Wednesday, September 30, 2009

An urgent note from Roland Prevost: save jwcurry & Room 302 Books!

john curry, certainly a world class poet living in our community, is presently facing almost certain eviction.

Stephen Brockwell alerted me of this precarious situation, by phone, and asked if I would get the word out, most recently at the TREE Reading Series on September 22, where we were able to scare up enough to cover one of his 5 months’ owed rent & save his telephone service.

curry’s been in constant production of his own and hundreds of others’ work since 1979. he’s mainly ineligible for grants. His bookstore is mainly an unused resource. His archive documenting the growth of avant-garde writing in Canada is one of the key collections in the country. Nicky Drumbolis has said: “curry and his work are the best-kept secret in Canada.”

Since time is of the essence, if curry’s to avoid eviction, there are a few ways you can help:

Start to use his goddamn store!

Room 302 Books is the only bookstore in Canada ever to focus specifically on the avant-garde and “overlooked outsiders,” specializing in concrete/visual/sound poetries (mainly Canadian) with a stock of over 20,000 mainly rare titles, including “elusive ephemera,” and probably the only source of most of jwcurry’s various imprints and titles (which number in the thousands). curry’s current lists finally focus on his own work as artist & publisher, virtually the first time everything that’s (still) available has been made commonly available. You can purchase bookstore IOUs (or set up an account) today in any amount for those who’d like to do that.

Subscribe to Curvd H&z, curry’s serial imprint. “donor” subscriptions (please indicate) of $100 or more get ½ the stash in a sampling of available titles from various of his imprints immediately, the remaining ½ put on account for forthcoming titles.

Donate outright.
I would like to encourage you to donate something so as to keep this excellent bookstore, publisher, archive and artist alive, and at the same time help prevent curry’s eviction from his apartment. For those who’d like to purchase bookstore IOU’s, I’d ask you to write (#302-880 Somerset Street West, Ottawa Canada K1R 6R7) or call him at (613) 233 0417. Please contribute as you can.

Roland Prevost (with collusions with curry)

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Ongoing notes: late late September, 2009

Please remember what Susan Sontag said: be careful talking about meaning in literature. It’s always one step away from sociology, the lowest form of measurement.
-- Barry Callaghan, as quoted in Walrus (October 2009)
Why is it that I’m predominantly getting chapbooks from American publishers these days? Don’t Canadian publishers make chapbooks anymore? Will we see you at our ottawa international writers festival, happening this month, or the ottawa small press book fair, happening next, or the Toronto one, happening in December this year? And are you finally going to subscribe to above/ground press this year? And did you see this piece, the beginning of my “toronto memoir” (remember I kept posting bits of “McLennan, Alberta,” one I attempted from Edmonton, moons ago) on Open Book Toronto? I’ve been so damned insular lately; can anyone out there, perhaps, tell me anything going on that I might be missing?

Denver CO: Something that appeared recently in my mailbox is Lesley Yalen’s This Elizabeth (2007), published by Eric Baus’ minus house press.

Answering the phone is like having your
ticket torn. Having your ticket torn is a
dramatic act of entrance. Inside the
telephone is a tiny talker, a husband
who is not able to be desired and who
does not desire his wife though she is
able. The wife needs to be pressed upon
as she dies. The husband needs to stay
in Antarctica doing work that will
benefit many. Actors and actresses are
desirable because they are needless.
They are commonly up on screens that
don’t touch. (from “(three)”)

Writing ten extensions/sections, what makes this poem is how she doesn’t hold herself to spacing or structure, weaving and blending from section to section, a wandering decalogue of extravagant voices. Who is this Lesley Yalen?

This kitchen person spares some change for the street people who squat beside the health food store.

The street people dumpster-dive to supplement memory.

Pass and be passed, spare and be spared.

This kitchen person is sporadic, sometimes carrying so many shopping bags, sometimes concentrating on sidewalk cracks.

Sometimes she starts a conversation but skips out quick.

Other times she just clicks on by.

The specialist tells her he is not going to lie down when he discovers her cells are
dividing unchecked.

(It’s going to hurt.) (from “(One)”)
Athens GA: I like the small moments that come out of American poet Lily Brown’s new chapbook Old With You (Kitchen Press, 2009).

I NAME

something something,

to understand. A

temporary piece.

Thought, images

repeat. I skim

for feeling, no

literal intent.

But where are all these small moments going, heading? Poems of breath and halting thought, pushing ahead by going thoughtfully slow. I am intrigued by the poems of this Lily Brown, and am intrigued as to what she might do with a full collection.

To find out more about this title, author or press check out www.kitchenpresschapbooks.blogspot.com

South Boston MA: I got some lovely little chapbooks some time ago from Rope-a-Dope Press, including Mark Yakich’s What, Friends, Is A City? [see my review of his most recent trade poetry collection here] and Kate Schapira’s Case Fbdy., each small chapbook produced in numbered editions of less than one hundred. They’re lovely little books; should I just let the poems speak for themselves?

At night
one wants
what everyone
else has. At dawn
thousands of
legs will scissor
together and apart
and a couple
will be crushed
by a harried
ambulance.
It will not be
sad, true or false. (Mark Yakich)

Girl aged eight years

Old enough to swallow herself
girls seem to be prone
with heads downward. Attention
transfixes across the lumen
her obligations. Chores.
Like on Little House
on the Prairie Sundays
no work as possible
as folded stillness.
Staring. Aged. Enough.
Cure. Inhale one every
year for the rest of your
life. See how you’ve grown. (Kate Schapira)

Monday, September 28, 2009

12 or 20 questions: with Chris Ewart

Chris Ewart is currently completing a PhD in English at Simon Fraser University and working on a second novel. His first novel, Miss Lamp, was shortlisted for a 2007 ReLitAward and is one of the Top 30 Books of 2006 as chosen by Pages on Kensington in Calgary. He has taught at the University of Calgary and the Alberta College of Art and Design. His critical and creative work (fiction, plays, poetry) often interrogates disability and normalcy in narrative and popular culture.

