Saturday, April 09, 2011

12 or 20 (second series) questions: with Robert Pinsky

Robert Pinsky was born on October 20, 1940, in Long Branch, New Jersey. Even as a child, Pinsky was conscious of his love for the arts. His father, Milford Simon, was an optician. Sylvia, his mother, wanted her son to become an optician, too. Instead, Robert became the first person in his family to go to college. While attending Rutgers University, Pinsky copied his favorite poem—William Butler Yeats’ “Sailing to Byzantium”—by hand, and taped it to his wall for inspiration. In 1961 Robert married Ellen Jane Bailey, a clinical psychologist. Over the course of the next ten years, the Pinsky family would add three daughters—Nicole, Caroline Rose, and Elizabeth. Upon graduation in 1962, Pinsky enrolled in graduate school at Stanford University in California. After receiving his Ph.D. from Stanford, he returned to the East Coast to teach at Wellesley College from 1968 to 1980. In 1980 he trekked back to California to join the English Department at The University of California at Berkeley. 
 
Pinsky’s first volume of poetry, Sadness and Happiness, published in 1975, further intrigued him to examine literary compositions. In an attempt to explain his unique approach to writing poetry, Robert Pinsky published extensive volumes of literary criticism, including The Situation of Poetry: Contemporary Poetry in Its Traditions, Poetry and the World, and The Sounds of Poetry. Published in 1976, The Situation of Poetry articulates Pinsky’s need to “find a language for presenting the role of a conscious soul in an unconscious world.” Pinsky’s approach to poetry incorporates psychological insight, historical accounts, and even comedic relief. 
 
Pinsky’s love of knowledge and desire to create led him to publish his most famous poem in 1994, The Inferno of Dante: A New Verse Translation. This book enthralled Pinsky who said, “I literally could not stop working on it.” He worked obsessively, writing until the point of sleep. “We have pillowcases stained with ink where my wife took the pen out of my hand at night.” Inferno ended up on the best-sellers list. New Yorker contributor Edward Hirsch said, “The primary strength of this translation is the way it maintains the original’s episodic and narrative velocity while mirroring its formal shape and character. It is no small achievement to reproduce Dante’s rhyme scheme and at the same time sound fresh and natural in English, and Pinsky succeeds in creating a supple American equivalent for Dante’s vernacular music where many others have failed.” Inferno received both The Los Angeles Times Book Review Award and the Howard Morton Landon Prize for Translation in 1995. Pinsky’s masterpiece furthered his successful career in writing, and earned him his next job: Poet Laureate of the United States
 
Librarian of Congress James H. Billington appointed Robert Pinsky to be the ninth Poet Laureate and the country’s 39th Consultant in Poetry in 1997. The position of Poet Laureate requires recipients to complete an annual lecture on their poetry as well as introduce poets in the Library’s annual poetry series (among the oldest in the country). In addition, the Laureate is expected to raise public awareness of poetry through programs and country-wide projects. The energetic Pinsky was elated to receive the title of Poet Laureate for three consecutive terms; “American poetry has been one of our national achievements. Along with the honor of following the American poets who have held this post, I have an opportunity to continue our appreciation of that treasure. I am very pleased.” 
 
In 1997, Pinsky also started “The Favorite Poem Program.” Now compiled on an internet database, the program initially invited 100 average Americans to read their favorite poetry and have it recorded for the official archives of the Library of Congress. The program was a huge success, receiving over 18,000 submissions and attracting people from all walks of life. During his final year as Poet Laureate of the United States, Pinsky served as the celebrity judge for the selection of the Poet Laureate for Montgomery County. Founded in 1999 by Joanne Leva, a resident of Lansdale, Pennsylvania, each year the Montgomery County Poet Laureate Program selects a local poet to write and read poems for county events in the coming year. Three other poets, including the celebrity judge, select the winner by identifying and ranking the top 25 poems submitted by all the applicants. 
 
Robert Pinsky, a self-proclaimed email addict, currently serves as poetry editor for Slate, an online weekly Internet magazine. Unable to quell his love of the east coast, Robert left Berkley in 1988 to take a position at Boston University in the English department. He now teaches a poetry workshop for graduate students. During the baseball season, he can be spotted at Fenway Park cheering on the Boston Red Sox. Mr. Pinsky and his wife Ellen reside in Newton Corner, Massachusetts.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
In my early thirties, I still had not published a book; that made me feel extremely old. Then Sadness And Happiness was accepted—won three contests at once, so I had to choose; and then the same publisher took The Situation of Poetry. Within a short span I went from being an aging failure to a boy wonder. I hope the experience taught me to ignore these silly, temporary categories: in oneself, and in the world. Internal, and external.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I started out as a musician, and I guess poetry is the closest form of writing to that. Briefly, I tried to write plays, influenced by my great teacher Francis Fergusson author of The Idea of a Theater. I kept getting involved in little matters of cadence, and all the characters sounded like me. So . . .

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?
Everybody is different. I generate language quickly, then can spend weeks or months polishing or re-structuring the work of a few minutes. I almost never take or make notes; if it stays in my head, good. If not, goodbye.

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 get something like a tune in my head.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of reading with great jazz musicians: Bobby Bradford, Ben Allison, Vijay Iyer, Rakalam Bob Moses, Marc Seales, Stan Strickland. I love it.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?
The only theoretical concerns I think about much, if they are theoretical concerns are: what are the important subjects? How do the lines and sentences sound.

I don’t think about “current questions”—prefer the past and the future to the present.

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?
See above re “current.” My role is to make things someone else might want to say, as in the videos at www.favoritepoem.org Seph Rodney wants to say that poem by Plath or Pov Chen wants to say the Langston Hughes. The videos embody my idea of poetry.

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

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I’m not sure. Lately I’ve been thinking about Herrick’sLive merrily and trust to good verses.”

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

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 don’t like routines. Probably I have habits but I guess I cultivate the illusion that I have none. Often, I waste clear days. Often, I’ll compose in the airport departure lounge, or while driving. I have the work habits of an unsuccessful student: erratic spurts and jags and lassitudes. No method, no rules.

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

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The ocean.

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?

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My dear friends include Frank Bidart, Louise Glück, James McMichael, C.K. Williams. Many others.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Read my poems with Don Byron improvising behind me.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?
I wanted to be a musician, tried for a while. I think I could have made a decent dancer, if I had started early. Possibly, if I didn’t go a bad way (I was a very bad student in adolescence, kicked out of school, dumb class, etc.) I might have become something or the other in some kind of show business.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
One thing I’ve excelled at is playing with the sounds of words. So I followed that—“writing” may not even be the best word for it. I compose in lines and sentences.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I prefer old works, mostly. So, I recently (re) read Our Mutual Friend and watched (again) Ikuru.

20 - What are you currently working on?
A play, adapted from Schiller’s Wallenstein trilogy, about the Thirty Year War. I’m making one play out of three, using Coleridge’s translation as a trot. Actors have done a table-read of it, and guided by them and the director Michael Kahn I am trying to make it quick and to the point.

And also, with my Selected Poems out this month, new poems for the next book.

