12 or 20 (second series) questions with Alison Gadsby

Alison Gadsby, a first-generation Canadian writer and literary chatterbox, currently living in a multigenerational home on Treaty 13 land in Tkaronto/Toronto. Author of story collection Breathing Is How Some People Stay Alive (Guernica Editions, 2026), other short fiction appears in Literary Heist, Blank Spaces, The Temz Review, The Ex-Puritan, Blue Lake Review, and more. Her novel, Dreams of the Weary is forthcoming (Palimpsest Press, 2028). She holds an MFA from the UBC, and a degree in English Literature & Creative Writing from York University. She is the host of Junction Reads, a prose reading series, and co-host on the literary radio show, HOWL on CIUT. Find out more at www.alisongadsby.ca and www.junctionreads.ca.

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

Breathing Is How Some People Stay Alive is my first book of stories and to say it’s been a long time coming may be an understatement. I’ve been writing stories since abandoning my dream of becoming a professional actor/sketch comic and then moving to the UK with a dude I just met (we’re still together). I turned a few sketches into stories and thought, when I get back to Canada, I’m going to become a celebrated author. My first story was published in 2019.

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

In my undergrad and MFA – I went to university when I was 38 – I focused on poetry because I loved it growing up (my dad loved it) and I thought if I could home in on language and the lyricism and beauty of it, I might be a better short story writer. I’d love to be a poet because poetry has the power to press pause on my life, but I don’t know if I have the talent.

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?

When I write short stories, they usually come out in a few hours. Then I sit inside one of two thoughts: 1) that was a stroke of literary genius or 2) well that’s five hours of your life you can’t get back. Regardless, I don’t read it again for a couple of weeks. When I open the file, I revise as I go and let it sit again for a few days. When I go back the next time, I’ve usually thought about the original idea, what I’d hoped to do and how it’s ended up. Sometimes it is some kind of literary magic, and other times it’s like watching a pair of sunglasses fall into the lake.

I consider the idea-making part of my process and this is constant. When I’m driving long distances, which I do often, when I go for a walk, or when I’m in the middle of a conversation, I might say to my husband, text me this: palm reader con artist can’t see the grief carving out a hole between the head and the heart lines. This character sat in my head for months before the story came to be (not literary genius), then I revised it about ten times and started sending it out. It found a home and comes out in May.

For novels (I have five of them), it depends. The one that comes out in 2027 (or 2028) took me ten years to write. It’s a complicated character-driven story that explores disability activism, facial and body difference, and a mother’s deep love and fear for her daughter born with a facial difference. My MFA thesis will never see the light of day; I wrote a romance one summer; I wrote a mystery set up north (that I actually think I’ll return to) and a time-travel novella (where I put all my feelings about losing my dad) was accepted a couple of months ago, but I’m holding off publishing it because of timing with the novel. And I am currently writing a novel about a massage therapist, that is (in a speculative way) semi-autobiographical (at least that’s what my mum thinks).

The easier (and shorter) answer to this question is that I am writing all the time and depending on my brain, other commitments and self-imposed deadlines, I’m either writing a story or revising a novel. I’m doing the latter right now.

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?

If all my dreams come true, there will be a short story renaissance in Canada and for the rest of my life I will be able to write weird, dark and totally unhinged short stories, and if that’s the case I’ll wake up every single day and write a new wackadoodle version of this unreal life for readers to parse: does she want me to like this character or hate them? The answer will always be neither. I always want you to harness your empathy, sympathy or your basic humanity and find a reason for that character to exist just as they are.

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

Nope. Nope. Nope. Ironic, since I run a reading series and absolutely love listening to authors read from their work, but when I read my own, I stand outside myself and analyse the whole scene like the worst theatre critic you can imagine: who does this person think she is, nobody wants to hear this garbage spoken aloud, holy shit has it been five minutes yet, because who decided reading this section out loud was a good idea, and sit down lady, sit the hell down.

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?

Unconsciously, I put together a collection of nineteen stories, from a pile of maybe fifty publishable pieces, that have good characters doing bad things and bad things happening to good characters. I didn’t know the stories were filled with people struggling to survive and I hadn’t even thought about how many of them contained water, swimming and that they explored the ease with which some people live in this world as it is (like it's as easy as breathing) until an editor read them.

