12 or 20 (second series) questions with Norma Dunning

Norma Dunning (PhD) [photo credit: Carina Lamarche, Details Photography Studio] is a Padlei Inuk writer, professor and grandmother. Tainna (The Unseen Ones) received the Governor General’s Award for Literary Fiction in 2021, and Kinauvit? (What’s Your Name?) was shortlisted for the Shaughnessy Cohen Prize for Political Writing in 2023. Her debut, Annie Muktuk and Other Stories (2017), received the Danuta Gleed Literary Award and multiple other awards. She has also published two collections of poetry to acclaim. All her books have been translated into French. Dunning teaches at First Nations University of Canada and lives in Regina, SK.

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 is titled Annie Muktuk and Other Stories (2017 UAP) and Annie taught me too many things! Mainly about copyright law and how it is important for an author to stand up for their words. I always say, “If you don’t love what you have written, and I mean really love what you have written – nobody else will either.” There’s truth in that statement.

My writing will always focus on Inuit and how Inuit lives are lived within Canada. Inuit are the smallest Indigenous population in Canada with a total of 70,545 as our population. Around 20,000 live outside of the northern land claims areas or south of 60. Inuit are also first in all the statistics that nobody else wants. First in poverty, food insecurity, substance abuse, overcrowded housing, first in teen suicide and poor health.

 I am beneficiary of Nunavut, as are my three middle-aged sons. When an Inuk lives outside of a northern context our lives become a curiosity to the rest of mainstream. I’ve met many young Inuit who hesitate to identify as Inuk because they are living in a southern city/town. I like to remind them that we are Inuit no matter where we stand.

Over time and with the publication of seven books – 2 short story collections, 2 poetry collections, 2 children’s books (forthcoming in fall of 2026 and the second one in 2027) and my first novel Naoyak releasing in Sept of this year I feel as though my confidence in my work has grown. What I publish becomes my legacy but we do not see the fruits of our legacies until the next generations are doing better in terms of education and improved mental & physical health. My aim is to help those who are waiting to come to us.

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

Poetry for me has more to do with rhythm, how does the meter used in a poem create the point the poem is making? I always hear the rhythm in someone’s voice before I hear their words. Poetry allows for the beat, the way a voice carries a word to become the focus. Performance is key in poetry and there is a certain poetic magic that occurs when it all comes together.

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?

Writing is only rewriting and rewriting and rewriting. I’ll write a couple pages one day and pat myself on the back for being brilliant and the next day get up and rewrite it all over again. I think about my writing for a long time before I put anything down onto a page. It has to percolate inside of me for months/years and then I can write it.

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

I love readings. I have to read to the audience in the same way that I hear it in my head. It has to be exact and knowing when to pause and for how long – that’s key. I think it’s a gift to be asked to read publicly.

5 - 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 all writing is political. What I find amazing is how, in my head, I’m addressing something that is a social concern or disparity, yet the audience will take it in differently – that’s when I think – OK – what did I do wrong? Or I will be thankful for how someone else saw my work in a way that I could never dream of!

6 – 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?

We live in such negative times, in a world of war and hate and anger and everyone has a cause that they do not own but will scream about. I find the news/media is exhausting right now. I think in our present times that the role of the writer is to bring calm and laughter – that is my hope for Naoyak, I hope she makes someone giggle and forget the negativity for a moment.

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

I think it goes one way or the other – either I have to tell myself that ‘this is how a non-Indigenous person sees this’ or I can get grouchy over it all and think “Editor, inform yourself about Inuit before you start to tell me I’m wrong!” There are very few Indigenous editors and I make use of the Padlei Inuktitut dialect in my work because I think Canada needs to hear/study more Indigenous languages overall and when I have a non-Inuk editor saying that I made use of my dialect incorrectly – oh boy – now I’m ready to go!

8 - 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 am with the Indigenous Studies faculty at the First Nations University of Canada and I carry a heavy teaching load. I find that when reading week/Christmas/spring break comes along – that’s when I can really focus and write my own stuff. I cannot say I have an exact routine because of how my own career of teaching gets in the way.