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

Miss Lamp lets me call myself an author. A friend taught it a while ago and gave me some anonymous student essays about it. I’ve kept those papers. Even a few years on, the actual of “book” seems surreal – a ripening representation of and detachment from myself. In some ways Miss Lamp allows me to question my writing less while giving me more narrative room to explore the possible with storytelling. I like to have fun with the ways words exploit our senses (and sensibilities) and with how situations play out when characters surprise us, make us scratch our heads, laugh a little, or even mist up. My new work follows a girl who wears a dress made of living flowers. In the course of her travels, she enters a town where much of what one may associate with a sunny day (picnics, music, ice cream, kites, etc.) is forbidden. Colours do peek through the greyscale of clouds and placards there, but Miss Lamp is more Technicolor throughout.

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

I didn’t. Well, unless I count grade school. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – from rotten apples to traffic lights – and narrative often hinges upon my poems too. I wrote some crappy “burnt orange sunset” poetry early on and a few travel narrative things as well. It wasn’t until my later 20s that I realized I could take this banal poetry and burnish it into an elevation of the mundane!

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 take a while to write drafts, I think. I often write skeletal bits (a sticky phrase, a brief scene or some dialogue, etc.) and then in subsequent edits I decide whether to remove or add meat to those bits and where to spend time chewing. Ideas don’t take long to arrive – whether from a news headline that day or a memory I want to characterize, or fit within a chapter – but where they might go (and why, within the story’s logic) takes time. Sometimes writing towards an event or a situation characters/places find themselves in becomes the story itself, but lots of scribbles and moments from first drafts do make it through to the letting go.

4 - Where does a piece of fiction 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?

Often, my fiction moves in near sustainable vignette-style chunks. In other words, chapters satisfy their own internal narrative(s). As small chapters add up, characters and events start to collide. This interconnectivity becomes a book for me. What I write (and read) in other genres – a character or voice or image from a poem or a short story – can overlap and become significant to larger narratives. Delano from Miss Lamp works like that. He is from a poem. Before that he was an irksome character from a Melville short story. I guess his “fiction” began when I asked “what can I do with this guy?”

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

I like readings a lot. They usually provide forgiving places to try new work and to find what works best for fresh and not so fresh stuff. I can also get a good sense of a piece’s pacing and how it “reads” through a reading. There are a lot of sentences full of marbles out there.

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 want to show much in few words. I believe in concise use of language. I want to visit characters who exhibit uniqueness under everyday conditions. How do I challenge notions of bodily and behavioural normalcy? Are we represented by our quirks, subtle (or not so subtle) differences or by the stuff we wear, say and identify with? I also enjoy elevating the seemingly mundane through characters who occupy (and are sometimes named by) their jobs. Before moving on, I like to extract the possible sense (and sensory) from words – in all their pauses, clanks, flashes and rushes. I don’t believe fiction and poetry are so far apart.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Writing should offer an escape – a less invasive, more imaginative perspective – from the barrage of too-often-bad-news or useless news or hyper-contemporary, saleable noise in mediums of information delivery. If my writing puts readers into places where they can find some shine in the humdrum of life or stop to take in a line to reframe or consider ideas in a new way, that’s good. How characters deal with tension and what narrative(s) zoom in upon will arguably imbue commentary and from time to time create allegories out of font. Writers need to put enough hearty shit, rain and sunlight down so that readers can pluck a flower or a weed along the way – a grass whistle or two beside the smokestacks.

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

I think editors are great and I think great editors are even better. Working with an editor makes me eager to anticipate what gets caught and reeled in or cut and thrown back. An editor’s slight remove from the immediate of the text often brings a welcome objectivity – a thimble for the needle.

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

Narratives often work against their own declarations.

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?

It can be difficult to write creatively when so much of our time is devoted to different labours and loves. When I can get more or less freer-thought-space – sometimes early morning, sometimes late at night or a block of a couple days – I write to a quota (a page or three) during each period (or I revise earlier sections).

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

I go to a different page of the draft to see if there is something to hook onto or continue from – maybe in a different direction. Failing that, I go through notes and other sources I’ve stored up. Sometimes music greater than 72 beats per-minute can loosen the jam. Going for a bike ride can help too.

12 - Betty or Veronica or Archie or Reggie? Drive or fly (or sail)? Laptop or desktop?

Or Snoopy on his doghouse with a typewriter?

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?

Music, I think, mostly. It’s prevalent in my writing. From a drunken flute quartet serenading an apple orchard to characters who miss tuning pianos or who hum fiery, tasty musical scales. There’s always a marching band in there somewhere. My dad is a big fan of that southern California marching band sound (I was born down there). The Beatles’ “Got to Get You into My Life” jumps to mind, Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” and the horns of Blood, Sweat and Tears via aural osmosis. Oscar Peterson’s Canadiana Suite motivates me these days. Visual art in a visually-biased culture is also important. I’m writing a lot about billboards lately.

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

I’m lucky to have a group of friends who write and write about writing and talk about writing to people on the radio and teach writing. We share, critique and at times collaborate. I also have supportive teachers, supervisors and editors. Writing becomes important for me when it defies my expectations or turns those expectations sideways. Beckett always baffles me.

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

I’d like to convince someone to put on my one act play. My honeymoon will also be fun.

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 enjoy teaching and writing for different audiences. If that wasn’t so, I might have been a semi-rock-star-turned-furniture-mover or perhaps a secret travel agent. I still play guitar a bit. Music still itches me. Maybe I’d be a dishwasher-sommelier. I enjoy cooking and food enters my stories quite a bit. I’d probably run a sandwich shop as I write about sandwiches often. At the very least I’d brave most types of weather to wear a sandwich-board proclaiming

PASTRAMI ON RYE
PILED SKY HIGH

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

I played and studied music pretty seriously and travelled with it for a few years. I think writing provides a compatible extension of practice – of getting my thoughts down – but I get to keep the same address and phone number now.

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

Book: David Markson’s The Last Novel.
Film: Delicatessen

19 - What are you currently working on?

A manuscript entitled Sunny Day and a PhD in English at SFU.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

12 or 20 questions: with Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen

Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen is originally from Saskatchewan. Her first collection of poetry, Clay Birds, was shortlisted for the Gerald Lampert Award, and won a Saskatchewan Book Award in 1996. Ör, published by Brick Books in 2003, won a John V. Hicks prize and was shortlisted for a Pat Lowther Award. In 2005, her poems received a CBC literary Award. Her third collection of poems, Lean-To, is new from Gaspereau Press. She lives in Halifax with her husband James and their three boys.

