Kirsten Kaschock, AutoPortrait (as flotsam)

 

Do not finish your work too much

It leads to death. When you perfect
a field, a field cannot breathe. If you touch her
ceaselessly, she will numb to what is
soft. I say withhold the fruit until the table
ripens. I have seen a child wither and rot
from too much getting. Sit at back of hut
and train your eyes to drink. Given time, colors
may accept you as vessel, ferment. Draw them
out—luxuriate in fume. Every stroke
has an origin. A terrible seed. These are mock
oranges, unfit to taste. Except. Give in utterly
to the work and find that everything has happened.
Rimbaud, for example. Leave. Have your long life.
Outlive your children even as you peruse
others’. The world is books. Your hands may be
starved for its pages but driftwood—by sea polished
to bone—stays jagged where God has broken
the femur. The missionary’s promise. In lieu of
mansion, erect lean-tos on beaches you dreamt
into existence as though they weren’t already there.
Any pleasure that lives lives in its endless washing
away, how far sin drifts beyond a girl’s hurt
before ocean returns it, ground to find volcanic
pitch. Art you do not conclude, it is what it will become,
however unlikely. It cannot be helped. 

(Paul Gaugin) (“Arearea no varua ino”)

The latest from Pennsylvania writer Kirsten Kaschock is the poetry title AutoPortrait (as flotsam) (North Adams MA: Tupelo Press, 2026), following Unfathoms (Slope Editions, 2004), A Beautiful Name for a Girl (Ahsahta Press, 2011), WindowBoxing (Bloof Books, 2013) [see my review of such here], The Dottery (University of Pittsburgh Press/winner of AWP Donald Hall Prize, 2014), Confessional Science-fiction: A Primer (Subito Press, 2017), and Explain This Corpse (Lynx House Press, 2020), with a further, Docenture: A Tale of Hue as Told by the Estate, forthcoming from South Indiana Review Press. As the back cover offers, this collection is arranged as a kind of gallery-walk response to the works of other artists (predominantly visual artists), as Kaschock offers individual responses across the lyric to works by Paul Gaugin, Alice Neel, Mark Rothko, Vincent Van Gogh, Joan Miro, Amadeo Modigliani, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Theo Jansen, Arthur Garfield Dove, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Pablo Picasso, Jacob Lawrence, Sinead O’Connor, Michael Stipe, Paul Klee, Edvard Munch, Donovan, Eva Hesse, Berye Saar, Joan Mitchell, Lucille Clifton, Romaine Brooks, Cy Twombly, Lucian Freud, Louise Bourgeois, Helen Frankenthaler, Mark Chagall and Francisco Goya. “They will never know what not to do / with you. This is a layering,” she writes, to close the poem “Contingent,” citing Eva Hesse, “a vanish into / potential, a technique to impossibilize / biography. My material they may long to have // illuminated. But I am no monk, no man- / uscript. And within this doubt / no woman you cannot.”

Structured in three parts—“Maiden (woman),” “Daemon (bird)” and “Nomad (star,” each section holds a cluster of poems, offering her individual responses to specific artists, many of which then extend from that initial response as a kind of prompt into further exploration through memory, memoir and specific experiences. It is as though her poems responding to artists are utilized as touchpoints; offered as a way to jump further into and through specific subjects, memories or conversations. “What happens / happens because of the way light twists / as it filters in.” she writes, earlier in that same poem for/after Eva Hesse. The follow-up, or extension, of that particular piece begins:

After college I tempted across Manhattan, tightroping overtime between skyscrapers until I had enough for a ticket.

In Paris in late March, sky and buildings fought a dovegray and off-white war, the low architecture invariably wearing its subtlety with more panache, churches interrupting. But I developed a fondness for the clouds amassing from fields like on a market day. Also d’Orsay, all arches and color and clocks.

Three weeks I stayed with my aunt and her husband outside the city as it bloomed—the path down to the RER along the Marne, the windowboxes, umbrellas, cemeteries.

They worked.