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

I’ve written about consulting a First Nations Elder and telling her about the amount of writing/researching that I was doing. I was at the beginning of my PhD work and I talked about being overwhelmed and burdened and basically I was just feeling stressed and sorry for myself. I asked her how to manage it all. There was a long pause as there often is when speaking with an Elder and then she looked at me and said, “Go clean your toilet!” So I thought I had made a mistake in how I had spoken to her and asked her to repeat. “Go clean your toilet!” and I said, “Really?” and she said – you have to do something normal when you’re stuck so clean your toilet, go for a walk, do some laundry…” Best advice I’ve ever received.

10 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Homemade bread baking in the oven. My folks had six kids, and my mom baked all the bread/buns for the next week every Saturday morning – she was up well ahead of anyone and taking care of us was her priority. I miss her. I miss the smell of homemade bread baking in the oven.

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

Travel to Portugal – I was invited to a lit fest there and then the pandemic came along. I still would love to travel there.

12 - 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?

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

I always wrote but publishing was not the end goal. The end goal was to write and complete what I was writing and working on. I didn’t publish until I was 58 and now, I won’t stop publishing! Values change when grandchildren come to you and their lives carry more importance. My job now is to publish and publish and hopefully create a better world for them meaning, eliminating structural racism and the barriers inside of institutions that set Indigenous students up for failure. How do I achieve that – primarily through what I write. I can couch truth into fiction and people will think about it far more than if I’d published a scholarly paper or book.

14 - What are you currently working on?

I have a poetry collection that is humming in my head right now. I’ve only written about 40 pages so far but it is a collection that looks at being an Indigenous prof, teaching Indigenous-based material and the many reactions of the students. I like what I’ve written so far on it – it will get there – meaning completion in time!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Kevin Irie, Evacuations

 

That one phrase no one needed to remind you of all your life: advice, warning,
finally, lament. Remember. Remember? Someone speaks in your voice 

but not with your memory. Repeating words like bells on a buoy
not quite able to right itself. How a buoy doesn’t hear the warning it rings. 

The higher the boat
the lower

We see what we hear. Sons touch but can’t reach
the you who laughed as he flipped the barbecue salmon, who’d not bother 

To check. You knew it’d taste good. A splash of shoyu.
Just another few minutes. To even have that. 

The higher the boat
the lower the catch 

(“The Higher the Boat… (An Alzheimer’s Elegy)”)

 The latest from Toronto-based Japanese-Canadian poet Kevin Irie is Evacuations (Edmonton AB: University of Alberta Press, 2026), a title that follows his collections Burning the Dead (Toronto ON: Wolsak and Wynn, 1992), The Colour of Eden (Alma NB: Owl’s Head Press, 1996), Dinner at Madonna’s (Calgary AB: Frontenac House, 2003), Angel Blood: The Tess Poems (Frontenac House, 2004), Viewing Tom Thomson, A Minority Report (Frontenac House, 2012) and The Tantramar Re-Vision (Montreal QC: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2021). Irie’s work-to-date gives the sense of each poetry collection as a kind of self-contained project, and Evacuations focuses on, as the back cover offers: “[…] a poetic documentary for readers, capturing the personal and political histories of the Japanese-Canadian internment in British Columbia during World War II. The resulting poems oscillate between the lyric mode and techniques of erasure poetry to highlight the dehumanizing nature of public decrees and government notices. Irie deconstructs the Canadian state’s racist policies, creating a record of painful memories replete with archival resonances.” Across the poems that make up Evacuations, he sets his subject square in the cetnre, writing around and through in an assembled stretch of accumulated lyrics. Set as two sections—the hefty opening section “Of the White Man’s Well Being” and subsequent “After”—the collection opens with a simple, two page poem of assembled couplets, “On Reading Joy Kogawa,” the first half of such reads:

Reading Joy Kogawa’s poem on the evacuation,
I suddenly waken to the fact 

That the people I knew, who knew her
are gone. Grown-ups 

who would tell me of her life
in Slocan, the ghost town; 

the grown-ups who could have described her school
because they taught there. 

Who could show me the school photo
an actual proof. 

That when I sought out little Joy
across rows of small children, 

It was the grown-up beside them
I remember the most. 

That when I tell others my family knew her,
and how.