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

I’ve always liked the hunch and brainstorm of beginning, I like to be open to various styles, and that hasn’t changed, but maybe the transitions from the way of thinking in one poem to the next are more open or fluid, the poems themselves less self-contained than when I started writing.

While I was working on my first poems, I met other poets – Sylvia Legris at Sage Hill, Hilary Clark and Elizabeth Philips in Saskatoon – conversations with them have been an important part of thinking my way through the inner works of poems and life in general.

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

My uncle Victor is a great story-teller with an infectious laugh; my uncle Peter had a deep voice and a Norwegian accent, he and my grandpa spoke several languages and talked about Kafka; my grandmothers worried and whispered about religion and what trouble somebody’d got themselves in – as a kid I loved to listen to it all, much of it misunderstood or unheard – around the corner, picking at the weave of cloth on the arm of a chair or mentally tracing the lines of the doorway.

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 don’t know how long it takes, a long time I guess. All the stages feel good – aimless, wondering, reading, note-taking, composing – sometimes they overlap, sometimes a single word feels urgent. Most of the poems or sequences in Lean-to are several pages long – it was a pleasure to be inside the pieces for a long time, I felt completely engrossed.

I like to open a new book of poems in a bookshop to see how the poet’s thoughts are shaped, where that might take me. I don’t think about form too much when I get started, but try to be alive to shapes suggested by the raw thoughts. Drafts of “South Shore” came out of journal entries, so the final shape is similar to early notes. The “August” poems are more crafted – they needed a taut line, but my notes were all over the place. While writing “Sidhe of the city”, I was concerned about how the world is affected underneath by what happens at the surface, and I was more deliberate in thinking from page bottom (as bedrock) up.

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?

Bits and pieces at the beginning; there might be a glimmer of “book” which I have to let go…

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

Sometimes the transition from private writing space to a public venue is difficult – I feel grateful to other poets who go about the business of publishing their work so people can read it. I heard Don Domanski read like it was an intimate conversation in a room full of acquaintances – and Phil Hall alters me every time I hear him.

Reading aloud in public is a good way to re-enter the writing. I worked with the cellist Norman Adams on a performance of the “August” suite of poems, and it was fantastic to develop a kind of ‘conversation’ between two – instruments? disciplines? – two people with sometimes similar responses to the poems, sometimes in argument or discord about what had happened or what was ‘said’.

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 don’t have a design. I try to go where I feel afraid to go. I had been thinking of “wife” for example, since I am one – it’s an old word, it’s dirty and eschewed, it has a long history of implications: domestic and sexy. It’s a charged kind of word that makes people angry, so I guess it’s current, dangerous territory; the required bond demands an internal turbulence, a wilderness, and I wanted to go further in there.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

‘Verse’ comes from Latin versus a furrow, and vertere to turn: a digging in, and preparing for new growth. I think we’re all starting to wake to a damaged earth, the world is alive with mistakes.

Everyone has a part in this. Observing and recording the natural world is a vital undertaking, as is a poetry which speaks directly to environmental and social concerns. And there are subtle ways the larger culture is fundamentally shaped or expressed by verse too: in song, howl, patterns. The return to traditional forms (sonnets, haiku, ghazals, Seamus Heaney’s Beowulf) and revival of dying languages (Robert Bringhurst’s translations of Skaay and Ghandl for example) shows a respect for an earlier way of life, forms that once fit our mental paths, and it’s a thrill to find that they still do. There is also a need for innovation, to experiment, to follow strange routes of thought, or thought-paths we tread every day but seldom pay attention when we’re there. Socially and scientifically, the language itself is changed, charged, deconstructed, reconstructed. Culture is endlessly generative, by its nature a process of growth which includes the origin of our relationships with one another, with language, with the earth and air, and in ongoing variations.

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

I try not to be too bull-headed…

Lean-to is full of repetitions and returns, can (I think) be read as one long poem, and when I was close to the end, I needed someone who hadn’t read it in bits and pieces, who could give me a fresh sense of the whole. Hearing Kate Kennedy’s response at Gaspereau Press was an extremely helpful gauge – a well-placed hmm from her made all the difference (Oh, I said)...

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

“Gainsay who dare” is the battle cry of the McDonalds and Curries.

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 don’t have much time – my kids are small, it’s been about 12 years of no time to read or write or think or sleep. Our youngest is three, so still a couple years left in this routine. I work on weekends and when James takes holidays – we throw our tenting gear in the car and set up camp in a different place each time, James takes the boys out on explores. I used to work at the picnic table or in the tent, but now I have a card table so I don’t have to pack papers and dictionary away when the beans come out.

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

I like reading English written as a second language, and translations. I'm reading some Ted Hughes translations – his commentary and letters to poets are wonderful, as are the poems which he altered less and less from original 'inter-linear cribs' – the “oddities”, the strange arrangements of thought in foreign grammar left increasingly intact. He hurts and buoys me with this in equal measure.

12 - What fairy tale character do you resonate with most?


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 was invited to participate in a ‘continuum’ of artists whose work was shown at the Anna Leonowens Gallery in Halifax, and it was good to think of the poem as visual art; the result (“Hurtling”) was influenced by almost all of the above. One of the pieces I was shown was a weaving by Kaija Harris – an abstract ‘map’ of Saskatchewan. I’m from Saskatchewan and had returned from a fraught visit home, was charged by the recent trip and again by the gorgeous weaving. I was thinking of the twist of Harris’s weave, I was thinking of family bonds and the structure of DNA, I was thinking of the bonds in the chemical skeleton for common herbicides; I had a broken storm window with six panes – these considerations suggested a larger ‘form’. The ‘double-helix’ lines had to follow or overlap cracks in the panes. For the first time I moved my work off the page and on to a larger space of wall – it felt strange and great. The poem was printed on overhead transparencies on the glass windows; hung and lit, the couplets were repeated in shadow on the wall behind – the shadow was one of those exhilarating strokes of luck.

