Nathan Dueck, Nathan Russel Dueck (1979— ): Mortifications

 

NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK 
(1979-2003)

Before the ink had even dried on the contract, Nathan announced the news from atop a chair in the computer lab so everyone within earshot would know he’d soon to be an honest-to-goodness published author. A friend from a graduate seminar rushed over to slap him five. “I can’t wait to get my hands on the book,” he said. Then he stage-whispered, “You know what this means, right? We’re both going to be neck-deep in tang!” Nathan stepped down and led his friend by the arm into the hall, stalling to mull over what he said. Sure, he’d enjoyed himself many a refreshing glass of orange-flavoured crystals dissolved in tap water in his day—who hasn’t? By why did he have to share with this guy? Nathan sputtered, “I could sure go for some Tang right now! If it’s good enough for astronauts, it’s good enough for me.” The friend sighed. “Poets, man. You never make a lick of sense.”

The latest from Cranbrook, British Columbia-based poet Nathan Dueck is the “debut memoir” Nathan Russell Dueck (1979— ): Mortifications (Winnipeg MB: Turnstone Press, 2026), a curious assemblage of prose-echoes and repetitions blending memoir, lyric and a possible bending of fact (I would like to see the numbers on his claim of being “a worst-selling Mennonite author,” for example). Each individual piece, none more than a page in length, are set beneath similar headstone-esque titles, including “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979-1992),” “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979-2006)” and “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979-1994).” As the back cover description provides, this collection “[…] is a lifetime collection of cringe-worthy moments that are always true (… ish).” “Nathan cosplayed as a scholar all throughout his youth,” Dueck writes, to open the piece “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979- ),” “donning pleated trousers. Oxford shirts buttoned up all the way, and cardigans with elbow patches. The part in his hair was always severe. When he finally became a professor, his students couldn’t tell if his preppy getup was ironic or sincere. In truth, he couldn’t tell either.”

This is Dueck’s fourth full-length title, following the poetry collections king’s(mère) (Turnstone Press, 2004), he’ll (St. John’s NL: Pedlar Press, 2014) [see my review of such here] and A Very Special Episode (Hamilton ON: Wolsak and Wynn, 2019) [see my review of such here], with a further forthcoming within the next year or so with University of Calgary Press (although it is good to see Dueck returning to his original publisher, here). His debut, a fragmented book-length long poem on and around Prime Minister William Lyon MacKenzie King, is a collection that perhaps remains my favourite of his works overall, at least so far; in part for the cheek of it, writing so playfully (via accumulated fragment) on such a serious yet colourful historical figure, let alone one of Canada’s best-known (and most unusual) of Prime Ministers. There’s long been a playful element to Dueck’s book-length explorations, one that attends form and memory, play and sly jokes, nostalgia and self-doubt, offering a sense of structural play and self-depreciation, bending lines of fact into something else, leaning hard into perspective. As the short piece “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979-1994)” writes, in full: “Although Nathan faithfully awaited true love throughout high school—admittedly, this wasn’t too difficult since he wasn’t exactly easy on the eyes—he didn’t think it really counted without the officially licensed True Love Waits wristband, so he paid another beta male at the church youth group twenty dollars for his. It was silicone and gave Nathan an itchy rash.” His books-to-date—including his prior collection, riffing on and through the nostalgia of Saturday morning cartoons and after-school specials—exist as book-length studies through a particular subject, each title wildly different than the others. Curiously, a selected poems at some point would be fascinating to see, in part for what kind of framing a potential editor might decide.

