12 or 20 (second series) questions with Aaron Cully Drake

Aaron Cully Drake was shortlisted for the Amazon Canada First Novel Award and longlisted for the Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour for his debut novel Do You Think This Is Strange? (Brindle & Glass, 2015). Drake is a former newspaper reporter and editor. He lives in Coquitlam, BC, with his wife and two children

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

It didn’t. It carried me along for a while, it was fun for a while, but life moved forward with or without it. I was surprised. I thought that the first book was supposed to mark the beginning of your new life. Turns out it was just a signpost on your real life.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?

Probably happenstance, although very few children come to non-fiction first.

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?

Starting isn’t the problem. It’s always the finishing that kills me. Things come fast, the words fall all over the table, and then I spend the next year rearranging them.

4 - Where does a 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?

I like working on the idea of a book. It’s sort of reverse sculpting. I begin with the rough, unpolished form of what the story could be. It’s the sculpture of an elevator pitch. Then I write scenes, characters, and ideas on clay blobs and throw them at the sculpture to see what sticks. Eventually, after I’ve thrown enough blobs that I see the form of something else, I go to work on it. I will spend the next year rewriting it, usually by changing the tense.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

Right before a reading, I’ll curse myself for not writing any scenes tailored for public reading. I promise myself I’ll do it next time. And here we are all over again.

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 don’t know the answer until after I’ve finished the book, and someone else tells me what it was about. I’m always mildly surprised that they’re right.

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?

To finish the book and not know what it’s about. Those books are a product of that primal part of us that doesn’t speak in words but in symbols. It tends to speak greater truths than we can. The role of the writer is make the primal part heard, so that someone can point out what the book was really about.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

It’s always nice to have two parents raising a child. The book isn’t complete until the editor finishes.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Always put the toilet paper in the toilet paper holder. You can’t do great things if you don’t do the mundane things first.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (journalism to fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

I was a mediocre journalist, so I found it quite easy to transition to a mediocre writer.

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?

My routine is a multi-step process: I plan what I want to write in a year so I know how much I need to write in a month. Once I know that, I will know how much I need to write in a week. Each weeknight, I set my alarm to get up at 5:30 AM and to write for two hours before breakfast.

A typical day is a one-step process: sleep in.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Hemingway knew the answer to this one. I like his writing.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Fresh earth turned over by a bulldozer. My father was a heavy equipment operator. The smell of pasture earth, and a sweet scent of diesel. I’m a child again, and it’s summer again, and I can run barefoot, and it doesn’t hurt.

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?

I think books come from disagreements with other books. The primal part of you disagrees with something the primal part of someone else said, and your story is its rebuttal. When you think of it that way, you have a duty to write the book and keep the conversation going.

That kind of dispute comes more easily between books because everything else expresses itself so clearly and vividly, unlike a story made of 80,000 words, which you have to read sequentially. With the latter, your inner self is quite engaged. With the former, it’s just wowed by the pretty colours.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Stephen King had the biggest impact on my life because I read him voraciously in my childhood, when I first thought I wanted to be a writer. I’m not sure how it’s affected me because it’s so deep in the code. But I could have had worse influences. History will count him as one of the greatest writers of all time. I will fight anyone who says otherwise.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Ride a motorbike across Canada. It will never happen because I know that I’ll hate it after the first day when my back starts to hurt.

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 would have been much more successful if I had not been a writer, because I would have poured that energy into my career. Writing was always a counterweight to my job. They both suffered from the other.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

As a child, I was a very good daydreamer. I wove great, vivid fantasies and, one day, I thought to myself, “I should write this down.” So I did, and then I read it, and I thought, “I really like reading what I’ve written.” We’ve been married ever since.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Shogun by James Clavell. Every decade or so, I find myself returning to it.

The Creator, directed by Gareth Edwards. The baby AI knew all along, and she planned it that way.

20 - What are you currently working on?

