1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Although Rattlesnake Plantain (Anvil) was my first full collection, the book that really felt like the first was Siren Tattoo: A Poetry Triptych. Vancouver’s Anvil Press decided to publish a sampler of poems by three women, gave us a couple of launch events – heck, the book even got a few decent reviews! That was enough to give me a feeling of validation as a writer, and also allowed me to present a better bio when I submitted work. And now, this most recent book sees me back at Anvil (after having books published by Quattro, Caitlin, and Inanna) so it feels like a nice full circle even though this book is very different. I feel lucky that they were willing to take a chance on me with a manuscript that was such a departure from my previous work – collections of poetry with one novella in the mix. This one is a non-academic (I barely eked out a bachelor’s degree at SFU) consideration of one of my favourite films, about to observe its 50th anniversary. The experience feels very different, partly because I can’t do much in the way of promo, even the launch was a Zoom-style event. Since I don’t have one of Margaret Atwood’s long-pen devices, I can’t even sign books, to say nothing of selling ‘em. So, very different on many fronts, from concept to genre to having to do everything online.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
My first work (at least work that I have physical evidence of) was a play – written and produced by me. Judging from the handwriting, I was probably nine or ten. Middle school saw me writing short romances in steno notebooks and giving them as gifts to my girlfriends (the love-line was always successful and happy-making). But by high school, it was poetry, generally grim in nature. By university years, I had some success with poems published here and there in literary magazines (Waves, Branching Out, Carousel) but then I stopped. Long story, maybe for some other time. Yet not writing for a long time likely saved me some embarrassment and certainly allowed me time to read, read, read.
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 talk fast, I eat too fast, some accuse me of walking too fast. But when it comes to writing, I am slow, slow, slow. Although quick perhaps to get an inkling of an idea for a project (that ‘flash of inspiration’ can be almost exactly that), the task of getting going on it takes much longer. My most recent book, Glorious Birds is something I have evidence of at least starting back in 2017 (date stamp on downloading the screenplay for Harold and Maude), then I remember ‘getting’ the title probably a year after that. I suppose the pandemic was good for me (and doing research for the book), as I couldn’t do a lot of the things I usually do – from not being able to do water-running (pool closed) to not being able to do sessions at the local jail, or readings and workshops. While Zoom has allowed for some of that, I’m sorry, it’s not the same.
4 - Where does a poem or 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?
Oh, how I have always wished I could be a writer who could envision a book from the very beginning! I am constantly amazed when I hear writers say that’s what they’re doing. Nearly all of my writing begins on scraps of paper, often from bedside scrawls (yes, written in the dark so as not to wake my partner, unfortunately, not always readable come morning). Assembling a manuscript is always a challenge for me. Putting the leaf into the dining room table helps, as it allows me to spread out papers (yes, print still works better for me) and better see what might proceed from what. Still, as I said, I am a very slow worker, partly because I change my mind (and revise versions) a lot.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Yes, I’m the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings, especially when some aspect of them leads to conversation, whether that’s Q & A or good yak afterwards at a gathering of some sort (remember those?!). And yes, even without the exchange-of-ideas aspect, readings often help me hear what’s wrong (or sometimes, right) with a piece. That oral aspect, reading aloud to others, is not the same as reading aloud to myself in my room.
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 not really sure what ‘theoretical concerns’ might be. I’m a book reviewer who nearly failed my criticism course at university. But the current questions of most concern to me are those of how we will resolve the disparity between rich and poor – hard enough to get my head around when thinking only of Canada, nearly impossible to grasp the scope of what this means on a global level. And beyond, I am plagued by questions regarding survival of species on our festering, bitumen-soiled, tree-pillaged planet. (Hello, salmon, in a hundred years will anyone even know the word ‘coho’?)
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 will always believe that the writer has a responsibility to speak out as a witness to wrongs. It’s a role that leaves the writer vulnerable to criticism, so the writer has to learn to don a kind of protective shell (which may or may not always be sufficient). And I also believe the writer has a duty to speak out about the beauties of existence, attesting to the many aspects of our lives that are ongoing and good. These goodnesses and their specificity are perhaps the writings that may endure. Think: the emotional works of Sappho, or even Williams’ “plums / that were in / the icebox”.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
While it can be both, I believe it’s essential. It helps to find a person who can ‘hear’ what you want your writing to do, but one who is also to able to help you get your work to the place where you’re saying what you mean. Oh dear. Where is an editor, here when I need one?