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

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

This is a dangerous game – I’ve played it before. A prairie kid who thought it would be good to live by the ocean, and before I knew it I was finding my way in Halifax. I should be – am – terrified, but I don’t think I’ve finished with it yet – want to live closer to ocean still.

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 love to cook, love to read recipes, never follow recipes. I’d be a chef. But I’m no good in someone else’s kitchen, not an entrepreneur, would be irritated with customers and whoever hired me…

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

I might have been a painter, but something invisible turned me away.

I read “Counterparts” by James Joyce in Grade 9 and understood something about my grandfather that had scared and puzzled me – it was electrifying to find that someone could articulate it.

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

Lisa Robertson’s Magenta Soul Whip; Anne Simpson’s The Marram Grass; Roast Chicken by Simon Hopkinson; Hold Everything Dear by John Berger – all good.

Last year’s Man on Wire, and Seraphine; The Hairdresser’s Husband and Northfork are favourites I keep watching.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Reading... in the midst of Pound’s Pisan Cantos, not very methodical about it, not trying to piece together every historical or political reference. The leaps thrill me – I landed at “forthwith” and have been suspended there since.

Friday, September 25, 2009

above/ground press 2010 subscriptions

YES! I WANT EVERYTHING ABOVE/GROUND PRESS HAS TO OFFER! GIVE ME A 2010 SUBSCRIPTION (STARTING TODAY, THANK GOD) FOR ONLY FORTY (40) DOLLARS (IN THE US, $40 US).

current, forthcoming & backlist poetry publications (including chapbooks, broadsides + issues of The Peter F. Yacht Club) by Amanda Earl, Pearl Pirie, Douglas Barbour, Jenna Butler, Phil Hall, rob mclennan, Andy Weaver, Jesse Ferguson, Emily Carr, Lea Graham, Max Middle, Jessica Smith, Stephanie Bolster, Stan Rogal, Gil McElroy, Jennifer Mulligan, Sharon Harris, bpNichol, ryan fitzpatrick, Julia Williams, Shauna McCabe, Jordan Scott, George Bowering, Roland Prevost, Rob Winger, Stephen Cain, Peter Jaeger, Monica Kidd, Marcus McCann, Pete Smith, Catherine Owen, Gwendolyn Guth, Natalie Simpson, derek beaulieu, Rob Budde, etcetera.

give $40 to rob mclennan, or mail:
c/o 858 Somerset Street West, main floor, Ottawa K1R 6R7

more information on above/ground press (founded 1993) can be found at http://www.abovegroundpress.blogspot.com/; regular notices are also sent out through an email list (and facebook group); to be on list (including Ottawa-area literary events), emali rob at az421@freenet.carleton.ca

Thursday, September 24, 2009

12 or 20 questions: Joyelle McSweeney

Joyelle McSweeney is the author of the poetry books The Red Bird (Fence 2001, winner of the Fence Modern Poets Prize) and The Commandrine and Other Poems (Fence 2004), as well as the novels Nylund, the Sarcographer, a baroque noir from Tarpaulin Sky Press, and Flet, a sci-fi from Fence (both novels 2007). With Johannes Göransson, she edits Action Books and Action, Yes, a press and web journal for international writing and hybrid forms. She teaches in the MFA program at the University of Notre Dame.

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

I wrote The Red Bird in an uninsulated room during a winter so cold that snow compressed on the roof, driving brown fetid water down my walls which froze on the window glass. Aaliyah died that winter, and Al Gore conceded. Several belts of whiskey per night could alleviate these and other problems. On the other hand, I wrote that book in a condition of extreme luxury: I was a grad student, and I have never had so much time to write since then. As a result, the book reflects a process-oriented approach to writing. Each afternoon I would flee to the bookstore and read the New York Times from front to last page, including the business pages etc. I would write down any odd idiom, caption, typo or term of art in my notebook. Then I would go to class and the bar. In the morning, while still in bed, I would return to my notebook, reread it with my eyes half closed, circle any quote that caught my attention without editing myself, and trying to perceive the way in which this randomized selection of quotes dialogued with each other. That’s how I wrote every poem in that book. It was a kind of chance-based and automatic writing, though I didn’t realize it then, since what came out at the other end of the process were lyrics. It was as Tristan Tzara describes cutups: “The poem will resemble you.”

I wrote The Commandrine under a different kind of pressure. Rather than snow driving dirty ice water down my walls, I lived under a building (in a basement apartment, but since it had a door out the back it was called a ‘garden apartment’ in Chicago bird language). Roots had grown into the pipes driving air up through the toilets, causing large bursts like the soundtrack in Victory at Sea. Also I had almost no time to write, as I was adjuncting four comp classes at two schools and teaching poetry one day a week in a public school. When I sat down for my two hours of writing time per week on Saturday morning, very strange voices squeezed through my hands and onto the page. These were archaic voices I had collected over a lifetime of survey courses and anthology reading: Manfred, Faust, “I dreamed I saw the new moon/with the old moon in her arms/Well if the bard is weatherwise tonight” That kind of thing. All these voices crowded in and chatted with each other and that’s how I wrote the nautical verse play at the center of The Commandrine. It utilizes every convention of the form: sailors, the Devil, a damned genius/poet/head of state, etc. The other poems in the book are also filled with the kinds of strange locutions you find in anthologies: apostrophes, exclamations, epithets (especially), paens, etc.

Flet and Nylund I wrote in tandem out of a different kind of project. I essentially attempted to write a genre novel in each case. I made no attempt at originality in terms of the plot or characters. In fact, I treated these conventions as a kind of form, in the same way the conventions of a sonnet provide the material and rhetorical form. Then I went about fulfilling that form using something close to prose poetry. In each case the syntax had different requirements. In the case of Flet, the sci-fi dystopic, I wanted to create a heroine with no sense of a personal past, so it’s written in a kind of hallucinatory present tense. In the case of Nylund, a baroque noir, the past tense is so seductive that the hapless protagonist is so lost in his memory plot that he becomes unwittingly entangled in a present tense murder plot.

Right now I have at least three projects. I regularly write poems, with an emphasis on performance. I am working on a collection of stories. And I have a half finished novel, a historical romance (!) set in Occupied France (!!). It’s SMUTTY.

