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.
