me. I didn’t aim to write a book, and not a book of poetry when I started spending time at the River. I followed the process and found my way to what became a very interdisciplinary, multi-tributary book.
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?
Thirty-five years? Almost forty? I was seven when I decided I wanted to write books. But childhood aside, I’ve had a number of books floating in my head for many years. Some of the writing happens in my head – it floats around, gathers threads, forms and reforms itself – and comes out on the page ‘quickly’ once I get started, then I build it up, or edit it down. Other stuff is very slow – I start something and it just doesn't gel, so I leave it. I’m obsessed with notebooks. I don’t journal anymore, but I have loads of sketch- and notebooks in which I jot thoughts, gather quotes and references. I’ve learned to number the pages, and keep a reference at the back of each notebook so I can find various thoughts later when I sit down to write. My work feels like research. I think of my poetry as non-fiction, so I tend to approach the process in a field research way, probably influenced by my time working on a Geography PhD. I often work in analogue ways, as with the notebooks. I use my typewriters a lot. I write drafts in them, or build up notes as I type, then I eventually transcribe those to the computer and rework or edit them on the computer. I create visual maps of what I’m thinking, and spread stuff around. So, the short answer is it sometimes comes out in a way that might seem quick after a long, slow, thinking and gathering process.
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’m pretty new to all this, but I’m finding each ‘thing’ has its own demands, its own energy and process. My second book, coming out in the fall, is an experimental novel. The first twenty pages ‘just’ came out of me (again, after some of the words circulating in my brain for twenty or so years). The text of those pages have pretty much not changed since (although their order has). Those pages defined the shape of the book, the energy of it, the style – I just followed those first pages and wrote the rest. The hardest part was finding the order as it’s not a traditional novel with an arc, more of a twining narrative. For another project – non-fiction – that I’m mid-way on, the concept came first in combination with some note-taking that didn’t know it was note-taking for a project. This one needs more development to find its shape, which isn’t quite there yet.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I didn’t know I would enjoy readings. I live in a pretty rural place, so readings are a rarity. The Talon launch in Vancouver was my first public reading (apart from reading stuff in workshops and at residencies). So now, as a seasoned (ha) reader after four or five events, I’m finding that I enjoy reading the work aloud. The voice does something with the work that isn’t found on the page, and I love the quiet vibe when folks are really into it.
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?
Underneath a lot of my writing are my attempts to situate and to understand my love of this place as a settler, and to not be complacent about, nostalgic with, or to romanticize that love. I’m also very interested in form, and work that challenges the dominance of the page in terms of size, shape, and scale, and what that means for language, form, and reading.
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 love Naropa’s slogan – Making the World Safe for Poetry – and what Anne Waldman says about that slogan: that if the world is safe for poetry it's safe for many other things. I think poetry can also make poetry safe for all kinds of ideas, people, histories and make them visible too. Words do work in the world, and I think we need to take that seriously. We’ve imagined and constructed a very particular kind of world, and I hope writers and poets can help us re-imagine a different one.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
My limited experience so far shows me it’s kinda like working with a really good therapist who’ll call you on your shit, redirect you, and push you to work on stuff between sessions. Writing seems to find itself on/through the page, and sometimes I don’t quite see the connections, the ribbons, the tangles that are either working for me, or tripping me up. My readers have been like good therapists, helping me to see what I need to see more clearly, and also reminding me to not be so hard on myself, and encouraging me to go out in the world.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
There is so much stuff out there about being disciplined, getting up early and staying up late to get a certain number of words written a day, to be productive and focused. I’ve found that quite debilitating and difficult given what I have to balance and needing to work within my very variable capacity. Chris Turnbull encouraged me with writing slowly, in my head, to not be burdened by productivity. My own best advice, which I always tell the writers I support, is to keep the best hour of each day for myself – whether that’s reading or writing, or thinking about either.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to prose to photography)? What do you see as the appeal?
In my River book, prose, poetry and photography are interconnected. I was working on site-specific, or installation-based poetry as the base, so documentation (photography) went hand-in-hand with that process. The prose was part of my reflection process and just happened as I went. I am always reflecting upon the work I do, it’s just part of the process. I suppose the poetry bit – the text-based poetry bits – were the hardest part, in terms of requiring more research, more thought, more pen to paper thoughtfulness.
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 love it when I spend an hour or so writing or thinking about writing or reading and taking notes in the morning. But that doesn’t happen regularly, as life and those in my life have their own demands and rhythms. I also have to go by my energy as I have a couple of chronic conditions that mean I never know how I’ll feel in a day.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
The bush. Water. Books. Quiet. I really need quiet and rest to be creative.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Juniper bushes, pine, lake breeze.
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?
Books come from (out of) life and its traumas and inspirations, and for me are also entwined with visual art, particularly drawing, installation, and site-specific work. They resonate and speak with everything, really.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
That’s a hard one to answer. I have a continually shifting stack(s) of books beside my bed, my desk, the couch … a lot of it is poetry (particularly experimental and/or visual), but also novels, gardening books. I really love The Capilano Review, Brick, and TNQ. I love spending time with those each time they come out.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Writing’s kinda the thing I hadn’t been doing until my 50’s. So I just want to write. I am saddened that there is so little time left (certainly the dial is on the shorter side of my life at this point), certainly not enough to write all the books in my head. I’ve done all kinds of things before this: curator, waitress, houseplant manager, tomato picker, grant-writer, executive director, organizer, facilitator, after-school art teacher, co-operative sector educator … I would like to write a novel, but I’m not sure I have that kind of steam in me.
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?
Same answer at #16. I guess if I wasn’t writing now, I’d probably be doing more work with the early learning community. I would have liked to have been a biologist/ecologist. I’d love to be a full time gardener.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Couldn’t not do it anymore.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I took a class with Hoa Nguyen recently, and read her A Thousand Times You Lose Your Treasure. So good. Through her, I read a number of books that just floored me, including Alice Notley’s Being Reflected Upon, Wanda Coleman’s, Wicked Enchantment: Selected Poems, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge’s, A Treatise on Stars (I’ll be rereading that one several times for sure), and Cecilia Vicuña’s, Spit Temple.
I haven't watched a great film in a while. I have a fond memory of cuddling with a friend; we watched a black and white Japanese film that she picked (I can’t remember the name of the film, sadly). It was slow and gorgeous. Just like our evening.
20 - What are you currently working on?
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A couple of early learning books that extend my thinking in the early two. I’m in the editing process of an experimental novel, and am about mid-way on a non-fiction project.
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