12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jeremy Springsteed

Jeremy Springsteed is a barista and occasional activist living in Seattle. He was one of the founders of the Breadline Performance Series and a member of the ReDrum poetry collective. His work has been published in many places online and in print such as SPREAD, Pidgeonholes, Underwood, Pageboy, Internet Void, Another New Calligraphy, and Limanal Spaces. He is the author of four collections of poetry: A Guide To Getting Lost. (Cyberwit 2022) Salt, Weasel, Corpse, and Other. (Cyberwit 2023) Beneath The Ashes of My Grandfather and My Youth. (Cyberwit 2025) By Wing and Foot. (Carbonation Press 2025)

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 felt like a validation of all the years I had spent working on my craft. All the readings I had organized or taken part in. All the rejections. It alleviated the imposter syndrome.

The first collection was more like a greatest hits than a thematic grouping of poems. As I produced new work I thought of it in a more contingent light. When writing work for this latest collection I would look at those oddball one off poems and find the correct home in the larger body.

While I have always had my themes and return points, my process recently has been looking towards enriching connections in tone and subject. 

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

I had always wanted to be a writer, not necessarily a poet though. I have a very vivid memory from when I was 13, my depression had really set in the year before and I was doing pretty poorly in school. I was talking with my mom in her bedroom and she was trying to figure out what was going on with me. I was crying, “I just want to write and I don’t even know what that means.”

We were a paycheck to paycheck working class family. I had, as far as I knew, never met any kind of an artist and I had no idea how one became such a thing.

I would work on my silly little stories instead of paying attention to my classes. Stories like– Hitler secretly surviving and taking over a small US midwest town or stories of me being a secret agent with a large base under my parents' rented house.

I would keep falling deeper into depression. I started playing sports to try to fit in with the other boys. Eventually I destroyed my knees and my mental health.

I was having mild auditory hallucinations. I began writing them down, then I began altering them. Eventually I didn’t hear them but they were still in my head.

I took creative writing and was lucky to have a fantastic teacher named Joel Long who introduced me to a larger world of poetry. Joel brought big name poets into the classroom, (the poet laureate at the time Jorie Graham, Louise Glück, etc.)  which was no small feat for our suburban Utah high school. I was introduced to many local poets. He gave me a structure to use. I have never looked back.

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 have two approaches to writing a poem. I have the quick flood, these are usually the more personal narrative poems or the politically charged ones. I also have the extensively researched ones that come with pages of notes and a million open tabs on my computer. The deep research ones are usually history based poems, this is also where science themes creep in.

In both cases there is a first draft revision process constantly happening. 75% of the time I spend on a poem is generally in that first draft process. More often than not the first draft is fairly close to the final, otherwise I am likely to scrap the whole thing and either try another approach or abandon it until it is ready to cooperate.

My revision process is a lot of cutting unnecessary words and then replacing what turns out to be structurally important. I also spend a large amount of time with line breaks and stanza size and shape.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

The stand alone poems generally come when a phrase or image starts running through my head. I sit down and type out the thing occupying my mind. Then I pace and occasionally return to the keyboard to add elements.  It is moments like these that I miss smoking cigarettes.

I love writing serialized poems. I become obsessed with something and try to write poems from various vantage points. In my book Salt, Weasel, Corpse, and Other there is a series of eight poems about the Wieliczka salt mine in Poland. In it there is history, folk lore, science, a tour of some of the stand out features of the mine. I spent months researching and drawing connections to try to inhabit the mine as well as I could through words.

My most recent book was the first time I started with a plan and wrote a large portion of the poems after defining a book structure. To fill it out I found places for several orphaned poems.

For me both possible answers are true but I suppose what I have been doing lately is putting a basic structure of a book together and writing some poems explicitly for that structure and writing others that may or may not find a home there.

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

Readings have been an important part of my formation as a poet. Hearing when a line cuts through people, or when it just lies face down on the floor. Receiving immediate feedback and interpretations of a new poem is powerful and valuable.

I have been the open mic MC for a few reading series. I would always start the open mic with a new poem which kept me writing. It also put me in close contact with all manner of writers from a diverse skill set. Writing is solitary work so any opportunity to be in community with other writers is to be relished.

I am also a founding member of the ReDrum poetry collective with my dear friend Alex Bleecker. Our troop has been involved in both publishing work and performative work. The performances are always occasional and based on a singular theme (whales, Carlo Zinelli, time travel, etc.)  that the 2-4 poets work towards separately and as a group. Those performances have allowed new ways of looking at what a poem might be.

My first book wouldn’t have been possible without public readings. It helped me to group poems so the flow of the work was more natural. They let me know what was working and what I should focus my energy on.

Then there is the theft. There is no better teacher than hearing someone read a poem that you wish you had written and trying to figure out how you might be able to still write that poem but make it yours.

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?

When I was a junior in high school I told my English teacher that I was getting into poetry and I hoped to be a poet some day. She said to me, “Jeremy, everything that could have been written about the human condition has already been written. What would you even hope to accomplish?” It became my goal to prove her wrong. But how?

Is experience static? Does an era change the experience or at least the voice of the experience? Is today less important than the days of Anne Sexton? Don’t we have anything to contribute?

I remember going to workshops where discussing a painting from the 1800s is an appropriate reference point but bringing up David Bowie in a poem wasn’t. Do we want to be relevant or not? Is this art form only available to the well educated or are we creating art for humanity?

Does the poet have a responsibility to humanity or is it only a responsibility to form?

Is killing the form from lack of interest worth the feeling of superiority towards the unread masses?

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?

My entire life I have watched the general number of people reading decline. It has been a question on my mind ever since I found myself dedicated to writing. With the advent of the smart phone reading has taken an even greater hit. There has been an all out assault on attention. (Although I am noticing Gen Z falling in love with reading and physical media in general.)

What has always remained though is that artists of other disciplines seem to be drawn to and directed by the thoughts of poets. I think back to earlier eras, Dylan being awestruck by Ginsberg. Rimbaud inspiring Jim Morrison. Kurt Cobain being in love with Burroughs. Patti Smith being both musician and poet and inspiring both is a beautiful crossing.

The poet is the cutting edge. They must live in the past and present because they are the artist that pushes to the future. They are forgotten and in many cases prefer to be an apparition.

They must point forward even if few see their outstretched hand. 

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

This latest book was the first time I have worked with an outside editor in a meaningful way and I loved the process. The different perspective was very valuable, there were moments where I thought I had something the way I wanted and a few good editorial questions allowed me to see with fresh eyes and make wise changes. On the opposite side there were moments where choices I made were called into question and I had to find a way to justify them and was able to bring the editor to my side. My first couple of books were from a very hands off publisher. I was glad to have those books published and start to get a feeling for what writing towards a book is like but it was a more fulfilling experience publishing with the more hands on approach that I had with Carbonation Press.

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

“Put your butt in the chair and close the door.”