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

My parents gave me this anthology when I was a gradeschooler, I think it was called ‘Best Loved American Poems’ or something like this. It was incredibly patriotic and therefore carefully segregated into regular poems (including chestnuts by Thoreau, James Whitcomb Riley, Longfellow, etc), folk songs and ballads, and, of course, ‘Negro Spirituals’, rendered in dialect. Needless to say I found this an incredibly surreal read, particularly because I would flip around at random and find neoclassical references next to a supposed representation of ‘Negro’ speech so freighted with apostrophes and contractions that it sputtered like a machine rather than any human voice. The book was like the most incredible collapse. The Index of First Lines, as you can imagine, was like a diatribe spoken by a madman from New England. The experience was not so much ‘weird old america’ as ‘demented, dangerous old america’ , because at the same time the apparatus of the book was so didacticly cheerful. I think this book has been incredibly influential on my sense of writing. I would describe my writing as ecstatic, exuberant, dismayed, inflated, crushed down, and devious.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing intitially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

When I ever get a chance to write, my writing comes very quickly and then I revise as I go. I no longer keep notes for my creative work. I’m just too strapped for time. I revise it as I go so that the shape is always adjusting itself. Then I email myself the drafts and then I lose the emails among my 4000 emails. This is a very bad and undisciplined way to work. It ensures that I have no literary history, which I like.

4 - Where does a poem or piece of fiction 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 work begins at the beginning for the reasons stated above. Each book of mine seems to have a different idiolect and set of syntactical rules. Once I screw around with the sound enough to figure this out, there’s a fractal kind of process that happens. The micro- syntactic shape begets the macro-formal shape of the whole story, or novel, or what have you. The first few lines tell me what kind of piece I’m working myself up to and for. But not right away.

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

I adore readings. Readings are where it’s at. I love thinking about the material aspects of the text and how they relate to the sonic aspects, and how those two aspects are incompatible and open up a really exciting interval that’s full of risk and potential. People always tell me after my readings that they had no idea I would read this way, with this much energy and funny voices, that I should be an actress, etc. At first that troubled me, I thought I should do more to make the poems look on the page the way they sound in performance. Then I realized that not only is this impossible, but this gap is a kind of wonderful and awesome thing, a space of potential. And I really dive into that space when I perform and pull the whole room into that bombastic, tickish space with me. When I write poems now, as opposed to the textual practice of my first book, I try to nudge my toe into that bombastic space and imagine the poem as this flimsy medium that opens onto this vertiginousness like the city scene in Blade Runner. I’m basically writing for performance. That means the texts themselves are hopefully odd things that jump up and fly around in performance.

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 extremely theoretically concerned! All I do is protest, to quote Bob Dylan. Ok, what interests me are Bataille and the Notion of Expenditure; Antonin Artaud; Deleuze and Guattari’s minor literatures; translation theories; and disability theory. I’m interested in a kind of obscene text and obscene body, in rhetorics of failure, including the failure of one medium to fit into another, like, say, the bad fit of performance to into the printed page, and the unlimited potential energy unleashed by such failures. I’m interested in the possibility of loser auteurs, like Jack Smith and Ray Johnson. I’m interested in new theories of reading, digestive theories that deal with consumption and thus are both gross and political. I’m also interested in pedagogical theory, the way academics try to ‘control’ the text in the classroom as a kind of magic charm through which they control the students and control language itself. For example, the ban on teaching translations as primary texts in English departments reflects an anxiety over mastery. If the teacher can’t read the text in the original, he or she can’t be a ‘master’ of the text, a ‘master’ of language, or a ‘master’ of the students. Instead I think it’s fruitful to let uncertainty and discomfort into the classroom and recognize them as points of possibility. I’m pretty excited about Yoko Ono right now—not (only) for her Fluxus, but for the way she totally rewrote John Lennon as a Fluxus artist (‘Imagine’ is pure Fluxus) and for unintentionally (?)involving the entire world in piece of total theatre about race and gender with herself as the dark and hated villainess through whose heart the villagers would very much like to drive a stake. This piece of theatre has been running now for 40 years and puts Wagner to shame. I even saw recent installations on VH1 last night. What a woman.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

The role of the writer is to continually destroy everything and pull everyone down deep into the mess of things and then to stand up. I’m thinking of another hero of mine, Aimé Césaire, and the imagery towards the end of Notebook of the Return to My Native Land, which uses fecal imagery to describe slaves exploding from a slave ship. In Eshleman’s translation :

I say right on! The old negritude
progressively cadavers itself
the horizon breaks, recoils and expand
and through the shredding of clouds the flashing of a sign
the slave ship cracks everywhere… Its belly convulses and
resounds… The ghastly tapeworm of its cargo gnaws the
fetid guts of the strange suckling of the sea!
And neither the joy of sails filled like a pocket stuffed with
doubloons, nor the tricks played on the dangerous stupidity of
the frigates of order prevent it from hearing the threat of its in-
testinal rumblings

[…]
And the nigger scum is on its feet

The seated nigger scum
unexpectedly standing
standing in the hold
standing in the cabins
standing on the deck
standing in the wind
standing under the sun
standing in the blood
standing
and
free

Or in the words of Amiri Baraka, “It’s nation time, get up santa claus”

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

If anyone’s interested in working with me on my writing, I’m happy. The editors that I’ve worked with at both journals and presses have been tremendous. Editing and publishing are/should be tremendous art projects and social acts.

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

“It’s nation time, get up santa claus”

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

Well, as I said above, I think there’s failure or non-equivalence when you move between different media and I’m very interested by that. My novels scrupulously fulfill conventions of the genres in which they participate and are thus failures; they are not interested in originality formally, plotwise, characterwise. They are only interested in their runaway prose. I also have a hunch that texts have nodes where they participate in genre and others where they write away from genre.

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?

A typical day for me begins with getting my toddler out of bed. I deal with her body for about two hours, take her to daycare, and go to work. I come home, feed her, bathe her, sing to her, and go to sleep. An atypical day for me includes about two hours when I can do some writing in the morning. I typically write when I’m half awake. I’m myopic and a hearing impaired ( I wear hearing aids) so I have a very mediated and partial, disintegrating relationship with the world which helps my writing. My hearing aids only like to hear noises produced by machinery, and they also make all sound synthetic through microchips, so it’s like ‘Revolt of the Things’ around here.