Friday, April 08, 2011

a sad note from Robert Currie: Gary Hyland (Nov 25, 1940 - April 5, 2011)

Gary Hyland

"And then, having lived life full tilt and loved it enormously, I will be gone."
-- Gary Hyland, Love of Mirrors

Peace at last. Gary Hyland passed away Tuesday, April 5, 2011, surrounded by the love of his family and friends. Predeceased by his parents, Iris and Kenneth “Teck”, he will be lovingly remembered by his wife, Sharon Nichvalodoff; his sons, Mark (Jennie), Michael (Terri-­Lynn), Miles (Tanya); his brother, Jherryd Jhordynn; five grandchildren, Sara, Laura, Brayden, Brooklynn, Brett; his best friend, Bob Currie; many extended family members and numerous friends. Gary loved his family and always looked forward to spending time with his grandchildren. Gary was born Nov. 25, 1940 in Moose Jaw, growing up on South Hill where his adventures and creative imagination began. He loved Moose Jaw and chose to live and work here. Gary was a teacher, writer, cultural activist, consultant, and editor, volunteering his time to put his many ideas into action. He set high goals for himself and others. He was an author of eight books, a member of the Order of Canada, founder of the Sask. Festival of Words, instrumental in the creation of the Cultural Centre, as well as many other organizations, and the recipient of numerous awards and prizes. Gary's battle with ALS is now over, but our memories of him and his legacies will live on. He will be dearly missed, and we will always have a special place for him in our hearts. Thank you to all who touched Gary's life. The Funeral Mass will be celebrated at the Church of Our Lady, 566 Vaughan Street, on Friday April 8, 2011 at 11:00 am.  Father Carlos Jimenez will be the Celebrant.  An Evening Prayer Service will be held at the Church on Thursday at 7:00 pm.  In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to the Sask. Festival of Words, 217 Main St.N., Moose Jaw, S6H 0W1, or The Gary Hyland Endowment Fund, c/o the South Saskatchewan Community Foundation, #2 – 2700 Montague St., Regina, S4S 0J9.  In living memory of Gary, a tree will be planted in Besant Park by W.J.Jones & Son Funeral Home.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

12 or 20 (second series) questions: with J.M. DeMatteis

Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, J. M. DeMatteis was a professional musician and rock music journalist before entering the comic book field. Although he’s written almost all of the major DC and Marvel icons—including memorable runs on Spider-Man and Justice LeagueDeMatteis’s greatest acclaim has come for his more personal work. The autobiographical Brooklyn Dreams was picked by the ALA as one of the Ten Best Graphic Novels and Booklist, in a starred review, called it “as graphically distinguished and creatively novelistic a graphic novel as has ever been...a classic of the form.” The groundbreaking Moonshadow was chosen (along with Brooklyn Dreams, the children’s fantasy, Abadazad, and other DeMatteis works) for inclusion in Gene Kanenberg, Jr’s 2008 book 500 Essential Graphic Novels, where it was hailed as one of the finest examples of the fantasy genre in comics. DeMatteis’s latest projects include the fantasy novel Imaginalis, published in July, 2010 by HarperCollins, and a variety of television and comic book projects. DeMatteis and his family live in upstate New York.

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 wasn't a book, it was a comic book story in, of all things, a DC Comics anthology called Weird War Tales. (And, no, I'm not making that up.) How did it change my life? It got me in the door and made me a comic book professional. (A life-long dream.) And a professional writer. (Also a life-long dream.) And they paid me for it. Amazing!

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
Actually, I was a rock music journalist before I was ever paid for making up stories; but, as much as I enjoyed getting free records (remember those?) and seeing free concerts and seeing my overheated opinions in print, my heart wasn't in it.

I wanted to be the person creating the work, not the person being critiqued. So, once I was established in the comic book business, the reviewing went by the wayside. And thanks to comics I've been able to write books, television, film. It's been a wonderful ride.

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 really depends on the project. Sometimes the fastest, most spontaneous thing I write is the absolute best—if I attempt to rewrite and reshape it, I actually end up destroying it. Other times the first draft is an absolute disaster—I can hardly put a coherent sentence together—and it takes time to find the story I'm trying to tell.

I always have a either a beat sheet or an outline at the beginning of the process, but I've been doing this long enough to know that some—and sometimes most—of it is going to be discarded along the way.

4 - Where does 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?
I don't think in terms of books or screenplays or comics. I think in terms of good stories. Stories that excite me. That demand to be written. And then I follow the characters and the story itself to the form it requires. In the end, whether it's a book or a screenplay or a graphic novel, a story is a story is a story.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I don't do them very often...so, when I am asked to do a reading, I appreciate and enjoy it.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

I think that, even when we're apparently writing about nothing, we're writing about everything. Everything we think, feel, believe, are passionate about, is there in our work. That said, I've always been especially focused on both the psychological and spiritual aspects of our lives (and, often, how one reflects the other). All our lives (it seems to me) are about a search for meaning, for purpose, for answers—and I've always tried to address that in my work.

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?

I don't know what the role of The Writer is, but I know what the role of this writer is: I want to write stories that touch people's hearts, excite their imaginations, and, most of all, leave them with a feeling that, however difficult, however painful, life can sometimes be, it's really an extraordinary, miraculous—and genuinely sacred—thing to be a human on this planet. So-called "real" life is as much a fairy tale as the stories we read as kids. If we can only see it.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Really depends on the editor. I've had editors who were absolute nightmares, who made the creative process harder by their presence, and editors who were brilliant and supportive and taught me things about my own work that I was unable to see for myself.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I'm not sure where I read it (I suspect it was an essay by Ray Bradbury—although I've never been able to track the quote down), but the essence was this: treat each story you're working on as if it's the only thing you'll ever write in your life. Pour all your thoughts, feelings, passions, ideas, obsessions—everything you are—into the work. Make each work your life's work.

That's how I remember it, anyway.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to graphic novels to monthly comics)? What do you see as the appeal?
I've found that the only way to stay sane over the years was to keep projects diverse. Even within the comic book world, I've done everything from psychological super-heroes to children's adventure stories to autobiography to metaphysical fantasy to comedy. I don't like to be stuck in any one place, in any one genre. As for switching from comics to fiction to animation to live-action TV/film work: again, it all comes down to Story. Jumping forms and genres is easy if the story is leading the way.

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 day usually revolves around dropping my daughter off a school in the morning and picking her up in the afternoon. In between, I'm locked away in my office...but not necessarily working. I could be wasting time on the internet (or answering interview questions!). But once the story's got me, I'm off and running. So the answer is no, I'm not one of those guys who says, "I'm gong to write five pages every day." I may not write at all one day and write fifteen pages the next.

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

One thing I've learned over the years is that there's no such thing as writer's block. The times when I'm not writing are as important as the times I'm writing. Because that's when my unconscious is working on the story...and working hard. So I've learned to relax and allow the process its time and space.

I also find it's valuable to go off and do other creative things: for me that's music. Playing piano or guitar, singing, writing a song, keeps the creative energy going and flowing.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Indian food, cooking away on the stove.

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 had an insight some years ago that whatever task I take on, I do it as a musician. And I've seen, over the years, the link between music and writing, how one form informs the other. How, especially in comics, the flow of words and images reflect the flow of lyrics and melody. But, in the end, it's life itself that provides the source for all writing. And, for me, the inner aspects of life are most important, the spiritual journey. Of course that inner journey has to be reflected in our outer lives in order for it to have real value.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
So many writers have touched/influenced me. Too many to mention. But, off the top of my head: Ray Bradbury, Rod Serling, Dostoyevsky, Charles Dickens, Kurt Vonnegut, J.D. Salinger, Stan Lee, Jack Kirby, Philip K. Dick...and on and on and on. From the world of music, the Beatles...and, especially, John Lennon. And my lifelong association with the spiritual master Meher Baba has informed and illuminated everything I've done.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Direct a movie.