So simple and direct. When it comes to writing nothing has proven to be more true. To do a ting one simply has to do it.

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

I tend to go through a fevered creation period, followed by a cool off revision process, a rush of submissions and readings. Then I burn out for a bit. I’ll get to the point where I think, “well, you used it all up.”

A line will start to grow in my head. Always the entire time I was “blocked” I was actually absorbing, it just feels different than creating.

Within that routine days look very different. When I am on red hot creation I am in my writing room, at my desk, spinning as many instrumental albums on my turntable as I can. I’ll forget to eat.

Revision period is like looking at a house after a party. Something fun has happened here but I can’t enjoy the memory until the mess is cleaned and everything is put in its right place. 

Submission time is coffee time. It is the closest to professional time I ever spend. And then I wander into the desert until manna.

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

Every stall has a different reactivation code. Sometimes it is opening every poem I have that is unpublished and making sure I am happy with it and if not revising. Sometimes it is looking for magazines to submit to. Reading poems, always reading poems by my favorite poets or by freshly encountered poets to rejuvenate. Putting on a beloved record and free associate on the keyboard. Ask myself what I want to become obsessed with and go down a research rabbit hole.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Home is a difficult concept. By the time I moved out of my parents house we had moved states 4 times and within those states had multiple moves. Then I was briefly homeless in San Francisco before I finally found what has become my home in the PNW.

When I think of my childhood in San Diego the smell is chlorine and all the summer days I spent at my best friend Dominic’s house where he was an only child of divorce and being largely looked after by his grandfather, a WWII vet named Herb who would swim laps in their backyard pool.

When it comes to my teenage years in Salt Lake I think of the choking aroma of rotting brine shrimp that would blanket the valley as it was blown off the shrinking shores of The Great Salt Lake.

When I think of Seattle it is the earthy smell of wet decaying cedar on a misty path through the arboretum.

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

Music is huge for me. The number of lines that I have based off of a lyric or melody by The Cure probably opens me up for a copyright lawsuit. When I’m writing I always have music on. I used to be a regular reader at a now defunct reading series called Liner Notes where every poet was assigned one song from an album and had a month to write and perform a response poem to their assigned song. Playing with the connection between music and poetry has always been a driving force for me.

I’m also big on history. I love to try to find myself in a different time and write towards it. Or find an underlooked corner of a figure from the past and try to tease it out. The continued thread of humanity is endlessly fascinating. The never breaking, repeating trends are a rich well for subjects to write about.

Science is a different beast when it comes to my work. It is usually an after thought, “I’ve gone as far as I can go here, let’s see what science says,” rather than science being my jumping off point.

Being raised religious but now being not religious it feels silly to say religion but it looms large in my work. I love to use prophetic phrases. Zoroastrianism has been a recent obsession. I have become a massive fan of the YouTube channel ESOTERICA which talks about largely forgotten aspects of western religion and mysticism. I’m a big William Blake fan which I think tends to put me in a space to treat poetry like scripture but like a living scripture.

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

My top three influential poets are as follows–

William Blake; his line in Jerusalem, “They became what they beheld,” is something I think about and try to apply to things constantly. How is the world making me?

Paul Celan is another poet that changed my life. I began with his Romanian poems and immediately fell in love with the work. The sparse surreal horror of a cold mechanical future yet there is still a human heart beating.

Antonio Porchia is the one with the least amount of work that I’m aware of but his book Voices was pivotal in my development. The simple one line statements that blossom is a feat that I aspire towards.

Jean Paul Sartre is my go to for philosophy. I destroyed two editions of Being and Nothingness in my 20s. I have referenced his ideas in countless poems; the play of responsibility and freedom in a deterministic world is a puzzle I hope to stare at for the rest of my life.

I have two top tier novelists. I love Günter Grass, The Tin Drum got deep inside of me, in fact the entire Danzig Trilogy remains a top recommendation when someone asks what they should read next.

I am also a big Thomas Pynchon head. I have read all of his work. I try not to be insufferable about it though. The first book of his that I read was V. Chapter Three In which Stencil, a quick-change artist, does eight impersonations blew my mind and I had no idea someone could do that with prose. I was constantly lost and always in a sweaty paranoid state reading it and I became hooked on his style. 

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

I have never been on a book tour and would adore it. I love traveling and I love doing readings. Perfect pairing.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

It is sort of a  funny question for me because while I identify myself first as a poet, it by no means has nor do I expect it ever would provide me with enough income to not do another job. I have been a barista for the last 26 years and I love it. I have been in some sort of cafe leadership for the majority of that time. I am currently the manager of the flagship location of a popular local doughnut and coffee shop that has a few locations around the Puget Sound area.

When Covid started and I was laid off from the cafe I was working at at the time I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to get a massive amount of writing done and that I would get through every book on my to-read list. I had so many plans but it turned out without having a number of hours in a day being taken from me I had an impossible time at doing anything. I don’t know if it is the working class upbringing that has made me this way but what I have learned is that even if I didn’t have to work a job for financial reasons I need to have some hours dedicated to doing work that has nothing to do with my passions.

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

I’ve tried other things. When I was a kid I wanted to be an actor. I’ve been a drummer in a few bands. I used to paint and show my work and even sold a few paintings in my early 30s. I was an active anti war political organizer in my 20s.

No matter what other passion projects have come along poetry has always been the main focus. It being the thing that I’m most skilled in certainly helps to keep it as my most important outlet. Not to say I haven’t put a ton of work into growing as a poet and am always looking to expand my knowledge and ability but writing feels like a natural part of me whereas those other pursuits were more like learning a foreign language rather than speaking in your birth tongue.

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

I recently read 2666 by Roberto Bolano. It was a great sprawling novel that took me on some wild rides all over the world and throughout time. There were some of the most gruesome pages of prose that I have ever read. There were no clear answers other than that men are capable of terrible acts.

I also read Pynchon’s latest book Shadow Ticket. It had all the classic Pynchon elements, strange songs, labyrinths of conspiracy, a dairy magnate that is referred to as the “Al Capone of cheese,” and of course WWII. 