For those unaware, Joy Kogawa (b. 1935) is a Canadian poet and novelist of Japanese descent, who published, among other titles, the classic semi-autobiographical novel Obasan in 1981, one of the first and most powerful literary depictions through Japanese internment in Canada during the Second World War (her former childhood home in Vancouver has operated a writer-in-residence program since 2011, run by The Historic Joy Kogawa House Society). Irie begins with Kogawa, offering her writing and example as the crux, the foundation, of the collection itself. From that opening poem, the first poem of the section that follows is “What Do I Remember (Hearing) of the Evacuation,” a poem subtitled “after Joy Kogawa’s ‘What Do I Remember of the Evacuation,’” a poem that begins: “First, / that most Canadians don’t even know of the internment. // That you can ask them and watch their eyes glaze over, look off elsewhere. // (The perfect depiction of me as a child.) // That the internees are dead or dying, though each obit mentions / where they were held during the War. // Of the many wars, / there is always one most personal to a family [.]”

There is something interesting in the way that Irie structures the poems across this collection, as each poem offers a different narrative facet of the larger story, and building the book almost as a kind of book-length essay or non-fiction through the lyric of first-person observational poems and archival erasures. “A grey sky clears like detonation smoke // but young fathers still stand. Before they were parents. / It’s hard to tell who they are in photos // but here is a road camp at Solsqua, Eagle River,” he writes, as part of the poem “Of the Japanese-Canadians Who Built / the Trans-Canada Highway,” “cabins where wood stoves glowed orange as koi, // hope burned small and intense as a brazier. / The sun’s white belly rising each morning, // a mound of warm rice.” As much as this is a poetry collection around the experiences of those who went through internment as Japanese Canadians during the war, it is as much a collection around memory itself, and the loss of family history, family story, and that particular generation, as well as their direct experiences. Composed as a thoroughly-researched lyric surrounding and articulating the details of internment, Irie approaches the trauma of the period in ways archival and intimate, working through stories he’d been raised with, and encounters with those who had direct experience. He writes of the after, the during and the before, when such traumas were impossible to imagine. “Before they became a story / no one told them could happen,” ends the poem “Pre-War Photos,” “someone took a photo / to not prove it.”

how to purchase my first two novels: white (2007) and Missing Persons (2009)

In case such intrigues, my wee novels white (2007) and Missing Persons (2009), both published by the late, great Toronto publisher The Mercury Press, have been available only through me for some time now. $15 each [$5 for shipping within Canada; $7 for United States; $12 international]. Either paypal or e-transfer [rob_mclennan (at) hotmail (dot) com], or the paypal donate button on the sidebar of this site. Just make sure to add your address, in case you do order (not everyone does, which makes shipping not actually possible). There are threads from that second novel that flow directly into certain stories within On Beauty, as well as the current novel-in-progress (and even some further short stories), which is a curious thing, indeed. I did not imagine I’d be nearly three decades writing the same character across multiple projects, certainly.

I think copies of my pandemic-era essay/memoir, essays in the face of uncertainties (Mansfield Press, 2022) are still available (but I honestly can’t say with full confidence), but I do have copies of that, also, for $18 (plus shipping). I know you already know how to order copies of On Beauty (University of Alberta Press, 2024), directly from the publisher. Did you know I’ve already a follow-up short story collection completed?

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Uchechukwu Peter Umezurike

Uchechukwu Peter Umezurike [photo credit: Layne McKenna] is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English and the 2025-2026 Wayne O. McCready Emerging Fellow at the Calgary Institute for the Humanities, University of Calgary, Canada and the winner of the 2025 African Literature Association’s Best Book Award (Creative Writing). He is the author of literary works, such as there’s more (2023), Double Wahala, Double Trouble (2021), Wish Maker (2021/2025), and a co-editor of Please Don’t Interrupt (2025) and Wreaths for a Wayfarer (2020), and the academic monograph, Masculinity in Nigerian Fiction: Receptivity and Gender, Edinburgh University Press (2025). His latest poetry book, We Survived Until We Could Live, is out on April 15, 2026 from the University of Calgary Press.

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

Uche: My first book, Dark through the Delta, was inspired by oil exploitation in the Niger Delta and the environmental devastation that followed. Writing that book convinced me of literature’s power to spotlight various forms of plunder of both human and nonhuman worlds. My most recent book, We Survived Until We Could Live, is different, in tone and theme. It’s less ecological and much more intimate and explores postwar memory, historical and family traumas, domestic violence, grief, healing, and love. In some way, both books are still very much about devastation. While Dark through the Delta examines the devastation caused by an oil behemoth and its effects on both human and nonhuman life, We Survived Until We Could Live reveals the devastation of war and its toll on human lives and relationships. I think this book is my most ambitious and certainly my most vulnerable. I couldn’t have written it without the generous support of the entire team at the University of Calgary Press.