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?
If I hadn't been a writer, I suspect I would have continued playing music professionally. Although I suspect living the musician's life for any length of time might have killed me.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
What I've realized, over the years, is that I'm a storyteller. I can't help it. I can't stop it. Stories just keep appearing in my head. Even if I wasn't getting paid for it, I'd still be making up stories.

On another level, being a writer is the perfect life for me: I love working at home, locked away in a room, getting paid to play with my imaginary friends...and always being here for my family. I'm not made for office work or, as noted above, living the musician's life on the road. I'm a homebody and a dreamer, so, really, I've created a perfect life for myself.

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

I don't remember the last "great" book, but I certainly enjoyed Frank: The Voice by James Kaplan, a wonderful biography of Frank Sinatra. (Another of my musical heroes.) And I recently devoured all ten books in Roger Zelazny's Amber series. As for films, in 2010 I really enjoyed The Social Network, Toy Story 2, Inception and City Island. A few nights ago I watched an excellent little indie called It's Kind of a Funny Story. I think we'll have to come back in another decade to decide if any of them are "great."

20 - What are you currently working on?
A variety of TV, comics and film projects. I'm even working on a radio script for the National Audio Theater Festival. I'm also getting started on a new book that I'm very excited about. We'll see where it leads.

J.M. DeMatteis reads at the Ottawa International Writers Festival on May 3, 2011;


12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Notes on the confessional: Lynn Crosbie’s Liar: A Poem

I am a liar also, will not tell the truth about what transpired
between us. I can only allude to the most grotesque

articles, the spikes of the fever.
November, 2010: After years, I’ve finally opened my copy of Lynn Crosbie’s Liar: A Poem (Toronto ON: Anansi, 2006), a work that felt cruel to me when it appeared, especially for its Valentine’s Day release, with an excerpt of the poem published that morning in The National Post. How does one consider the confessional against such deeply personal information? I kept my copy closed, out of respect for her ex-partner. A far-too public relationship for her (in my mind) to be producing such a particular work. At the time it felt as though her poem was airing the couple’s dirty laundry, and still does. Knowing her subject had no choice but to remain silent, no matter what brought forth, or what may or may not have been true. Do such details need to be publicly spread? Is there a difference in how tabloid fodder is read if it’s constructed as art? I step over them, distractions. Deliberately, stepping out, around and through my own heartbreak, my own breaks, and consider the emotions Crosbie’s lines bring up bare to the surface.
I want to finish this, to break the jar, to scale this obstacle,
no matter what I feel,

that you killed me, that I have experienced everything since
like something starving, hardly sentient.

That I want to return to your unmade bed, and watch the moon
invent you, latching us together.

Or tell you, No. This will end badly, I am capable of being alone.

The accusations that can never be responded to. The poem moves out into blame and then returns, reflects back, learning to acknowledge the narratives and reasons of failure itself, as I must do as well; is this the time to open this poem, finally, and properly address? There was a time when Crosbie could be compared to the late London, Ontario artist Greg Curnoe: we watched, in part because we didn’t know exactly what they would do next. From the documentary novel Paul's Case (Toronto ON: Insomniac Press, 1998) to the poem “Alphabet City” from Queen Rat: New and Selected Poems (Toronto ON: Anansi, 1998). Had the rules for the Governor General’s Award for Poetry not changed to no longer consider selected poems (a rule that allowed Leonard Cohen, Patrick Lane and plenty of others the prize), she would have easily won for the collection. Beginning in the mid to late 1990s, Crosbie was the rarest of those, such as Michael Turner and Douglas Coupland, who were watched for their fearlessness, raw talent and experimentation, the unexpected movements that permeated their works. We could say the same now of Christian Bök, Sheila Heti, Lisa Robertson. What happened? Is her fearlessness still there, but less reckless, perhaps?

There was something in the way Montreal poet Leonard Cohen wrote through the confessional, moving so deeply personal that it became universal, and yet, gave nothing away. Pillow talk makes for lousy poetry, I'd say. Perhaps the information is simply too close, colouring the reading of the piece? Would this collection have read the same had it been released years down the road? Certainly the raw emotion would survive, less overshadowed by the aspect of tabloid. Still, is the so-called “confessional” there for the sake of the confession, for the purpose of the big reveal? I think back to Robert Creeley's poetry, revealing small moments of his marriage, his marriages. Beth Bachmann, writing poems on the murder of her sister at the hands of their father. As far as the poems themselves, it shouldn't matter if the information is true. As New York poet Rachel Zucker wrote in her “Confessionalography: A GNAT (Grossly Non-Academic Talk) on ‘I’ in Poetry”:
Being “confessional” had something to do with breaking taboos, suffering, and claiming that the “self” of the poem was not “a speaker” but was actually the poet. It was a catchy name—“confessional poetry”—and it also meant that high school students didn’t have to spend as much time looking for symbols in poems and could, with no training at all, write really bad poems that helped them “express” themselves. Of course, there were a few problems. For one, was this poetry really radically new? A century earlier, Emily Dickinson had written searingly personal poems—poems in which the discourse of self is so raw and painful you can almost feel her skin come off—and Allen Ginsberg’s “I” sounds a whole lot like Walt Whitman’s “I.” Yet, people felt that these “confessional” poems were unlike anything ever written before, though no one could say exactly how they were different, and the poets themselves made this more difficult because no one wanted to be counted in or left out.
As I write this, my collection of love poems, Poems for Lainna, composed across the summer of 2008, has finally been accepted for publication, barely two months after my own break, the book acceptance wrapped up in mixed emotion, a mess of. There is something about airing I am uncomfortable with, see too many instances; Crosbie’s ex-partner firm in my mind, a friend. The devil is in the details. Am I supposed to simply ignored them and read on? Can you write any part of the good without writing out the bad as well? Simply another fragment of what writing should be built out of, but equally buried, presenting information as straightforward as an ellipsis. Is it simply a matter of balance, something that might actually be missing in Crosbie's emotionally-charged poem? It's almost as though too much detail detracts from her piece. Distracts. In an interview I did with Zucker a couple of years back:
rm: The piece at poets.org (“Confessionalography: A GNAT (Grossly Non-Academic Talk) – Rachel Zucker on ‘I’ in Poetry: Fiction or Nonfiction”) is pretty entertaining. I wonder if all the 70s “confessional” poets accomplished was to turn the word “confessional” into a dirty word, tainting the idea of the “confessional poem” into an airing of the authors’ “feelings” and dirty laundry. You seem very good at keeping the personal aspect of the “I” in your poems without turning it into anything tawdry or overly-sentimental. How are you able to find a balance?

RZ: Well, thanks for the compliment; I’m glad to hear you don’t find my work tawdry or overly-sentimental. As for the Confessionals (there should be a rock group called the Confessionals, if there isn’t already), I’m not sure I agree with you. I think they did more than air dirty laundry. And, I think that airing dirty laundry and “feelings” is pretty important. (More on your use of quotation marks around the word “feelings” in a minute.) Say, for instance, your house has been quarantined and finally, after a long and painful month, the affected have died. Or perhaps they made it through. In either case airing the dirty laundry becomes a kind of holy rite. Or say you are doing the once-a-year ritual cleaning for passover and airing out all the linens and things. Or say that it is just regular old dirty laundry, the kind that everyone has. Everyone. The stuff that we all have because we are human and have body fluids and smells and messes; even this dirty laundry has a sacred.
I have nothing, specifically, to confess. I wish to instead use biography as something written around and through, and not directly; biography is simply information to use, after all. The poem, in the end, is the thing. Creative non-fiction is an entirely different machine. Back around 2008, I worked to explore the more obvious love poem, the lyric sensibility and the use of the sentence, working to express without giving too much, or overloading into sentiment. Nothing more boring than a boy in love, Snailhouse sang. I worked to explore the love poem, and how to bring the rest of the world in as well. More recently, I work the same with new information, exploring how the whole business went straight to hell, wrapping personal information up in so much other. The language, always, must propel; must be the engine. I'll end with a poem from my recently-completed poetry manuscript, “Miss Canada.”