I don’t watch a lot of films. I only keep a netflix account because I need episodes of Seinfeld at a low volume in the background to sleep.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I began my current project thinking I was doing one thing but of course as time has gone on I find that the project has decided it wants to be something a little different. I started the year writing poems about 20th century visual artists and their closest relationships, usually romantic but not limited to that. Of course certain themes began to appear. Then I got a little burnt out on all the research. I felt I needed to step away. I wrote several personal poems about my struggle with depression, friends and loved ones’ mental health, loss of relationships and loss of what one perceives oneself to be. As I have been going about it I have been working on some artists again and am seeing that this is a larger project weaving these elements together. I’m sure a third twist to the project is soon to come as I feel like I don’t have all my elements gathered yet. It is something that I couldn’t have been able to write and execute correctly earlier in my career and it is exciting for me.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

new from above/ground press: Young, Graham, Goodwin, Spyker, Wilkins, Goldstein, Hoefle, Fagan, Heroux + Words on the Water, eds./dir. O'Meara + Sylvain,

 ; SPREE, Geoffrey Young $6 : Elegies for the Fish Prince of Arkansas, Lea Graham $6 ; Map of What Was Taken, Cara Goodwin $6 ; Bedtime stories for my imaginary friends, James Spyker $6 ; provocations, Grant Wilkins $6 ; The Common Dark, Mark Goldstein $6 ; Leaning In, Harold Hoefle $6 ; Useful Poems, Cary Fagan $6 ; Look Out, Yellow Umbrella, Jason Heroux $6 ; Words on the Water / Mumures sur l’eau, eds./dir. David O’Meara and/et Véronique Sylvain, translations by/traductions de Myriam Legault-Beauregard w new work by Jean Marc Dalpé, David Galvaude, Harold Hoefle, Christine McNair, Sarah Migneron, stephanie Roberts, Alexis Rodrigue-Lafleur + Mahaila Smith $10 ;

published in Ottawa by above/ground press
July-September 2026
a/g subscribers receive a complimentary copy of each

To order, send cheques (add $2 for postage; in US, add $3; outside North America, add $7) to: rob mclennan, 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9. E-transfer or PayPal at at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com or the PayPal button (above). See the prior list of recent titles here, scroll down here to see a further list of various backlist titles, or click on any of the extensive list of names on the sidebar (many, many things are still in print).

keep an eye on the above/ground press blog for author interviews, new writing, reviews, upcoming readings and tons of other material; did you see my report on the recent above/ground press anniversary party? and don't forget the above/ground press substack, naturally (where there's lots of extra cool stuff posted,

With forthcoming chapbooks by: Mark Tardi, Peter Carl Anderson, Katy DeCoste, Lori Anderson Moseman, David Phillips and probably others! (yes: others,

AND 2026 SUBSCRIPTIONS ARE STILL AVAILABLE (but you probably already know that,

the ottawa small press book fair, fall 2026 edition: November 14, 2026

span-o (the small press action network - ottawa) presents:

   

 the ottawa
    small press
    book fair

autumn 2026 :
will be held on Saturday, November 14, 2026 at Tom Brown Arena, 141 Bayview Station Road, Ottawa

“once upon a time, way way back in October 1994, rob mclennan and James Spyker invented a two-day event called the ottawa small press book fair, and held the first one at the National Archives of Canada...” Spyker moved to Toronto soon after our original event, but the fair continues, thanks in part to the help of generous volunteers, various writers and publishers, and the public for coming out to participate with alla their love and their dollars.

General info:
the ottawa small press book fair
noon to 5pm (opens at 11am for exhibitors)

admission free to the public.
$25 for exhibitors, full tables
$12.50 for half-tables
(payable to rob mclennan, c/o 2423 Alta Vista Drive, Ottawa ON K1H 7M9; paypal options also available

Note: due to demand, we offer half as well as full tables (because not everyone needs a full table, and this allows more exhibitors to participate). this fair will also have fewer table spots than recent fairs, so be aware that this will limit author space more than usual,

To be included in the exhibitor catalogue [too many of you aren't reading this part; please read this part]: please include name of press, address, email, web address, contact person, type of publications, list of publications (with price), if submissions are being considered and any other pertinent info, including upcoming Ottawa-area events (if any). Be sure to send by November 1st if you would like to appear in the exhibitor catalogue.

And hopefully we can still do the pre-fair reading as well! details TBA
: and we're on Bsky now! that's exciting, yes? follow us!

BE AWARE: given that the spring 2013 was the first to reach capacity (forcing me to say no to at least half a dozen exhibitors), the fair can’t (unfortunately) fit everyone who wishes to participate. The fair is roughly first-come, first-served, although preference will be given to small (literary) publishers over self-published authors (being a “small press fair,” after all).

The fair usually contains exhibitors with poetry books, novels, cookbooks, posters, t-shirts, graphic novels, comic books, magazines, scraps of paper, gum-ball machines with poems, 2x4s with text, etc, including regular appearances by exhibitors including: above/ground press ; Anvil Press / A FEED DOG BOOK ; Apt. 9 Press ; Arc Poetry Magazine ; Assembly Press ; Manahil Bandukwala ; battleaxe press ; Jessica Bebenek ; Book*hug Press ; Bird Lips Zine ; The BumblePuppy Press ; Bywords ; Dave Cooper ; CreateSpace ; Amanda Earl ; Elliott Dunstan ; equitableEducation.ca ; Good Golly Zines ; The Grunge Papers ; John Haas ; Seymour Hamilton ; Heartlines Spec ; Horsebroke Press ; L'Interligne : Kersplebedeb Publishing (LeftWingBooks.net) ; Paragon of Virtue Press / la presse POV ; phafours press/Writebulb app/Pearl Pirie ; Proper Tales Press ; Puddles of Sky Press ; Raccoon Comics ; ROOM 3o2 BOOKS ; Sarah's Zines ; Simulacrum Press ; shreeking violet press ; sider0xylon press ; swooncor ; Tel # Publishing ; Things in my Chest ; Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal] ; Turret House Press ; Alberte Villeneuve-Sinclair ; Wyrdsmyth Press ; etc etc etc.

the ottawa small press fair is held twice a year (apart from these pandemic silences), and was founded in 1994 by rob mclennan and James Spyker. Organized/hosted since by rob mclennan.

Come on by and see some of the best of the small press from Ottawa and beyond!

Free things can be mailed for fair distribution to the same address. Unfortunately, we are unable to sell things for publishers who aren’t able to make the event.

Also: please let me know if you are able/willing to poster, move tables or distribute fliers for the event. The more people we all tell, the better the fair!

Note: spring 2027 we are returning to the Glebe Community Centre for June 19, 2027 (with a slight increase in table rates, for the first time in a decade) and autumn 2027 we are returning to Tom Brown Arena, date tba

Contact: rob mclennan at rob_mclennan (at) hotmail.com for questions, or to sign up for a table.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lori Lubeski

Lori Lubeski’s latest book is in another language. She is also the author of estranged domain, has the river of the body risen, and pilgrimage foliage. She lives in Connecticut.

1. How did your first book change your life?

My first book was a little chapbook that Scott Macleod made for e.g.press while I was at San Francisco State. It was extremely validating and felt like it legitimized my position as a poet in the world. The fact also that someone liked my work enough to put a book together was so exciting for me.

