Autobiography

 

 

1.

For a fraction of a moment,

this layered barcode                     of homespun wisdom:
a pinch of salt

to keep new jeans   from dimming; kitty litter
in a tied-up sock

to maintain an unfrosted             interior

overnight front windshield. A remote source
of any Ottawa winter.

 

2.

A statement as quick                   as the human heart.

Adept                     , and sensible,
we brace       against steel. Since I am background,

foreground, empty. Both pleasure and displeasure,
we revise, reorganize. Amend.

Wordle: of the day            , I’m dead.

 

3.

Monday morning’s tempest                   of circulated
January air. Christine

isolating in the girls’ room , solo            having
tested Covid-positive. Both of us boosted

, parenthetical.                             Day three

of a potential five.  

 

4.

They say there is a language

for every season. Solitude, soluble. A trick

of the eye.    How a telescope can capture light

estimated                at some fourteen billion years.
Adnan: I need to circle the mountain,

because I am water.                     As she knew then:

because this continues to be                  about who remains,
and who                 might still advance. And what

the difference.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jamie Tennant

Jamie Tennant is a writer, author and broadcast(er) director based in Hamilton, ON. He has covered music pop culture both locally and nationally. His debut novel The Captain of Kinnoull Hill was released in 2016. Jamie also hosts the weekly books and literature program/podcast Get Lit. River, Diverted is his second novel.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
It was the realization of a childhood dream, having a book published. That's indescribable. It also opened up doors to a new community of people - Canadian writers, publishers, etc., which has led to speaking engagements, substantive editing jobs, and the radio show I do, Get Lit, on which I interview authors (and others in the book world). I feel like my work hasn't changed too much; it's more of a constant evolution. I only have two books published and they're quite different, in my opinion, though readers may disagree. My second book feels different in that, while the protagonist is less like me, the story is more personal.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
That's hard to answer other than to say I was always interested in stories. As a child I got so excited reading Richler's Jacob Two-Two Meets The Hooded Fang that I wrote what is essentially fan-fiction based on it (if you can call stealing the Child Power idea and turning myself into the Fearless O'Toole - or was it the Intrepid Shapio? It's been a while - fan-fiction and not simply outright plagiarism).
 
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 varies. I stopped writing fiction for about a decade, due to fatherhood and an overwhelming amount of freelance journalism. Since I started again, though, the ideas have been accumulating and there's always something to work on. The first two books were initially part of one long, impossible-to-write, even-more-impossible-to-publish novel. I separated them and finished them as separate novels. It's a slow process for me, though, because of the limited writing time I have. First drafts generally approximate the shape of the final novel, but the changes within that frame are often huge.

4 - Where does a work of fiction usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
So far, it has always been a "book" from the get-go. I get ideas for stories and just kind of jump into them. Recently I had two ideas for a novel - one is well underway, while the other I've just started. Yet the newer idea seems to be giving me more inspiration, so I'm going with that one.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I wouldn't say they're part of the process, because I'm always hesitant to read works-in-progress. It's a confidence thing. As for readings in general, though, I absolutely love it. I'm a former theatre kid, and always appreciate a chance to "perform" especially if it's my own work.
 
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?
At this point I have not really delved into too many of the "big" questions. What might those even be? I don't know. There's so many of them, in this fouled-up world. I guess I think there are others who address the questions so brilliantly that I don't feel I'm the best person to approach them. I'm often trying to answer questions on a personal level; questions about an individual's existence within society. My first book was largely about the possibility, within an individual, to change who they are and how they behave in the world. My second was about nostalgia and memory, and the unreliability of knowing our own past.

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?
Writers have many roles. I feel that mine is to tell stories that entertain but also reflect on what it means to wrestle with our inner demons (if I may use that over-used term). Reflecting society and addressing the injustices of our world is important. Connecting with readers - of any kind, in any number - is important. Connecting to a book is remarkably powerful for readers.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
More essential than difficult. It's one thing to write and produce your own album, for example. If I wrote twelve songs, I could imagine honing those three or four minute chunks into something resembling a finished work. With a novel it's so easy to get lost in the woods because the words go on for what seems like forever.  Also, my grammar is questionable, so a copy editor is crucial.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Think of writing as a practice, like yoga. Something you make time for and do every day (or close to it). This completely changes your attitude and even your goals. Writers write because we're writers. That sentence barely makes sense, but it's true. Writing is a part of us, not just something we do.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to journalism)? What do you see as the appeal?
That's been easy for me. Certainly journalism has given me the tools I need to be straightforward and direct with my prose. Fiction, on the other hand, has always shown me the importance of turning an article into a true story instead of simply a bio and a re-worked press release.  

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 wish I had one! The day job and freelance work really messes up my attempts at routine. For a spell I woke up at 5 am to write, but my sleep is not the best, so that idea went by the wayside.  Now, I simply try to fit it in where I have the time. That's often at lunch or after work, and usually for no more than an hour, which is difficult but not impossible (somehow I have managed two published novels with this non-routine).