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

Uche: I came to poetry by accident, in my late uncle’s house – a biochemist, but an avid reader of literature. He had a storage full of books, including British and Roman poets and playwrights. One day, I went to the storage to get something and stumbled upon a small book, Shakespeare’s Sonnets. I opened it almost at random, and the rhyme scheme, its imagery, and its lyric intensity captivated me. It’s funny, because before that, I’d never been particularly interested in literature at high school. That Shakespearean moment, or rather, encounter, is what really started me writing poetry.

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?

Uche: It usually takes me a while because I always find it hard to start any project. But once I manage to begin, I write almost compulsively until the project is done. Usually, the process can drag on for weeks or even months, especially since I sometimes procrastinate. There are moments when the writing comes quickly and with vigour, and then there are other times when it feels slow and quite frustrating. I write many clunky drafts – so many that I often reach a point where I want to abandon the whole thing and start something entirely new. But eventually, somehow, the draft begins to look appealing. That’s when the rhapsody takes over.

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?

Uche: There isn’t a single way a poem or a piece of fiction begins for me. Sometimes an idea comes from a conversation, something in the news, or from reading someone else’s poetry or fiction. Other times it starts much more quietly, maybe an image, a passing thought, a bird in the sky, or a subject I’m trying to understand. There are also times when I’m trying to imagine someone else’s reality or identify with their struggle, so I consider writing a poem or a story about that. And when I’m working toward a book, I usually carry a loose narrative in my mind. Having that frame helps me craft individual poems that echo one another.

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

Uche: I enjoy doing readings every now and then, since they foster literary community and bring the author closer to their readers, but I don’t love travelling too far from my family.

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?

Uche: For me, the questions always come back to how we live with the constant presence of political, economic, social, and environmental violence, and what it means to live with others in a world shaped by colonial modernity and its afterlives, a world continually damaged by rapacious capitalism and its impact on the planet.

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?

Uche: I can only speak for myself, not for other writers. My last poetry book, there’s more, was about migrant struggles and precarity, and what it meant to be an African immigrant in the West. My latest book reveals the damage war inflicts on families and why we need to consider the suffering of those who survive it. So, I think it’s important to keep illuminating the human suffering that exists among us. Also, I try to leave space for hope: for what might still be possible, even amid brutality and terror.

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

Uche: Editors are a gift to any writer, and I’ve been fortunate not to have had to work with a difficult editor. Over the years, I’ve worked with Helen Hajnoczky, Juleus Ghunta, Peter Norman, Kara Toews, Richard Harrison, Gary Barwin, and Kimmy Beach on various projects, and they’ve all been incredibly generous and supportive.

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

Uche: Find delight in the ordinary: it has a way of surprising you with extraordinary moments. I can’t even remember who first told me that, but it’s stayed with me. And I like this advice from James Baldwin about saying, Yes to life even amid all the world’s terribleness.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to children's fiction to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

Uche: It’s challenging, but it’s a good kind of challenge. There are times when I want to write prose and all that comes to me is a poem, and I must wrestle with either genre. And then other times, all I want to do is simply work on a poem, and prose tugs at me.

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?

Uche: It would be nice to have a set period each day dedicated to writing. Anyhow, I try to write in the morning and late at night, only if I still have any energy left after teaching, supervision, committee work, parenting, and the everyday demands of school runs.

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

Uche: I like taking long walks in my neighbourhood, going up Nose Hill, or just listening to nature music.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Uche: The smell of ripe mangoes. The aroma of freshly baked meat pies.

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?

Uche: That’s mostly true for me. I find inspiration from nature, music, books, science, or visual art – and sometimes on the train.

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

Uche: There are so many writers and works that have shaped–and continue to shape–my creative writing. Specifically, I want to highlight some of the thinkers who have enriched my approach to literary and cultural scholarship: Chinua Achebe, bell hooks, Toni Morrison, Emmanuel Levinas, Sara Ahmed, Kevin Quashie, Lee Maracle, Chielozona Eze, Rinaldo Walcott, Judith Butler, Christina Sharpe, Richard Wagamese, Jennifer C. Nash, and Max Wyman.