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Beware when you hear the suggestion: “We’ve always done it this way.”
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to cultural criticism)? What do you see as the appeal?
I suppose just as easy as it has been to move from what I call ‘kitchen duty’ (figuring out meals, cooking, cleaning up afterwards) to reading/thinking/writing. For a long time, I worked as a librarian and understood why that job ‘worked’ for me – because it allowed me to move from one kind of task (answering questions, working with people) to others (ordering and cataloguing materials, even shelving books). I’m not much good at sticking to a single non-stop activity, which is one of the reasons I’ve never attained a skill at much of anything requiring practice, like golf or basketball or the piano (or even the harmonica, which I’m still fiddling with).
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?
With coffee. And also with reading – usually an old-fashioned print newspaper. That generally gets my juices going, though many times this will be in a negative direction – one more cause to want to fight for, one more government (in)action to get cross about. Still, these passions sometime turn into blog posts or letters to the editor or even poems. Not quite magic, though once in a while it can feel that way. It usually takes me until afternoon to feel that my brain is in gear; I am not, never have been, nor never will be a morning person.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I have way too many notebooks and scraps of paper with lines/notes/false starts to ever get too terribly stuck. But that doesn’t mean that all (or sometimes even any) of these scribblings turn into something I will finish and/or keep. In truth, some of them sometimes end up in the shredder.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Hmm. Hardest part of this question might be the meaning of home. As for the most comforting scent that comes to mind, I’d have to say clean sheets on the bed, especially if they’ve spent the afternoon flapping in the breeze on the clothesline.
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?
Well, this latest book, Glorious Birds is not much more than an extended love song for a film I’ve loved since I first saw it, Harold and Maude. So that’s a different sort of form serving as inspiration. And I can’t pretend that Flightpaths: The Lost Journals of Amelia Earhart, a book I’ve come to call a novel-in-verse, didn’t grow out of a fascination for and a curiosity about what might have become of that amazing lost pilot (and pacifist, and feminist, and poet in her own right). Like Glorious Birds, that book grew from several germs of thought along with a heap of research.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I’ve always been under the thrall of Kurt Vonnegut, warts and all. Imagination set free, yet disciplined in an odd sort of way. In a similar fashion, much of Douglas Coupland’s work, also Cory Doctorow. All men?? Emily St John Mandel, Barbara Gowdy, Joan Thomas. I suppose most of these are idea-based writers; perhaps that’s why I turn to them for sustenance. As for poets who are important for both my work and my life, top of the list would likely be: Patricia Young, Rhona McAdam, and a poet who also leaves me breathless with her fiction, Helen Humphreys. And alas, the gritty honesty of Michael Dennis.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I’d like to wake up the people on Earth so we could save the planet. On a somewhat smaller scale, I’d like to get to the North, as it’s a part of Canada I’ve not managed to visit.
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 not being some kind of artist, though perhaps craftsperson/artisan of some sort would be more realistic. I think a high school ‘vocation test’ suggested cabinet-maker. Maybe there’s still time.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Probably because it’s such a do-it-yourself art form. No special tools required beyond pen/cil and paper (or else, a photographic memory). Probably because I’ve always had a ‘thing’ for words and the sounds they make.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Petra by Shaena Lambert most recent, though I am still under the spell of Greenwood by Michael Christie. Film? Ack, who can even remember going to a film? Last feature I saw was Tenet, and it is not even on my Top One Thousand. Must also admit to still being pretty keen on a film that disappeared too quickly, Yesterday.
20 - What are you currently working on?
I’ve been trying to assemble a set of poems that will appeal to a certain editor who produces a series of lovely chapbooks (no name, I’m always jinx-conscious), but the poems keep changing/morphing on me. I’m also hoping to revise the current book-length MS of poems to a version that will be accepted for publication. Oh yes, and the ‘never-ending memoir’ – who knows when for that?
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