Those initial poems on and for and around artists, whether as prompts or anchors, even backdrop, against what the rest of her narratives touch upon; holding the poem in place, after which follows a more fluid lyric, free-floating and extended, confident enough through that opening section to know that the poem is rooted in place, allowing the remaining lyric the freedom to explore. “I gave the name Agnes to the protagonist of a novel I set in central Pennsylvania,” she writes, further beyond the poem “Caryatid,” responding to the work of Amadeo Modigliani, “not far from my childhood home and where the flood’s damage was heaviest. My family moved from Ithica when I was two. Not odyssey, a simple car trip, straight down the map, the car blue. // The hurt one accrues living in certain locations can be gothic. Wet leaves, saplings sprouted from porch gutters, beauty described in apathy. Our house sat ten miles from Three Mile Island. During the meltdown, we were evacuated, briefly—the meltdown partial, a mere near-catastrophic seeding dread.” How do the follow-up stretches and the initial poems responding to artwork relate? Composed across a sequence of posts and threads, pins and flayed lines, Kaschock’s lyrics are gestural and theatrical, a narrative-as-collaged-fragment, working to stitch together what she has deliberately pulled apart, seeking out the possibilities of new lyric and narrative shapes, new forms. “Make no mistake,” she writes, as part of the opening poem, “mistakes are work.”

 

The Factory Reading Series pre-small press book fair reading, November 13, 2026: Andrews, Fishman, Moran, Stepanic + Thomas,

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

The Factory Reading Series
the pre-small press book fair reading

featuring readings by:

Kimberly Quiogue Andrews (Ottawa ON)
Lisa Fishman (Canada/US)
James K. Moran (Ottawa ON)
Matthew Stepanic (Edmonton AB)
+
Rob Thomas (Ottawa ON)

lovingly hosted by rob mclennan
Friday, November 13, 2026
doors 7pm; reading 7:30pm
Anina’s Café, 280 Joffre-Bélanger Way

[And don’t forget the ottawa small press book fair, held the following day at the Tom Brown Arena]

author biographies:

Kimberly Quiogue Andrews [pictured] is an American poet and literary critic. She is the author of A Brief History of Fruit, winner of the Akron Poetry Prize, and two chapbooks, most recently Animals I Never Saw, winner of the Flume Press Prize. She teaches creative writing and English literature at the University of Ottawa. 

Lisa Fishman’s newest books are the novel, Write Back Now! (1366 Books, Guernica Editions, 2026) and the chapbook What? (above/ground press, 2026). She’s also the author  of the fiction collection, World Naked Bike Ride (Gaspereau Press, 2022) and eight books of poetry, most recently One Big Time (Wave Books, 2025). Several earlier chapbooks include Deer 1 (Oxeye Press, 2015, 2017).

James K. Moran writes across the genres about grief, love, nomadic superheroes and drag-queen warlocks. His poetry and speculative fiction have appeared in Another Dysfunctional Cancer Poem Anthology, Burly Tales: Fairy Tales for the Hirsute and Hefty Gay Man, Bywords, Glitterwolf, On Spec, and elsewhere. Moran’s fiction collection Fear Itself and horror novel Town & Train were published by Lethe Press. His reviews appear in Arc Poetry Magazine, Plenitude and Strange Horizons. In 2012, Moran founded the Little Workshop of Horrors, an Ottawa writers’ group that carves speculative and literary work into the shape it is meant to be. He also runs Queer Speculations, which workshops LGBTQIA+ or queer-themed stories from far and wide. His debut chapbook is Identities (above/ground press, 2026). Findable at jameskmoran.blogspot.ca, jamestheballadeer.bsky.social on Bluesky and jamestheballadeer on Instagram. 

Matthew Stepanic is a queer writer who lives and works on Treaty 6 territory in Edmonton. They are a co-author of the collaborative novel Project Compass (Monto Books, 2017) and the author of Relying on that Body (Glass Buffalo, 2018), a poetry chapbook about the queens of season 10 of RuPaul's Drag Race. They edit and design chapbooks for Agatha Press, and they host and co-organize VERS/E, a monthly queer poetry open mic. 

Rob Thomas used to do a decent impression of Stuart McLean. He won the John Newlove Poetry Award in 2013 and lives, works, and writes in Ottawa. 

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Theresa Shea

Theresa Shea [photo credit: Ryan Parker] is the author of two previous novels. Her debut, The Unfinished Child, was a finalist for the 2014 Alberta Book Award and the Alberta Readers’ Choice Award. Her second novel, The Shade Tree, won the 2020 Guernica Prize and the 2022 Alberta Book Award. Shea lives and writes in Edmonton, AB.