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

Uche: I would like to skydive or bungee jump, but I’m not sure I am brave enough. 

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?

Uche: In another universe, I could have been a chef. Or a soccer player.

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

Uche: In the 1990s, many Nigerian writers used their work to oppose military regimes. When I began writing poetry and short stories playfully during my undergraduate years, I, too, wanted to speak out against the government. Later, in the 2000s, after I had long graduated, I took my writing more seriously to draw attention to the dangers of tyranny and the struggles of citizens.

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

Uche: Christina Sharpe’s Ordinary Notes is an incredible mosaic of Black life, capturing both its struggles and its joys. Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is a great film! I generally enjoy horror films, but this one stands out. Coogler reimagines the genre in a richly witty manner to confront historical trauma in the U.S. What I appreciate even more, though, is how it affirms Black joy, intimacy, music, and community, even in the face of pervasive death.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Uche: Right now, I just want to spend some time with the books I’ve collected over the last three summers and not take on any major projects. My goal is to get through at least half of them.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

 

the ottawa book awards are tonight! (with some updates, including an article on me in fifty-five plus,

Although I'm sure you already knew that. My collection of short stories, On Beauty (University of Alberta Press, 2024) is up for the award, which is pretty exciting [see my post on such, including links to all the shortlisted titles here]. Might I win my first ever book award? As part of the shortlist announcement, CBC Radio even replayed the interview that Alan Neal did with me over at All In A Day, which I think is worth listening to. As the collection took seven years to write and another seven to place with a publisher, I've already a wealth of short stories for my next project, including this one, recently published online at MicroLit.

And: given I know how important these updates are to everyone out there, be sure to catch this review my new poetry collection, the book of sentences (University of Calgary Press, 2025), via The Seaboard Review. I also read a few poems from such in a video posted as part of DMQ's Virtual Salon, which you can catch over here. I also did an interview with Dennis Rimmer (brother of David, apparently, a much beloved Ottawa bookseller who ran the late, lamented After Stonewall Books until retirement) who spoke to me about the new poetry collection for his podcast, Talking Books & Stuff, back in August (posted online back in September, but he apparently forgot to tell me). 

A poem from my current manuscript-in-progress, "The Museum of Practical Things" [see my note on such here] recently posted, a poem composed for David Currie and Jennifer Baker's summer nuptials, over at Minor Literature[s]. Oh, and you know the ottawa small press book fair is coming up soon, yes? I've also some recent further poems over at Noir Sauna and Pamenar Press. And yes, there's an article on me in the current issue of Fifty-Five Plus, although I'm not sure how I feel about any of that. It is a really good article, but I mean, I'm barely plus.

2025 Ottawa Book Awards shortlist : On Beauty: stories,

Thanks much to the City of Ottawa! Yesterday it was announced that my short story collection, On Beauty (University of Alberta Press, 2024), was shortlisted for the 2025 Ottawa Book Awards! This is my first ever appearance on a shortlist for this particular award, so that's pretty exciting. Congratulations, also, to the other four on the shortlist: Manahil Bandukwala, for Heliotropia (Brick Books); Nina Berkhout, for This Bright Dust (Goose Lane Editions); Paul Carlucci, for The Voyageur (Swift Press); and Chuqiao Yang, for The Last to the Party (Goose Lane Editions). Hooray all! I've only actually seen Chuqiao's book of the quartet [see my review of such here], and it is remarkable, which makes me curious to see the other three. Naturally, I think you should pick up a copy of my short story collection [check out here for some links to reviews of the book, although it's Salma Hussain who really gets it], as well as the other nominated titles. There's plenty of time to read all five books, I'd think, before the winner gets announced on November 15th, yes?

some reviews + interviews re: On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press, 2024)

I've been feeling very fortunate for the amount of reviews/interviews around my collection of short stories, On Beauty: stories (University of Alberta Press, 2024), a book not yet a year old. And might we see you this afternoon at the Made in Alta Vista Market? Jim Tubman Chevrolet Rink, 2185 Arch Street, Ottawa (outside the  Canterbury Recreation Complex). I'll have copies of On Beauty available for sale (along with a whole slew of other books/chapbooks etcetera) from 4-8pm. Come on by! And don't forget I'm reading in Ottawa with Amanda Earl and Christine McNair this coming Sunday! June 1, 2pm at the Lieutenant's Pump at 361 Elgin Street (most likely from a slew of unpublished work, fyi)