My most recent work… it’s funny because I always go back to that first book— which was from 1985— and realize that I knew everything then that I needed to know— and I read through it and see how true everything in there is about people and relationships— and somehow I feel there has been no linear progression in my writing, but the same themes of loss and longing just twisting down another path, and the world winding around my heart as it always has…

2. How did you come to poetry first as opposed to fiction/non-fiction

Poetry seemed like the perfect escape. I started writing in high school to let out my pained heart. It had no rules and you could do or say anything in poetry and it was acceptable. The lack of formality and how you could begin anywhere and stop in the middle of an idea or sentence gave me a sense of relief. The idea of abstraction was also appealing to me—- how you didn’t have to say things directly or logically. I felt very strange and different from everyone and felt like my thoughts were so different from other peoples’. Poetry seemed to provide an outlet for my thoughts, to talk to myself with this freedom that was not available in the world. I also became interested in surrealism then, Salvador Dali and Magritte, and I remember their work just opening up a fascinating place of possibility and inspiration which coincided with my thoughts about poems, that they were there to show a particular feeling, mood or an idea,  and rationality and logic was not required.

3. How long does it take to start a project, how does your writing come out?

It is very quick, usually one fell swoop… the idea comes and I just start going. I most often get an idea or concept that I want to write about, and frequently hear the title or get obsessed with the title, such as ‘pilgrimage foliage’ and then I think of what that means and write on that. The lines usually just come to me. Recently a concept about addiction was “Addict, addict, failsafe bravery” and I took the book from there. The sound of the words provoke the writing. My process is very intuitive and irrational. I get the feeling and the sound of the phrases move me along. I rarely stop to think about anything along the way. It is basically an experience of free-writing or some sort of stream of consciousness within the frame of the title concept. A funny thing is that I frequently use vocabulary that I am not quite sure of the meaning and I end up having to look up certain words after. The final process usually just involves cutting sections that don’t fit but I don’t typically re-write anything. One thing that annoys me is that all of my books seem to be one long tale so it feels like there are no separate individual poems that stand alone. They all  seem to belong solely to the context of that project/idea. When people ask me to send them work I feel like I have nothing to send!

( This seemed to combine questions3/4)

5. Are readings an important part of writing?

I love to do readings. I wish that I could do more because my poetry is best heard aloud. There is something about the intensity and rhythm that belongs to my writing which of course cannot be fully conveyed on the page. It is very gratifying to read my work to others because people always come up to me after and are sincerely moved by the work. I also enjoy the social aspect of giving readings because it allows me to come out into the world and be around other poets.

6. Theoretical concerns/questions I am trying to answer

Of course I have concerns about the state of the world and the effect it has on the individual. How do we attempt to make peace with our circumstances? How can things be so unfair and unright? How do we come to terms with such grave inequities? I have always been an overly emotional person who is deeply affected by injustices. Perhaps that comes out in my writing.

7. Current role of writer in larger culture?

The above answer addresses this question I would say. To acknowledge the state of the world and put words to it in any way possible. To also recognize the beautiful moments. To capture what passes by unseen. To pause. To express what the heart holds. To evoke some level of tenderness.

8. Working with editor

Important for objectivity. Good to be open minded. Often working in the context of your own head so it is helpful for another to intervene on your behalf for the sake of the project!

9. Recent best piece of advice I heard was from poet Andrea Gibson.

“I choose to be amazed by this world.

I choose to put my attention on what is astonishing, because doing so makes every other part of my life better.”

10. What kind of writing routine do you have?

I have absolutely no writing routine. I am the most ADD,  un-disciplined, disorganized writer one can be. If it comes, it comes, if not, oh well. Perhaps I should be more seriously committed but that has always been my problem with everything. If there is any semblance of routine it is randomly writing in my notebook when I am overly emotional, desperate, and upset. Sometimes poetry comes out of this process.

11. So therefore this idea of ‘stalled’ writing is impertinent here but when I feel unable or incapable of getting inspired I make visual or hands on projects that are creative such as decopauge or tie dye or making poetry collages with word phrases and color samples from the paint store or reading poetry.

12. I love vanilla or coconut. They are calming and peaceful and sweet and remind me that things will be okay.

13. Any other forms that influence your work science or nature or visual art.

Yes, visual art and also history and geography. I like maps and reading childrens’ social study books. I collaborate with my friends who are visual artists and make projects together and they often do the covers of my books. Of course nature as I love bird watching and collecting rocks and fossils.

14. What writers or writing are important to your work.

My friend the writer and artist Scott Macleod is an important inspiration to my writing. I was long time friends with the poet Linda Gregg and her ideas and writing shaped my poetry sensibility and sensitivity. I love Forrest Gander’s work. Phoebe Gloeckner is a creative genius to me. Rumi and Rilke are my constants.

15. What I haven’t done is win a great big financial blessing of a prize for writing. Wouldn’t that be wonderful.

16. Any other occupation I would be an archaeologist and dig up ruins. Or I would be a florist making arrangements and delivering flowers.

17.  What made you write as opposed to doing something else.

Writing seemed what I liked to do best and also what was easiest for me to do. I was a professor of English for 30 years because that was the only way to make money remotely related to writing.

18. Last great book was Forrest Gander’s Mojave Ghost. Stunning writing there. Movie I just watched was Holy Days with Judy Davis.

19. What am I working on now?

A poetry book, ‘addict, addict, failsafe bravery’ and several concurrent memoirs.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

i left my (potato) heart on Prince Edward Island, (part two,

[see part one here] 

Wednesday, August 19, 2026: You might not be aware that our wee Aoife has been months begging us to take her to The Canadian Potato Museum (please, she begged us last fall, you can make it my birthday present). How did she even know of such a thing? It was more than an hour west and north from where we were staying, so made our way out before most of us were even awake (okay, before I was even awake--Christine and the young ladies had already done a morning walk to the coffeeshop for coffee, treats etcetera). 

Exactly what one might expect, one can walk through the space and learn a history of the potato and local potato crop [comparable to the Big Apple along Highway 401 by Colborne, Ontario, of course, except without the added benefit of the array contained within a giant potato], as well as farming. One whole wing was filled with farm machinery, much of which included signage on usage, and prior ownership. It seemed entirely the sort of museum I could see my father quite enjoying (and there were even the occasional antiquated item in the shed that I know we had). The young ladies collected (of course) potato-shaped stuffies, and I saw a stress-ball shaped like a potato, exactly like the ones we saw (and picked up) at EPIC: The Irish Emigration Museum in Dublin last summer [see my note on such here, including a pic of Aoife holding up said potato]. After all that build-up, Aoife reported that she was impressed, I guess, although it could have been better. What had she been expecting, exactly?

From there, we wandered over to a house made out of thousands of bottles that Christine knew about, with accompanying gardens. The space was lovely (both the buildings and the grounds/gardens were worth it alone), and odd to think a gentleman spent years of his life building such a thing, a series of structures that required repair after he'd passed (it is fully maintained; and with a charming wee gift shop to boot). It was misty, also. One could see out to the water, various lighthouses in view; the trailers at the edge of the property where some had settled into their own waterfront views, staring south-west towards New Brunswick (and just inland, Moncton).

I did manage another panorama shot or two with multiple Aoifes, which was fun to play with.

Rose buses, and many bees. In a way, the best part of this space had to be the abandoned house next door, just across from the parking lot, with a large stuffed animal on each side, set in the open window. Creepy.