Become undone, a line

because I needed; precisely
why you left,

weather daylight holds, a drift,
capacity for dialogues,

emblematic noise,

    soft sidearm
    made of larger purpose

to lie appropriately
is to maintain balance; to let

the future fold, unfold, retreat
headlong into ruin

    a better kisser, now
    no longer disguising desire

    as meeker sister, hope

and you, whom I no longer need,
erased from these equations,

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Monica Youn, Ignatz

It took a while, but New York poet Monica Youn, who came through Ottawa in 2006 as part of the infamous "poetry bus tour" organized by Wave Books, finally saw the release of her second collection, Ignatz (New York NY: Four Way Books, 2010), a follow-up to her Barter (Grey Wolf Press, 2003). I've been unimpressed with the ongoing dearth of poetry collections written around historical figures, whether fictional or otherwise, done so many times in poetry that many of the themes, the images and lines even begin to repeat. Seeing that Youn, an attourney in her daily life, write poems from a more unusual and underrepresented source, and an old standard, George Herriman's infamous Krazy Kat strip (1913-1944) is a most welcome and refreshing breath. Herriman’s Krazy Kat, or Krazy + Ignatz, was the daily record of an ongoing adventure that lasted thirty-one years in the fictional Coconico County, Arizona-style. The androgynous happy cat, the angry mouse who throws bricks at our hero’s head, and the police dog whose main purpose is to prevent the daily crime. How complicated is this? A daily note, repeating. An endless, simple cycle. But with twists. Writing out of a love of language, and a pure love. A shifting landscape, a myriad of linguistic play. An admirer of the daily feature, poet E.E. Cummings composed “A Foreword to Krazy” for a 1946 edition of reprints, writing:
Ignatz Mouse and Offissa Pupp are opposite sides of the same coin. Is Offissa Pupp kind? Only in so far as Ignatz Mouse is cruel. If you're a twofisted, spineless progressive (a mighty fashionable stance nowadays) Offissa Pupp, who forcefully asserts the will of socalled society, becomes a cosmic angel; while Ignatz Mouse, who forcefully defies society's socalled will by asserting his authentic own, becomes a demon of anarchy and a fiend of chaos. But if -- whisper it -- you're a 100% hidebound reactionary, the foot's in the other shoe. Ignatz Mouse then stands forth as a hero, pluckily struggling to keep the flag of free will flying; while Offissa Pupp assumes the monstrous mien of a Goliath, satanically bullying a tiny but indomitable David. Well, let's flip the coin -- so: and lo! Offissa Pupp comes up. That makes Ignatz Mouse "tails." Now we have a hero whose heart has gone to his head and a villain whose head has gone to his heart.
So there it is. Put the brick to his head. Or was it hers. A love triangle involving this repeating action with another brick, each one new, not (seemingly) repeated. Kolin Kelly, a dog, who spent his whole life whole manufacturing bricks for the mouse to purchase, send. The Simpsons told us, the cartoon animal movement from mouse, cat, dog (Walt Disney, to his eternal credit, refused, turned this on its ear; its mouse-ears). Officer Pupp and Kolin Kelly, two sides of third-handed coin. But what does Youn's focus bring us?
IGNATZ PACIFICUS

Travelling backwards on the Amtrack Surfliner,
Ignatz is firelord of the Pacific, CEO

of the thermal inversion, true husband
of the Santa Ana wind. Observe his hands,

sowers of wildfire, hovering over the wave-
embroidered armrests, see the tray table

fruitlessly offering up tidbits to his gaze.
Seven rainless months have sensitized the vast

reticulations of his concern, he is each black ash
that infiltrates each kitchen windowscreen,

he is each ember hissing its defiance
on the blue surface of a kidney-shaped pool.
Including poems she read in Major Hill's Park some five years ago, Youn's Ignatz focuses on the angry mouse, one of the corners of this strange love triangle, using Herriman's often-misunderstood strip as a jumping off point to create her own collage work that opens up into so much more. What made Herriman's original strip so wonderful and confusing at the time (and since, possibly) was for his extensive wordplay, something Youn expands upon, turning his turns to longer arcs, into longer and almost straighter lines, including a couple of poems repeating the title, "The Death of Ignatz," as this one:
THE DEATH OF IGNATZ

The mesas
sink to their knees

and let the snickering dunes
crawl over them.
Youn's play is certainly here, but far more subtle than Herriman would have played, his nearly vaudvillian in comparison. Youn's Ignatz is shaped by the original material, but not any sort of poor reflection. Instead, she expands, slowly, with poems that pull at some of the original threads of the classic work, and shine sharp lights upon his flickering dark, along those Coconino wastes. Youn's Ignatz almost seeks to clarify, explore or even explain the wayward mouse, who throws his daily brick at the love-sick cat's weary head, and never stoops to giving anything away. Why cat, why mouse, why, surely, police dog? What a wonderful way to learn, and still not entirely know. But it begs the question, is this all Herriman's Ignatz has ever lacked through all those years, the presence of a good attorney, one with a poetic mind?
A THEORY OF IGNATZ

To say that Ignatz floats at the level of the neighbor is really to assert his status as denominator; i.e., he is a plane tilted at the ecliptic, both in its sense of inclination at an angle of 23 degrees, 27 minutes, and also in its palimpsestic sense, with a serim of the Latin root ecliptica (line) coyly veiling the Greek ekleiptikos (to fail to appear).

Monday, April 04, 2011

12 or 20 (small press) questions: Eric Elshtain on Beard of Bees

Beard of Bees is an independent, free press in Chicago, Illinois.

Beard of Bees is committed to publishing quality chapbooks by liberated poets from Anywhere. We do not discriminate against non-human or post-human artists.

Our latest human-authored chapbook is Certain Zones by Cheyenne Nimes. Our most recent human/machine collaboration is a light heart, its black thoughts by Gnoetry and Eric Scovel. Chapbooks are published using Adobe's PDF format. You probably already have software to view PDF files: if not, you can get what you need for free.

Since the alleged ownership of language and thought is a revolting legal fiction, all Beard of Bees publications are freely downloadable and freely redistributable. If you like something you find here, share it with a friend. If you find something that you hate, savor the moment of destruction as you delete the file. Or share it with an enemy.

1 – When did Beard of Bees Press first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?
Beard of Bees Press “began” in 2001 as a place to publish the results of experiments with the computer-generating software called Gnoetry, a project on which my friend and co-conspirator Jon Trowbridge and I had collaborated.  I was also the poetry editor of the Chicago Review at the time and decided to invite poets I knew through that journal to submit chapbooks to the fledgling press.  Our original goal was to use the site to showcase our computer-generated poetry; then it became a place where I could invite poets I liked to send work, given that I had up to that point never seen an on-line chapbook press, or a press that emphasized, upfront, the idea of free distribution of nice-looking “books” of poetry.  (We do have a publisher—but he is the man behind the curtain.  I am solely responsible for what gets published on the site).  The goals shifted immediately once we started to get unsolicited manuscripts—I realized that I needed a narrower mental charter in order to sift through the submissions, and that charter has narrowed even more over time, in part due to the large number of submissions we began to receive, in part due to my own aesthetic shifts. 