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

I turn to South Bend. Really, until you have lived in a rotting rust belt town you have not lived. People are hurting here, and they are dogged and ingenious. They drive their trucks through the walls of their living rooms on a nightly basis. They get in fights and throw pregnant dogs at each other. They find remarkable items to pawn (one winter morning two middle aged people were standing outside one of the many pawn shops at 7 AM trying to hold a window airconditioning unit up out of the snow. They were wearing sweatsuits and no coats.). There are residential motels here, one is called the Wooden Indian and it has almost no interior. So it’s a shelter without any shelter. We have a lot of yard sales around here where everyone tries to sell used goods to everyone else. The same used goods just pass back and forth. Capitalism is played out and distended here and very visibly broken. As a pregnant woman and a mother with a toddler, I fit right in to most expectations about women in this place, at least until I open my mouth and reveal myself not to be a Hoosier. But most of the time, at the supermarket, the BMV, the playground, the IRS office, daycare, I do not open my mouth. One is not invited to do so. As Denis Johnson writes at the end of Jesus’ Son, “I had never known, never even imagined for a heartbeat, that there might be a place for people like us.”

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

This question strikes me as obscene. What home are you referring to? Are you suggesting that my home has a ‘fragrance’? I love it.

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?
Oh my God. Well, books come from everything. I still believe, despite everything (yes Anne Frank reference) that’s there’s something special about writing, that it can hold every other art form and form in the world, and that the things that it holds badly (like performance) it is excellently deficient in and produces something interesting out of the deficiency. Then again, when I was watching those Ryan Trecartin videos on YouTube, where he has those great lines, like “My personal really concise pussy is creating a very inner monologue that I’m not going to share with you as I become dynamic.” And I think, that line is so dazzling, but at the same time, it’s as if the art is degrading into language, language is the shit of the art. And then I think of the artshow in Bolaño’s Distant Star, the photographs of the young women’s corpses disintegrating into the air, and also of “She’s dead. Wrapped in plastic.” (Twin Peaks). So I love the degradation and decomposition and I’m not worried about it at all.

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


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

Hmm? Write 20 more books. Produce a play. I write a lot of ‘closet dramas’, dramas to be read in the closet, as it were. I’d like to split that open.

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?
I can’t imagine.

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

Lack of imagination.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book was Candide; the last great film Puce Moment by Kenneth Anger.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Getting to school in time for office hours.

12 or 20 questions (second series);

12 or 20 questions: with Graham Foust

Graham Foust's fourth book, A Mouth in California, will be published by Flood Editions in the fall of 2009. He lives in Oakland, California.

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


a) I went from being someone who hadn’t published a book to someone who had—it was rather anticlimactic, though I wasn’t really bracing myself for any significant change. It may have contributed to my acquiring a job at a university.
b) My newer work is, for lack of a better word, thicker. I’m using longer lines and less white space.
c) It looks different, I think, but it feels about the same.

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

I began writing fiction in high school, and I was terrible at it. I had a teacher in college who was teacher enough to tell me the truth. She said I that wrote great sentences, though, and then she asked if I’d ever tried writing poems. I hadn’t, so I did.

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) When I hear the word “project,” I reach for my pillow.
b) Both.
c) Copious notes.

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 the answer to the first question, see lines 5 and 6 of John Berryman’s Dream Song 29. I don’t know the answer to the second question. I guess I tend not to think of books when I’m writing poems—once I get a bunch of poems that seem to go together, I assemble them into a book-like stack, at which point I show it to some people in order that they may verify or dispute my sense that the poems fit together in some way.

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

It’s often helpful to say the poems in front of people and to hear their immediate reactions to them, so it’s part of the process in that sense. I tend to revise a lot when I read, and it’s usually an enjoyable experience for me.

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?

a) I don’t think someone without theoretical concerns would bother to write poems.
b) None. I answer questions in prose.
c) Allen Grossman: “A poem begins and ends in silence. Why not call it nothing?”

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?


I’m generally bored by writers who have “roles.” I think writers should let readers take care of that sort of thing.

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


In my case, it’s very easy and absolutely essential.

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


The best advice I’ve heard was to avoid a certain person who shall remain nameless. Unfortunately, the only reason I know that this was excellent advice is because I didn’t take 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 don’t have a writing routine. A typical day usually begins with my son requesting that I “play bears” with him.

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


I just do whatever else there is to be done. I don’t find the stalking of inspiration very pleasurable. The ability (and/or the desire) to write poems disappears now and again. As yet, it’s never not returned.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Depends on the home. Stale beer and lilacs and manure remind me of Wisconsin. Stale beer and asphalt and red onions remind me of Buffalo. Pills and soap remind me of Iowa. Coffee and eucalyptus and Kettle Chips remind me of Oakland.

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 see what he means, of course, but I go outside every day and walk around without a book in my hands. And I look at paintings and listen to records and read science-related articles in general interest publications. I suspect I’d be foolish to say that these activities didn’t influence me. At the very least, they bored me enough to send me back to whatever book I was reading.

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


I return most often to the work of Wallace Stevens, Samuel Beckett, and Emily Dickinson.

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


Visit Argentina.

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?


a) Sushi chef
b) This question contains its own answer: Not writing.

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


I am a slightly less mediocre writer than I am a musician, painter, or athlete.

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

Deirdre McNamer’s Red Rover and Roberto Bolano’s 2666.

I haven’t seen a movie in three years and don’t remember what film I last saw. Now Amy is reminding me that I have in fact seen The Darjeeling Limited (which I hated) and Juno (which I thought was okay). I have been watching The Wire and I think it’s terrific.

19 - What are you currently working on?

The railroad—I was just marking some essays on BART.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

12 or 20 questions: with Andrew Steinmetz

Andrew Steinmetz was born in Montreal in 1965. He pushes a pen, and strums guitar for a living. He is the author of a memoir, Wardlife: The Apprenticeship of a Young Writer as a Hospital Clerk (Vehicule Press, 1999) and two collections of poetry, Histories (Signal Editions, Vehicule Press, 2001), and Hurt Thyself (McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2005). Eva's Threepenny Theatre (Gaspereau Press, 2008) is his first novel. In an unusual fiction about memoir, Steinmetz tells the story of his great-aunt Eva who performed in one of first touring productions of Bertolt Brecht’s masterpiece The Threepenny Opera, in 1928.