As usual, there was too much to do, too much to see, so we were off again, back the way we'd come, to meet up with Ottawa poet Jason Christie and his family, who were on the island just as we were. Did I mention Jason was here also? I'd sent him a text before we'd flown out, asking if I'd see him at my event in Ottawa on the weekend, and he'd responded, saying, No, we've just crossed Confederation Bridge! Hey, we're doing that in two days! I responded. We drove, and drove, realizing we had missed out on an attempt at lunch (we'd considered as part of the potato museum, but the in-house diner wasn't open yet), so we kept hoping we'd simply pass something, knowing we had a loosely-scheduled 2pm meet up with Jason etc at Green Gables, right by where we were each and all staying. Not far from there, we drove into the parking lot of the Cavendish Boardwalk, for the sake of landing at Cows. I mean, there must be food here, yes? Once there, the kids went in one direction, Christine another, and I bee-lined to Cows for the sake of a new beach towel (I still had my worn towel from a much earlier PEI visit, possibly with my parents, somewhere during the 1980s; I'm a bit amazed the beach towel holds). A towel, a sticker or two, and a t-shirt, which I promptly changed into, just in the parking lot (why not?). The children purchased more stuffys for some reason (geez), but we did manage to convince them to remain still long enough to get them fed. If only we'd had more time, we would have told them about the Cows ice cream (we hadn't time, so didn't mention; perhaps we should come back at some point).

Green Gables, Prince Edward Island. I think this is my third time visiting? First, with my parents, somewhere in the late 1970s or early 80s, and again circa 2000 with my pal Sandie [a trip that resulted in my poetry title, red earth], and now this. It was different than I'd remembered, although I know I saw a wedding when I was last here, the space crowded with Japanese tourists. Given the broad popularity the books have in Japan and Japanese culture. The site really needs to perpetually thank Japanese novelist and translator Hanako Muraoka, who took it upon herself to translate that first Anne of Green Gables novel during a period that Japan considered English an "enemy language," publishing her translation in 1952. You want to see the impact of translation? Look to some of the tourism that regularly visits Green Gables.

This is a heritage house, basically, from the era from which L.M. Montgomery wrote those infamous books, of course, with accompanying texts surrounding the author and some of her characters. We met up with Jason and his family (his two boys are roughly the age of our two young ladies), and all four of the kids absolutely bored with the place. The children wandered, and wandered, albeit in different directions than we did. We paused for a bit of social, and the children had snacks. From there, a slip back into our separate directions, us back to North Rustico, and at least a few minutes not moving.

I hadn't realized until this trip the array of Acadian across Prince Edward Island, the array of Acadian flags that ran through this part of the island, specifically. There's a statue of an Acadian fisherman in the water, not far from our doorstep, to acknowledge both the cultural heritage of the space and the men who have, for generations, fished these waters. Right by our doorstep, also, a place where one can take a ride along for deep sea fishing. Not me, thanks, but it does sound interesting. A wall of lobster traps along one whole side of set buildings along the boardwalk.

After a respite of an hour or so, we collected some supplies and headed off the fifteen minute drive to where Jason and family were staying, an array of cottages closer to Green Gables, for the sake of dinner, socializing. It probably had been two years since the kids had seen each other, the past number of months Jason and I out for dinner maybe two or three times a year, but the array of household requirements and child schedules preventing us from doing anything beyond that.

It took a while for our children to talk to each other, but they figured it out. We hung out on the porch, right across from Grandpa's Antique Photo Studio (which Jason joked we should do, until he realized how much). A grand evening, overall, although the children remained a few fire-pits over, at what they termed "the good fire," beyond the one that Jason built.

next up: we head for a ferry, and back to Halifax,

rob mclennan on Kyeren Regehr's The Poet Laureate Podcast,

I was interviewed on-stage by Kyeren Regehr (Victoria, British Columbia's seventh poet laureate, by the way, who I interviewed as part of the episode, also) as part of The Poet Laureate Podcast back in the spring [see my report on such here], which is now available to listen to! As part of the promotion for such, Kyeren writes:

"In this special double-interview episode, rob and Kyeren sit down to trade roles: interviewer/interviewee. Their conversation moves between the public weight of municipal laureateships and the quiet discipline of the page, digging into city politics, writer's retreats, and the art of the occasional poem  and more. It’s an unscripted, wide-ranging conversation about creative momentum, memory, missed contest deadlines, and the sheer joy of making stuff without asking for permission. (Plus: cake.)

With gratitude to Arc Poetry Magazine for their generous sponsorship, and to The City of Victoria"

Also, be aware I'm reading on Saturday, September 12 as part of Amanda Earl's ottawa the real surreal, alongside Amanda, Ellen Chang-Richardson and Manahil Bandukwala. We're reading poems on and in front of four different Ottawa Centretown locations! See information on such here.

Alta Ifland, Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice

 

My language

My language lies buried in the center of the earth. When night comes, dreams open time’s gates at the black ravens with rustling wings take off, leaving behind a long, leaden sleep. Language’s guardians, mute mummies draped in shrouds, float at the four cardinal points, their faces stiff, lips crimson, eyes painted blue. At dawn, they sink back into memory’s cracks.
            My language doesn’t belong to me. All that belongs to me is a long, flower absence at whose edges roses are growing alongside my legs, encircling them, climbing and covering my body like a tomb. Deep in the absence, my language unearths its words of fog, dead like me, and holds them for an instant above the tomb, then lets them fall like rose petals.

I’m absolutely fascinated by the reissue of Romanian poet Alta Ifland’s Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice (Punctum Books/Les Figues, 2026), included with a hefty critical introduction by John Taylor. Originally published by Les Figues in 2007, the reissue comes from the Les Figues imprint of Punctum Books, who appears to have absorbed the press and backlist, working to keep titles in print as best as possible. A bilingual edition, the work has been translated by the author (the introduction, also, in both English and French), a process that Taylor articulates as part of his introduction, writing that these pieces (resting quite comfortably between prose and the prose poem) were “[…] first written in French, the author’s second language, and then self-translated into English, her third. Moreover, there are indications that “Ifland” is a pseudonym, even perhaps a heteronym in Fernando Pessoa’s sense, with its imaginable literal meaning of an “if-land,” a “place of conjecture,” and a lofty one at that.” Through fifty-three short prose pieces, each in French and English, no more than a page per piece, Ifland offers a kind of counterpoint, a call-and-response; not simply a text composed in one direction and translated, but one that suggests, in large part through the author’s own translation, more of a conversation between the two. “Like everyone else,” Ifland writes, to open the poem “My double’s double,” “I have a double.” By referencing the doppelgänger, Ifland hints (one might infer) at the dual nature of translation itself, her own translation, and the heteronym, as suggested by the introduction, as Taylor offers:

If taken at her word as an author, not as a mask mostly implying artifice, Ifland is focused much less on geography, European history, and personal history (in its ordinary sense) than on the ontological rootlessness in our human condition. The French writer Pascal Quignard has suggested that our anxiety vis-à-vis our origins results from our absence at the sexual act that procreated us; we can never get back to it. in Voix de Glace / Voice of Ice, Ifland associates the insoluble enigma of our being-in-the-world with a mother whom she cannot really “attain,” at least in the state in which she was when she gave birth to her.