At first, I worked fairly hard to keep Beard of Bees from having a recognizable “house style.”  I found that it was far easier to be aesthetically catholic at a journal such as Chicago Review, where there are several people making decisions, than when you are the sole arbiter of what gets published.  Like it or not, no matter how wide a lens you think you are looking through, your own myopia is on display in one form or another.

2 – What first brought you to publishing?
I guess that I have been involved with publishing since grade school when my friends and I started what would have been called a “zine” years later.  A place for us to share our terrible Mad Magazine rip-offs…  My high school had a literary magazine, college, grad-schools.  I think that in my mind being a poet meant being involved in publishing somehow. I don’t know where this idea came from, or if it is even a good idea.

3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?
On the high horse, I might say small publishing should act to free poetry from a marketplace that has been subsumed by a Hollywood star-model and feel free to exist with small coteries of poets; that is, work locally without worrying about what anybody else is doing.  Other than that, just to tell people:  “Hey!  Look at us!  We’re not so special!  You can do this too!  You don’t like what we do?  Start your own press!  It’s easy!”
 
4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?
Publishing poetries utilizing computational poetics; otherwise, we just like to publish good poetry, like any other press.

5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new books out into the world?

For us:  the Internet.

6 – How involved an editor are you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?
“Editor” has become, it seems to me, by and large just a reader with and aesthetic idea and a few privileges.  She can choose what to print and what not to print—said and done.  That is a market-place tedium at work.  From my work as poetry editor at the Chicago Review and through conversations with the excellent poet and friend Matthias Regan I realized that an editor should be more active in the creation of the poetry he or she publishes.  Matthias showed me, for example, Harriet Monroe’s edits of poems by Eliot, Williams, Stevens.  Whole stanzas slashed through, words changed.

I bring those lessons to bear on my work as editor for Beard of Bees.  Many of the chapbooks we have published have gone through several back-and-forth exchanges between the poet and myself, agreeing and disagreeing on changes.  I have worked on chapbooks with poets and the chapbooks have not ended up being published.  Not because the author didn’t “accept” the changes, but because the end result still wasn’t satisfactory—more often than not, it is the poet him- or herself that makes that decision.

I do this not because I want a Beard of Bees stamp to be in every chapbook—but because I have found that most poets work in some form of isolation and truly, truly appreciate the work of having someone take their poetry seriously enough to say “I don’t think this is working” and suggest edits. 

When I pass on something, I almost always send the poet an explanation as to how I came to that decision.  I am always amazed at the number of grateful emails received from those poets whose work has not been published (along with the occasional email of another ilk entirely, as you might imagine).  Often, poets will revise the chapbook and send it back.  A few times, that new version made it on to the site.

My role?  Hopefully, to provide poets with a keen eye and practiced ear and to provide poets with an opportunity to see and hear their own work anew.  I don’t publish what I “like”; there is a difference between having an aesthetic principle and using mere preference as a criterion.

7 – How do your books get distributed? What are your usual print runs?
We post the chapbooks and send out notices through a Beard of Bees group, and the British and Buffalo poetics lists.  That is about it. Conservatively, more than ten thousand chapbooks have been distributed through Beard of Bees.  That is a huge number for poetry chapbook publication.  We do have huge advantage we have over print publications:  everything is free.

8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?
Jon Trowbridge, the publisher, makes all the pdf’s and maintains the site.

9 – How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?
I worry less about being published and I edit my own work a hell of a lot more than I used to.

10 – How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bpNichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?
When we first started, I decided “what the hell” and posted a couple of my own chapbooks, thinking that if the point of publishing one’s poetry is to have it read, posting it on-line was the most efficient way to reach a large number of readers.  I keep those early books on the site, but I would not publish myself now—for me, for this site as it exists now, it would feel a little tacky.  I am not sure why I feel that way; if editors want to publish themselves—sure, why not.  It is nice to have control over what press you are associated with, and control over cover image and layout. 

11 – How do you see Beard of Bees Press evolving?
We went from a kind of vanity thing/publishing wing for our experiments with computer generated poetry to a “Hell, let’s publish people we like” thing, to an “Oh, shit, people are actually paying attention” thing.  From there, I really began to narrow my editorial focus, and I guess it is still narrowing.

12 – What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?
We have a devoted following in Tallinn, Estonia—that is pretty awesome.  My biggest frustration is the near non-existence of reviews of on-line chapbooks.  Or maybe just Beard of Bees chapbooks…
 
13 – Who were your early publishing models when starting out?
I cannot point to any one influence or model.  If anything, we tried to bridge a gap between 19th century chapter books and on-line publishing, mostly through some very modest ideas about design and formatting.

14 – How does Beard of Bees Press work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see Beard of Bees Press in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?
This kind of question always makes me hang my head.  We have links to other poetry-minded sites, but we do little else.  We’re a couple-of-guys-in-a-basement-doing-their-thing sort of press.  I don’t consider the sort of engagement alluded to in the question unimportant; we just do not actively engage.  I have been to a few events that highlight Chicago poetry and publishing and I do leave those events with a sense of emptiness:  they seem to be opportunities for people to self-congratulate and little else.  Or else I am just no good at those events and am missing something. 

15 – Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?

We will occasionally participate in local poetry events, usually by publishing a few physical editions of some of our favorite chapbooks.

16 – How do you utilize the Internet, if at all, to further your goals?
We publish on-line, of course; however, we have never advertised (except for some guerilla sticker campaigns around Chicago very early on).  We just exist and leave it at that.

17 – Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?
We accept submissions year round.  We tend to shy away from those poetries that are heavily invested in the first-person singular and any form of self-involved philosophizing.  We have an eye for machine-assisted poetry, procedural verse, poetry composed via constraints and Oulipian techniques, and also for poetry written politically, but not political poetry per se.

18 – Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.
The poets will speak from themselves:

from Game, Global, Green, Grown, Guys by David Berridge
(Beard of Bees number 73, published September 2010)
Exactly. Ideas of work change and there is no standard
solution. The space must be able to change as different
collaborations arise. Originally YOU-substitution.

Make a shell. A skeleton, within which everything can
shift, move, change. In which there are no floors, no
rooms that aren’t responsive to that moments needs.

But what skeleton? This is why it seems YOU-important to
have some functional and visionary images - like
stacking, like pig city - at the heart of YOU-practice.
from Earth Day Suite by Joseph Harrington
(Beard of Bees number 74, published December 2010): 
“watching the inbred animals
run against each other,
the girl would rather be cutting
her arms at home

while watching the earth’s curve,
as though life were down there

rice rat, spiny pocket mouse,
burrowing newt, white-lipped
toad, a race   things   dream of”
from Certain Zones by Cheyenne Nimes
(Beard of Bees number 75, published March 2011)
Meriting Attention by Astronomers
(Yellow Zone) 3
“A close encounter, meriting attention by astronomers. Current calculations give a 1% or greater chance of collision capable of localized destruction. Most likely, new telescopic observations will lead to re-assignment to Level 0. Attention by public and by public officials is merited if the encounter is less than a decade away.”