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 novel changed my life because, even though I’d been publishing in literary journals and anthologies in other genres for a number of years, when The Unfinished Child came out, I finally felt like I could finally call myself a writer.

My most recent and third novel, Dog Days of Planet Earth, tackles large sociopolitical issues in the same way that my previous novels did. However, it feels different on a technical level because this one was written from a single character’s point of view. 

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

I actually started out publishing poetry. My first acceptance was in the McGill literary magazine, the Scrivener, when I was an undergrad there. I went on to publish poetry in a number of Canadian literary magazines before turning my hand to novels. I made the switch because as a reader, I’m most drawn to novels, so at some point I wanted to craft larger narratives and play more with dialogue and characterization.

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?

It's hard to answer that question. I have three children, and I started writing my first novel when my second child was six months old. She was thirteen when The Unfinished Child was published. I didn’t work on the novel solidly for thirteen years and put it away many times because the demands of parenting and working contract jobs took most of my attention. I started my second novel, The Shade Tree, in 2013, and it came out in 2021. It’s no surprise that as my children got older, my writing time improved.

Now that my children are all independent and out of the house, I’d say a novel takes me roughly five years. It’s daunting, really.

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?

A work of prose usually begins when I find myself playing with an idea that won’t leave me alone. Or researching something that I find difficult to believe. Or crafting a character who interests me. Or expanding an image that haunts me. When I start asking myself what would happen if I did this or that, or when I find myself imagining compelling scenarios in which I can place my characters, then things get rolling.

Because writing a novel is such a time commitment for me, lately I’ve been experimenting with not defining the genre right away. I used to push ideas away if I thought I couldn’t get a novel out of them, but now I’m experimenting with seeing where an idea might take me. Maybe it’ll be a short story, or maybe a novella, or maybe a novel told in spare prose.

In truth, I try not to think about the process because much about it feels unexplainable. I have a folder on my computer that’s filled with good ideas and images that I might pick up at a later date. I’ve taken to writing them down because I’ve learned that even the best ideas or images or sentences can be forgotten.

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

When I’m in the writing stage, I often draft my acknowledgements early and imagine the fun I’ll have at my book launch, or when I give readings or make acceptance speeches for the awards I might win. It’s a game I play to keep myself engaged and working. However, as the time for publication and public events nears, I realize I’m less drawn to the public aspect of writing (readings and festivals) than I was when my first book came out. Pandemic restrictions were in place when my second novel came out, so I didn’t do any public events at all.

I do love a podium though, and since I haven’t had a proper book launch since 2013, I’m looking forward to the many events I’ve got lined up in Alberta, BC, and Quebec. 

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 have always been drawn to literature with a strong social justice component, social realism/political fiction. Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle or John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, for example are my kind of beach read. I love stories that draw attention to power structures that create suffering, stories about the underdog, the whistle blower, and the person who does the right thing against all the odds. Why? Because fiction of that kind not only addresses festering socio-political conditions but also features memorable characters and conveys heartrending stories told in a non-preachy way.

Literature is about human beings and how we make our way in the world, the successes and the barriers to our well-being. It shines a spotlight on the systems we participate in, or as is more often the case, the systems that are foisted upon us. But what if those systems cause harm? 

My books tend to investigate some fairly hefty topics. They’re books I’d like to read.  

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 am hesitant to attribute any role to writers as we’re not necessarily a unified group. Often, I have more in common with non-writers than with writers. Having said that, I think the role of “a” writer should be to have the courage and the conviction to tell the story they want or the story they are afraid to tell, whether that be an exploration of wonder and/or political injustice. 

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

I love working with a good editor and find it to be an essential part of the publication process. I don’t use outlines and write my way into knowing what I want to say. That means my process is messy. To have outside eyes on a manuscript is critical.

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

You’ll never write a book that everyone will love.

Believe it or not, I used to think I could. One look at Goodreads ratings proves my theory. Books I didn’t enjoy often have great praise from readers, and the opposite is true too, and that’s incredibly freeing. 

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?

My day always starts with coffee, toast, and a good book. Sometimes that’s the best part of my day. I try not to check email until after I’ve had an hour or two of writing in. But that depends on the stage of my project.

Lately, for instance, in the run up to publication for Dog Days of Planet Earth, I have been preoccupied with pre-launch publicity and marketing and checking email for news. I look forward to the book being out so I can stop waiting for it and get back to work.