It isn’t a novel idea. But for the most part, I want the world to be a more empathetic and sympathetic place. I had a father who, on paper, I should have hated, but I didn’t. Despite the childhood abuse, the casual insulting ways he scrutinised me as an adult, and that I never heard the words I love you (even though I pleaded with him to say it, or at the very least say it to my brother weeks before he died) I know that he loved me, and I loved him. His life was bombed out when he was a year old and he spent his entire life trying to climb out of the crater.

Mostly, I think (certainly with the novels) that people are never just one thing. Malevolence isn’t something that can exist in and of itself, benevolence doesn’t exist as pure altruism, and empathy and sympathy shouldn’t be impossible goals.

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?
Unlike some conversations that happened around the film festival in Berlin and Wim Wenders’ assertion that artists “have to do the work of people, not the work of politicians” and despite Nick Cave’s very narrowed response, I do believe him when he says art is “something we approach with awe and wonder, that humbles us whilst also enlarging our hearts, that works its way into our souls and spirits, guiding us towards what is good, beautiful, and true.”

In a world where we have freedom-of-speech-for-some, and people like Cave get angry because the Adelaide Writers’ Festival is “vaporised in a mushroom cloud of cowardice, performative outrage, self-righteous posturing, cancellations, counter-cancellations, mob trots and general narcissistic silliness” but not angry when a Palestinian author is cancelled, it seems only some of us are actually outraged at the current state of the world. When the author’s freedom-to-speak is deemed too risky for the event organizers, doing the right thing is left to the artists, and clearly people like Nick Cave (upsetting because I like him) doesn’t believe artists should stand up for anyone but themselves, that we should leave the politics for the politicians, shut up and write. Well, I say fuck that. I cannot stay silent while arts leaders, administrators and politicians are incapable of doing the right thing because we’re on the brink of a global fascist takeover where the only speech not silenced is the polite smiling complicity of those who only care about themselves and money.

This is art in a capitalistic system, I guess, with financial incentives, political implications and the silencing of some voices. Artists have been sucked into it, and the choice is to be politicians or silent witnesses. In a capitalistic prize-driven culture that only values art when it wins something, when it’s longlisted, shortlisted or honourably mentioned, artists are catering their work to fit, to be accepted or to win – that is also a political decision. So, if we all decide to participate in this system, then we must ask ourselves, are we comfortable not knowing where and how that money is made? What is your art worth if humans die to reward it, if protestors are punished trying to make it better, and if other artists are hurt, excluded or blacklisted because the moneyed keep saying, do it our way or you don’t do it at all?

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I have always been in a workshop of some kind and have always been open to the idea that my writing can be better with an objective view of it. I loved working with an editor.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Don’t rush it. Writers send stories out before they’re ready; they query agents and publishers with unprepared drafts, and they rush the ending because they just want it done and out in the world, and I think some even hope that a publisher will see what they tried to do and help them achieve it, rather than putting in the work to DO what they need to do before sending it out. A writer once shared the timeline of a published novel (8 years) and then said if they’d focused on the writing, revision, workshopping, beta readers and research at the start instead of after all the rejections, they probably would have gotten it published sooner.

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

I love short stories and would write them for the rest of my life if I could, but a novel is an entire world unfolding in front of me, so I love them too. I don’t find it hard to move between stories and the novel, mainly because they’re doing different things and I feel the difference the moment I enter a story.

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?

Because I have reading deadlines, I usually work around that schedule. For example, if I have a Junction Reads and a few other interviews, I put those books into the calendar and write around them. I usually sit down by 8:00am and then I take the dogs for a walk around 4:00pm, but this isn’t an unmoveable routine. I live in a multi-generational home so if I look outside and see my 84-year-old mum trying to move a heavy rock or climb a ladder to take down the birdhouse, I don’t just sit here staring out my window.