Something like a stiff wind passed through the numbers of low probability. Flare of sun color, the weak glint of the tail. “We’ll keep an eye on it.” Doll clutched in one hand, she can feel it falling. A series of relations, a straggle of thunder sounding long after you thought it was gone. Particles in the ionosphere light up. Before hardening into fixed meaning. A single point on the sky. Looking for a way into this dimension. No bright rock had been there before. Was it real? He walked outside. It was.

Grandma's Spectacles
   
These are Grandma's spectacles,
This is Grandma's hat.
This is the way she folds her hands,
And lays them in her lap.
12 or 20 (small press) questions;

Sunday, April 03, 2011

Ottawa launch of rob mclennan's Glengarry (Talonbooks)

Ottawa launch of rob mclennan's Glengarry (Talonbooks)
hosted by Monty Reid

Friday, April 22, 2011 at the Carleton Tavern
233 Armstrong (at Parkdale), upstairs
7pm doors, 7:30pm reading


Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan was raised on a family dairy farm near Maxville, in Glengarry County, returning to Ottawa the year he turned nineteen. His father and sister still live on the dirt road his family has occupied since 1845. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction in Canada, the United States, Ireland, Japan and England, he has published work in over two hundred trade journals in fourteen countries and three languages, and performed in Ireland, England, Wales, the United States and across Canada. His most recent titles are the poetry collections 52 flowers (or, a perth edge) (Japan: Obvious Epiphanies, 2010), kate street (Chicago: Moira, 2010), Glengarry (Vancouver: Talon, 2011) and wild horses (Edmonton: University of Alberta, 2010) and a second novel, missing persons (Toronto: The Mercury Press, 2009). In 1999, he won the CAA/Air Canada Prize for most promising writer (in any genre) in Canada under the age of thirty, and spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com. In 2008, ECW Press released a collection of his literary essays, Subverting the lyric: essays, the same year Arsenal Pulp Press produced his expansive tourist guide, Ottawa: The Unknown City. In 2012, Ireland’s Salmon Publishing will be producing an as-yet-untitled selected poems.

“How away is away” rob mclennan asks in the lyrical, drifting lines of Glengarry, his exploration of the home place. In the big myth of language, where identity and counter-identity jostle for space, Glengarry carves out a geography of the possible, of secrets and toothfairies and baler twine, one that is still habitable.  Like the rest of us, paused in our own history, he can’t decide whether to throw himself into it, or to escape as quickly as he can.  And so he balances, in language that is sometimes precarious, sometimes generous, always humane, and he never falls.  And we never fall with him. 
Monty Reid

rob mclennan guides his reader through vast billowings of history and geography as well as their  “the delicate erase and ease.”  Within deeply felt poetic sequences, mclennan navigates, employing all necessary pleasure and patience, the intimate silence of his land and mindscape.  Traversing the ineffability of time and space, this poet measures any absence by the depth of its roots, “in the hollow that forms on knowing.”   mclennan’s poetry discloses how generations of familiarity, of labor in collaboration with landscape, can still open onto a new field, a site of earthy reverence.   “Wonder” is a word that recurs from poem to poem, that “stain of landscape/I would let you empty/& refill.”
Elizabeth Robinson
Composed in three sections, Glengarry is a return in writing to the landscape of rob mclennan’s youth and a headlong rush into the fractures, slippages and buried surfaces of what the text leaves undisclosed to him.

In “glengarry: open field (a postscripted journal)” the poet discovers that “the earth remembers every scratch & scar & step ever took, if you know where to look, how to ask in the way of assembling,” and to ask those questions of the emotional and physical landscapes of one’s youth is to discover that “history is written by everything that history forgets”; is “to half-open a story of what no longer exists”; to beg the question, “is this memory or romanticism”; to run the risk of becoming lost in the very attempt to reconstruct the elements of our past: “there is always the fear here of looking more back than ahead.” What mclennan finds on this quest is nothing more than “a portable violence of heritage & secrets.” What he discovers here, however, is that “we all live in ­imagined boundaries,” and that “if the story exists, i am living the ­language of it.”

The short reprise to his memory poem, “whiskey jack,” leads ­mclennan to ask: “what am I filled with, this quiet / conspiratorial talk, this body / of open wilderness, painted trees / & a history that functions / without markers / save seasons.”

Finally, in “avalanche,” the answer to mclennan’s rhetorical ­question, “where are you, heart?” appears in both its lyric and its epic voices: “the names of all my broken hearts are only names again” and “there is eventually a silence / there is history.” Amidst this “aesthetic of wonderful destruction” each new poem is “an illusion against destructive slide,” because “what else is human hope but momentarily borne.”








Link to Nathaniel G. Moore's review of Glengarry/interview with mclennan here;

Link to "the green wood essay" included in the collection here

ISBN 13: 9780889226623 | ISBN 10: 889226628
6 W x 9 H inches | 160 pages
$17.95 CAN / $17.95 US
Rights: World
Frontlist | Poetry | Bisac: POE011000, POE000000
Paperback Edition
http://talonbooks.com/books/glengarry

Saturday, April 02, 2011

12 or 20 (second series) questions: with Mike Carey

Mike Carey was born in Liverpool, but moved to London in the eighties after completing an English degree at Oxford.  He taught English and Media for several years before resigning to become a freelance writer in 2000.

After working for several UK and American indie publishers, Mike got his big break when he successfully pitched the Lucifer ongoing series to DC Comics’ Vertigo division.  Since then, he has written Hellblazer for DC, X-Men and Fantastic Four for Marvel, Vampirella for Harris and Red Sonja for Dynamite Entertainment.  He also wrote the Marvel Comics adaptation of Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Shadow, and has recently launched a creator-owned book at Vertigo, The Unwritten, which has twice made the New York Times graphic novel bestseller list.

More recently, Mike has moved into prose fiction with the Felix Castor novels, supernatural crime thrillers recounting the exploits of a freelance exorcist.  Five have already been published in the UK, subsequently going into reprint several times, and three in the US.  The series will run for a minimum of six novels in all.  Mike is working on a movie screenplay for UK’s Slingshot Studios and a novel, The Steel Seraglio, commissioned by Canada’s Chizine Publications, which he is co-writing with his wife, Linda, and daughter, Louise.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
If you mean the first novel, it didn't change my life all that much. I'd been writing full-time for about six or seven years by then, and moving from comics into prose fiction seemed like a very natural progression. Maybe I should say extension, rather than progression, because I haven't given up comics: I just had a yen to try writing in another medium, too.

Writing prose is chiefly different from writing comics in that you work in much larger blocks of time and also of material. A comic book is an ongoing project in every sense. As soon as you submit a script and finish revisions on it, you're planning the next issue. And at the same time you're doing dialogue revisions on the previous issue, which is probably at lettering draft stage by then - so it's always moving, and you have to stay on top of it all the time. With a novel, obviously, your deadline is going to be a lot further ahead: you'll be living with it for many months, and you submit it as a complete, monolithic thing. that gives you a greater degree of freedom, in some ways, in that you can revise at any stage, even change your mind about fundamental aspects of structure. With a comic, you're continually bolting new pieces of narrative onto the front of a moving train. Which, come to think of it, is the biggest challenge in getting into writing for comics in the first place.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
I like stories. Outside of my family, they're the thing that matter most in my life, and they always have been. I've done a lot of different kinds of writing, now - comics, novels, short stories, radio plays, computer games, movie and TV screenplays - but at the end of the day, what I love to do in any medium is to tell stories. That's the common thread.