Through a suite of sharp and nuanced prose poems, Ifland’s collection invokes comparisons not only with Pessoa’s heteronym work, but that of Montreal poet and translator Erín Moure, working her own Pessoaesque through multiple projects, an early example of which is Sheep’s Vigil by a Fervent Person (Toronto ON: House of Anansi, 2001). The element of Ifland’s composition and translation worked as counterpoint, as well, offer comparisons to works such as Franco-Canadian poet Patrice Desbiens’ classic L’homme invisible / The Invisible Man (Penumbra Press, 1981) and J.R. Carpenter’s Le plaisir de la côte /The Pleasure of the Coast (Pamenar Press, 2023) [see my review of such here], holding the translation not as separate texts, but interconnected, twirled together akin to a strand of DNA. Through two threads of language, beyond her own mother tongue, Ifland writes out and through the differences between and amid language, slipping back and forth across a line in the introspective sand.

 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jay Quint

Jay Quint is one of those people who has long gaps in their resumes that aren’t easily accounted for. In ditching the standardized paths in both his writing, and his life, Jay kept himself free to leap at opportunities for deeper explorations. He spent his twenties living in different cities, including Sydney, Paris, Miami, Los Angeles, and Toronto. After another one of his “grand failures”—so he calls those creative projects that he threw his whole self into before they crashed and burned—he returned to his hometown, Montreal, with the single-minded objective of writing something that would have to be taken seriously. He rejected the idea of going through the academic pipeline, choosing independent studies instead. This led him into a six-year long period of hungry, intensive reading from across a broad range of philosophy, literature, and criticism—a period that was marked by existential thought, and isolation. During this time, inspired by Susan Sontag, he immersed himself in film—specifically New Wave cinema—and began incorporated it into his writing. But, believing that everything important has already been said (a point that many people disagree with, he knows), Jay struggled to find a new way to discuss the cultural history he was most interested in. The result of all his toils is Village Dreams: a critical view from the’60s and ‘70s, which he describes as a work of “creative cultural criticism 

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 book was only recently published, so life hasn’t changed much—and who knows if it will? I’m working on it though ... Once the book was accepted for publication, I did, however, find I was able to get my foot into doors that would’ve otherwise been much harder to crack open. I’m not one of those writers who built their career brick by brick, publishing articles, or essays, in smaller newspapers and presses over the years. I also steered clear of academia, and even avoided literary scenes, so I didn’t have any contacts to help me get published. Being able to tell more established writers than yourself that you’ve placed your book with a publisher, gives a degree of legitimization that most other unknowns don’t have; It was how I was able to get so many people to read my book, and write blurbs for its back cover. Of course, it also had something to do with interesting aspects of the book itself. The gatekeeping of the publishing industry is off-putting to those who aren’t on the inside, but the reality is that all industries are structures that end up producing similar issues. Even great writers often need to play the game to get on the inside.

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

Writing starts with reading for me, and it was modernist novels and philosophy that really engaged me from the very start of my career as a serious reader (Yes, reading was essentially my career—though unpaid and unsung—for nearly 6 years.)  I spent time toying with the idea of writing something Kafkaesque transposed on contemporary city-apartment life, a blend of fiction and nonfiction. But it was really with criticism that I found the sweet spot matching my own sensibilities. I became passionate about Walter Benjamin, and Susan Sontag, and I ended up anchoring myself at their crossroads (pre-war and post-war; Europe and America; modernism and post-modernism; creative and critical intellectualism). I love good prose and a degree of creativity in nonfiction. My favourite thing is to recover overlooked and forgotten tidbits that offer historical insights into the present, which is very much part of Walter Benjamin’s influence and legacy. I’m also inspired by the personal playfulness of the “new-journalism” writings of Mailer, Didion, and Tom Wolfe, on one hand, and the more dense politically-historical analysis of figures like Arendt, on the other.

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?

As you may be able to tell already, relatively simple questions often require me to take a step backward before I can go forward. To answer this question, I’m suspicious about the value of writing today. I don’t believe in extolling all writers as necessary, all writing as worthwhile, and all expression as inherently good. In the tradition of Critical Theory and cultural criticism, the negative has value in life. Hegel had put it simply: all perception involves negation. Thinking is always dialectical. And isn’t it also true, generally speaking, that there’s an inverse relationship between the quality and quantity of all types of output, including writing? I think there’s already far too much of it today—it can be argued that there was already far too much if it 150 years ago—and that the bulk of it isn’t very good. How much of the “content” is just plain bad? How much of it is unoriginal rubbish masquerading as something brilliant, and new? Whole industries exist with an interest in telling us how wonderful new writing is, but even most of those at the top of the “literary” and “intellectual” worlds are shadows, I think, of the older generations of writers who inspired them. Naturally, I get lots of pushback when I say these things because it offends the personal sense of value of writers, and readers, alike—and because I don’t let myself weasel out of my own judgements, the question for me becomes, how can I, as someone who wants to write (and wants to say things that have already been said countless times before, really), do so without being entirely hypocritical? Why do I even want to write? Is there a new, creative angle I can use to approach cultural history, to say something that really demands consideration? The long path to what would eventually become Village Dreams was philosophical and slow-going because it began with these overriding concerns about the act of writing itself. I grappled with them for a long time before I was even able to put pen to paper. Ultimately, I did arrive at a solution—or a workaround, let’s call it. Once I had the idea, things went fairly smoothly. I did about fifteen drafts in the end, but that’s because I was crafting my own unique form that required the balancing various creative and intellectual considerations. My next book may follow an entirely different process, however. I might even be inspired to write something that isn’t so serious, and doesn’t need to justify itself.

4 - Where does a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

My sensibility is attuned to longer forms because I like clustering thoughts of various writer-thinkers together and spinning off onto interesting tangents. Essays appeal to me though, but getting them published typically requires contacts that I haven’t put in the time to cultivate. I would love to write essays knowing they’d be published in a quality newspaper, or magazine, as soon as I was ready to release them to the world— but that’s a rare position to be in as a writer. I also have some difficulty knowing where a subject should begin and end since everything’s connected in my mind. There’s always another link, I think, that can advance the discourse.

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

I had my first reading last month in Toronto. The event was put together by my publisher, and it included the six or so other writers they’d published this season. I’ve always hated public speaking, but I was excited to get a firsthand reaction to the section I planned on reading. And I really ended up getting the most enthusiastic reaction. The audience really felt what I wanted them to feel. It was quite powerful, to be honest. Having said that, I wouldn’t organize my own readings. The performative aspect of these events feels unnatural to me. It may just be that I don’t consider myself important enough for people to come see, and that I myself have no interest in going to see other writers reading from their own books. The idea of having discussions, or debates, is a bit more interesting to me than a 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?