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

Books. Always books. I have favourite short story writers whose books I love. Elaine McCluskey’s Rafael Has Pretty Eyes came to me at the perfect time. I needed to read a character-driven collection that showed the funny, vulnerable and devastating reality for some people. Carleigh Baker is literally inside my mind sometimes with the ways she writes women, and of course Anuja Varghese, Kim Fu, Téa Mutonji, Lindsay Wong, Cary Fagan, Damian Tarnopolsky, the list is endless and I have to stop because if I keep going people will wonder, why I didn’t mention their book, so I’ll just say if you’re s short story writer in Canada there’s a pretty good chance I read your book, so thanks!

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Apricots. I grew up in St. Catharines and down the street from our house this guy had a farm that he refused to sell to a developer, so on the border of my little subdivision we climbed trees and made ourselves sick on unripe apricots. I don’t eat them now, but when I smell an apricot that’s where it takes me.

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?

Music. My MFA thesis was written listening to Natalie Merchant’s Ophelia after my main character came alive listening to the titular song, over and over and over. When in the car on long drives, the music is blasting, the mind is blowing around all the ideas.

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

Family is everything to me, so my siblings and my mum exist in any free second, I’m not thinking about writing or the writing community. I have a handful of very close writer friends and because of some serious trust issues have many other literary friends who I mostly think are just being polite. But I’d be nowhere and nothing without the literary community I’ve built for myself – and hopefully for others.

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

Write a collection of poetry. Know anybody who’d want to read some weird dark poetry?

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

If we had money growing up, I would have gone to university after high school and become a lawyer, and now I’d probably still be living in poverty fighting for prison abolition and/or doing pro bono work for people who protest arts awards funded by big banks trying to art-wash their dirty money.

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

I have been dreaming up worlds in which to escape since I was a kid. If I’d known this was open to me, if my dad had given me a pen and paper instead of bookmarking stanzas to memorise in an anthology of dead poets, I may have done this sooner. This was always in me, it just didn’t feel like it could be for me.

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

Last great book is hands down, Saeed Teebi’s You Cannot Kill Our Imagination. As a white woman sitting in my small, privileged world, I weep when I consider all the artists whose words and creativity have been wiped off the face of the earth.

Last great film is Hamnet probably. Predictable, maybe. But we watch series usually and just finished Detective Hole, which was co-created by Jo Nesbo, which is probably why they did such a great job on it.

20 - What are you currently working on?

The massage auto-biographical novel…lol. I’m currently changing it from past to present tense and then sending it to someone to see if it is structurally sound. Then I work on a final close edit of Dreams of the Weary before sending it to the publisher for their edits. Also, a collection of short stories with people who commit little crimes, or do bad shit, because they can’t spend too much time looking at their own sadness (it’s going to be much funnier than Breathing Is How Some People Stay Alive.)

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

 

Phoebe Wang, Relative to Wind: On Sailing, Craft, and Community

A rope on a boat is never a rope—it’s a line, sheet, or halyard. The boat doesn’t turn left or right but to port or starboard. If you’re walking to the front of any watercraft, you’re going forward to the bow. When you’re moving toward its rear, you’re moving aft to the stern.
            You could draw a boat and label it, but why do that when you can pick up boat words the way a child might? By pointing up at the spreaders, the spars that act like crosstrees extending from the mast. By curling your fingers around the shrouds, the boat’s wire rigging. By remembering that the lifelines are the vinyl-coated wires around the perimeter of the boat when you grab onto them to steady yourself. By pestering the skipper with questions—What’s this? What’s this? Your eagerness earns you a spell on the tiller, and you feel the weight of the water streaming against the rudder. Trip over one of the hard, small parts of the boat and land on your knees, swearing and embarrassed at everyone’s quick concern. You’ll remember the cleat, block, or winch like the name of someone you instantly dislike. Not knowing these names is as clear a sign of a landlubber as wearing sneakers that leave skid marks on the deck. Not knowing means you’ll be corrected until you do.