A too-ambitious project. 1984ish. Where Big Brother is us. Sort of an Orwellian society regulated by upvotes and likes. A world where the rich live in the Inner City and everyone else is outside the tall black walls that keep them out. The only way into the Inner City is a fiercely competitive, unpaid internship, and our hero, Winston Smith, must find a way to get in to the In.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Elizabeth Bachinsky, Real Grownup

my review of New Westminster, British Columbia poet Elizabeth Bachinsky’s sixth full-length poetry title, Real Grownup (Gibsons BC: Nightwood Editions, 2026), is now online at periodicities: a journal of poetry and poetics. See my review of The Hottest Summer in Recorded History (Nightwood Editions, 2013) here and my interview with her when she was on the shortlist for thatyear’s Pat Lowther Memorial Award. I also did reviews of Curio (Toronto ON: BookThug, 2005) here, Home of Sudden Service (Nightwood Editions, 2006) here, God of Missed Connections (Nightwood Editions, 2006) here and I Don’t Feel So Good (BookThug, 2012) here.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Christina Shah

Christina Shah lives in New Westminster and works in heavy industry. Her work was shortlisted for 2021’s Ralph Gustafson Prize and selected for Best Canadian Poetry 2023. rig veda was her first videopoem and chapbook (Anstruther, 2023). if: prey, then: huntress (Nightwood, Fall 2025) is her first full-length collection.

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 chapbook was an illuminating process. Plus, I made some new friends! I’m very grateful for the support I received from Robert Colman (my editor), and Jim Johnstone at Anstruther Press, my poetry collective, Harbour Centre 5, as well as from my colleagues, customers and suppliers in the industrial world. It was also an opportunity to connect with some of the poets whose work I’d admired for many years. I felt like a real writer once I had something tangible to hold in my hands– I’d realized my dream.

My most recent work, if: prey, then: huntress is a full-length collection. Compared to rig veda (my chapbook), there is some overlap in terms of content, but IPTH is an eclectic collection (work and play poetry!). During one of our conversations, Rob said ‘a chapbook is like a room in a house’. The light went on for me (and yes, someone was home!).

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I came through the work of Dennis Lee, as a child. The irreverence is what did it for me. Poetry seemed supercharged in terms of its humour, its whimsicality (and certainly its musicality) and the naughtiness of its child characters.

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?

In my case it’s how many fits and starts? It’s a very slow process. I frequently use the word ‘woolgathering’ to describe it. ‘Hairy tumbleweeds’ might be a more apt metaphor— pricklier and more random, and over rougher terrain. I do a lot of research while writing, but mainly for technical reasons (which invariably ends up down internet rabbit holes). First drafts usually need to ‘have legs’, as I like to say—in the form of a spark of sound or an explosive image or even unusual subject matter, used as a prompt. Then there’s a moderate amount of editing (longhand) on the printed first draft.

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?

For me, a poem begins with a sensory snippet, or an image (could even be a mundane scene or a utilitarian object), or a far-out sound combination that begets an unusual image (see #3). That’s the flashpoint. I’m definitely in the former camp.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I’d say they’re part of my creative process. I do enjoy doing readings and connecting with the audience. The in-between banter and the backstory adds some connective tissue and colour that is unique to an in-person reading, much like a live music event.

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 seeking meaning within and beyond the world of work. How can we carve out some time and energy for ourselves to be present but not enmeshed, especially in this age of technological acceleration? What do we show of ourselves beyond our roles or our scripts in commercial or institutional environments and interactions? How do we as individuals maintain our humanity and agency in dehumanizing environments or situations? Why are there still places and networks in which women’s participation and access to opportunity is limited? How do we maintain our connection with the tactile world? How do we keep craftsmanship and repair knowledge alive in the age of enshittification? Most of my questions are questions of agency.

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 writer holds up a mirror, shows us our humanity, and helps us hang on. They demand courage and honesty and are willing to put themselves on the line for all of us. I think we need writers more than ever these days, especially when books are being banned and we’re living in a sea of propaganda and AI slop. I’m reminded of the Greek cynic philosopher Diogenes, who was purported to have wandered around in public spaces in broad daylight with a lit lantern, claiming he was ‘searching for an honest man’.