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

When my writing gets stalled, I read more. Often, I go back to books I love and dissect structure and plot development. At some point, I get the urge to write. I trust this process more than I did when I was a younger writer.

12 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?

I have no idea! I avoid costume parties at all costs.

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 find inspiration in a variety of art forms. In addition to being a voracious reader, I see a lot of live theatre and films, I volunteer at a jazz club, and I frequent art galleries. I think it’s the artist’s job to find inspiration in life. People are endlessly fascinating. There’s no shortage of stories to tell. 

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

I’m a big fan of Alice McDermott’s writing because my heritage is Irish, American, and Catholic. Nuns and priests figured predominantly in my parent’s childhood, and I find my family in her characters. Also, her writing is impeccable. I always quote this line of hers to show what a great sentence can do: “All joy was thin ice to Sister Lucy.”

I also love Elizabeth Strout, Claire Keegan, and Colm Toíbín, to name a few. 

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

Become 100% fluent in French. I’m working on it.

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’d be a musician (in my forties, I had a music teacher tell me I’d missed my calling). I envy the joy musicians experience when playing together, and I envy the immediacy of an audience’s appreciation. Writing feels lonely by comparison; then again, I think I’m well-suited to working alone. 

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

I’m not sure it was ever a choice. I’ve always imagined stories in my head, so the need to write is an obsession of sorts. Or maybe it’s better to say it’s a gift: Here. Do this. Lots of people have no idea what they like or might be good at, and I’ve always known. 

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

I loved Elizabeth Strout’s latest, The Things We Never Say, and Ann Patchett’s Whistler, and Colm Toíbín’s Long Island. This summer I read Daniel Keyes’ 1959 novel Flowers for Algernon. How had I never read it? The narrative has really stayed with me.  

I see a lot of movies and am fortunate to live walking distance to a fabulous rep theatre. The last great film I saw was Perfect Days. I have seen it three times now, and it has one of the best endings. I remember the first time I saw it, I thought, oh, end here please. And it did! The music. The acting. The close-up camera angles on the main characters face – it’s perfect. 

19 - What are you currently working on?

I have a mostly completed draft of a novel about Irish immigrants in Manhattan circa 1895-1900 that I hope to share with an editor soon, and I’m in the very, very early stages of a novel that draws on some zany adventures I had when I was young and living in Jasper.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Katherine Gibbel, Little Sound

 

It is spring

            in the yard

A remnant A shard

            The light

cooling in its glass

            A pocket

museum A natural

            history

of music On the

            party line

the first person

            listens to spring

peepers A chorus of frogs

            in an ancient play

They’re saying

hello to the pond (“The Beginning”)

A Vermont-based poet and editor/printer of the letterpress poetry series Send Me Press, Katherine Gibbel’s full-length poetry debut is Little Sound (Chicago IL: University of Chicago Press, 2026), a collection set as a handful of extended poems clustered into sections. And when I say extended, consider the fact that this is a collection made up of six individual poems, each paired into three numbered sections across eighty pages. “The first person watched the second person // watched her syntax frame his face,” closes the opening poem, “In a telegram the end becomes stop // not a precise opening of sound // It closes the message // A stop sign its promissory note // I will not stop loving you // I won’t [.]”

Curiously, the opening poem of the first section is “The End,” with the opening poem of the second section, “The Beginning,” and the opening poem of the third and final section, “The Middle,” each poem throughout providing their own take on how one might extend, further, continue, composing a lyric of extended and sequential narrative. One line and another line and then a further line. “The architecture changes when people enter,” she offers, as part of the twenty-one page poem, “The Organ,” “I learn at a talk // about the Eyo in Lagos. // They don’t stop the city’s // operations; they remind you // the city is not just what you see.” Offering a study in sound, in things and thingness, citing etymologies and the things themselves, and how those etymologies inform objects, providing a physicality across Gibbel’s musical cadence, as though physically shaped and carved by hand. As “The Organ” includes, deep within the poem:

Augustine wrote, “All musical instruments

are called organa. Not alone is that called organism,

which is large and inflated by bellows,

but whichever is fitted to accompany singing,

and is corporeal, which he who sings

 

Uses as an instrument, is called organum.”

            The syntax gets circular. I can’t follow the hell

Augustine’s describing. A man singing,

            I think.