Nicholas Bradley
is a poet, literary critic, and scholarly editor. His first book of poems, Rain Shadow, was published in
the spring by the University of Alberta Press. A chapbook, Five Sudden
Goats: Rocky Mountain Poems, was published by the Alfred Gustav Press in
2016. He lives in Victoria, British Columbia, and teaches Canadian literature
and American literature at the University of Victoria.
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 is an encouragement
to keep writing, I think. It gives me hope and a little confidence that what
I’m writing now might become a book as well, and whatever will come after that.
My life hasn’t changed, but I feel that I have some licence to keep going. I’ve
noticed a shift in style in my most recent, unpublished writing, but whether
that difference will be obvious in time, it’s too early to say.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say,
fiction or non-fiction?
I’ve never been tempted to write
fiction, though I enjoy reading novels and stories, whereas the precision and
clarity of certain poems makes me want to try my hand at poetry. And sometimes
the imprecision and the lack of clarity in poems—but always the close attention
to words and sentences, as opposed to the narrative structures of fiction.
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’m a very slow writer, I think. I
don’t make many notes for poems, but the first attempt doesn’t usually look
like the finished poem. It usually takes me a long time to finish a first
draft. I might write a few lines and then set the poem aside for a few days or
weeks. Sometimes the idea for a poem comes quickly, but the words rarely do.
4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author
of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working
on a "book" from the very beginning?
I think of writing individual poems
rather than a book, at least at first. As poems start to pile up, I can begin
to see connections and then to imagine what a book might eventually be. Poems
tend to start when I’m walking somewhere alone.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative
process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I enjoy readings, but they’re not
part of the process (if there is such a thing as a process). The sound of poems
is extremely important to me, but I prefer to figure it out in the privacy of
my own home, as it were.
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 main concern is how to write a
good poem, which I think is always both a theoretical and a practical question.
(What “good” means is also a good question.) Otherwise the current questions
resemble all the old ones. What does it mean to live in a particular place and
time? How do we praise what we love and mourn what we have lost, or will lose?
Everything is a variation on a theme, but there are endless variations, and
sometimes the music is played so well that listeners believe that they are hearing
something entirely new. Of course, I do have particular interests as a writer:
environmental change, the Pacific Northwest, wilderness, philosophy, and
mythology—to name just a few.
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?
Above all, to write—to make art
with language. Writers can play many other roles as well, and usually do, but
writing is the necessary, defining task. I wouldn’t want to speak for others,
but in my own case I hope that the writer can offer a different way of seeing
the world. Teaching and delighting are ancient and still worthy aspirations.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor
difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential, so far. I worked with
Peter Midgley and especially with Alice Major to edit Rain Shadow.
Peter and Alice are superb writers and editors. Alice made specific suggestions
that helped the book find its final form. I’m very grateful. It’s hard for me
to imagine any draft that wouldn’t benefit from another reader’s suggestions.
9 - What is the best piece of
advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Read everything.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry
to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?
In part the appeal is that when I
get stuck on one thing, I can move to another. There’s always something else
that needs attention. I write more critical prose than I do poetry, but I see
both genres as part of the same project, more or less. Some prose is more
technical and less essayistic—bibliographical footnotes, for example—but I see
both critical analysis and (for lack of a better term) creative writing as ways
of responding to other writers and their ideas, and to the world that has
shaped their imagination and mine.
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?
My teaching schedule sets the
rhythm of my weeks, and I find blocks of writing time where I can. Ideas for
poems come when they come. I’ve written quite a few poems in airports and on
planes. I used to be a late-night writer, but parenthood put an end to that—for
the better, I think, in terms of the writing itself. A typical day begins early
with coffee and a bit of work.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return
for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I almost always have some other
work to be doing, so if I’m not making much progress with one piece of writing,
then I turn to another project. I try not to force a poem into existence. It’s
not as though there aren’t enough poems in the world already. When it happens,
it happens (and I’m always thankful when it does).
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Wet oak leaves.
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?
All of the above, I suspect, and
more. My poems are often responses to particular places or elements of the
natural world or scientific ideas. I’m sure that I’m not entirely aware of some
influences, too.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work,
or simply your life outside of your work?
Whatever I happen to be teaching
tends to be the most important at the time. And I review books regularly. This
means that I read fairly broadly (for reviewing) and that I reread constantly
(for teaching), which seems to be a useful combination. Much of what I read is
twentieth-century and contemporary poetry in English, but turning to my shelf,
I spy a book of photographs called Yosemite in the Fifties, Robert Macfarlane’s Landmarks, and The Complete Guide toCross-Country Ski Preparation. I like to be outdoors while indoors.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Write Al Purdy’s biography. Learn
more languages.
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?
When I was very young, I wanted to
be a park ranger. I still think that was a good plan.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I’m not sure. At some point it
became a habit. What makes me want to write now, I think, is the desire to do
it better—to get right, or closer to right, what I’ve previously attempted to
say, and to think more clearly about ideas that remain with me. And to respond
to new experiences and new ideas.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last
great film?
The last great book that was new to
me was probably Barbarian Days: A Surfing Life, by William Finnegan. It’s a wonderful memoir and one of the most intimate accounts
of the ocean I’ve read. I’ve been reading new editions of Canadian poetry—the
collected works of Alden Nowlan, Daphne Marlatt, Fred Wah, and others. They’re
great in various ways, but I knew much of the poetry already. I’m trying to
remember the last film I watched, and I’m drawing a blank. I need
recommendations!
20 - What are you currently working on?
The next book of poems, a messy
first draft of which is almost finished.
No comments:
Post a Comment