8 – Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Essential. I’ve been so fortunate in this regard. I’ve had the privilege of working with both Rob, and Peter Norman (who edited if: prey, then: huntress). Nightwood also treated IPTH gently but with great attention to detail. Their perspectives were very helpful in ordering the manuscript and also in determining which poems to keep and which to leave out.

9 – What is the best piece of advice you’ve heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

“Well-behaved women rarely make history.” More of a pithy quote, which I took as advice!

10 – 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 do three pages of free-writing most mornings before work (and on the weekend), but I don’t have a set routine. A typical day begins with very strong coffee and plant care. When I have time after freewriting, I do like to read the LCP’s Poetry Pause poem or watch a videopoem.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

There’s always reading other poets’ work, as well as knitting/crochet or baking. Making things usually sets off another writing streak. Taking a walk helps. I’m a fan of using prompts in group settings as well.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

My husband’s cooking, specifically his spaghetti bolognese sauce. It’s out of this world. I’m very spoiled.

13 – 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?

So many influences. Food, music (specifically 70s rock), and visual art, the urban environment, geology, astronomy, and mechanical engineering concepts/terms.

14 – What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

I try to read as much industrial work poetry as I can, so Kate Braid, Tom Wayman, Lindsay Bird, Garth Martens, and Joe Denham, to name a few. I’m interested in discovering more Spanish language poetry by women writers. I also enjoy the literary journals— it’s always interesting to leaf through and to discover a new writer, or a new piece by someone whose work you enjoy.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I’d like to visit Spain and walk everywhere, especially on the Galician coast. Art, architecture, great cuisine and natural beauty!

16 – 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’d try being a cardiac surgeon, although that does not really qualify as something you dabble in— and you can’t really wing it. My guess is I’d probably still be in sales or a small business owner importing Nice European Things (either edible or wearable).

17 – What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

It was the one thing I could do well, and I loved words and books from an early age. I could take them with me wherever I went. Reading and writing became a lifeline as a child and as an adult.

18 – What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Book: Lauren Peat’s chapbook Future Tense (Baseline 2024). It’s stunning. ‘Aubade at Olympic Station’ begins with the line ‘I wake to split the blue milk of morning with the cat who haunts my building’. Musically-rich (Peat is a composer as well– and draws some inspiration from the work of Glenn Gould), this work is a kaleidoscopic meditation which reflects on many facets of vulnerability: intimacy and distance in relationships, homelessness–‘the man curled into a comma by the TD Bank’, even a newborn baby after a difficult birth.

Film: a beautiful, five-minute videopoem about the aftermath of the end of a relationship ‘El fin de la existencia de las cosas/The end of the existence of things’ by Dalia Huerta Cano. Just watch it.

19 – What are you currently working on?

More hairy tumbleweeds for the next book. The work world offers plenty of material!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Meg Todd

Meg Todd [photo credit: Anick Violette] grew up in the Alberta prairies. She is a two-time finalist for the CBC Short Story Prize, and her work has appeared in Ploughshares, Prairie Fire, PRISM international and elsewhere. Her debut short story collection, Exit Strategies, was a finalist for both the ReLit Award and the Danuta Gleed Literary Award. Her debut novel is Most Grievous Fault (Nightwood Editions, 2025). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and a BA in Religious Studies from the University of Calgary. She lives on Vancouver Island.

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, Exit Strategies, came out during COVID when everyone’s life was turned upside-down. I’m not sure what I expected to feel when the book was released, but the news that it would be published and the work leading up to that publication were thrilling and, in some ways, more significant than the actual publication. Once it was a physical book, it felt apart from me. A child that had grown up and had to find its own legs, its own place in the world.