Lately I’ve been reading Toronto poet Phoebe Wang’s Relative to Wind: On Sailing,Craft, and Community (Picton ON: Assembly Press, 2024), a memoir around the author’s experience as part of a sailing crew on Lake Ontario, an experience that seems to provide the author with the foundation to more easily navigate both anxiety and other elements of her life, from attending expectations as a published author, elements of family and employment or even writing itself. “After finishing my MA in creative writing, I couldn’t find full-time work, so instead I tutored in Richmond Hill and Vaughan. I sat on the edge of my train seat, worrying that I wouldn’t make my connection en route, calculating whether I would make rent that month, how much longer it would take to find a publisher, whether it was still worth it to scrawl poems while the Viva Blue bus bounced up Yonge Street. I relieved myself of the pressure to publish as quickly as possible, to instead focus on the vision of my manuscript that felt most true to itself. I was surprised to be making gains, turning out drafts of poems that sounded as close as possible to what I had intended. By easing up on myself and following my intuition, I set a course toward a more natural and sustainable routine.”

This is Wang’s third published book, after the poetry collections Admission Requirements (Toronto ON: McClelland and Stewart, 2017) and Waking Occupations (McClelland and Stewart, 2022) [see my review of such here]. The prose moves easily, at a lively pace, offering a lovely music just underneath the surface, holding the attention with a propulsion and a thrum. I like very much how this book begins with language, using the fact of learning a new vocabulary for this new process as an opening into and through the narrative. “Language can function as both a barrier and an entry point into an identity,” she writes, early in the collection, “and in the case of the language of sailing, it kept me out before it let me in. Its arcane impenetrability felt purposeful, like a code. This inaccessibility maybe a result of its etymology and how its meanings have diverged from English words of common usage.” To engage with the language, and the etymologies of such, of course, is to engage with those histories, and the implications within, as she acknowledges a colonial past, one that, as she is deeply aware, holds a ripple effect into the present. “All of this colonial violence—conscsription practices, hierarchies of rank, naval wars, and transport of raw resources—has steeped into the language like tea leaves in scalding water. These were the same seamen and ships that held enslaved peoples in cargo holds, encountered Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island, mapped coastlines, and claimed harbours for shipping ports. The English language also travelled by sea, as much as import as systems of government, laws, and policies. British ships brough opium to the ports of Hong Kong, the islands where my family lived with the sound of the waves at their doorsteps. Remnants of this history are still present in nautical terms and saying, many of which have entered everyday language.”

She writes of sailing, but also elements of attempting to write, find work and sustain balance, and engaging a space not traditionally populated by women of colour. Approaching both writing and sailing, as well as multiple elements across her life, Relative to Wind articulates Wang’s journey to finding her footing, even in rough waters. Not to wrestle the storm, perhaps, or her own anxieties, but to learn how to navigate them. As she writes: “The air around us is constantly heating and cooling, and periods of apparent calm are only temporary. Our environment may appear still and windless from our vantage point close to the Earth’s surface, but the prevailing condition on this planet is motion.”

unidentified fiction remains and the true nature of banff

I recently spent a week at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity as part of celebrating the University of Alberta's Writer-in-Residence 50th anniversary [and there was even a livestreamed showcase reading by the group of us, which I posted about over here]. I honestly can't fully process all the adventures during that week, with a group of writers it would have been stellar to see even individually, let alone as part of a group. And did I mention I briefly got to meet Daniel MacIvor? (and yes, I know it's a Brad Fraser title I mangled, above). MacIvor was in Twitch City, you know, which was a small work of genius. And did you see him recently in an episode of Law and Order: Toronto? I got to hang out with Michael Barnholden and Adèle Barclay, meet writers such as Ryanne Kap, Sharanpal Ruprai and Conor Kerr. The wealth of the company was staggering.

We had a week, most of which was our own. We caught meals, although I was at breakfast first, most mornings. My body said, 8am, time to get up [although post-karaoke, I missed breakfast altogether, which allowed ryan fitzpatrick that morning's first slot]. One morning I even managed an hour's work before leaving my room, and another, about half an hour's work before anyone else showed up for coffee and morning what-nots. While there, I was attempting to further my novel-in-progress, the one that rests somewhere between On Beauty (2014) and the follow-up, downstream from Missing Persons (2009); a novel that follows the threads of a handful of folk who don't necessarily interact, but exist within the same stretch of relative time. I hadn't presumed I could finish it, but after a week sitting within its pages (and at least four days prior attempting to re-enter), I think I can now actually see that light at the end of the tunnel. The week included a planned dinner or two, a karaoke night (and second round, given it was so successful) and a trip to town (which I did skip, needing to sit at my desk). We had our big showcase reading, which was incredible.