I tried my hand at poetry when I was younger, and I got a lot of pleasure out of it - but nothing I wrote was fit for publication, really. I was just using poetry as a way of working through some personal stuff. I did submit a few to magazines and such, and I got exactly one poem - called "In Thule With Jessica" - published on a website and later in an anthology. It must be ten years now since I tried to write a poem.

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'm a compulsive note-taker, and always have been. I tend to use those big page-a-day diaries, and I wear them out in less than a year, so we're talking about hundreds of pages of scribbling. I use a schizophrenic catechism approach, interrogating myself and then trying to come up with answers in a rolling, pugnacious conversation with myself.

Planning is slow, writing - once you feel like you know what you're doing - is fast. I can footle around for days or weeks when I'm roughing out a plan, and seem to have nothing much to show for it, but I've learned over the years that the slack periods are part of the process too. Eventually you get a lead and you follow it. I imagine writer's block is what happens when you wait around for that lead and it doesn't come.

Redrafting varies a lot depending on what I'm writing. I've been working on a movie screenplay recently, and it's been an intensely rewarding experience despite - or maybe because of - the fact that over several drafts, almost nothing has stayed in the same place. Structure, characters, motives, plot beats have all been through some profound metamorphoses. In other circumstances that could be nerve-wracking and demoralising, but it actually felt exhilarating - as though we were triangulating on the actual plot by writing different scenes set in the same story space until everything reached a kind of critical mass. I'm very happy with the final draft, which is, astonishingly, the seventh.

By contrast, with the Castor novels, except for Dead Men's Boots, none of them required structural changes at all. There was a draft and then an intense polish.

4 - Where does 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?
Usually the latter. I plan stories out in advance in quite a high degree of detail. I don't always stick to the plan, but it has to be there so that I've got a sort of map of the territory.

Recently, though, I've been involved in a project that grew in a very different way. I'm co-writing a novel with my wife and daughter, which has been commissioned by Canadian publishers Chizine. It's called The Steel Seraglio, and it's a suite of stories somewhat in the style of the Arabian Nights Entertainment, which nonetheless grows in the end into a coherent novel. We have multiple protagonists and we write in a variety of styles, with each story being to some extent a self-contained entity with its own pay-off. That meant we were able to have a lot of autonomy in the chapters that we were writing, but could still incorporate and strike off from each other's ideas. The result is pretty astonishing, I think. Very different from anything else I've done, and - for me personally - very exciting.

Comics, of course, are always about the local as well as the global. The monthly instalments are intended to work both as stand-alones and as chapters in an ongoing narrative.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love doing readings - and I make a lot of use of test audiences when I'm working on a book. That's a grandiose way of saying that I bend the ears of my friends and family by asking them to sit still while I bounce a chapter at them, then ask them what they thought of it. It's a great way of finding out whether you said what you thought you said.

Public readings are different from that, but still very pleasurable. And I love them from both ends, as it were - I enjoy being read to as much as I enjoy doing the reading.

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?
Oh man, I have to throw up my hands on this one. Trust the tale, not the teller. I think there are some themes that keep cropping up in my writing. Families - and especially parent/child relationships - are everywhere, and there's a polarity. My happiest characters have stable, supportive families: my most messed-up characters have families that are like torture chambers. I write about children trying to pull away from parental influence, and about children who are trapped in the child role in perpetuity.

I write a lot about guilt as a motivating force.

I write a lot about storytelling itself, and why it's important. That's the main focus of The Unwritten, of course, but it was also a recurring theme in Lucifer, culminating in the storytelling competition in the issue called Fireside Tales - and it's very important in Steel Seraglio, which has stories within stories and is ultimately about the way memory both falsifies and preserves things.

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?
Well, referring back to the previous question, I think stories tell us what we are, both as individuals and as a culture. We use stories as buoys marking little bits of reality or little bits of ourselves. We use them to orient ourselves. Sorry, I can’t really explain what I think about this topic without resorting to mixed metaphors. But I think stories are important – hugely important. The writer of stories is a public mirror, a public filter, a public conscience, a public id.

When Britain and the USA decided that torture was cool after all, so long as you called it something else, I was fascinated and appalled by the number of stories that started to surface in which torture was framed as the solution to the narrative problem. It’s not just that it was sympathetic characters who were doing the torturing, it was that the torturing was key to the denouement. In real life, I don’t think there’s a single example of intel obtained from torture saving a life, but in movies, TV, comics, I was suddenly seeing all these situations where the hero has to find a bomb or rescue a hostage or whatever the hell, and the only way to complete the mission is to hack pieces out of someone until they talk.

I don’t see any grand conspiracy in that. I just think that a lot of writers saw this thing – this toxic thing, in my opinion – lying in their path and picked it up. An idea was floating around, so they used it. Going back to the mixed metaphors, we’re like birds that pick up any piece of garbage and use it to make our nests. Whatever’s in people’s minds, whatever’s being seen or talked about, all the acknowledged and unacknowledged obsessions of the moment, will make it into fictions and surface there in different forms. Fiction is a talking cure. It’s where we lay all our sick shit out on the table.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Both, very definitely. I've tried working without an editor, and it's hell. You always need someone to be a resistant reader, to tell you what's not working, to hold you to your stated aims and not let you get away with stuff. Your best work often comes from collaborations with really spiky and difficult editors. The process can even be traumatic, but what comes out at the other end is the beter for it.

The other face of that coin is editors who tamper just to show that they’re there, because really they don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. Way, way back at the start of my career, I wrote (in a comic book) a description of Lucifer’s fall from Heaven. I wrote this, or something like it: “He fell for nine days and nights, we’re told. By the ninth day, his speed, his energy, must have been impossible to calculate”. The editor came back to me with this: “Well, the acceleration due to gravity is 9.8 meters per second per second, so at the start of the ninth day his speed would have been…” Oy.

I’ve learned a lot from editors. I look back and I can mark the stages of my progress as a writer in terms of relationships with specific editors. I’ll go further: Vertigo was the house that spawned me. Before I met Alisa Kwitney and Shelly Bond, I couldn’t write to save my life.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Relating to writing? Probably Peter Gross’s maxim, the two-out-of-three rule. There are three virtues a writer (or artist) can have: they can be very good, very fast, or very nice. Any two out of the three will do. One from three is not going to get you there.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to graphic novels to monthly comics)? What do you see as the appeal?
My comfort zone is actually a lot narrower than you'd think! For all the volume of what I've written, the genres spanned aren't that many. I write overwhelmingly within the scope of what's now being called "speculative fiction" - in other words, the bit of the literary spectrum that goes from magic realism through sci-fi to fantasy and then to horror. You could argue about that spurious sequence, obviously, but that’s what I almost always work with. I’ve done a couple of YA stories (for Minx) that had no fantastic elements, and now I’ve written a mainstream thriller. It was great to do those things, but when I started out on them, I felt like a tourist in a dangerous city where I didn’t know the rules that would keep me from being mugged.

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 average day is chaotic, and it’s always been that way. There’s a T.S.Eliot line about being distracted from distraction by distraction. That’s me. What saves me is that I’m obsessive and I don’t rest. I’ll waste an hour looking out of the window or playing a computer game, but then work right through the evening to make up the time.