            Exit Strategies is a collection of short stories, most of which had been published in literary journals before they ended up in the book. My new book, Most Grievous Fault, is a novel. No part of it was published before the book as a whole. It feels huge. A whole world that has been created and is now accessible for others to participate in. Again, I had the initial excitement when I heard that the book would be published, and again, I am now looking at something that stands on its own: it is no longer mine.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?

I don’t know that this was a choice. I have a vivid imagination, and perhaps that’s detrimental to the writing of non-fiction, in particular. My mind either wanders happily away from the truth, or my memory is just too poor to hold onto it. Not that imagination isn’t beneficial to the other two forms. I’m sure it is. But for me, imagination seems to take over. Also, I enjoy reading fiction, and just as I like to get lost in the reading of a story, so too do I like to get lost in the writing of one. However, it’s also the case that, after the exhilarating and sometimes frightening freedom that is the first draft, I have to lean into what I imagine are the artistic skills of a poet and the detail-exacting talents of a non-fiction writer.

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?

Most Grievous Fault is my first novel to be published, and writing it was a long process. The first draft was written quickly, without thought or plan. The ideas and images and characters were there, but there was no form, no proper structure, and it was the wrong protagonist, the wrong tense and perspective. Sorting through all of that took more than a year. After that initial restructuring, I turned to short fiction, looking at the novel occasionally, but mostly coming to terms with the fact that I was planning to abandon it. But my protagonist, Crystal, stayed with me, and at some point, I made a commitment to her and pushed through. The fact that she is unlikeable made the work difficult. I needed her to be sympathetic even though, really, she isn’t.

            I am not a note taker. I write and rewrite, starting over and then starting over again. I have many versions of Crystal’s story. Many versions, in fact, of all my stories. I write quickly, but I edit slowly.

4 - Where does a 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?

Ideas come from anywhere. Something I see or hear, a truck at the side of the road, someone’s gait, the tilt of a head, a conversation. A short story begins from there: not much more than nothing at all. Ideas for novels, however, seem to appear in my head like movies. They roll around for a long, long time before I sit down to pay attention to the script. I’m inclined to start a short story anywhere and at any point. For a novel, I need time and space. It’s a commitment. Long term.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

When I am working on something, I prefer not to share it for fear it will stifle, thwart, or disrupt my creativity. However, when I have a finished project, I’m happy to read. Writing is meant to be shared and the kind of sharing that readings present opens me to other ways of interpreting the work and other ways of understanding what I have written. I also really enjoy reading aloud in a general sense, whether it’s my work or the works of others.

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?

My writing, no matter which direction I think I’m headed in, veers towards the morally murky, the struggle of the human to be and do good, the challenges in determining right from wrong, the questions of faith in self, in others, in God, and the fallibility of the human body. I’m interested in what it means to be human, where and how we find meaning in life, and the difficulties in sustaining honest relationships. For me, these are questions that are universal and that stay with us, relevant whether the story is told through the perspective of believers or non-believers, thinkers or doers, whether it’s set in a pre-industrial period or in a time of the internet and AI.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in the larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

We all have stories, big stories and little stories and in-between stories. They are all relevant and interesting, always. It seems to me that the writer is attempting to find meaning in these stories and then to translate them into something that is accessible.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Both. The fact that the story has become part of me, that I feel it internally and know every version of it on a visceral level, including what has been removed and what was never put in but is germane peripherally, can stand in the way of clarity for a reader. This is where the sharp eye of an editor is invaluable and essential. Knowing when and why outside opinion is necessary is the job of the writer. At a certain point, we can be too close to the story to see what’s happening and what’s missing.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

My father used to say, “Doe gewoon.” I’m not sure if it was his or if it’s a typical Dutch saying, but it means “be natural,” “be yourself.” In other words, behave without artifice, without theatrics.