J.R. Carpenter [see my review of Carpenter's latest here] has a collaborative app you should check out, This Is Not A Good Sign, a curious eco-poetic of phrases one can overlay atop photographs, presumably of landscapes or whatever else, I was playing with while there. I spent the week taking the occasional picture as part of such, a number of which I did post over at Instagram, and am hoping to continue on same, here and there. It was very cool to hang with ryan fitzpatrick [see my review of fitzpatrick's latest here], get some good conversations with Fred Wah and Daphne Marlatt, get to learn (or learn better) folk such as Conor Kerr, Cody Caetano, Joshua Whitehead [see my review of Whitehead's latest here], Jason Purcell [see my review of Purcell's latest here]. Caetano's memoir is so remarkably, powerfully, good. I read much of it on the flight out. And so many other folk were around, there, participating, wandering through or wandering by. You probably already know I produced a handful of chapbook titles for the week as well, by myself, Fred Wah, Daphne Marlatt, J.R. Carpenter, ryan fitzpatrick and Derek Beaulieu. Copies were distributed free to all the participants, with a small handful left over for the reading event (further copies will be distributed through the University of Alberta Department of English and Film Studies, prod at Jordan Abel if you wish for copies, he has a bunch).

I worked to further this novel, as well as attempting a "Banff notebook" project, akin to "the green notebook," a journal-essay stretch from that week I'm still working to hammer into some kind of publishable form, with the hopes to start posting excerpts from same across my substack real soon. There were drafts of a poem, however slow. Sketch-notes. There might be something else, also. I am thinking through the bounds of a poem, certainly.

This was my first time spending any length of time at Banff Centre (beyond two days in May 2008 I don't really count, as I never quite landed and didn't know anything or anyone, so kept fallow).

There were quiet conversations and loud gatherings, languid stretches of walking solo, working solo, walking to town. I made a bad joke at a museum [a solid joke, really], and lost my breath singing, and walking, and standing [higher altitude, you know]. I took a big swing attempting a song from Frozen 2 at karaoke, which didn't quite land (but big swings are the point, certainly). I saw two full days of snowfall, and an overcast so complete, they put the mountains away for safety, only returning them once it cleared. I stayed out too late with writers, and the one night all the writers crashed, I stayed out too late with playwrights. I bought a t-shirt the wrong size, and had dessert with every meal. I got some nice time with Derek Beaulieu, and saw his office, far more ordered than had it been mine. 

Oh, and our final night there, as Thomas Wharton, Marilyn Dumont and I were walking through town back from dinner, catching a group singing loudly hey now, you're a rock star, get your game on, hey, and realizing the group was all dressed as characters from the Shrek animated films. A bridal party, clearly. Did Wharton take this picture? Dumont at the front, there. The bride (dressed as the prince, centre) was so proud of the fact that this was all her idea. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise. In hindsight, I did wonder, what might have been the theme of the wedding?

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Réka Nyitrai

Réka Nyitrai is a spell, a sparrow, a lioness's tongue — a bird nest in a pool of dusk. A Romanian-Hungarian poet, she learned English (her primary language of writing) later in life, moving fluently between prose poems, haiku, and free verse, often channeling the feminist surrealist currents of Leonora Carrington, Aase Berg, and Aglaja Veteranyi. In 2020, she released a bilingual (Spanish and English) collection of haiku known as While Dreaming Your Dreams (Mano Ya Mano Books) which received a Touchstone Distinguished Books Award. She then released her debut full-length poetry collection, Moon Flogged, in 2024 through Broken Sleep Books, and recently released a chapbook through Ethel Zine called With a Swan's Nest on Her Back. Her second full-length poetry collection Split / Game of Little Deaths will be out with Piżama Press in May 2026.