I recently caught Andrew Torry's review over at Alberta Views, which is pretty good, but it was Salma Hussain via The Temz Review that is easily my favourite (she really gets what the book was attempting/doing, etcetera). There's also Michael Greenstein via The Seaboard Review, Joyce MacPhee via Apartment613, Natasha Baldin via The Charlatan, the piece "8 Alberta Books That Don't Follow the Rules" at ReadAlberta.ca (is mine an "Alberta Book"? I mean, it was produced by a publisher in Alberta; does that make it an "Alberta Book"?), Alice Violett via her blog and J Jill Robinson, via Goodreads. So nice! Hugely appreciating how many folk are responding at all, let alone so positively. As well, further reviews of my work I've linked over here, on my author website.

There have even been a few interviews around the collection, which is pretty cool. Hollay Ghadery and I discussed the collection as part of the New Books Network podcast not long back, via JWT BookAdventures, reposted for reading ease at my clever substack, with Jamie Tennant over at his podcast last fall, with Ivy Grimes via her substack, and with the delightfully-brilliant Alan Neal as part of CBC Ottawa's All in a Day, which was enormously cool. As well, further interviews I've done exist over here, in case such appeals (there's a whole bunch of them, including some other recent ones). Here's hoping I can place the follow-up collection, which has been making the rounds since last summer (and hopefully this year I can complete the novel-in-progress that sits between the two collections, finally). And, naturally, there's always that small part of me that wants to get all of this off my plate so I can begin to dig deep into some new prose-thoughts I've been having lately around The Crystal Palace, of all places. Where might that go?

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Omar Ramadan

Omar Ramadan is a Lebanese-Canadian writer and PhD candidate in creative writing. He is the author of This Sweet Rupture (out now with UAlberta press!), the chapbooks Sun Dogs (forthcoming with Agatha Press), Sesame Love, and his works have appeared in Poetry Northwest, CV2, and The Polyglot. He lives in amiskwaciy (Edmonton).

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

This Sweet Rupture is my first book, and I am excited for it to be published and out in the world. I've spent several years working towards this collection, and it has changed my life in the way that I approach writing and think about the practice/craft itself. It also alleviated a lot of self doubt regarding my capabilities and intuitions regarding writing and the work that I am doing. People want to read this kind of work, read these kinds of stories, read this kind of poetry, and I am happy to be putting myself out there, working through all the ups and downs of being a writer and artist, and also enjoying the process along the way.

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

I came to poetry during my undergrad at UBC Okanagan in 2016. I was in the creative writing program (minor), and focused a lot of my efforts on fiction in most workshop classes that I took. At the time, I didn't think that I could write poems, and looking back, I am not sure why I held this belief. Maybe it was self doubt or that I was invested in writing fiction that blocked my pursuit of writing poetry. But in that last year of my time there, I took a workshop class with Professors Matt Rader and Michael V. Smith, who are two writers I look up to and inspire my own writing, and they pushed me into a space that I falsely believed I'd be uncomfortable in. I haven't looked back since.

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 think it depends on how driven I am by an idea. Sometimes a project will come naturally and quickly, and I can push a draft in a short amount of time, or it takes time. So, a combination of both I think! I'd say for poetry, my first drafts often appear looking close to their final shape. I find that poetry comes naturally and easily, especially when I've been mulling an idea over in my head for a while.

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?

The poems in This Sweet Rupture started small. A piece here, a piece there. I was lucky enough to get enough pieces together to publish some of the poems that appear in the book as a chapbook titled "Sesame Love" with Moon Jelly House. But I did keep an overarching theme in mind when I was writing the poems, and thankfully I did, because it was much easier to compile them into a coherent book.

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

I love going to and participating in public readings. I haven't had the chance to do that much recently as I've been a bit of a hermit with the amount of work that I have on my plate, but I'm hopeful that I can get back out and do some readings/open mics. I find it important to my process to see and hear what other writers and artists are working on. It's inspirational!

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?

This is a tough question to answer. I don't usually frame my creative work through a theoretical lens. A lot of my work concerns father-son relationships, masculinities, migration. These are some of the aspects I think about when writing, but I like to leave interpretation up to the reader. I think it's more exciting to hear what others might theorize about my work rather than hear myself talking about it in that light.