As I mentioned, I’m concerned about the value of all writing. It’s more than the absurd quantity and declining quality of output; I’m haunted by the idea that everything has been said already, and that we bury older writing that’s valuable under the endless landslide of new … crap. Applying old thoughts to supposedly new situations doesn’t cut it for me. A lot of people don’t understand this because they think so much today is new. When a person cultivates a more historical view that gives a broader, sort of overhead, vantage point from which to survey the entire field of action, things look quite different. Those who are caught up in the action on the ground can’t perceive the situation with the same understanding. This may sound pretentious, but it’s really a basic metaphor. I find it funny that, in my experience, many people who agree with the general claim that understanding the past is important for understanding the present—and most people agree with this, I think—will disagree about the worth of historical insights when applied in particular instances, and when it goes beyond the level—and conclusions—they’re comfortable with. Kierkegaard spoke of the proscribed level of knowledge that mass society refused to let any individuals surpass without penalty. The proliferation of mass media clearly had a lot to do with this, as religion did before it. It’s the difference between people who are consumed by presentness, by the news media, entertainment, and technology, versus those who’ve stepped outside of the spectacle to see how forces interacted to get us to this point, and to understand the cyclical nature of life amid all the supposed “newness.” Technology may deliver new products, but understanding the place of technology itself within the whole, reveals as much.

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?

It’s not easy for people to resist flowing along within the accelerated rhythm of the world we live in. Everyone needs to make a living, to sell themselves, or some product, and this requires adapting to life as it is (and I think much of historically leftist critique of capitalism is right when it comes to points like this one). I’m an ardent believer that writers and artists are the ones who have the vision, courage, strength—and often the resources—to stand alone, and maintain a certain distance from the events of the day, with all of its little excitements. A big part of it is about being able to slow down, I think, and learning to think independently, which involves reading broadly, and across ideological lines. Writers—and here we can draw a distinction between those whose aim is to write bestsellers catering to mass tastes, and those who want to craft something that’s essentially different, something fuller, whole, suffused with the real complexities of life, rather than simplistic narratives. The latter kind of writer, who deserves the name “artist,” should have just a few toes in the present; they should see what’s happening in the world, while also embracing a degree of remove that allows them to perceive life more “objectively”—and let’s leave aside the question of objectivity here. In the past, this distance was referred to in a number of other ways. Proust often refers to the “disinterested” perspective in relation to the arts. The word shouldn’t be misinterpreted, though: “disinterested” means cultivating an impartial point of view, rather than coming at art with pre-existing biases that are based on self-interest. It’s not about limiting one’s sense of the world—rather the opposite, in a way. It’s about being more open, receptive, and understanding. I realize that this opinion—like most of my opinions—isn’t the popular one today. Progressives usually demand a more socially-engaged art, and they assert that anything that doesn’t call for full-throttle self-expression, and unbridled emotional reaction, is dispassionate, anti-social, and conservative. But the hyper-passionate approach puts the narrative, and conclusion, ahead of itself, and is therefore biased, and self-interested in its desire for affirmation. Being “disinterested” is more subtle. This is a version of the old debate about art for art’s sake, versus an engaged art, which returned in the ‘60s (especially in France), with the call for art to be in the streets. I’m sure many people who are reading my answer here won’t be convinced, so, characteristically, I’ll end by offering a long quote that I think is worth considering. This, from Italo Calvino, an essay called Why Read the Classics (1981): “‘Why read the classics rather than concentrate on books that enable us to understand our times more deeply?’ or ‘Where shall we find the time and peace of mind to read the classics, overwhelmed as we are by the avalanche of current events?’ We can of course, imagine some blessed soul who devotes his reading time exclusively to Lucretius, Lucian, Montaigne … Ruskin, Proust, and Valéry … To keep up such a diet without any contamination, this blessed soul would have to abstain from reading the newspapers, and never be tempted by the latest novel, or sociological investigation. But we have to see how far such rigor would be either justifying or profitable. The latest news may well be banal or mortifying, but it nonetheless remains a point at which to stand and look both backward and forward. To be able to read the classics you have to know “from where” you are reading them; otherwise both the book and the reader will be lost in a timeless cloud. This, then, is the reason why the greatest ‘yield’ from reading the classics will be obtained by someone who knows how to alternate them with the proper dose of current affairs. And this does not imply a state of unperturbable inner calm. It can also be the fruit of nervous impatience, of a huffing-and-puffing discontent of mind. Maybe the ideal thing would be to hearken to current events as we do to the din outside the window that informs us about traffic jams and sudden changes of weather, while we listen to the voice of the classics sounding clear and articulate inside the room. But it is already a lot for most people if the presence of the classics is perceived as a distant rumble far outside a room that is swamped by the trivia of the moment, as by a television on full blast.”

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

I wanted a lot more input from my editor when it came to Village Dreams. The book is unconventional in many respects, it bounces with stream-of-consciousness ideas, and digressions. When it came to the editing process, I expected lively discussions about what to include and what to cut, about the book’s real purpose, and meaning. But my editor approved everything so easily, which left me without the bouncing board I really wanted at that point. I realized that I’d have to go back and self-edit the manuscript. To do so effectively also meant understanding it so fully that I could grab it by the horns. Most readers probably think this is something most writers automatically do, but I think it’s rarely the case. Writers and artists often create without knowing all of the keys to their own work. In the 19^th century, the task of decoding the innerworkings of a work of art became the territory of the critic, more than the creators themselves. Understanding the ins and outs of one’s own writing, tightening it properly, typically requires a few more drafts than one has the mental energy for (It makes me think there may be something to the stereotype of the pretentious painter who refuses to explain their own work.) It’s a daunting prospect to think about digging back into your own writing when your head is already so saturated with the content, and you believed you were nearly done with it. It’s even difficult to step away from it when you know it’s there waiting for you, and that you’re going to have to figure out how to give it a final shape, and polish it off, as best as you can possibly do. In my experience, these extra pushes are worth the dissonance they cause. Again, it’s usually one step back, two forward, for me. Putting in those extra few months of work led to a final version of Village Dreams that really exceeded my own vision for it. A good editor ca be invaluable, though. I have a writer friend who always came away from meetings with her editor feeling that the editor’s advice was wrong, and that she was being pushed too far. But after a few days sitting with the advice, my friend always came to see her editor’s point. This is just one example, of course. There isn’t a single model for these relationships, which are sometimes complex, and touchy. Listening to one another and having mutual respect is crucial, but it’s also true that the visions of a writer and editor can diverge too much, in which case it’s best for them to part ways.