The memoir element of a book-length accumulation of self-contained prose pieces could be seen as an echo of Vancouver writer George Bowering’s classic Autiobiology (Vancouver BC: Georgia Straight Writing Supplement, Vancouver Series #7, 1972), offering prose bursts on individual moments, memories and experiences across childhood and youth. As well, Dueck adds the caveat of not only clustering these purposefully awkward and self-depreciating pieces into sections with flamboyant titles—“Rejectio in Perpetuum,” “Ridiculam in Persona,” “Retentus in Pecunia,” “Regior in Propagatio” and “Reprobi in Publicum”—but adds a layer of narrative through subtitles across the table of contents itself. As each piece within the book offers but name and date, the table of contents offers addendums such as “That time Nathan mulled over potential complications of moral philosophy …,” “That time Nathan exhibited a textbook case of white savior complex…” and, referencing the poem fully quoted above, “That time Nathan became a worst-selling Mennonite author….” Throughout, Dueck references what might be his touchstones, including nostalgia, introspection, self-doubt and faith, attempting to reconcile exactly how he might see himself, as to where he has been, and where he might currently stand.

NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK
(1979-1996)

Nathan was one of a dozen or so teens seated around a circular table in an Evangelical church basement as their twentysomething youth leader held forth. “Then this pilot hears from a stewardess that some passengers had disappeared—they were all raptured!” Nathan surreptitiously sat on quaking hands, but everybody else was rapt. “Get this,” smirked the youth leader. “The pilot’s wife and son were taken without him!” Seeing Nathan’s head shaking, the youth leader snarled, “Something wrong, bruh?” Starting at the ceiling panels, Nathan said, “Without my family there, I’m not sure heaven would feel much like paradise.” The table fell silent. The youth leader cracked wise, “It’s gonna be such a par-tay, you’d never even notice!” Glaring at the floor tiles, Nathan added, “But how is that an eternal reward?” “Jesus’s going to separate sheep from goats at the Second Coming,” said another teen in a condescending tone. “Believe you me, you don’t want to be caught up in the wrong crowd.” Nathan pushed away from the table, saying, “I should probably go.” The youth leader waved, rattling his puka shell bracelet. “But will it be paradise without you?”

I’m also intrigued by Dueck’s use of repetition and echo through this prose-poem memoir, a structure utilized by numerous poets over the years, whether utilizing repeated title or not, still beneath a repeated prompt to further the possibilities, including MC Hyland’s The End (Sidebrow Books, 2019) [see my review of such here], Peter Burghardt’s (no subject) (Oakland CA: Omnidawn, 2022) [see my review of such here], Johannes Göransson’s SUMMER (Grafton VT: Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2022) [see my review of such here], Samuel Ace’s I want to start by saying (Cleveland ON: Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2024) [see my review of such here], Sawako Nakayasu’s remarkable The Ants (Los Angeles CA: Les Figues Press, 2014; Punctum Books, 2025) [see my review of such here], and multiple titles by the late Noah Eli Gordon, specifically Is That the Sound of a Piano Coming from Several Houses Down? (New York NY: Solid Objects, 2018) [see my review of such here] and The Source (New York NY: Futurepoem Books, 2011) [see my review of such here]. Throughout, he returns to that same central prompt of himself and his own memory, a headstone-title set as a firm ground from which to leap, or stand. If a writer really wishes to push into unknown, unexpected territory, it isn’t enough to write five or ten pieces around a particular subject, but twenty or thirty or forty pieces, working through the expected material fairly quickly, leaving only the unexpected to follow, and Dueck’s approach is thorough, and wide-ranging. How far might one push the idea, after all, and Dueck’s clustering of pieces suggest the compositional process provided a sequence of pieces far different than their final order within this collection. Do I know more about the life of Nathan Dueck after reading through this “debut memoir,” one might ask? Possibly, but moreso, I know far more about what he thinks about various events throughout his life. Or, as the piece “NATHAN RUSSEL DUECK (1979-2004)” reads:

The best advice Nathan ever received came from his master’s degree advisor. She made only one comment at the end of the first draft of his thesis: UNCLENCH. From that moment on, he laboured 24.7 to do just that.*

 

 

*Sure, this practice puts him in an early grave, but still, pretty good advice, huh?