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 will always have a role in society/culture. I think one of the roles of the writer/artist is to make uncomfortable art, art that gives pause, that makes one think about the world and how they move within it.

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

I was very lucky to get to work with author and editor Kimmy Beach for this collection. I think a good editor will either make or break your experience. You definitely want an editor who will uplift you while also providing constructive feedback and criticism of your work. I think there also has to be a willingness on your end as well to entrust your words and work to an editor who might disagree with you on certain aspects, and a big part of being a writer is taking that feedback and working with it.

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

Good enough is good enough.

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 don't really have a routine. I try to write at least one poem a day if I can; that usually comes out to a page or so a day as my poems are relatively shorter in length. My writing tends to happen at night as my days are usually filled with me procrastinating on writing.

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

When my writing gets stalled, I tend to go look at some of the poetry books I have on my bookshelf and flip through them and that really helps rock me out of that stall.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Bakhoor.

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?

Music definitely inspires my work. For This Sweet Rupture I listened to a lot of classical Arab singers like Fairuz, Umm Kulthum, and Abdul Halim. I was trying to capture that essence of home and nostalgia in this collection, so I listened to them when I was writing or when I was not.

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

Cristalle Smith, Marc Herman Lynch, Kaitlyn Purcell, Nisha Patel, Matthew James Weigel, Matt Rader, Michael V. Smith, Gary Soto, Jess Rizkallah, Etel Adnan, Mohammed El-Kurd, Mukoma Wa Ngugi, Safia Elhillo.

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

Hike the Pacific Northwest Trail. Win a literary award.

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 do enjoy and love working with my hands. I love working on cars and made a hobby of that. There's something satisfying about swapping a brake rotor and putting everything back together and the car still running afterwards. It's a good time!

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

I was just a natural at it. I was also not cut out for sciences.

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

The last great book I read was Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. The last great film I watched was West and Soda.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I am currently working on a new body of poetry, and working on editing down my detective fiction novel which is complete!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Shannon Arntfield

Shannon Arntfield is a second-career trauma informed therapist whose work explores the challenges and rewards of saying ‘yes’ to all of life’s effluence. Her first full length book collection Python Love was published by the University of Alberta Press in February 2025. Her debut chapbook Fallen Horseman was published by Anstruther Press in 2023. Individual poems have been featured in CV2, PRISM International, The Antigonish Review, The Examined Life Journal, and Snapdragon Journal. She lives in London, Ontario.

Arntfield launches Python Love in Ottawa on April 15 at Octopus Books, alongside Christine McNair. 

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?

I’m not sure it ‘changed my life’. But something invisible became visible – which offered a sense of coherence, of integration, in my personal and professional life. Which feels really good. The publication process also engendered a ton of interconnectedness – which was very developing. Between me and parts of myself, which was healing, and between me and others – my editor, the publishers, colleagues who are helping me promote it, the community who comes to listen – all which has been simultaneously humbling and encouraging.

I’m working on a second full-length manuscript now (just submitted a chapbook length excerpt over the weekend – eek!) for something quite different – on the theme of ‘Initiation’. It connects to Python Love, because it extends my exploration of the ways in which love and suffering are inexplicably and inextricably linked – but it goes wide instead of just deep – looking outwards to the archetypal and energetic voices that inform our understanding of our connection to others and the natural world.

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

I would say it came to me, as opposed to the other way round. I tried to write fiction – but it always fizzled…like I didn’t have the imagination to develop and sustain the ideas and the characters. Poetry appealed to me in being so spare, so essential, so urgent. So completely dependent on being boiled down to the bare essence, to honesty and directness. All of that feels right, and resonant, with whatever or whoever it is inside me that needs to write.

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?

It’s both. Some poems just come. In a flood, in a single moment – waking me up from sleep, already full and complete. Others have taken me over 10 years – several of which are in Python Love. The idea was there, but I wasn’t ready…or it wasn’t fully formed yet, or both. More things needed to happen – personally and professionally – for it to open, for me to understand, for me to have the language to share it.

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?

The former. Though my awareness of what I’m working on – the themes and my synthesis of it – is coming much more quickly as I work on my second book.