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

I’ve never received a good piece of advice. I also think that advice, like wisdom, can point people in one direction just as easily as the opposite. For example, advice could be, “You have to take the leap—no risk, no reward! Quit your job and start writing if that’s what’s really in your heart!” Alternatively, it can be, “Caution—slow and steady wins the race! Everything comes in its own time.” Advice should always be contingent on the particular set of circumstances and character of the individual who asks for it. One of my pet peeves is when people couch their own ideas and experiences in universal terms—especially when they do so with pseudo-intellectual, or pseudo-spiritual, pretenses. Roland Barthes has a hilarious essay in his book Mythologies about how the masses who make up bourgeois-liberal society try to cast everyone and everything in their own mold to the extent that they imagine extraterrestrials (which became a popular subject in the ‘50s) as having bourgeois-humanist mindsets just like themselves.

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

I like to do a couple of 3-4-hour sessions each day because my brain gives out after that length of time. I’ll wake up and walk to my favourite café to read, or write. Then I’ll usually have a workout because I need a break, and switching from the mental to the physical is healthy for both dimensions, I think. It’s difficult to let go when you’re deep in the creative process, but you have to try. In the afternoon or evening, I’ll do a few more hours of reading, or writing, at home. I might also watch a film, often something slightly philosophical, or something that offers some interesting historical context related to whatever I’m writing, or researching. I love incorporating film into my writing.

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

I always go back to books, especially since my writing is mainly about cultural history. Sometimes intense readers need breaks from reading, though. Even Sontag, who was addicted to reading, needed to clear her mind of books at times. Sometimes our brains need a reset, and it’s always a good idea to try looking somewhere new for inspiration. I’ve gotten back into watching sports as an outlet—hockey and tennis, in particular—though I can get into the playoffs of most sports.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

My first thought is whether “home” here is really just a stand in for childhood? or do you mean where I live now? I prefer the former because it triggers my Proustian sensibilities, yet I don’t really have an answer other than some vague thoughts about warm grass in the summer, and a faint sense of perfumes worn by my mom when I was a kid. I wouldn’t be able to describe the scent though because I can hardly even evoke it in my mind. I’d have to smell it. Admittedly, this answer is somewhat of a poetic cliché, but it’s what comes to my mind. I once had a friend who told me that the sound of a vacuum always made him tired because his mother would vacuum the house when he was put down for his naps as a child. I thought that was interesting.

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

I agree. Books do come from books, which is part of the reason I find most things so regressive today. Books from books from books that are third-rate knockoffs of the original work. But there’s also film, for me. It was reading Sontag’s essays on New Wave cinema of the ‘60s and ‘70s (Godard, Bergman, Fassbinder, Varda, etc.) that popularized the idea that film could be part of intellectual discourse. Of course, the New Wave contained this idea in-itself because it was heavily imbued with cultural-political and artistic commentary (re. Cahiers du Cinéma), and experiments with the medium itself. The New Wave often tried to overcome the medium, which is something I’m both interested, and critical of.

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

Sontag’s collection of essays in On Photography are a focal point for me. I think the critiques she gave in the early ‘70s have only grown in relevance since images proliferate and dominate contemporary life more and more. Her own work picked up threads from Walter Benjamin, who’s also a major influence on my writing. These two critics are quite mainstream within intellectual milieus, but I think I’ve dug deeper and understand them and their thought more than most professional academics who like to talk about them. I’m most concerned about how their thought is being distorted to fit evolving narratives. More than anything, I want to reassert the critical elements of their thought that’s being purposefully ignored. This is also happening with other writers and thinkers who influence me: Camus, Arendt, Adorno, to name a few. The work of everyone I’ve mentioned affects my perspective on nearly everything. I don’t compartmentalize my writing from the rest of my life because I’m always concerned with the same thing: revealing contradictions.

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

I’ve prioritized travel over a settled life of comfort for over a decade now. I’ve spent a lot of time in London, and whenever I’m there, I get excited about the idea of setting up shop in Chelsea for a year or so to write a novel.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I did my undergraduate degree in accounting—a field that couldn’t be more opposed to my natural inclination. I was a very perplexed, disoriented kid. I wasn’t really encouraged to explore my creative side, and the “do-whatever-makes-you-happy” ethos wasn’t something I grew up with. The professions were the most sensible option given my lack of direction. In my early teens, I developed an interest in old film (Hitchcock in particular), which was part of an escape from real life, and my sexual confusion, I think. I remember wanting to study film, to become a director, or maybe a screenwriter. But now that I’ve become a writer, I find myself drawn to less intellectual work. I like the idea of making things with my hands, like a carpenter, a furniture designer, or perhaps something to do with plants, like a gardener, or landscape designer. I think it’s common for writers—existential ones in particular—to reach a point where they begin to fetishize more manual labour. Wittgenstein comes to mind.

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

I’ve always enjoyed writing, but I didn’t pursue it until my mid-twenties. I have a very active imagination, but it’s tied to reality. I don’t have the capacity for purely inventive storytelling. I needed to have more real-life learning experiences to give content and form to my passions. I don’t believe people are really destined to do one thing or another, to be honest. It’s like when people talk about meeting their soulmate; I don’t buy the idea that one person is meant for us. It’s yet another narrative that makes people feel comfortable, and gives their lives meaning. In reality, I think everything we end up doing is a combination of nature and nurture, chance and choice. I could’ve easily ended up as an accountant, or hotel manager—things I was at one time on track to become. But I’m glad I became a writer because I do think it suits my nature more—which isn’t quite the same thing as saying “I was meant to be a writer.”

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

I’m rereading Proust, which is more than a “great” book. Swann’s Way, the first section, is a masterpiece—and I wouldn’t use such a word lightly. Otherwise, I’d say The Man Without Qualities by Robert Musil. It’s 1300 pages of the smoothest, cleverest, and yet unaffected writing I’ve ever read. I was shocked by it. As for film, I recently rewatched the German film, The Lives Of Others, which I think is one of the best films of this century so far. I also saw the Norwegian film Sex, part of the “Sex Dreams Love” trilogy by Dag Johan Haugerud. It’s complex, funny, psychologically revealing. Like many Scandinavian films—Joachim Trier’s Oslo trilogy, for instance—there’s a Bergmanesque quality in the characters’ existentialism and their chattiness.  A lot of interesting thoughts are revealed in conversations that try to resolve strange situations. Being selective about the contemporary books and films I engage with is also a control mechanism, or an ecology, as Sontag put it. It’s a way of giving myself an artificial sense of having some control over the overwhelming tide of output.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Now that Village Dreams has been published, I’ve had to make the transition to the “publicity” phase. It wasn’t easy for me to make the switch, but now that I’ve done it, I’m excited about chances to discuss and debate the ideas I put into the book. After all, that’s what I really wanted from the start. My drive was more about ideas, than about storytelling, or writing as a craft. I’ll likely spend the next six months or so doing my best to keep that ball rolling. I’m not good at juggling multiple projects, so I can’t really think too much about what comes next. (Buy my book! Thanks.)

12 or 20 (second series) questions;