Ongoing notes: The Fisher Small + Fine Press Fair (part one, : James Lindsay + Jenny Berkel,

Another Fisher fair! I’ve already posted my report on the event, and, unfortunately, I’m unable to get into Toronto further this fall for the Meet the Presses Indie Lit Market or the TIFA small press fair [see my posts from last year], but don’t forget our ottawa small press book fair on November 14! With corresponding event the night prior at Anina’s Café, of course [details to reveal themselves soon, but readers with new chapbooks already include Kimberly Quiogue Andrews and Lisa Fishman]. Here are some notes from a couple of items I picked up this time around:

Toronto ON: Good to see new work from Toronto poet James Lindsay, the chapbook-length Choral Coral Carol (Knife Fork Books, 2026), a single poem set as an extended accumulation of wayward, meditative lyrics set as long-lined couplets. There’s such a music to his responses, as the poem begins, immediately establishing his scene: “Here we are, wheat with no breeze, uniformed in unison / Primed and tuned yet starved of something sounding // Like a call and response, a staycation in lukewarm / Ominous spy waters. What have you been working on?” There’s a kind of catch-all element to the narrative progression, as though anything and everything is fodder for his particular lyric thought, one step and line immediately following another, across an element not only of song and lyric movement, but a process shared. As he writes, mid-way: “Careful / With the shapes you make your hands into when trying to move // Sound around. If we’re going to get this right, we’ll all have to / Make our voices stride to where the sun is stepping away from // Like the dancers we’re not allowed to distract, but hit their marks / In winking shimmers. Let’s make a line. Who cares who’s first?”

London/Toronto ON: From London,Ontario-based poet and singer-songwriter Jenny Berkel (and my introduction to her and her work) comes the chapbook Colossal Wreck (Toronto ON: Anstruther Press, 2026), an assemblage of thirteen first-person narrative lyrics, and a follow-up to her chapbook debut, Grease Dogs (London ON: Baseline Press, 2021). “Between you we are pressed.” she writes, to open the poem “O Night, O Sky, O Sea,” “Beneath you we are puny // bags of blood rolling / your currents. We ooze // to you. Let loose / to you. Take your open // -ness as invitational, / a bitch in heat.” There’s a music to it, one propelled by lyric but held by action. There is such a direct and precise narrative line, perfectly aimed, to Berkel’s lyrics, one that shoots like an arrow, piercing the pure heart of any subject. “Inside a mouth run / out of air,” begins “Voice Lessons,” “sibilance / and hum. Serpentine / lullaby, soundless vowels, / a shape with nothing // born.”

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Ching-In Chen

Ching-In Chen is a genderqueer Chinese American writer, community organizer and teacher. They are author of Shiny City, recombinant (2018 Lambda Literary Award for Transgender Poetry) and The Heart's Traffic: a novel in poems as well as chapbooks to make black paper sing and Kundiman for Kin :: Information Retrieval for Monsters (Leslie Scalapino Finalist). Chen is co-editor of The Revolution Starts at Home: Confronting IntimateViolence Within Activist Communities. They are a Kelsey Street Press collective member, Airlie Press editor and Nonfiction Coordinator for Best of the Net. They serve on the Governing Council of Seattle's Cultural Space Agency and on the board of Seattle City of Literature. They received fellowships from Kundiman, Lambda, Watering Hole, Can Serrat, Imagining America, Jack Straw Cultural Center, EmergeNYC, Intercultural Leadership Institute and the Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellowship as well as the Judith A. Markowitz Award for Exceptional New LGBTQ Writers. They collaborate with Cassie Mira on Breathing in a Time of Disaster, a performance, installation and speculative writing project exploring breath through meditation and environmental justice. They teach in the School of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences and the MFA program in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington Bothell.

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?