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Sean Minogue

Sean Minogue is a multidisciplinary writer whose work has appeared on stages and screens, in magazines, and online. His stories, poems, and essays have been published in Lithub, ARC Poetry Magazine, Maudlin House, THIS Magazine, Full Stop, The Globe and Mail, and elsewhere. In 2017, Sean’s play Prodigals was produced as a feature film. Terminal Solstice is his debut novel.

1 - How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Terminal Solstice is my first big fiction project. Before the first draft, I had no mental canvas for writing a book. I didn’t understand what the information should feel like in my mind. I have that familiarity with screenplays and plays – they’re still hard to write, but I at least ‘get’ their shape. With a novel, I had to build a much larger creative scaffold.

Switching mediums is like being a competent trumpeter and suddenly looking down at a harpsichord and wondering what the hell compelled you to try something new.

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

I was a late literary bloomer. Whenever I hear about writers who discovered their love for telling stories at a young age, and then they went on to publish their first book in their early twenties, it sounds so alien to me. I never felt any calling as a kid. I had zero ambition until I left home. 

As a teenager in Sault Ste. Marie, I was mostly playing in bands or watching TV. When everyone started making plans for the future, I decided to cling to English Lit because that was the only subject where I understood what people were talking about. 

But after a few years of university lectures on Chaucer and Thackeray, I fled to the West Coast and started writing for kids cartoons while churning out spec screenplays that were never made. I only set my sights on a big fiction project after I moved back to Ontario.

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 is the easiest part for me. It’s the best. You get to make these big promises that some later version of yourself will have to fulfill. Writing only gets hard once I paint myself into a corner and the adult ‘me’ has to swoop in with an exit strategy. 

My journey toward becoming a productive writer has been focused on being more economical with my creative time. Now, I start fewer projects and finish more of them.

4 - Where does a poem, play 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 Terminal Solstice, I knew I was trying to write a book. I just didn’t know if I’d be able to finish it, let alone get a publisher’s attention. The starting point was a central fantastical concept (i.e., what if time froze but a few people were unaffected). Then I found myself developing three main characters who were all stuck at transition points in their lives. It was unintentional but felt correct. 

My play, Prodigals, which will be published this August by Latitude 46, started with a group of friends shouting over each other on the page. There was no initial structure. I was just trying to make myself laugh and channel the guys I grew up with. It became a play because I happened to see a call for submissions from a theatre company. 

In summary: I have no idea how creativity works, but I’m glad that it does.

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

Thankfully, my time in the spotlight has been brief until now. I prefer informal occasions where you can unwind a bit and have a laugh or a productive argument about something interesting. 

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 think every writer has some unconscious baggage they’re working through. Someone with a long list of books to their name might be able to look back and recognize a thread running through them, like a preoccupation with self-destructive relationships or a belief that politics corrupt art, or whatever. I don’t have that perspective yet. 

I wish I were a writer with grand philosophical obsessions, but I think my creative process is more playful. I like stories that are accidentally bent and then stubbornly reinforced to strengthen that quality. My plays feature on-stage characters who are deeply troubled by off-stage characters. A recent short story of mine follows a guy waiting to analyze soil samples from Mars and he accidentally gets high at a marketing party. Terminal Solstice is built around an otherworldly global phenomenon that is a mystery to everyone impacted by it. 

I think there’s a weird wisdom sloshing around in our unconscious mind. Writing provides a means for expressing it. If I have a theory at all, it might be that a good story requires getting out of the way. 

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 writers should possess an ability to bullshit, but they’re at their best when calling bullshit. Anyone who can offer cogent, broadly digestible insight for our current moment is in possession of a superpower. Not everyone can do this. Even great writers struggle to make a point. Clarity of thought is the ultimate goal, in my mind. 

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

I’ve been lucky enough to collaborate with some really thoughtful, empathetic folks who have supported me through different projects. Sometimes the work doesn’t reach the finish line, but the quality of collaboration is such a pleasure that I grow as a result. For me, this is an essential part of turning something that could be interesting into something that is interesting. 