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I don't stall too much. I"m lucky that way. That said, I turn to art of any kind, or I turn inward. Taking a couple of days to go away somewhere and write isn't always possible, but it's very effective. Half that time is spent pacing the AirBnB talking out loud to myself.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Incense. My spouse burns it, so no matter which fragrance it is, it reminds me of home.

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?
Fun fact: David was the first "real" writer to help me with my work, when he was writer-in-residence at the HPL in the '80s! I think all those things are influential. Everything is influential. Music has always been a big part of my life, as well as film, so they're fundamental. However I've been inspired by everything from friendships to chronic illnesses to 1970s television commercials.  

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I doubt I could pick anything recent, as I read about a book a week for the radio show. It builds up into one giant mass of influence. In my life, I'd have to go with Stephen King. He taught me how to tell a story, how to make a character real, and how to use the surreal/horrific (though I don't write horror both my novels have wee monsters in them). I'd also add that reading works from within my community (i.e. by people I know) is important to me because I often get to talk to the author about what they've done; I get to hear the ideas, inspirations and processes behind the work.
 
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Write the next novel. Ask me again in a decade, it'll probably be the same answer.

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?
Well, I probably would have ended up exactly where I am, running a community radio station. I do think, though, that I might have gone on to do more theatre, or possibly continued making music (I was in a band very long ago). Something creative or performative would have been in my life, no question.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Habit. Love. Need. History. A love of books. A love of words. A day job, so I didn't need to make money at it :D

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I truly enjoyed Andrew F. Sullivan's The Marigold. Satire, horror, humour, all in my wheelhouse. The last great film was probably Everything Everywhere All At Once.
 
20 - What are you currently working on?
That depends on the day. I've been messing with my Hamilton rock'n'roll opus for a while, but it's coming together in segments and I'm finding it difficult (maybe it's too close to home?). Either way, I shelved it for now, and started on another novel instead. It's about two boys who become friends; one is a disturbed creative genius while the other has a secret gift. It's about friendship and forgiveness and fake religions and magic powers. I think of it as a cross between A Prayer For Owen Meany and the film Rushmore. Now that I write that down, it sounds entirely wrong! Still, if it ended up being one thousandth as good as either of those, I'd be happy.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Allison Blevins, Cataloguing Pain

 

When my legs slowly paralyzed—heavy rain, wood, stone—I spent hours holding tight to the kitchen table trying to lift each knee into the pressing air. An editor once asked in an encouraging rejection letter why the manuscript had to be so depressing. (“Cataloguing Pain as Marriage Counseling”)

And so opens Minnesota-based Allison Blevins’ latest collection, Cataloguing Pain (Portland OR: YesYes Books, 2023), the first poem in an opening ten page sequence of one short prose stanza per page. Following Slowly/Suddenly (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2021) and Handbook for the Newly Disabled, A Lyric Memoir (BlazeVOX, 2022), Cataloguing Pain holds echoes of Toronto poet Therese Estacion’s recent poetry debut, Phantompains (Toronto ON: Book*hug, 2021) [see my review of such here], both of which approach details to articulate living with and through relatively recent physical disabilities, from the experience of living with chronic pain to the physical needs and requirements of the body. As she writes as part of the sequence “Fall Risk”: “I want to ask you // to touch me, but it is Wednesday—shot day—and you’ve already loaded / the injector, swiped in outward concentric circles, pinched my stretched // and marked skin between your thumb and forefinger. / I want to fall less in love with you.”

“I track pleasures through color and sound.” she writes, as part of the sequence “A Catalogue of Repetitive Behaviors,” “When we wake the morning, our love is like an alarm blaring—pink-orange-morning-blues swirl and striate like cream in coffee. Love wakes the body like cologne lingers on the neck: this chair a proposal, this shirt a birthday surprise dinner.” There is such an intimacy to these poems, and an interesting way that the narration occasionally shifts from the main narrator to the voice of their spouse, offering the poems a broader portrait of how the changes affect them both, from pain into care, from parenting and pregnancy into attempting different ways to expand their small family. “My wife writes a letter to our son every year on his birthday.” she writes, as part of the sequence “A Catalogue of Repetitive Behaviors,” “In the days after this diagnosis, the rhythm of footfalls and the running washer across our house keep me awake and safe. I hear the clocks’ ticking in every room. I know the smell of her neck so well—lift me from the bed, help me with the socks.” Or, as the final poem in the six-part sequence “During the Days After My Official / MS Diagnosis” reads:

I can’t casually discuss what is coming for me. Our marriage won’t survive you explaining long term care insurance again. Today, in your group: a cousin in diapers, paralyzed child, incoherent texts from a sister in an assisted living facility, blind mother of six. Tonight, I will kiss our sleeping children in their beds. One last kiss before I turn off the living room light and walk across the house to our bedroom. I’ll brush my teeth. I’ll undress. I’ll climb into bed.