Steinmetz has been the fiction editor of Esplanade Books (the fiction imprint at Vehicule Press) since 1992. Over the years, he's worked on the first books of Andrew Hood (Pardon Our Monsters), Liam Durcan (A Short Journey by Car), Jaspreet Singh (Seventeen Tomatoes), Lolette Kuby (Out of Cleveland) and B. Glen Rotchin (The Rent Collector). He lives in Ottawa with his family.

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

The response to my first book woke me up. It made me conscious of what I was doing or of how readers interpreted what I was doing. Until then I was underwater. Writing was intuitive and unconscious. I was very self-critical and aware of the words on the page and how I wanted each sentence to be, but beyond that – the marketplace, genres, readers, I had no clue. My last book was difficult to write. It has everything to do with genre. In it I tried my hand at historical fiction, oral story telling, second person narration, first person and third omniscient. The typical sophomore mistake: I tried to do too much, probably. But personally I like books that fail at what try to do because often these books have an innate restlessness about them, the author is taking chances, trying things that probably cannot be done or should not be tried at home, alone.

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

I came to song writing first. For years, I was writing deeply personal and revealing songs (on guitar) about my relationships with girlfriends I never had in the first place, songs that had absolutely nothing to do with me or how I really felt about said non-existent love interests. From music I learned about projecting a persona. I’ve never been satisfied with my poems. On the rare occasion I have been happy with them, readers and critics have not been.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing intitially 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 am more of a re-writer than a writer. It comes quickly at first, then not at all, then I delete or erase, and then I re-write changing little along the way. Then I turn it upside down, then inside out. Then I tear it up. Then I water it. I repeat this process for five years or so. No note taking. I’m too impatient for that.

4 - Where does a poem or piece of fiction 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?

Wardlife began with the idea of writing very short, accurate-to-transparent portraits of people. Each portrait was meant as a finger exercise or etude. Writing that book was my apprenticeship. I was learning my chops. I never look at the big picture. I get stuck in quicksand and shadows behind each word. All I try to do is finish the sentence I’m working on. What leads me on and gives the whole project some kind of arc or continuity is the sensibility of the piece as a whole. I have aesthetic goals, and structural criteria, which I stomach before I begin. The aesthetic vision drives me forward.

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

Playing live almost killed me when I was a musician. The alcohol and the anxiety-provoked fasting ruined me for days. But I’ve come a long way. I enjoy reading now. I used to really hate them. Mostly, I disliked the context of literary readings, the preciousness of these events, their artificiality, the emperor’s new cloths aspect of them. These days readings are okay, but author interviews are not my cup of tea. I’m a product of New Criticism. For me the author is dead. Why revive him or her?

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?

The questions are usually aesthetic ones, and architectural. For example, in Eva’s Threepenny Theatre I tried to reconcile Brechtian alienation with an arc of emotional identification. To me that’s what the book is “about”. It is also about genre, which I believe is a current question. I have said I wrote Eva to provoke some ‘genre consciousnesses’. I mean this playfully. But sure, readers need to become aware of literature’s class structure or the caste system that sets fiction apart from non-fiction, and imagination versus opinion and the truth. The book is about the process of writing creative non-fiction. I call it fiction about family memoir. It’s really about the fiction of such a thing as non-fiction family memoir or creative non-fiction.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I went to see a reading by Aleksander Hemon, a writer I admire. He was asked the same question at BlueMet in Montreal years ago. He answered that the writer’s only obligation is to his or her sentences. I feel the same way. Now, he also echoed the humanist perspective that writing and reading potentially has transformative power, the power to make us more sensitive and self-aware as human beings. Reading is like exercise. It stretches us as human beings. I have the same old secular humanist beliefs.

As for the role of the writer or his/her place in our culture, I like what my friend the writer Liam Durcan recently told me: Andrew, he said, we’ve become harpsichord makers. Fine craftsmen, maybe. Beautiful instruments made, sometimes. But not too many people are in the market for a harpsichord these days. And a lot of buyers, when they place that harpsichord in the living room, never play it.

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

Well, “internally” - that is, in my head - I already work with about three editors or competing voices of chagrin. These editors are mostly a nuisance. They say awful things about me and about what I write and about why I write. But true external editors: I love them. I can’t stop writing without them. I never finish projects only abandon them. Editors help me do that. I can’t thank Kate Kennedy and Amanda Jernigan enough for all the work they did on Eva’s Threepenny Theatre.

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

Hold on to the boat.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to creative non-fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

The more the merrier. Different genres and their respective limitations or ground rules let you be different people, or a different writer.

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?

Over the years it has changed. Morning is best, or late at night. Right now a typical day begins with one hour of writing early. Then I walk my son or daughter to school, and then I take the dog out for a run. Then I return home and write or read until I think about playing squash. Then I play squash.

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

Whenever I’m working I put together a small library of books which I think of as prototypes for that particular project. For Eva’s Threepenny Theatre the library was Flaubert’s Parrot (Julian Barnes), The Question of Bruno and Nowhere Man (A. Hemon), Out of Sheer Rage (Geoff Dyer), Living for Brecht (Ruth Berlau), Mephisto (Klaus Mann) and many more. I return to the library when I need inspiration.

13 - What was your most recent Hallowe'en costume?


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?

I’ve been working on a short story called What Happens To Us for about eight years. That story revolves around the crisp vision of a character I’ve called Alex Pratt. Alex Pratt is one part Christopher Pratt and one part Alex Colville.

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

Right now Aleksander Hemon.

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

Play attacking midfield for Arsenal FC alongside Arshavin and Fabregas.

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?

Architect.

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

When you write you don’t have to open your mouth.

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


20 - What are you currently working on?