It takes a special kind of person to get on board with a writer who’s attempting a feat they don’t know they can pull off. I’ve also encountered some folks who offer more notes than insight. Though, even that can be valuable. As a writer, you’ve got to know how to argue against a bad note. The process sharpens your storytelling.

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

Did you ever see that old Ira Glass video that made the rounds on YouTube forever ago? He talks about how, when you’re first starting out as a professional storyteller, the gap between your skill set and your critical taste is immense. So, when you start creating your own work, it obviously sucks. And then you feel bad and that’s when most people quit. But if you create a second thing, and then a third, you start narrowing the gap. I always considered that a helpful way of thinking about a writer’s journey.

And then there’s George Saunders. He’s one of the best thinkers on how writing works from a writer’s perspective (vs. a critic’s perspective). I adore his whole approach to creativity. A Swim in a Pond in the Rain is bursting with the most generous, thoughtful insight into the mysteries of great writing. Can’t recommend him enough.

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

I’ve moved around a lot, genre-wise. My primary focus right now is fiction, but I could totally see myself jumping into something else if an opportunity presented itself. My day job is copywriting, so I’m always engaged with shaping sentences and paragraphs. I think fluidity between different forms strengthens your ability to express creative ideas.

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 never had a proper routine until kids came into my life. Then, all of a sudden, I had to account for every minute of the day. Now, I write most nights once the house is calm and I can get in a solid hour of coherent thought.

I treat my writing time the same way as the early morning rush to get the kids out the door. There’s a ticking clock that doesn’t care about my muse or whatever. It’s either type or go to bed. Then, when I go to bed, I’m full of angst about what I didn’t get done. Rinse, repeat. 

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

I don’t really experience writers’ block, but I definitely go through periods where I think everything I write is terrible. I‘m just too stubborn or delusional to stop.

The most reliable way for me to get back into a confident space is through watching movies. I’ll put on Sidney Lumet’s The Verdict a couple of times a year, along with Terry Gilliam’s Brazil or anything from Eric Rohmer. If I’m really bummed out, I’ll dig out the original Law & Order seasons.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Cedar bushes in the summer. And welded metal, for some reason? 

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?

Early episodes of the Radiolab podcast were a big source of inspiration for Terminal Solstice. They did one about CRISPR in 2015 that blew my mind at the time (“Antibodies”). I also listen to a ton of music on Bandcamp and try to keep my tastes evolving. I never want to be the old dude who has four albums he listens to over and over again.

During the pandemic, I started picking up photobooks. Gregory Crewdson’s work is incredible and really captures the kind of frozen-world creepiness I was thinking about for my novel.

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

I’m a sucker for Paris Review interviews. It’s my favourite thing to read. I love hearing about the personal dramas that impact a writer and how they respond to setbacks over a lifetime of creative work. Brick journal publishes good ones too. (Not to mention rob mclennan’s blog.)

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

Make stable money as a writer. 

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?

Since becoming a parent, I’ve discovered a love for science and math. I never understood either subject as a kid, so I’m coming to both with fresh eyes. 

I think I could’ve found my place as an underling in a research lab somewhere. There’s a ton of creativity involved in these fields, and I wish schools made more of an effort to communicate that to kids who have trouble engaging with STEM.

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

I was drawn to writing because it gels with my conflicted introversion. I enjoy small bursts of manic activity but then get worn out by crowds. The best way to refresh my brain is expressing the tension into some written form. It’s like wringing out a wet cloth. 

Also, I can’t discount how important it was to hear teachers compliment my writing as a high school student. I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything at that point, but the latent sense that I was good at something really made a difference when it came time to choose a path.

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

I really enjoyed Prophet Song by Paul Lynch. It’s a terrifying book that feels like it’s forecasting the worst yet to come in the United States. Rot: An Imperial History of the Irish Famine by Padraic X. Scanlan is a must-read for anyone who wants to understand how a caustic political ideology can hasten social collapse. I also got a kick out of Kneecap the movie (noticing an Irish theme yet?).