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

I’m not sure yet! I brought a lot of public speaking experience with me from my first career, in both large and small gatherings – and I have a longstanding commitment to being authentic – but poetry readings are perhaps the first time where I am encouraged and invited to do both things simultaneously. Medicine is famous for requiring a veneer and impermeability when in front of others – nothing is supposed to affect you – but that never felt natural, and I fought against it always. The risk/reward ratio of being vulnerable and human amidst professional engagements, however, often came with experiences of being ‘othered’ – of feeling misunderstood, of being perceived as weak, of swimming upstream. Poetry is amazing because it is just so honest, and people who gather to read and listen to poetry are – consciously or unconsciously – often seeking authenticity, truth, and connection. We are all just human, and when we are surrounded and invited to participate in that experience with others, it feels good. I mean, it feels uncomfortable too…but that friction is productive when you let it be – when you say yes to it. So yes – I’d say readings are part of my process. Though I didn’t know it was until you asked me.

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’ve worried about telling other people’s stories – both personally and professionally. We all have such different experiences – even when we’re in the same room, being exposed to the same stimulus – and I am aware that my version of what happened may not be reflective of, and could even be in competition with, someone else’s experience of the same event. And, I’ve worried about upsetting people with what I write about – the medical sections of Python Love would never have been a thing if I hadn’t been encouraged by one of my writing group members to develop a short poem I submitted one week. I didn’t think anyone would be interested – and I was worried about injuring someone else through sharing my experience. It turns out people are interested – at least I have to assume they are, given that the book was promoted and published – and I’ve learned I have to trust people to do what is best for them, both in their decision to listen (or not) in the first place, and in caring for themselves after, if they choose to engage.

The kinds of questions I am trying to answer?

Why and how do we become?

 What is the role of love and suffering in our lives?

Why do some people open, and some people close, in response to their experience?

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

To ask questions. To invite curiosity, and reflection – of self, and of others. To tell the truth – yours – and invite others to do the same. To take risk. To add your voice to the masses, trusting it’s important – while simultaneously recognizing that you are a speck of dust. To learn from others. To be open.

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

Both. Though I only have so much experience, let’s be honest. When U of A Press accepted my manuscript, they offered/accepted the opportunity for me to continue working with my existing editor, Jim Johnstone. That was amazing – the project and the writing felt super vulnerable, many of the poems being directly about trauma – and I was so grateful to continue working within the safety net that Jim and I had established. Having said that, the first stage of the U of A process involved responding to two independent and anonymous reviewers, who had provided feedback on the manuscript that I had to either incorporate or justify declining, in order for the manuscript to pass through from acceptance to a formal invitation and contract. And that was challenging. Edifying, but definitely challenging.

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

a)     Just keep submitting - aim for 100 rejections a year.

b)     Only submit when you feel moved to.

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 intentionally block off two days a week for writing. I don’t always use them – but they are always available.

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

I just wait. I know it will come. In the meantime, I do the things I know are supportive, and resourcing. I read. I journal. I talk to other people. I meditate. I pray. I keep working. I keep parenting. I keep relating. I keep curious.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

My mom’s perfume. The ocean. Windy rain.

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?

Nature is a big one - the biggest. Institutions where systems and people intersect would be another – medicine, faith, and faith-based practices and scriptures. And most recently, visual art – specifically the practice of SoulCollageÒ , which has been the basis for many of the poems in my second manuscript. In SoulCollageÒ, I work with the energy emanating from a visual medium (which I created, using an intuitive collaging process). That energy ‘speaks’ with a voice of it’s own, which I then record. In some cases, a poem results from the process – which has been a fabulous and wholly new way of writing that’s been both expansive and exciting.

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

Sharon Olds.

Mary Oliver.

Rilke.

Hafiz.

Phil Hall.

David Whyte.

Shel Silverstein.

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

Go wild in some way, in self-expression.

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 surprised myself and other people by already doing this – leaving medicine to become a therapist. The choice was coherent with my ‘pluripotent’ younger self, who couldn’t decide between medicine, ministry, and counseling. Now, I feel like I do all three.

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

I had to.

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

Still Life, by Sarah Winman.

I don’t watch a lot of films…so I’ll take the opportunity to plug Amor Towles and Ann Patchett – literally anything they write.

19 - What are you currently working on?

A perfect loop! See question 1.

Thanks rob! This was really fun J

12 or 20 (second series) questions;