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, While Dreaming Your Dreams, is a collection of poems written in the haiku genre. A small independent publishing house in Spain published it in 2020, when I was already 43 years old. Even though my life did not change in a material sense, this debut proved I was resourceful and capable of turning abstract dreams into a tangible reality. Winning the Touchstone Book Award validated my work, but it also introduced an immense pressure: from that moment on, both publishers and readers expected nothing less than exceptional poetry. While writing a haiku seems deceptively simple, crafting a truly resonant one is a difficult feat. I realized quickly that I might not surpass the specific quality of the poems in my debut volume within that same form. Consequently, I put haiku on hold and transitioned toward short, lyrical prose, first in collaboration with my good friend Alan Peat, then independently. In essence, I have integrated a fragmented narrative arc into the surrealism and lyricism of my haiku roots. In comparing my recent work to my previous, I find that while the form has expanded, the core remains unchanged. No matter how much I experiment with structure, lyricism remains my second skin. Brevity and conciseness continue to define the sinews of my style.

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

Poetry is an intrinsic part of me. I wrote my first pieces —if I can even call them poems— while in grade school, writing in Hungarian, my mother tongue. At the time, I found them utterly silly, yet they must have possessed some merit as they were published in a children’s magazine. However, following a single rejection letter, I retreated from writing for a significant period. I briefly resumed during my university years, still in Hungarian, but abandoned it again, sensing my work lacked authenticity; I was merely attempting to mirror the voice of a well-known Hungarian poet. For a long while, I set poetry aside to focus on reading—interestingly, primarily novels rather than verse. Then, on a snowy day in 2018, a fully formed haiku suddenly emerged in my mind, composed in English, my third language. That moment solved my dual dilemma: it defined both the genre I was meant to inhabit and the language in which I would finally find my voice.

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 work in cycles. I do not spend much time in a preparatory phase; rather, a project begins the moment an obsession or a rhythm takes hold of me — it always starts entirely unexpectedly. At the beginning of a new project, I write at an unbelievable speed; the poems seem to come to me effortlessly, arriving almost fully formed. During this manic phase, I can pen three or four poems in a row. This frenzy typically lasts until the midpoint of the project —usually about two weeks— after which the euphoria dissipates, things settle, and I increasingly face the terror of the blank page. The final poems of a cycle must be extracted from me as if with forceps, and these usually demand substantial editing. Once a project is complete, I fall into a state of apathy, needing a considerable amount of time to recover and feel the stirrings of inspiration once again.

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?

For me, a poem usually begins with a specific image or a sonic rhythm that refuses to be ignored. My approach to structure has evolved significantly over time. My earlier volumes, such as my haiku debut and my first free verse collection, Moon Flogged, were gradual compilations — poems written over the span of two years that were later gathered into a cohesive whole. However, in my more recent work, such as “Split” and “Game of Little Deaths”, my process has shifted. I now work on a "book" from the very beginning. Once that initial spark ignites, I immediately perceive the atmosphere and the boundaries of the entire project. Even though these works are composed of brief, fragmented elements, they are born out of a singular, overarching vision. I no longer gather fragments to see what they might become; I start with the "whole" in mind and then meticulously sculpt the individual pieces to inhabit that specific space.

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

Public readings are not part of my creative process; in fact, I find them rather counter to the solitary and intimate nature of my work. I am not the type of writer who seeks the stage or enjoys the performative aspect of literature. My only experience of this kind was at the Discuția Secretă International Literature Festival in Arad, where I read from my free verse debut, Moon Flogged. For me, the poem is a private, quiet conversation between the page and the reader. I believe the delicate tension and the brevity of my work are best experienced in silence. When projected toward an audience, that resonance often dissipates, as if the "meat" of the text is lost in the noise of the spectacle.

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?

My "theoretical concerns" are less about academic structures and more about the visceral physics of the text. I am obsessed with the tension between what is spoken and what is withheld — the "sculptural" balance of removing the surplus to reveal the musculature of an emotion. My primary concern is how much can be stripped away before a poem loses its heartbeat, yet keeping enough "meat" on the bone to maintain its sensuality and tension. I am not trying to provide answers; instead, I am exploring questions of absence, memory, and the fragmented nature of the self. What does a body remember when the mind chooses to forget? How can brevity contain a lifetime of domestic or ancestral weight? To me, the "current questions" of literature are not topical; they are timeless: how to remain authentic in a world of noise and how to translate the silence of our most intimate traumas into a language that others can finally hear.