10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

Although it depends on where I am in a piece, I don’t think I can say I really have a routine. Perhaps I even avoid rigidity in my writing practice. When things are going well, my project is open on the dining room table and I write in fits and starts throughout the day, using what I’m doing between bursts of writing to work things out in my mind. I am fully in it, dreaming it and living it. Public writing, writing in the car, in a park, at the side of the community pool, in a coffee shop—every place and everything gets channelled somehow into the piece. No gatekeepers until I sit down to edit, which is, in some ways, where the real writing work happens, and which can be either enjoyable or frustrating.

            I start my days early with coffee and my laptop. I like to see the sun rise.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I find it helpful to write with other people, which is something that’s not always possible. A long walk can also serve (sometimes) to generate ideas or to move things forward. I suppose it’s also true that when I’m not writing, I can’t imagine ever writing again, and when everything is going well, I can’t imagine a project ever stalling or my mind ever not being productive. Sometimes it’s difficult not to feel unsettled by a lack of inspiration, and even though I tell myself that it will pass, there is a part of me that is unsure. Sometimes it’s a big part; sometimes it’s smaller, quieter.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

The smells of goat’s milk, Bantam chickens, Earl Grey tea, prairie grasses—these I associate with my childhood home. My late grandmother’s perfume, Arpège by Lanvin, reminds me of home in general, home as a place that is warmly familiar. The smell of teak, as well, because of her teak cupboard, which is now my teak cupboard.

13 - 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?

I think a lot about the process of painting when I write, this rendering of what one sees, either physically or mentally, into something that others see as well. Making something from nothing. And I listen to the radio, absorbing whatever comes my way, choosing nothing but the station itself. Talk, music, political discussion, opera, news—it all floats past me and I can only assume it influences me, even though often it’s hard to pinpoint exactly why and what will serve as a muse.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

This changes for me. Currently, I am drawn to Deborah Levy, all her works really. I love the way she looks at things, her thoughtfulness and intelligence and the way she sees her work as part of the continuum that is the world of writing. I like how she struggles to understand what it is she does—her introspection. I also love Rachel Cusk’s writing.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

A very difficult question. I don’t have a bucket list and am inclined to be open to whatever comes my way, and, at the same time, I tend to be rather careful not to let too much come my way. In my mind, I’d like to be a spy—to observe without anyone knowing I’m there. I’d like to be invisible.

16 - 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 might have been a teacher, and I also think I could not have been a teacher. I love to observe and attempt to understand why a person is the way they are. In other words, I like to step into other people’s shoes. When I’m waiting for my car to be fixed, I am a mechanic; when I’m in the doctor’s office, I’m the one with the stethoscope. I’m a barista, a grocery clerk, a dental hygienist, a road worker, a horse trainer, a mountain climber. And I am none of those things. If I hadn’t started writing, I would be dreaming of writing.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I still remember this intense excitement I felt in grade 1 when I opened my notebook to a blank page and had a pencil in my hand. I remember my first reader with its simple images and vivid colours. I remember learning the word “why”. To read a book was to be transported. To write a book? This was the pinnacle. Unreachable. I was and am in awe of writers.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

While I can’t really say what the last great book I read was, some recent reads that impacted me and still linger include M.A.C. Farrant’s memoir My Turquoise Years and Jente Posthuma’s very poignant novel What I’d Rather Not Think About, as well as Arlene Heyman’s short fiction collection Scary Old Sex. These books are very different thematically and otherwise, but they all convey “story” beautifully. Also, Edward St Aubyn’s Patrick Melrose and John Fowles’s Daniel Martin. Recent films that have stayed with me include Maestro and Conclave, as well as the limited series, Adolescence and Secrets We Keep. Also, films by Andrea Arnold.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I am always writing short stories and at the moment these seem to be focussed on vulnerability, the fragility of our minds and bodies. I am also searching, mentally, for the characters who will together shape my next novel, which might be about sibling relations, or dying parents, or the interplay of helping and hindering, or the search for our place in life, or all of these.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Christina Shah, if: prey, then: huntress

 

pinky laundry

their dirty custard ranks
present a row of grooved tongues crooked
for a six-quarter shakedown
with a thin rinse 

pregnant, trembling, spinning
boxing bloodied socks and jeans
punishing the textile transgressions
of poor days dodged 

into the side-gyre
mesh drum tumbling
but chaos rising in five-minute increments 

here, we’re our own hunchbacked bellmen
wheeling out low-slung carts
below entombed fluorescent bars
Charons ferrying terrycloth,
folding the rabbled souls.