Blevins focuses on the form of the prose poem, including the prose sequence, to hold her accumulative insights; utilizing the form as needed, whether as blunt instrument, emotional force or as something more fine-tuned and precise, even liquid. “You ask how I feel.” she writes, further into the opening sequence, “Cataloguing Pain as Marriage Counseling,” “This is a trap. If I say my body hurts, not in my skin or fascia but in the spreading of pain along my nerves from my mother to my daughters. If I say inside me pain learns something new: how to web into the small and wet, loiter in the old rooms of diving and blue. You will reply, I’m sorry. I’d rather argue.” The poems in Cataloguing Pain are remarkably powerful through their subtlety, and deeply intimate across an array of notes, effects and difficulties catalogued alongside all that still remains possible, whether despite or through, pushing this as a collection that reads as fiercely optimistic, structurally dense and emotionally open. Everything about this book offers it as required reading.

Jenny Molberg, The Court of No Record

 

REDIRECT EXAMINATION BY THE
ALPHA’S ATTORNEY

The MeToo poem was shocking, was it not? This was her dogged power of persuasion and not your actions, correct? The accused has written a poem about your treatment of her, has she not? And the poem, though it does not name you, leads people to believe you are the abuser because the whole world is watching, correct? She takes your private statements wildly out of context in this poem that details her experience with “abuse,” does she not? Though you did none of these things, you recognize yourself in the poem, correct? You are baffled, are you not, to have been MeToo-ed? This causes you great emotional and professional harm, yes? her poems exceed the boundary of creative expression, yes? And the other woman, she affirmed the false claims of this poet, did she not? She is a liar too, is she not? And all the other women, liars as well, correct?

Missouri-based poet Jenny Molberg’s third full-length collection, following Marvels of the Invisible (winner of the Berkshire Prize, Tupelo Press, 2017) and Refusal: Poems (Baton Rouge LA: Louisiana State University Press, 2020), is The Court of No Record (Louisiana State University Press, 2023), a collection of lyrics composed as an exploration of violence, with a focus on gendered domestic/partner violence and abuse. Set with opening poem, “MAY THE STARS GUIDE YOU SAFELY HOME,” and three sections of poems—“EXPECTING,” “THE COURT OF NO RECORD” and “WHAT LOVE DOES”—Molberg composes a narrative thread of violence and its effects across a sequence of first-person lyrics, writing from domestic violence into a second section entirely focused on and around a court system that often accomplishes little beyond re-traumatizing any accuser. “Her thighs— / out of nowhere,” the poem “EVIDENCE” writes, “purple blossoms surfaced. / Eruptions, as if no one had / struck her.”

While this is the first collection I’ve seen of Molberg’s, I remember discovering her work in an issue of Ploughshares back in 2018, struck even then by the no-nonsense swagger of her lyrics, a poem from which I suspect might sit in this current collection (I’m unable, naturally, to find my copies of the journal to confirm). The poems in The Court of No Record offers a crash and stagger, a clear through-line and fierce lyric, writing on power and our fascinations with violence, examining how such fascination might actually be doing little to diminish either the possibility of violence or its often devastating effects. “After I call the cops to ask for a protective order,” she writes, to open “MAY THE STARS GUIDE YOU SAFELY HOME,” “I read about the girlfriend of a serial killer. What she knew, // what she didn’t. how it seems we’re always punished / for asking questions. America is watching a show // about a man who is fascinating. His eyes ice / behind the fog of his glasses. // Such a nice guy. Such a quiet guy. The flooded house. / I don’t care about him.” She writes of violence, and of desperation. “My neighbor held a gun to his own chest / and with the other hand, his son,” she writes, to open the poem “SHOOTING AT OAKBROOK APARTMENTS,” “captive for being his son.”

Molberg writes of power, and it is interesting to be moving through this collection in light of the recent E. Jean Carroll verdict, held as yet another example of the difficulty of holding certain individuals to account. In The Court of No Record, the notion of power is also one of balance, from white privilege to cycles of abuse to the blatant depictions offered of women as liars and manipulators against young men too often seen as something wholesome, almost holy. “Perception is in / the eye of the beholder.” she writes, in the poem “OUR ATTORNEY’S CLOSING STATEMENT,” “To a hammer, everything looks like a nail. It’s got / to be anything but the hammer, he thinks. Not me, he thinks.” Molberg’s poems offer witness, and are forceful, even brutally stark, composed in a manner that provides its own power, through her clear eye and stunning lyric. “The sky is strangulation blue.” she writes, near the end of the poem “RECESS IN BROKEN MIRROR COUNTY.” As the piece ends:

The November air says I belong to the earth and not the court. Guard your heart, a poet friend tells me. By abiding with those who have not been accompanied by our systems of justice, you are on the side of the angels. The newly planted lacebark elms whisper the court’s atrocities. They push through their concrete dividers. The child of me held by security at the gate.