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?

In a culture increasingly dominated by noise and ephemeral content, the writer’s role has shifted from being a public voice to becoming a guardian of silence and nuance. I often wonder if we still have a role in the traditional sense, but I believe that if one exists, it is to act as a counterweight to the superficial. The writer should not necessarily be a moral guide or a political commentator, but rather a witness to the invisible. Our role is to slow down the reader's pulse, to reclaim the depth of language, and to remind people that beneath the "noise," there are still profound, visceral truths that require stillness to be understood. If the world is a constant scream, the writer’s role is to offer the precision of a whisper — one that lingers long after the shouting has stopped.

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

For me, working with an editor is essential, primarily because English is my third language. When I first began writing prose poems, a sense of insecurity led me to seek editorial guidance. My dear friend Alan Peat was the first to support me, and we eventually co-authored the haibun collection Barking at the Coming Rain. We co-edited that work until every piece felt right, and to this day, I still seek his perspective whenever I am hesitant about a poem. In fact, editors have always been integral to my process. My haiku collection was curated by my publisher, Danny Blackwell, who during the pandemic meticulously selected the best pieces from over a hundred poems. More recently, Benjamin Niespodziany played a crucial role in ordering the poems for my volume Split / Game of Little Deaths, published by Piżama Press. I find that a trusted outside eye does not just correct language; it helps reveal the "true form" of the work when the author might be too close to it to see clearly.

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

The best advice I have encountered —and the most difficult to consistently follow — is simply: "Trust yourself." It sounds deceptively simple, but in the solitary and often insecure process of writing, it is the only foundation that holds. Alongside this, I live by the principle that the best time to start a project is right now, not tomorrow. Procrastination often masquerades as "waiting for inspiration," but I have learned that inspiration is a collaborator that only shows up once you have already committed to the work.

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 do not have a traditional, disciplined writing routine; my process is far more organic and tied to the cycles I mentioned earlier. I do not force myself to sit at a desk every morning if the "rhythm" isn't there. Instead, my routine is a state of constant alertness. A typical day for me begins quietly, usually with tea and a period of observation. However, I am capable of intense discipline when a project demands it. For instance, from November of last year until this February, I worked on a trolley-commuting journal. During those months, I wrote every single day, regardless of whether the commute felt inspiring or not. Generally, when I am in the middle of a project, the writing happens anywhere—it’s an obsession that follows me through my domestic life. My routine isn't about when I write, but about being ready to respond the moment the project speaks. When I’m in that "manic phase," the routine is simply to not get in the way of the flow.

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

When the flow stalls, I do not try to force the writing; instead, I shift my focus to other forms of sensory intake. Among all the visual arts, painting is my most profound source of inspiration. It is a vital part of my creative life — for instance, the haibun collection I co-authored with Alan Peat was directly inspired by surrealist paintings. Observing how a painter handles light or how a surrealist composition disrupts reality helps me understand where my own rhythm has lost its tension. When I cannot find the words, I look at the "musculature" of a painting. I also find inspiration in the mundane fragments of reality: a snippet of a conversation overheard on the trolley or the specific way rain hits a window. Nevertheless, most often, when I am truly stalled, I simply wait in that state of "apathy," trusting that the next obsession is already forming out of the blue, just beyond my current vision.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Rain always reminds me of home. Not because the roof is leaky, but because rain can be both a blessing and a source of stress—much like the atmosphere within my own house. There is a duality there; sometimes I am happy, but more often, I am not. I am currently in a process of learning to accept and love myself, and part of that involves offering myself small "treats" or comforts. Lately, these have taken the form of aromatic oils. I have completely fallen for the scent of geranium; I use it as often as I can to anchor myself. So, if home is a place of tension, geranium has become my chosen fragrance of peace within it.

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?