I had no idea about poetry publishing when I sent my first book, The Heart’s Traffic: a novel in poems, to Arktoi imprint editor, Eloise Klein Healy. I taught myself to write the book by following the story of the main protagonist and teaching myself to write in various poetic forms as prompts to move that story forward as well as creating my own forms that I made up along the way. When I heard Eloise talking at a conference about the Arktoi imprint and about her goal to make a seat at the publishing table for lesbians, I had an intuition that I should keep that slip of paper with her contact information. In my first quarter as an MFA student at the University of California Riverside, I was in a class called “The Writer’s Life,” where we had to send our work somewhere. It was free to send to Eloise so I sent it, not expecting anything to come of it. I was very surprised when I got an e-mail from Eloise on my 30th birthday, asking me if the manuscript was still available. Throughout the next year, I worked one-on-one with Eloise on the revisions on the book, learning along the way as she advocated for my artistic choices. My most recent book, Shiny City, is more experimental but still maintains that spirit of teaching myself about the project while I’m writing. I chose to send my book to Airlie Press because of its cooperative model – to learn more about the publishing process – so I do feel like I’m following in Eloise’s footsteps with my intention to contribute to the field.

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

I wouldn’t say I came to poetry first because I hated the poetry I was exposed to in high school. What we were asked to read in class felt very far from my life, but I was always interested in reading stories and wanted to be a writer. I wrote a few stories, but I don’t think I had the experience, dedication and community support at the time to grow my interest into a more sustained creative practice. So I will say that I came to poetry publication first. I came of age as a community organizer in the Bay area, learning equally about direct action and spoken word, and how they both contributed to the movements I became part of. At that time, writing poetry fit best in my life – I could write in short bursts on public transit going to my non-profit job, and there was a community of open mics where I could share my work.

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?

No project has been the same, but I often write in small flashes which slowly accumulate. The initial generating is quick, but the sequencing and order of the larger project – figuring out its shape and intention – is usually what takes the most time.

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’m an author of short pieces that accumulate. When I first start writing, I am often responding in the moment to daily life and don’t have an idea where it’s going, but I figure it out along the way.

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

Readings are an important part of my process. I enjoy hearing how an audience responds to the work. Some of the mentors I’ve worked with and have been influenced by, such as Sharon Bridgforth, work with improvisation and audience conduction. I started developing a process of multi-directional reading. If I am able to use projection so that the audience can see what the poem looks like on the page/screen, I often use that opportunity to choose a different direction or variation to read the poem, against the grain of audience expectation. In this way, I often discover new meanings and layers within my 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?

I’m always thinking about what our relationship to each other has been and could be, both on an interpersonal level, but also on an intra-community level as well as an intra-species level. Much of what I’m wondering about now is how to survive this current moment and how can we dream of more sustainable futures, especially for those of us who are targeted and deemed unworthy of care.

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?

There are so many different kinds of writers so I think, similar to organizing roles, there could be a multitude of roles for writers – writers who reflect the reality of what is currently going on in our society, writers whose work helps us dream and imagine into the future, writers who help us grapple with our past.

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

It’s been an important part of the process for me to consider editorial feedback, especially from an editor who understands what my work is trying to do. It was especially important for my first book because I hadn’t gotten a lot of feedback prior to submitting the manuscript. For my second book, I had two editors – Emgee Dufresne and Anna Morrison – who helped me shape the trajectory and journey of the manuscript, which was also very helpful.

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

I completely changed my life after hearing Justin Chin on a panel about the writing life say, “Make your life fit around your writing, not your writing fit around your life.” After that, I made a commitment to my writing practice – of trying to figure out how to keep myself writing as much as possible.

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 try to do the morning pages (from The Artist’s Way) as a way to get the sludge out of the way before I delve in. When I have gone a long time without returning to the pages, I can usually tell something is off in my life, usually a time of deep stress and chaos. I tend to do better when I write in community so I often look for ways to plug into co-writing times if possible. Right now, I have a writing group I write with virtually in the mornings regularly. For years, I also have participated in the Daily Grind, an accountability group I was invited to by Matthew Olzmann, where I sign up every month and commit to sending a draft daily to the group by midnight every day. This year, in starting a new speculative prose project, I decided to adopt Jami Attenberg’s 1000 words a day prompt and attach it to writing exercises from Alice LaPlante’s Write Yourself Out of a Corner and am currently writing through a first draft.

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

I turn to reading or experiencing/listening/looking at art. Also, sometimes chopping vegetables helps.

12 – What fragrance reminds you of home?

The fragrance I associate with home is my family’s cooking, often meals which need to be made together – dumplings, hotpot, soup.

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 often write in response to visual art and other art forms such as film and music. More recently, I have also participated in a project called Writing the Land. Poets are matched with land from nature preserves and then write poems in response to the landscape there.