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m in the earliest days of a new book idea. Not sure if this will become something, but I can feel the pull to get started. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Trisia Eddy Woods

Trisia Eddy Woods is the author of A Road Map for Finding Wild Horses (Turnstone Press, 2024.) A former editor for Red Nettle Press, Trisia’s writing has appeared in a variety of literary journals and chapbooks across North America including Contemporary Verse 2, The Garneau Review, and New American Writing. Her artwork has been exhibited both close to home and internationally, and is held in the special collection of the Herron Art Library. Currently she lives in Edmonton / amiskwaciywâskahikan with her family, which includes an array of four-legged companions. Her photography, including wild horses, can be found online at prairiedarkroom.com or IG: @prairiedarkroom

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 a long form poem published with dancing girl press, over ten years ago now. I really loved it, it felt special and the poem still holds a lot of meaning for me. Although the setting is quite different, this current book is similar in the sense that I am exploring different layers of connection. However, I definitely see and feel where I have grown as a writer, and I feel more confident in my voice. This being my first full-length collection, I’m incredibly excited to see it out in the world.

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

I was encouraged when I was still in junior high school by my English teacher, Mrs. Leppard. I remember her putting together a compilation of pieces written by students, and when one of my poems was chosen I felt incredibly proud. I continued writing poetry throughout university, and after my kids were born. It wasn’t very accomplished or well edited, but poetry was a way for me to write in the brief spells of time I had in between working and mothering. As they have grown I have been able to spend more focused time, be more thoughtful and consistent. I’d definitely like to write essays or fiction; perhaps that is on the horizon.

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 am constantly writing things that come to mind, and collect them in notebooks or on my phone if I don’t have a pen and paper. I also often make voice memos to myself, and  transcribe them every couple of months. This particular project was done over several years, so I had a lot of disorganized pieces to go through and make sense of!

Lately as I have been dealing with the effects of long covid I find myself coming across snippets of writing, and I cannot remember when they are from, or the context under which I wrote them. So I am accumulating a collection of verses that are simply phrases I like the sound of, or evoke certain feelings, which is proving to be an interesting way to put together a project.

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 think that my ideas grow out of what I happen to be obsessing over at the time. I don’t purposefully create a book, but I do like to deeply explore concepts and get lost in research, so that seems to organically take shape as a larger body of work. Sometimes it feels as though the idea of putting together a collection is intimidating, as I have a few half-formed manuscripts that were supposed to be ‘books.’ In the last several years, though, I have become more comfortable with taking things apart and letting them go, whether it is individual poems or a collection.

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

Having helped organized readings in the past, I found them really quite inspiring and important in terms of hearing the work of others, as well as sharing my own. Poetry in particular has always seemed to me a kind of art form that enjoys being read aloud. I love hearing writers interpret their work in their own voice, I think you hear things that you might miss just reading from the page. With this book I have had a few opportunities already to read at different events, and it seems to bring a life to the project that is invigorating on a different level.

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?

That’s a difficult one. I don’t know that I have contemplated much in the way of theoretical concerns, aside from my own emotional processes. In the past I was often mired in wanting to say something ‘important,’ and I struggled with feeling reluctant to share my writing. Now I appreciate the fact that all of us have important experiences and perspectives to share, so perhaps I might say that one current consideration is to be generous with our reading and writing, and to make space for embracing a variety of questions and answers, especially from voices that are not traditionally heard.

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 work in a library, so I see first hand the influence of writers in people’s lives. It’s quite amazing, really, how many books circulate, and how attached people get to certain authors. How excited they are when their holds arrive, how disappointed they are when we don’t have something they are looking for on the shelf. How much they love to talk about a book they really enjoyed, with staff and with strangers. I think if writers could see the interactions we have with the public they would feel quite proud of the pivotal role they play in creating community.

