Nicole Mae (they/she) is an interdisciplinary artist from Saskatchewan,
Canada. Their poems, films, and artworks reflect themes of longing, nature,
queer joy, Hungarian diaspora, ill body, unlearning shame, and romantic love.
Select works can be found online, in bookstores and magazines, and in art
galleries across North America. Their latest poetry collection Ribgrass contains
poems featured by: The League of Canadian Poets, the Writers’ Trust of Canada, Paloma
Magazine, The Lilac Journal, Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild, periodicies,
and DUSIE.
1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your
most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first book was very impassioned. Back then, I
experienced intense nostalgia for moments that were happening in real-time. My
depression was eroding, and I wanted so badly to keep the few “good moments” I
had. Writing my first book allowed me to capture
and preserve them, in a sense. What was visceral and ephemeral was mine
forever. And once published, I had a variety of readers reach out and tell me
about their lives—hollow, queer, young people that wanted to feel happier and
couldn’t figure out how. Two of them told me my book kept them from taking
their own lives. These responses gave my writing a new purpose: to be a mirror
and to be a vehicle for grief. I committed to refining and developing my craft,
and I would say that my newest poetry collection, Ribgrass, demonstrates
this. Unlike my first collection, which took less than a year to write, Ribgrass
took close to eight years. My life expanded, so my writing did too. Ribgrass is
written through themes of queer ecology, Hungarian diaspora, romantic love,
prairie land, disability, bugs, memory food, and mourning family.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or
non-fiction?
I’ve been writing ever since I was young, but poetry wasn’t a genre I
initially gravitated to. I have a handful of finished manuscripts in my studio—a
fantasy, a western, an essay collection, etc. But there are two specific
reasons I became a poet despite writing in other genres first. 1) My high
school creative writing teacher wanted me to attend a writing retreat. I was
unconfident and hesitant to go, but she really believed in my potential and
encouraged me to try it out. During those weeks at the retreat, I met several
friends and mentors, all of whom tried convincing me to write poetry. They
would say something along the lines of; “Have you ever thought about writing
poetry? This piece is personal and vivid—it sounds like a poem.” I would say,
“Nah, not interested.” 2) I fell in love. I met someone when I was eighteen that
practically changed my nervous system. I lived and breathed love in a way I had
never experienced before. Suddenly, writing fictional stories and abstract
essays didn’t cut it anymore. I needed to find a new way to write—to explore
this unveiled layer of myself and to express the depth of our relationship. I
thought back to the writing retreat and started writing poetry. And I never
stopped.
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?
A little bit of everything! Some poems reveal themselves to me—beginning
to end—within a matter of seconds. Other poems take months of shaping and
revisions. I would say the first draft is never too far off from the final one.
But I’ve also had my fair share of written works that are chopped up, changed,
and workshopped with five or more people.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short
pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a
"book" from the very beginning?
I’ve always written poetry as an extension to life. I don’t have an end
goal, nor a project at large. I write about the seasons, what I taste and
smell, what I learn about myself, and the memories that resurface and haunt.
There’s always a notebook with me—in my car, beside my bed, near the shower,
and out on a walk. I write poems like a craving. It can strike any time.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are
you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I attend public readings more than I participate in them. Reading my
poems out loud and to others is important to my work, but it is best done
within small groups—friends or other poets. I have stage fright (no matter how
much I try to work on it) and feel the emotions of that much more than the
rhythms of my poetry. Within a larger public reading, I would rather show up
and support others than present my own work.
6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds
of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think
the current questions are?
1) What does it mean to be bonded with nature more than others? 2) Is
there a way to write about my estranged family, accurately, while keeping their
dignity (and why do I want to)? 3) Will writing in grief relieve it or deepen
it (are others crying while writing)? 4) Are ghosts nonbinary? The questions
are abundant and ever-changing. My answer will be different tomorrow.
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?
I think the role of a writer is that of an artist, a musician, a
performer, a filmmaker: to create a resonant, beautiful piece of work that
allows people to pause, appreciate, listen, consider, sob, console, reflect,
and want to experience it all again. We should strive to enliven each other.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult
or essential (or both)?
Essential. I’ve never found working with an editor difficult. I love when
beta readers, proofreaders, and content/copy editors rip me apart. And I always
encourage my workshopping groups to be brutal in their critiques too. My poems
are masochists.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given
to you directly)?
Everything Ocean Vuong has ever said in an interview.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to film
to artwork)? What do you see as the appeal?
Being an interdisciplinary artist has always come naturally to me. I photograph
what wouldn’t look good as a painting. I paint what language can’t fully
capture. I write about concepts you’ve never seen in films. I create films that
are too expansive for a singular photo. These mediums are of service to the
life around me, not the other way around. By paying attention to how I can
communicate and express this life most fervently, I switch and mix my mediums.
11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even
have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?
I don’t have a routine, but I write most days. I journal, work on lines
of poetry, and slowly chip away at the first draft of my eventual novel. I also
write a personal essays once a month for my multimedia snail mail subscription
called Love Letters.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for
lack of a better word) inspiration?
Truthfully, I don’t experience writer’s block. I’ve always found ways to
move forth with my ideas. The speed of which I write or the degree of
motivation I may have will change. But I’m always inspired and always making
progress.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
It depends on the season. In summer, home smells like windblown gravel
and cottonwood trees. In the fall, dried
leaves and bonfire smoke. In winter, home smells solely of nose hair icicles.
And in the spring, horse manure from creek runoff.
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?
Everything that surrounds me is an influence. Nature, music,
conversations with friends, strangers on a walk, strangers in Walmart,
laundromats, waiting rooms, graffiti, missing person’s posters, street cats,
tall grass, the lines in my partner’s hands, the loose floorboards my cat likes
to squeak, childhood memories, and the repetitive life of a vending machine.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or
simply your life outside of your work?
This is likely predictable given my answer to question nine, but Ocean Vuong has been a huge inspiration to me—both his written works and selfhood.
Same with Bell Hooks and Kathy Acker.
There are many songwriters that’ve been important for my work too: Jelani Aryeh, Frank Ocean, and Ethel Cain, for example.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d love to publish other genres of writing. Although poetry has been my
focus for many years, I hope to grow older having a diverse range of works
published.
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?
Aside from adjacent creative jobs (within writing, film, and art), the
follow occupations would be in my career roster: lawyer, union organizer, nature
conservationist, dentist.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing
feels intrinsic to who I am. It's something I've never lost interest in and
have always wanted to do more of. Playing with language, form, and word
experimentation is endlessly fascinating.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I read Vidh: A Book of Mourning a few months back. It made me cry
so hard I could barely see the pages. It’s an essay collection about widowhood
and grief. I related to a lot of it, and what I hadn’t experienced first-hand,
still felt extremely poignant. The author, Phyllis, did an incredible job
incarnating the harrowing and melancholic sensations of loss. As for a film:
Crip Camp. It’s a documentary showcasing a summer camp for disabled teens back
in the 1960s/1970s. Alumni from this camp later joined a disability rights
movement which fundamentally changed ableist legislation and urban planning. It
also made me cry (tears of joy though).
20 - What are you currently working on?
I’m working on a short literary fiction novel concurrent to an eventual,
fourth poetry collection. Otherwise, I’m continuing Love Letters for the
foreseeable future and documenting my life through essays and art pieces.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