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

Writers like Larissa Lai, Cathy Park Hong, and Alexis Pauline Gumbs who blend history and lineage with speculation have been cornerstones of my work. I also learn from writers who transform my understanding of what a book can do such as Salvador Plascencia in The People of Paper.

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

I would like to travel more to places I haven’t been – and to spend extended time in Asia.

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?

Adopting two dogs into the family during the pandemic really changed my life for the better – and helped my writing because it constantly pushed me to examine life from a different perspective. I find learning about the behavior of dogs so interesting that if my dogs had come into my life earlier in my education, I might have chosen something dog-related instead of writing-related as an occupation.

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

Since I’ve been young, I’ve gotten lost in stories as a comfort and escape. Through that experience, I realized how much power I had to the ability to shape my own reality and future through being skilled with working with words. As I kept writing, this became a way for me to understand my own experiences and the world around me.

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

I just read Rajiv Mohabir’s Cutlish for the Sealey Challenge. Much of the book is written in a form after Caribbean chutney music, which I found innovative and beautiful. The last great film I saw was Hamnet –  I loved the way the actors used their bodies to embody these huge emotions of the characters and how that pushed me to experience this wide arc of emotions, from joy to grief.

19 - What are you currently working on?

For the last few years, I’ve been working on Breathing in a Time of Disaster, which is focused on community breath stories. I’ve also been writing poem-spells and inviting the audience to breathe with me when I share them. They have been slowly accumulating and I’m currently thinking about a larger thread and sequence to gather them into a book. In the last few months, I’ve also begun a speculative novel which wrestles with the question of what kind of self-determination is possible under a deep repression for trans families.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Derek Beaulieu, Do It Wrong

To write poetry is to make an active choice to assert yourself. To write is to assert presence, to refuse to be voiceless; to articulate your passions, and to know that those passions deserve to be discussed and explored. Poetry is how we assert that the world can be different.
            There is a never-ending flow of books that tell you how to be creative, how to be a writer, how to find success in the literary marketplace. These books propose how to be a success but rarely examine what it means to be a success. They don’t discuss what the benchmarks are for poets, or how striving for success can corrupt writing and lead to disillusionment and loneliness. The pursuit of success often discourages poets from fulfilling their literary potential. These books clog our shelves and present a false narrative that sets poets on an impossible path.
[…]
            This book, on the other hand, proposes—in a series of short chapters, missives, provocations, reflections, and manifestos—another way of thinking about poetry. To write poetry is to contribute to a balanced ecology, not to race to the top of a food chain. Do It Wrong can be read front to back, or back to front, or in snippets as you go. Read this book at random, flip to any page, jump around. Don’t be afraid to mark it up, write in the margins, or cross out the pages that don’t interest you. Dog-ear the pages, tear them out, and pin them to your walls. I hope you’re inspired to write back, to continue the conversation, to scaffold new ways of supporting poetry. Do It Wrong doesn’t have all the answers, but, ideally, it will help you ask more questions. (“CHOOSE WISELY”)

The latest from award-winning Alberta poet Derek Beaulieu is the deliberately provocative Do It Wrong (Picton ON: Assembly Press, 2026), a title subtitled “How To Be A Poet in the Twenty-First Century,” an absolutely readable assemblage of critical essays, offerings and manifestos collected into what might actually be essential reading for those interested in writing and publishing, especially if the very idea confuses, intimidates or frightens. For those unaware, Beaulieu is not only the current Director of Literary Arts at Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, but the author of an absolute ton of published books and chapbooks across North America and Europe, including titles such as Surface Tension (Toronto ON: Coach House Books, 2022) [see my review of such here], Please, No More Poetry: The Poetry of derek beaulieu (Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2013) [see my review of such here], seen of the crime: essays on conceptual writing (Montreal QC: Snare Books, 2011) and with wax (Coach House Books, 2003) [see my review of such here], as well as a long-established micropress publisher of chapbooks, pamphlets, small journals and other ephemera.

jwcurry once suggested to me that the late Toronto poet bpNichol (1944-1988) was a great writer, to his mind, in large part because he was willing to fail (and therefore manage to achieve what hadn’t even been attempted), but Beaulieu takes that idea a step further, suggesting that anyone who wishes to engage with art generally, or with poetry and/or small press publishing specifically, should be willing to completely go against how it has always and ever be done. “Given the meagre audience for poetry and the microscopic financial rewards,” he writes, early on in the collection, “I suggest that you not only dance as if no one is watching but write as if no one is reading you. Because metaphorically—and mathematically—no one is.” Through a collection of short first-person essays, Beaulieu works through ideas on composition, community, publishing, education, awards, experimental writing, influence, mentors, support and other threads around literary production and engagement that so rarely get discussed, let alone in such detail. Referencing an ethos of sharing and community around The Grateful Dead, for example, in his piece “EVERYTHING I KNOW ABOUT WRITING I LEARNED FROM THE GRATEFUL DEAD,” he ends with:

            The Grateful Dead and their fans see the music as only one part of a wider artistic life, and they eschew power and ownership at every opportunity except when it can be wielded to increase awareness, make space, or fund colleagues. The Deadheads I know trade tapes, jam together, offer ideas, play their favourite moments for unwitting converts; they are dedicated to being kind. We need more poets to act like Deadheads.

Do It Wrong is incredibly positive and generative, and strikingly honest about how literary publishing works and doesn’t work, offering his years of experience through the literary and small press trenches on how best to approach the work, and what one might expect (and not expect), and how best to propel the art forward. He speaks of experience over commercial reward, and pushing to purposefully make it weirder. Honestly, this is a book I wish anyone engaged with this kind of work, or wishing to, should pick up and read, from the established writer to the emerging ambitious kids seeking glory and career through poetry (and they are very much part of the landscape), to the moody teenager secretly scribbling out lines in their notebook. Beaulieu’s voice is clear-headed and optimistic, articulating a joy through the process of exploration, learning and risk-taking, and a suggestion that those merely in it for themselves will end up in frustration, missing out on all the possibilities that an engaged community offers. Do you know anyone like that? You need to pick up a copy of this book for them, as soon as you are able. As Beaulieu writes to close the short piece “EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS ARE PEOPLE TOO”:

I’ve written this book as much to advocate to poets out there as to remind myself of poetry’s potential, its beauty, and its wish of community. To give me a balm for the dark rings under my eyes, the frayed nerves, the sleepless nights, the anxiety that I see in the mirror and in the faces of my friends and colleagues.
            I write to help me become a better mentor, a better person, moving from words to actions… and to stay actively aware of the implicit and explicit lessons that I pass to my emerging colleagues.

Touch the Donkey : new interviews with Zhang, Smith, Farina, Heroux, Luckring, Araki-Kawaguchi + Marlatt,

Anticipating the release next week of the fifty-first of Touch the Donkey [a small poetry journal], why not check out the interviews that have appeared with contributors to the fiftieth issue: Elena Zhang, Steven Ross Smith, Laura Farina, Jason Heroux, Eve Luckring, Kiik Araki-Kawaguchi and Daphne Marlatt.