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

A Road Map for Finding Wild Horses was my first opportunity to work closely with an editor, and it was a transformative experience. I was very fortunate to work with Di Brandt, and she asked a lot of questions that helped me clarify what I was wanting to convey in the manuscript. So in that sense, it was definitely both; difficult because I was confronted with the potential weaknesses in my writing, and at the same time essential, because I was able to dig deep to answer those questions.

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

When I was working with Di, at one point she told me ‘you need to trust your writing more,’ and I was really struck by that. I think there are a lot of moments (for myself, at least!) where second-guessing the words on the page becomes a habit, and the idea of giving ourselves permission to believe in what we write can be very liberating.

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

In many ways I see both my visual art practice and my writing practice as a conversation—there are times when I don’t have much to say in writing, and I turn to photography or printmaking to express what I am processing at the moment. Other days writing takes over, and I will spend weeks without picking up my camera. There is a certain amount of comfort in knowing that if the words aren’t at my fingertips, I still have ways of finding a creative outlet. It also means I am looking at the world in a multi-faceted way: sometimes I see or experience a moment and words come to mind, while other times I am struck by the particular way the light is just so, and feel the need to create a photograph.

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?

It is really only in the past couple of years that I’ve been able to develop any kind of writing routine. In the past I always just found bits of time here and there, late at night when everyone had gone to bed, or perhaps during the odd retreat away from home. Now I am able to sit and focus more consistently, but it is definitely a practice I am still working on.

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

I had to kind of laugh at this question, because my writing has been a constant sort of journey of starts and stops. I’ve learned to find inspiration in little things, as that is often what life is composed of; unfolding moments that make you pause. Sunsets that take your breath away, music that makes you teary. Really appreciating small accomplishments, or even the ability to have the time to rest and breathe in between the bustle.

13 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?

A witch, I think? I still have this fabulous witch hat I used to wear on Hallowe’en when I did library story times.

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?

Yes, all of it! Especially since much of what I write about is the interconnectedness of life, how loss of that connection spurs grief, how rediscovery of it can open us up in so many ways. All of these modes of expression are avenues for exploring our relationships with one another and the world around us.

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

I have always been buoyed by friends who are fellow writers. I think it has been that encouragement and support that kept me on the path, because there were many moments when I felt discouraged or ready to shove ideas in the drawer. Dear friends like Jenna Butler, Shawna Lemay, Marita Dachsel… reading their writing has been sustaining in some dark moments because it feels like having a conversation with them.

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

Oh gosh, so many things. Before I became ill, I was actually booked on a trip to Sable Island, to photograph the wild horses there. I still plan on doing that. I also dream of photographing Polar bears in the north; that trip definitely requires more planning, but the time I have to actually make it there feels pressing as our climate radically shifts. I also look forward to the day I go to Montreal to see one of my sons perform; he’s studying jazz at university and will be doing his final recital soon. That will be a proud day.

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 often think I would have liked to have been a teacher; my husband is a teacher and the stories he brings home have become a part of our family mythology now. I was always struck by what a difference he made in many of his student’s lives. But now my oldest son is also becoming a teacher, so I will live vicariously!

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

Writing was something I often turned to as a child. I had no siblings so spent a lot of time alone, immersed in creating other worlds, and writing became a sort of refuge. During the years of raising a family, writing was often the same kind of respite, but in the sense that I had a place to go and decompress, explore my thoughts while caught in the tangle of parenting and working and all the other things life entails.

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

Most recently I have been reading and thoroughly enjoying Jasmine Odor’s newest novel, The Harvesters. We just watched American Fiction which was based on the novel Erasure, it was really well done.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Lately I have had to focus on health and recovery, which has meant finding new ways to incorporate writing and creative expression, as it is difficult to sustain any kind of activity, mental or physical. I find being in natural spaces is one of the things that is truly healing, so a lot of what I am writing is based on my experience with trying to access those spaces while also being limited in my capacity. I also find myself writing about aging, the mother wound, and climate anxiety, capitalism and the politics of care, how to embrace beauty and love and being flawed.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;