While it is true that books speak to other books, my work is perhaps more deeply rooted in visual art and the rhythms of the mundane. As a direct proof of this influence, my volume “Split” contains prose poems written as fictionalized short letters from the perspective of Francesca Woodman, Unica Zürn, and Hans Bellmer. Their exploration of the body and the subconscious has been vital to my own creative language. I often find that a brushstroke, a photograph, or a specific use of light can solve a structural problem in a poem more effectively than another text could. Nature, too, plays a crucial role through its atmospheric shifts—the way rain changes the weight of the air or how light fluctuates. My work is a constant attempt to translate the visual and atmospheric tension I find in art and the world into the "musculature" of language.

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

My literary landscape is shaped by those who master the art of brevity and the weight of silence. While the classic forms are my foundation, I am most deeply drawn to contemporary voices that explore the visceral and the surreal with uncompromising intensity. Writers like Aase Berg, Ann Jäderlund, and Kim Hyesoon are vital to me; their ability to navigate the grotesque, the domestic, and the bodily has provided a language for my own explorations of tension and fragment. Additionally, the haibun of my dear friend and collaborator Alan Peat is a constant source of inspiration. His work resonates with me deeply, and our creative dialogue often helps me recalibrate my own rhythm when I am searching for the "true form" of a poem.

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

I want to move beyond the stillness of the page and explore the physical and visual dimensions of creativity. One of my main goals is to start dancing—specifically, to experiment with Gabrielle Roth’s 5Rhythms: Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical, and Stillness. I feel a deep connection between these rhythms and the way I structure my text; moving my body through these states feels like a natural extension of "sculpting" a poem. I also want to dedicate myself to painting. I have already taken the first step by enrolling in a painting course. After years of being inspired by surrealist art and using it as a catalyst for my writing, I feel the need to engage with color and form directly. It is as if I have been describing the "musculature" of the world for so long that now I finally want to touch the clay and the canvas with my own hands.

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?

In my childhood, I dreamed of becoming an actress. However, when the moment came to actually defend that dream or take the steps to fulfill it, fear took over and I abandoned it. Today, looking back, I am not entirely convinced I would have been a good actress, but I have also come to believe that it is never too late for a new beginning. Writing has been my way of performing and exploring different "lives," but that original spark for acting remains a part of my history. Even if I did not follow that path then, the realization that I can still start something new—whether it’s the painting I’ve begun or the dancing I want to attempt—gives me a sense of freedom. I have learned that a dream deferred isn't necessarily a dream lost; it just transforms into a different kind of courage.

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

I began writing poetry in primary school, and although I have abandoned it several times throughout my life, I have always returned to it. It is an inseparable part of who I am. For me, poetry isn't just a craft or a hobby; it is a lifestyle, a way of existing in the world. I write because it is a biological necessity—I need poetry as much as I need air to breathe. No matter how long the intervals of silence or "apathy" might last, the return to writing is inevitable because it is the only way I can truly process reality and maintain my equilibrium. It is the thread that connects all the different versions of myself, from that young girl in school to the woman I am today.

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

The last great book I read was Thirst (Soif) by Amélie Nothomb. I was deeply moved by its lyricism and the incredible brevity and conciseness of her prose. It takes immense courage to approach a theme as monumental and sensitive as the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus, yet she does it with such precision. It resonates with my own belief that the most profound truths are often found in the most stripped-back forms. Regarding film or television, I’ve recently been watching The Good Doctor on Netflix. I don't necessarily watch it for its "high artistic value," but rather for its ability to help me unwind. Sometimes, after the intensity of "sculpting" my own work, I need a space that offers a different kind of focus and clarity—a way to detach and simply let a story flow without the pressure of artistic deconstruction.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I am currently in a very prolific and transformative phase. For the first time, I have started writing in Romanian, my second language, which has opened up new emotional landscapes for me. I am in the early stages of a lyrical novel, exploring a longer, more fluid narrative form than I have attempted before. Simultaneously, I am working on a "marathon poem" in Romanian—a single piece intended to stretch to the length of a full volume. It’s a challenge of endurance and rhythm that fascinates me. On the professional side, I am currently approaching publishers for two completed manuscripts: my trolley-commuting journal and a new poetry collection. It feels as though all the "sculpting" I have done in shorter forms is now giving me the strength to tackle these larger, more ambitious structures.

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