Interviews with contributors to the first forty-nine issues (more than three hundred interviews to date) remain online, including: Joel Chace, MA│DE, Hannah Brooks-Motl, Salem Paige, Adam Haiun, Frances Cannon, Monroe Lawrence, David Hadbawnik, Tanis MacDonald, Jessie Jones, Laressa Dickey, Sunnylyn Thibodeaux, Sarah Rosenthal, Susan Gevirtz, Aidan Chafe, Kirstin Allio, Joseph Donato, Beatriz Hausner, Nicole Markotić, Lisa Pasold, Lina Ramona Vitkauskas, Dag T. Straumsvåg, brandy ryan, Misha Solomon, D. A. Lockhart, Dominic Dulin, Jordan Davis, Larkin Maureen Higgins, J-T Kelly, Jennifer Firestone, Austin Miles, Alice Burdick, Henry Gould, Leesa Dean, Tom Jenks, Sandra Doller, Scott Inniss, John Levy, Taylor Brown, Grant Wilkins, Lori Anderson Moseman, russell carisse, Ariana Nadia Nash, Wanda Praamsma, Michael Harman, Terri Witek, Laynie Browne, Noah Berlatsky, Robyn Schelenz, Andy Weaver, Dessa Bayrock, Anselm Berrigan, Alana Solin, Michael Betancourt, Monty Reid, Heather Cadsby, R Kolewe, Samuel Amadon, Meghan Kemp-Gee, Miranda Mellis, kevin mcpherson eckhoff and Kimberley Dyck, Junie Désil, Micah Ballard, Devon Rae, Barbara Tomash, Ben Meyerson, Pam Brown, Shane Kowalski, Kathy Lou Schultz, Hilary Clark, Ted Byrne, Garrett Caples, Brenda Coultas, Sheila Murphy, Chris Turnbull and Elee Kraljii Gardiner, Stuart Ross, Leah Sandals, Tamara Best, Nathan Austin, Jade Wallace, Monica Mody, Barry McKinnon, Katie Naughton, Cecilia Stuart, Benjamin Niespodziany, Jérôme Melançon, Margo LaPierre, Sarah Pinder, Genevieve Kaplan, Maw Shein Win, Carrie Hunter, Lillian Nećakov, Nate Logan, Hugh Thomas, Emily Brandt, David Buuck, Jessi MacEachern, Sue Bracken, Melissa Eleftherion, Valerie Witte, Brandon Brown, Yoyo Comay, Stephen Brockwell, Jack Jung, Amanda Auerbach, IAN MARTIN, Paige Carabello, Emma Tilley, Dana Teen Lomax, Cat Tyc, Michael Turner, Sarah Alcaide-Escue, Colby Clair Stolson, Tom Prime, Bill Carty, Christina Vega-Westhoff, Robert Hogg, Simina Banu, MLA Chernoff, Geoffrey Olsen, Douglas Barbour, Hamish Ballantyne, JoAnna Novak, Allyson Paty, Lisa Fishman, Kate Feld, Isabel Sobral Campos, Jay MillAr, Lisa Samuels, Prathna Lor, George Bowering, natalie hanna, Jill Magi, Amelia Does, Orchid Tierney, katie o’brien, Lily Brown, Tessa Bolsover, émilie kneifel, Hasan Namir, Khashayar Mohammadi, Naomi Cohn, Tom Snarsky, Guy Birchard, Mark Cunningham, Lydia Unsworth, Zane Koss, Nicole Raziya Fong, Ben Robinson, Asher Ghaffar, Clara Daneri, Ava Hofmann, Robert R. Thurman, Alyse Knorr, Denise Newman, Shelly Harder, Franco Cortese, Dale Tracy, Biswamit Dwibedy, Emily Izsak, Aja Couchois Duncan, José Felipe Alvergue, Conyer Clayton, Roxanna Bennett, Julia Drescher, Michael Cavuto, Michael Sikkema, Bronwen Tate, Emilia Nielsen, Hailey Higdon, Trish Salah, Adam Strauss, Katy Lederer, Taryn Hubbard, Michael Boughn, David Dowker, Marie Larson, Lauren Haldeman, Kate Siklosi, robert majzels, Michael Robins, Rae Armantrout, Stephanie Strickland, Ken Hunt, Rob Manery, Ryan Eckes, Stephen Cain, Dani Spinosa, Samuel Ace, Howie Good, Rusty Morrison, Allison Cardon, Jon Boisvert, Laura Theobald, Suzanne Wise, Sean Braune, Dale Smith, Valerie Coulton, Phil Hall, Sarah MacDonell, Janet Kaplan, Kyle Flemmer, Julia Polyck-O’Neill, A.M. O’Malley, Catriona Strang, Anthony Etherin, Claire Lacey, Sacha Archer, Michael e. Casteels, Harold Abramowitz, Cindy Savett, Tessy Ward, Christine Stewart, David James Miller, Jonathan Ball, Cody-Rose Clevidence, mwpm, Andrew McEwan, Brynne Rebele-Henry, Joseph Mosconi, Douglas Barbour and Sheila Murphy, Oliver Cusimano, Sue Landers, Marthe Reed, Colin Smith, Nathaniel G. Moore, David Buuck, Kate Greenstreet, Kate Hargreaves, Shazia Hafiz Ramji, Erín Moure, Sarah Swan, Buck Downs, Kemeny Babineau, Ryan Murphy, Norma Cole, Lea Graham, kevin mcpherson eckhoff, Oana Avasilichioaei, Meredith Quartermain, Amanda Earl, Luke Kennard, Shane Rhodes, Renée Sarojini Saklikar, Sarah Cook, François Turcot, Gregory Betts, Eric Schmaltz, Paul Zits, Laura Sims, Stephen Collis, Mary Kasimor, Billy Mavreas, damian lopes, Pete Smith, Sonnet L’Abbé, Katie L. Price, a rawlings, Suzanne Zelazo, Helen Hajnoczky, Kathryn MacLeod, Shannon Maguire, Sarah Mangold, Amish Trivedi, Lola Lemire Tostevin, Aaron Tucker, Kayla Czaga, Jason Christie, Jennifer Kronovet, Jordan Abel, Deborah Poe, Edward Smallfield, ryan fitzpatrick, Elizabeth Robinson, nathan dueck, Paige Taggart, Christine McNair, Stan Rogal, Jessica Smith, Nikki Sheppy, Kirsten Kaschock, Lise Downe, Lisa Jarnot, Chris Turnbull, Gary Barwin, Susan Briante, derek beaulieu, Megan Kaminski, Roland Prevost, Emily Ursuliak, j/j hastain, Catherine Wagner, Susanne Dyckman, Susan Holbrook, Julie Carr, David Peter Clark, Pearl Pirie, Eric Baus, Pattie McCarthy, Camille Martin and Gil McElroy.