I’m intrigued by this full-length debut by Vancouver poet Christina Shah, if: prey, then: huntress (Gibsons BC: Nightwood Editions, 2025), a poetry collection that “invites the reader to take a freight elevator ride into the guts of heavy industry,” and featuring back cover blurbs by Canadian poets Tom Wayman and Kate Braid, two of the originators of the 1970s Canadian “work poetry” ethos (amid those Kootenay School of Writing origins) that also included early work by poets Phil Hall and Erín Moure [see my longer note on some threads on “work poetry” as part of my recent review of Philadelphia poet Gina Myers’ Works & Days]. Shah’s lyrics provide a fascinating patter, one that utilizes the subject matter of labour across scenes of industrial sites and restaurant workers, composing what appear at first glance as first-person descriptive narratives, but one capable of nuanced twists and turns of sound and meaning. “dendrobranchiata,” begins the poem “prawn,” “you throw your roe out / like you remove a cava cage / spill the wine, let life flow / into its briny flute [.]” There’s almost a way her lyric is closer to the language model of poets such as ryan fitzpatrick or Peter Culley than Wayman or Braid, existing somewhere between those two points, offering labour as her building blocks but language as her poem’s propulsion. “here,” begins her poem “fear and probability,” “a woman’s soft body / is found only / in cubicle fabric nests // but I am a huntress / sparkles under steel toes / shuffling between petrochemical rainbows / into open bays / under heavy-lift ulnae / along the riverfront [.]” She offers her perspectives through and around labour, and around gender, a conversation less prevalent than it should be, even despite the high percentages of women working across various industries for decades. The language flourishes, provides flourish. While labour exists as her surrounding subject, much as Gina Myers, Shah sets her poems at the moment of actual, concrete and physical work, writing, as the short poem “ulnaris/radialis” begins: “egret, backhoe— / hand origami’s / carpal puppetry / prepares her for / the work of days / of women; [.]”

dear Rudyard

Well, the twain met—
not at the gates of Vienna
nor on a date at the Prater,
but in an artificial city
by Trudeaumanic accident. 

I learned to make killer Vanillekipferln—
blond almost dust and cultured butter,
gorgeous orchid’s wizened finger buried
in bright sand to dispense
migration’s black grains. 

I learned to consume my mezzaluna origins
in time for Midnight Mass—
marveled at the old man’s Sunday absences;
the porcine avoidance
of his distant past.

Through the poems that assemble into if: prey, then: huntress, the poems still seem to feel out their coherence into a larger structure, providing a looseness I’m curious to see evolve into whatever she attempts next. Ultimately, through if: prey, then: huntress, concerns and descriptions of labour are set as foundation, or as perpetual backdrop, but it is through the flourish of sound and rhythm that the poems sparkle, find their ultimate magic across the grounding of the concrete floor. As she writes as part of a statement, posted recently as part of the “Spotlight series”:

There’s a surprising amount of colour and sensory detail in some of these industrial environments– at least that’s what I try to highlight in my work. Buff yellow, UV-faded hunter green, and blazes of colour from the tugboats or safety gates and stairs. I like to explore the contrast between the built and the natural environment while enjoying the view and the people along the way– one of the perks of what can be complex and dangerous work.