A typical day begins with a cup of tea being shoved into my hand by my wife, Lin, who works in central London and has a really early start. If I’m lucky, she’ll also drop the daily paper on the bed, and I’ll leaf through it while I’m drinking the tea and waking up.

The kids need breakfast, then they head out to school. After that, I go right to the back of the house, to my study or whatever you want to call it (it used to be a shed once, but now it’s attached to the rest of the house) and start writing. From there it’s anyone’s guess. The day has whatever structure I can impose on it. On a bad day there’ll be lots of false starts, random web searches, fruitless scuffing around the house. On a good day I get the wind behind me and I’ll work right through until the boys are suddenly home from school and there’s dinner to be made. In the evening I’ll come back and do at least a couple more hours.

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

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Wet plaster! I work in a tiny room at the back of the house, and there's a problem with the roof of the hallway leading to this tiny room that we've never really fixed...

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?

This is going to sound banal, but in my late teens and early twenties I was hugely inspired by the work of M.C.Escher. They seemed to be glimpses into other words, and probably fuelled by already obsessive interest in sci-fi and fantasy.

I read a lot of popular science books, especially stuff relating to genetics and paleontology. I don’t know whether those ideas surface in my writing, but they certainly fascinate and excite me – contribute lumber for the furnace.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
That would be a big list, and not a particularly stable one. At the moment:-

Writers of prose fiction – China Mieville, Mervyn Peake, Ursula LeGuin, Ted Chiang, Roger Zelazny, Gene Wolfe, Terry Pratchett, Joe Hill, Tony Hillerman, Raymond Chandler, Charles Dickens, Gionanni Guareschi, Angela Carter, Donald Barthelme.

Comics writers – Alan Moore, Neil Gaiman, Grant Morrison.

Non-fiction writers – Stephen Jay Gould, Henri Bergson, Lewis Hyde.

Poets – Wallace Stevens, Mark Strand, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Wilfred Owen, little bits of T.S.Eliot, the Fitzgerald translation of Omar Khayyam.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d like to travel more. And I’d like to write a stage play.

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 was a teacher for many years, and I'd probably still be doing that if I hadn't dropped out to write full-time. I was okay at it. Not great, but okay. To be honest, quite good at the classroom side of it and pretty awful at everything else - and everything else was a big part of the job.

Once, back in the day, I temporarily left teaching and trained to be a chartered accountant, in the mistaken belief that it was a nine-to-five job and would allow me to write in the evenings and at the weekend. Those were a bad couple of years. I had no aptitude for the work at all.

Maybe if I wasn’t a writer I’d be out of work and living on the streets.

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

I enjoy it more than anything else. That sounds glib, but it's true. I suspect it's true of most writers, that they do it mostly for the intrinsic rewards of doing it. If you can make a living out of it, that's something else again and it both complicates and simplifies things. But the pleasure comes first.

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

Last great book... probably The Gift, by Lewis Hyde. But that's non-fiction. Last great novel was China Mieville's The Scar. And last great short story was The Story of Your Life, by Ted Chiang.

Last great movie, I think, Winter's Bone.

20 - What are you currently working on?

The Steel Seraglio, this co-written novel I mentioned above. X-Men Legacy and The Unwritten. The final draft of a movie screenplay. The sixth Castor novel. Enough to be going on with...

Mike Carey reads in Ottawa as part of the ottawa international writers festival on May 1 + 3, 2011

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Friday, April 01, 2011

A brief note on (reading, writing) short fiction,

Thirty-two years old, she managed the impossible: an unbroken length of apple peel, fit for the shoulder toss. She remembered the chorus her grandmother sang, trilling peel, peel, please reveal. She tossed, and once it touched tile she turned, less a letter than line, with ambient twirl. Years earlier, she remembered high school-era gifts from her favourite aunt including a Michael Ondaatje signature, an autographed copy of The Cinnamon Peeler: Selected Poems and his novel, The English Patient. The film had resonated, deep in her bones. And now, this red delicious signature apple-inked on her floor. The cinnamon-spice blush on her blue jeans.
I've been working on a collection of short stories for nearly three years, carving little narratives down as sharp as I can. I cut my fingers. Blood mixes in with my lines.

During my high school years, I attempted similarly-short stories, continuing for a couple more years after I arrived in the city. There was even an entertainment bi-weekly that published a few of them, until it folded in 1994. The last four months of Ottawa's Metro magazine included one of my stories in every second issue. By the end, I was composing new short fiction just to see if they'd appear.

There are a few ways I have come to these conclusions. In my early twenties, reading short stories and the accumulations of Richard Brautigan novels. Canadian writers such as Sheila Watson, Elizabeth Smart, Michael Ondaatje. That pointed brevity. I'm more attracted to stories that stop just before they end. Is it fair or reductive to suggest this comes from years of writing poems? I want no wasted words. Is this from years of composing reviews? When exactly to do you get to the point?

Just how much does a story require to contain a story? I continue to send mine out, only to have them rejected. I never exactly know why, although I have a number of theories that are only theories. I don't know where to send them.

The current project of short stories triggered when I read the short, sharp stories of Sarah Manguso [see my piece on her here], her Hard to Admit and Harder to Escape (San Francisco CA: McSweeney's Books, 2007). Part of the appeal of her stories was in the construction of the collection of untitled short pieces; was this a straight collection of short stories, or a loose and abstract narrative built as an accumulation into a novel? Through Manguso, I became fascinated by the blur, and the distinction.

From Manguso, furthering to some lovely prose experiments in sentence: a journal of prose poetics to New York City writer Deb Olin Unferth, and finally tracking some of Unferth and Manguso's influences back over the past few weeks to another American writer, Lydia Davis, through her seven hundred plus page The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis (Picador, 2009), which includes this little gem:
Samuel Johnson Is Indignant:

that Scotland has so few trees.
What did I tell you? Do stories require long, complicated narratives? Do we even need to know such extraneous bits as hair colour, clothes, cities, gender, the colour of their skin? Only when essential, only if the story requires. What do we know of Samuel Johnson? Is that important? Where the hell is she sending her stories? What exactly am I here to tell you?

Apart from discovering Davis, more recently I've been introduced to the work of Israeli writer Etgar Keret, through his collection of short stories, The Girl on the Fridge (New York NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008). How enviable, to be this damned sharp. To say so much in so little.

In my fiction, I am working on writing big stories in small spaces. Small novels, even smaller stories, and all written in dense, packed prose. Patience, breathing. Carve, slowly. Carve further, even slower. Pause. Listen.
Asthma Attack

When you have an asthma attack, you can't breathe. When you can't breathe, you can hardly talk. To make a sentence all you get is the air in your lungs. Which isn't much. Three to six words, if that. You learn the value of words. You rummage through the jumble in your head. Choose the crucial ones--those cost you too. Let healthy people toss out whatever comes to mind, the way you throw out the garbage. When an asthmatic says, "I love you," and when an asthmatic says, "I love you madly," there's a difference. The difference of a word. A word's a lot. It could be stop, or inhaler. It could even be ambulance.
As any artist knows, your art should move only and exactly where your interest does, which can, theoretically, lead anywhere and everywhere. Some things can't be forced, and false roads quickly identify themselves. But one is constantly forced to ask, to reassess, is it even working?
He refers to it as his collected wisdom, all the shards of information he’s picked up, collated, held in trust to punctuate conversation so as to appear more interesting than he really is. Catherine the Great’s love of horses, conjoined twins from the 1890s concurrently pregnant from their physician, the air speed ratio of an unladen swallow.