Two projects. A novella called the Great Escape about Michael Paryla, an actor who appeared in the Hollywood movie alongside McQueen and Attenborough et al but never got a credit. He’s a relation of mine. Three years after appearing in the movie he died in Hamburg from an overdose. It’s going to be about acting and writing and escapism. The first parts will be non-fiction; the ending pure fantasy. Again I am working with family history material but trust me the process is not ancestor worship. Rather, I like the idea of taking on a traditional subject and treating it experimentally. I’m redefining Eliot’s essay Tradition and the Individual Talent. Here I am going to sharpen my individual talent against my family tradition, not the literary one.
The second project is a novel called The Song Does Remain The Same about a kid named Virgin Harry who pays a price for hating the band his girlfriend loves. Led Zeppelin.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

12 or 20 questions: with Anik See

Anik See is the author of A Fork in the Road (Macmillan, 2000), Saudade: the possibilities of place (Coach House Books, 2008) and postcard and other stories (Freehand Books, 2009). Her writing, both fiction and non-fiction, has appeared in Brick, Prairie Fire, the Fiddlehead, Geist, grain, The National Post, Toronto Life and, as a contributing editor, in Outpost Magazine, and has been nominated for numerous awards. She has also contributed to several anthologies. She divides her time between Canada and Holland, where she works with books, old and new.

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 gave me a certain amount of confidence and gumption, though I think I still would have forged on with writing if it hadn’t been published. A Fork in the Road was so different from my later books – certainly more commercial in appeal – and by nature not as risky. At the time that I wrote it I was already working on postcard, what would become my third book, but an offer to write A Fork in the Road came my way first, so I put postcard aside and did it.

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

I actually came to poetry and fiction first, but it took longer to get my fiction published. My fiction can be risky at times, with respect to form, language and honesty – not light bestseller material – so it took a while to find a publisher willing to take that risk.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing intitially 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 think about things for a long time. I think about a lot of different things. And then, every once in a while, I sit down and try to see if there are connections between these things, if something in them fits together. I do make notes, but I try not to write from them, I try to see if they can just be the starting point (or continuation) of something. When the writing comes, it tends to do so in intense periods broken up by longer periods of reflection – usually about three months of writing, six months of re-thinking, then three months of writing, etc.

4 - Where does a fiction 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 never know how long something is going to be until it’s finished. And even then I don’t know. My short story “postcard” started out feeling like a very long, conventional piece, and that’s originally how I wrote it. What I thought was the final draft was about 250 pages long. But when I was finished with it, I let it sit for six months or so without looking at it, and then took it to Banff to go over it again. About halfway through a month-long stay there, where both I and my advisor were struggling with it, I had a breakthrough. In one three-hour period, I slashed two-thirds of the story and gave the surviving third the “form” it now takes today, which felt much truer to me than the original, longer piece. I don’t want to ruin anything, but you have to see the physical layout of “postcard” to understand what a radical transformation it was...

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

I do enjoy doing readings. I love meeting readers, and it gives me a chance to see my work in a new light. Pace in a piece is very important to me, and that only becomes apparent when read aloud, for some reason. By the time I’m doing readings, the pace has been worked out, but it’s always good to go back to something that’s completed to remind myself of the process, or mistakes, or accomplishments...

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?

Hmmm. You know, I think it just comes down to truth and honesty for me. Earlier, I was obsessed with why people didn’t tell the truth. Now I’m obsessed with the different kinds of truths that people hold, both between themselves and within themselves.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I think the writer’s responsibility is to tell a truth. Not necessarily their own, or to be objective about it, but to be true enough to a subject or character that both the writer and the reader can gain from it. Otherwise there’s no point in sticking with a story, either as a reader or a writer.

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

Always essential. No difficult, but not always easy. If an editor is really having a problem with a section and Ifind myself overly-defending it, then I have to ask myself if my writing in that passage is good enough to convey what needs to be conveyed.

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

“A young writer’s best friend should be the garbage can.” The best teacher I ever had told me this more than 20 years ago, and it’s stayed with me (see question #4). I think he was trying to convey not that there’s no worth in a young writer’s work, but how long the process can be before you have something that feels right.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to critical/creative non-fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

It’s easy, though I often employ non-fiction in my fiction and embellish a bit in my non-fiction (who doesn’t?). It’s often hard for me to tell them apart, but I don’t mind as long as the essence is true. I wish we didn’t depend on the distinction so much. Someone once told me that the Spanish don’t differentiate between fiction and non-fiction, so when you walk into a bookstore in Spain you have to leave your North American prejudices behind. I don’t know if it’s true, but I hope it is.

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 have no routine. I write when I feel I absolutely need to, when I feel that not writing would be a mistake. For me, reading other writing and absorbing things, observing, are just as much a part of writing as the actual writing part, so as long as I’m doing any of those things, I feel like I’m working, and that’s routine enough for me. Anything more regimented and I feel like I have to produce, which kills anything innovative and interesting.

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

Film. Other great writing. Sometimes I’ll read/re-read a book which has a style similar (but not too similar) to what I’m writing to get my head back into that voice again.

13 - Have you have a lucky charm?

A fountain pen with a flat nib and a lined notebook that feels nice – thick with paper, but not so thick that it’ll take years to fill. I still write longhand, then transpose to the computer, which seems ridiculous, but for me it makes for better, more careful/thoughtful writing.

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 influences my work. Sorry, I don’t mean to be glib, but it does.

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


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

Be paid well for all of the time and effort I put into my writing. Not a lot of money, but enough to make it feel like the relationship is a bit more balanced.

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?

I’ve attempted (and held) many occupations to support myself while writing. My official occupation at the moment (in terms of income, anyway) is as a bookbinder and book restorer, which I like, but there’s not much mental work involved beyond some occasional problem-solving. I think I may have wound up as an unemployed filmmaker if I hadn’t been so obsessed with books my whole life. Or maybe a psychiatrist – one of the kinds who just listens.

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

A force. I can’t describe it. I’ve known since I was in grade 6 that I needed to write, and it has been the one thing I’ve stuck to, for better or worse, since then. And I still love it like I did back then. I can’t say that about anything else I’ve ever done.

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

The Turkish film Climates

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m working on a fiction piece about someone who coincidentally decides to abandon urban living for a rural/more self-sufficient setting (the foothills of the Canadian Rockies) on the day of the attacks in New York City. I’m trying to examine why we’re turning our backs on landscape... The piece uses embedded photographs to recapture a lost way of living, a lost feeling of space, a lost time, a comfortableness in nature.