 

Isabella Wang, November, November

 

tears salt the good fabric
of her poppy scarf    there is slow quiet 

mapped ribbon developments
of our black ice 

future winters
everywhere    there is the mildness
of unanticipated clemencies 

showing us care
this salt    remnant of her leaving 

melting the ground    keeps us safe
while you are driving 

for miles    the heart pulses
distances the mind cannot imagine
to cross in a lifetime (“PASSAGE 2: NOVEMBER 2021”)

In the “Afterword” to her second full-length collection, November, November (Gibsons BC: Nightwood Editions, 2025), a follow-up to Pebble Swing (Nightwood Editions, 2021) [see my review of such here], Vancouver poet Isabella Wang writes of her ongoing engagement with the work of the late Salt Spring Island poet Phyllis Webb (1927-2021). Webb is a poet originally introduced to Wang through Vancouver poet Stephen Collis [see my review of Collis’ critical volume on Webb here], and Wang writes of time spent in the Special Collections vault at Simon Fraser University, listening to archived reel-to-reel cassettes of Webb reading, and conversations with Collis on Webb’s work, including discovering a previously uncollected poem in the recordings. She writes of grief, and of visiting “Syowt’s Bowl,” the ancient stone shape set in Salt Spring Island’s Ganges Harbour, an artifact that entered Canadian poetry through Webb’s Wilson’s Bowl (Toronto ON: Coach House Press, 1980), the title poem composed as her memorial for the Canadian archaeologist, cultural anthropologist and curator Wilson Duff (1925-1976). “why am i crying,” Wang writes, as part of the extended lyric “PASSAGE 2,” “grieving a person i’ve never met [.]” As she offers as part of her afterword: “Shared grief is like a weighted blanket. It is also a collaboration in the way that the six of us shared stories by the bowl and the moment we started reading our favourite Phyllis poems, Salt Spring suddenly started hailing.”

The poems that make up Wang’s November, November are composed with such deep and delicate precision; as a calendar of meditative space around grief, homage, illness and recovery. “parts of this body are negative / parts of this body are diffusely positive,” she writes, as part of the poem “THE BODY IS” in the third section of the book, “this body is whole / this body goes by one given name / except the parts of it removed [.]” Structured in five sections—“CONSTELLATIONS: NOVEMBER 2020,” “PASSAGE 2: NOVEMBER 2021,” “PASSAGE 3: DECEMBER 2021,” “PASSAGE 4: NOVEMBER 2022” and “PASSAGE 5: NOVEMBER 2024”—the third and fifth of which are composed of shorter, self-contained pieces, there is something really compelling in the way Wang offers this collection as a deep engagement with Webb and her work through a particular period, through Webb’s death and Wang’s cancer diagnosis, treatment and recovery. Wang’s poems allow for influence and engagement with Webb’s work without overtaking Wang’s own lyric, offering a foundation for possibility across a delicate, open-hearted and deeply mature lyric. Webb’s work might have been the engine, but Wang is clearly at the wheel, as the poem “PRAYER ON AN OPERATING TABLE” reads, to close:

love effortless childhoods : branches of moss : their own little tree :
love so many beams of asphalt : the tongue becoming a highway : love
medicines : options are none : Deer Lake : hope country of nowhere :

Wang has become quite adept at pulling at the small moment, allowing the line to extend across a great distance, offering her own take on the long poem through sequences, sections, clusters of poems and, eventually, this book-length, meditative suite, all of which is wrapped around attention, and a deeply-attuned ear. Listen to the opening untitled poem of the second section, “PASSAGE 2: NOVEMBER 2021,” a section subtitled “for Phyllis and the Loving Crew”; the piece is dated “November 11,” the same day Webb died:

white pines    frosted window
won’t let in images of morning 

but sunlight until they melt

bus loop    bus drove by me
me stop-signed at another curb 

ice crystals write squiggly lines
where previous scratches    on glass 

feel everything 

                        talked to Phyllis
yesterday    said we both
enjoyed the company 

of your friendship

            her your anchor
your purpose for escape 

                        the city    your work
they are your two ends
            pulling on your Tsawwassen heart
keeping you steady 

    youngest of seven siblings
still feel everything

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jes Battis

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.   

12 or 20 (second series) questions;