The forthcoming fifty-first issue features new writing by: Stan Rogal, Michael Betancourt, Noah Sparrow, Phil Hall, madelaine caritas longman, Helen Hajnoczky, Lori Lubeski and fahima ife.

And of course, copies of the first forty-nine issues are still very much available. Why not subscribe?

Included, as well, as part of the above/ground press annual subscription! 2027 now available!

We even have our own Facebook group, and a growing above/ground press substack. It’s remarkably easy.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lasänmą

Lasänmą (she/her) was raised in Haines Junction, Yukon and is a member of the Champagne and Aishihik First Nation. Her English name is Mariah MacDonald, and she is a part of the Wolf Clan. Mariah lived in Haines Junction and Whitehorse before moving to Vancouver at the age of twenty-one, where she studied at the University of British Columbia (located on the unceded Territories of the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations). Spruce to Cedar is Lasänmą’s first published work as an author.

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

Spruce to Cedar was my debut poetry collection that came out earlier this year. I wrote those poems between 2020-2025. In writing those poems, I was able to put my thoughts onto paper, and through writing out my feelings, my thoughts, my homesickness, those poems helped me heal, learn, and grow confidence in myself and find my voice..

I have been writing newer poems this past year, and I can see the influence of Spruce to Cedar on my newer work, though I can also see the growth and maturation in my current writing that Spruce to Cedar couldn’t have as I’ve been processing grief. My father passed away two years ago from cancer. It has been difficult, my life has changed in so many ways since he passed; just like when I wrote Spruce to Cedar, the writing process has helped me process my feelings and pain by putting my experience, thoughts, and grief onto paper.

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

I have always been interested in writing. I remember writing stories about my first dog, Joker, when I was only six years old. Throughout my teenage years, I would write stories in my free time. I remember finishing a first draft of a fiction novel when I was fifteen, but I never finished that story. I only started experimenting with poetry in my twenties; those first poems weren’t good, as I was focusing on the wrong inspiration. However, once I started writing about home and my culture, something clicked and ever since, I haven’t looked back, as I mainly write poems focusing on my culture and my personal experiences.

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?

Spruce to Cedar took four to five years to write. When I wrote the first poems, I didn’t think that they would end up in a collection. When a poem forms, it begins in my notes app, it’s often a passing thought or a memory. Oftentimes, right before I drift off to sleep, or when I’m taking a long bus ride, there is a thought that must be written down before I forget it. These notes could either be a quick short sentence or two, or sometimes it’s the whole poem written out for me to use later. Not all of my ideas get used, but that is usually how most of my poems begin. A quick idea or memory that I don’t want to forget.

Most of my ideas need some work; their forms take various shapes, and rewriting until I’m fully happy with them, it’s been rare to have a poem fully formed and unedited, though there have been a few. It’s a slow process, especially with Spruce to Cedar, as the poems were slowly written down as the ideas and memories came to me over the years.

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?

My poems begin as an idea or a memory that I don’t want to forget; they’re often written in my notes app for safekeeping. When I’m ready to fully flesh out the idea or memory into a poem, I often search my notes app for any idea or memory that sticks out to me. Not every idea I’ve written down has turned into a poem, but that’s usually how my beginning process looks for the poems that I have written for Spruce to Cedar. Because I’m mostly working on short ideas, I don’t focus on the larger picture of a book theme; instead, I write my poems, and if a theme finds me, then so be it.

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

I have always had a hard time speaking to people I don’t know; it’s because of this that public speaking is hard for me, but it does get easier to do the more often I do it. I tend to get nervous, especially when it comes to my poems. My writing has often felt like a diary to me, there’s poems that detail thoughts that I never told anyone before, but it felt right to write it down in my poems. I have done a few readings now with the release of Spruce to Cedar, and it has been difficult to share my work in person, but I do think it’s good practice, and I hope I grow more confident with every event or reading that I do participate in in the future.

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?

In Spruce to Cedar, there was an overwhelming theme of finding connection where you are. What makes a home a home? And can it be recreated elsewhere? There’s also themes of connection to culture, and decolonizing oneself to reconnect with your roots.

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?

Writing is an important craft; humans have shared stories with one another since the beginning of humanity. There are oral stories told to me from my culture that have lasted generations. Being a writer is important; it helps share ideas, stories, and history to a larger culture. There are stories that have been read for decades, and poems that have been read for centuries. Writing is especially important today with the rise of AI, as disingenuous stories are being crafted and created using robot algorithms for a quick sale and quick consumption. With today's technology, writing genuine stories and perspectives is vital; it’s important to keep writing alive, to share human stories. To be able to take the time to slow down, read a book, and feel its impact is important. In order to process our perspectives, share our culture, and impact our culture, then we must write it down!

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

I feel that it is important to have your poems looked at by outside editors as they can breathe new ideas and perspectives to your work that you wouldn’t have added otherwise. They can also be more honest with you about your work, which is important as sometimes it’s hard to see how your poem might be read outside your own personal context or inner circle. Having editors help with my poems really helped them develop into beautiful poems, poems that wouldn’t be possible without their perspectives and input.

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

Only you can control how you react.

This was advice given to me by one of my therapists over the past two years. It has helped me, especially when publishing Spruce to Cedar. A part of me was worried about what the reaction was going to be in my family/community when I released my work. I knew that there was going to be positive feedback, but I was also worried about negative feedback as well.

In reminding myself that I can’t control the outcome or feelings of others, I was able to push those worries aside and publish my work without much anxiety over how my words were going to be taken. I wrote about my home with so much love, but also harsh honesty, so it was a little nerve wracking to release these poems knowing that people at home would be reading them. So far I’ve only gotten positive feedback. So I’m grateful I didn’t stress myself out too much about 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 haven’t really established a writing routine. There are stretches of time where I don’t write, and there are weeks where all I do is write. My writing always starts in my notes app, or on the back of napkins. When I’m ready to write, I look back at the notes I’ve collected and pick what idea motivates me the most in the moment. I’m most motivated to write when I’m processing something, hence why Spruce to Cedar has such heavy themes of homesickness and finding connection to a culture I felt disconnected to. I found that I wrote a majority of the poems in Spruce to Cedar while I was living in Vancouver, separated from my home, community, and roots.

I wouldn’t mind finding a writing routine; however, it has always been difficult for me to make new routines and stick to them. Maybe one day I’ll have a designated writing hour, or routine, but at the moment I write when I feel motivated to.

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

There have been moments where I’m not writing much, but it’s always my need to reconnect to my culture that inspires me in my writing and my art. My culture has always been healing to me; my childhood was filled with culture, and today I’m always trying to reconnect to my culture.

I’m currently applying to a language program to improve my Southern Tutchone, and lately, I’ve been researching Kloo Lake. A place where my father grew up, and my grandma, and great-grandparents too. Looking to my roots has grounded me and given me a better understanding of who I am as a person, and who my ancestors were too.

My culture includes reconnecting with the land, sewing, singing, and dancing. In this last year of being back in the Yukon, I’ve taken workshops to learn how to trap and hunt. I’m desperate to reconnect; it’s all I want to do.

12  - What fragrance reminds you of home?

cigarette smoke, the downstairs basement, Ä́tàʼs coat lilac & jasmine, Semoʼs perfume, lotion, shampoo

wood chips, outside workshop, burl bowl crafting, tourist attraction

nivea pearly shine lipbalm, christmas morning, lipbalm in stocking, lipbalm in vanity

tanned moose hide, Dákwäkäda dancing, native language class, visits to Ä́tsų Khįąʼs house to watch her sew

green apple dish soap, in Ä́tsųąʼs kitchen

irish spring bar soap, 3-in-1 vanilla ice cream body wash, shower nights after the weekly water delivery

moose fat in soup broth, long potlatch days, eating lunch, sleeping on Semoʼs lap afterwards

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?

A huge part of my personality includes the media I consume. I have a growing vinyl collection of all my favourite albums, and I always make sure I buy a copy of my favourite movies and tv shows. I find that music has a huge influence on my life. I listen to music every day. It's very important to me. There are songs that I can listen to and be instantly transported to certain points in my life. Happier Than Ever takes me to moving to Vancouver in August, 2021. Dawn FM, April 2022; Simple Man takes me to funeral planning, July 2024, and any AC/DC song takes me to the 2000s. These songs become nostalgic for me; I’m sure when I think back to this year, I’ll think of Olivia Rodrigo’s new album. I’ve always enjoyed music that has honest and vulnerable storytelling, and when it comes to writing my own experiences, I always try to be as honest and vulnerable as I can. I think the influence of these songs helps with the vulnerability I put into my own work.

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

Noopiming: The Cure for White Ladies by Leanne Betasamosake Simpson. This book follows seven different characters who all have to navigate a settler society while trying to find reconnection to the land and their indigeneity. I never considered the importance of tarp until I read this, and honestly, tarp is sacred.

Fight Night by Miriam Toews, an intergenerational story that will pull at your heartstrings. The story follows a pregnant mother, a child, and their grandma. Swiv is expelled from school, and because of this, she spends time with her grandmother, who encourages her to write to her father, who is out of the picture; in turn, Swiv challenges her grandmother to write to her unborn sister. The ending of the book had me crying for an hour; it’s beautiful, it's heartbreaking, it’s family.

These books were so impactful to me, I think about them often and honestly, I’m due for a re-read soon!

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

I would like to travel. It’s always been a dream of mine to travel around the world like my Grandpa. I hope that one day I can say that I’ve travelled across the ocean, at least once. I think travelling would give me new perspectives and connections, and I would be able to learn new things about new cultures and countries.

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’m not sure what career I would have had if I wasn’t a writer. There was a time that I thought I wanted to be a teacher. I even took teacher education in Vancouver; however, that didn’t work out for me. I think maybe I would have looked into doing something cultural, or maybe working with my First Nations Band.

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

My passion for writing began with grief. I was six and my first dog, Joker, passed away suddenly in the night. I was distraught, and I wanted to remember him forever. Back in the 2000s, most homes had a designated family computer. The old computer was second-hand and wasn’t connected to the internet most of the time. My sister and I would entertain ourselves with MS Paint or write nonsense in Word docs. Being six, I didn’t know much about typing, only what was shown in school. I tried my best to replicate what I learned in typing class, and I used spellcheck and my mom’s knowledge to my advantage, but I began writing stories about Joker.

These stories were fictional; the dogs in our front yard could talk and had big personalities; they would go on adventures, create a rock band, go fishing, chase Bigfoot into the woods. Grief fueled my passion for writing, and that passion for writing never left me. I continued to write new stories in my teenage years, and even now in my twenties I’m writing poems almost every day.

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

Hey June by Cree Nomad has had a big impact on me since reading it. The book explores themes of loss, grief, and love. I read this book while my grief was the freshest, and it’s stuck with me since. I would recommend this book to everyone, and it’s also written by an Indigenous author.

Project Hail Mary, the movie, had a huge impact on me after watching it last April. The visuals in this film were stunning, and the story of finding connection despite being isolated really hit me. When I watched this film, the Artemis II mission was in full swing, and honestly everything in my life felt like it was looking up. It was the first time in a long time I felt hopeful.

19  - What are you currently working on?

I’ve been writing poems surrounding the idea of grief, family, loss, and of course, culture. I’m also currently planning a potlatch for my father, as in my culture the funeral is held in two parts. The funeral comes first, and a year or two afterwards comes the potlatch to honour their life, and to finish the burial (headstone & gravehouse). I’m not sure if the poems I’ve been writing for the past two years will turn into a full book like Spruce to Cedar; at the moment, I’m using the same process that I did for Spruce to Cedar, which is to write my feelings out into my notes, and if the feeling persists, I flesh it out into a poem. It has helped me process the grief in the poems. But I’ve also been having a hard time writing, as I feel like I’m focusing too much on creating a beautiful piece of work rather than feeling my pain. So I’m not sure if what I’m writing now is going to be seen for a very long time, or at all.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;