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 changed my life because it fulfilled the promise I made to myself at eight, and at sixteen, and again at twenty-six. The promise: not that I would write a great or even good book— just that I would finish one. There’s something sturdy about fulfilling a promise to past iterations of myself who walked through the poetry section and always found the place where a book of mine might be shelved. I feel sturdier as a person, more capable of trusting my work in the world. I’ve realized more concretely that the people I love are rooting for me. I’m more able to accept I won’t be everyone’s cup of tea.
I don’t buy the myth that you have to publish a book to be a writer. But I will say I feel like a different kind of writer.
My current work risks more— I’ve learned a lot from my recent teacher Jorie Graham. These recent poems arrive gently, and are also more terrifying to imagine out in the world.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I found poetry in third grade. My teacher Pat is still a dear friend and mentor. I loved the way a poem could hold so much in so few words. All my intensity as a young kid had somewhere to go, somewhere playful and loving. I’m sometimes creatively impatient and I like to toggle in between projects. I love fiction but I find it harder to dip in and out of. I like to think each genre has its season in my life, and I’m definitely in a poetry season.
3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?
It’s taken me a few years to realize I’m a binge writer. I’ll write 40 pages in four months and then not write for six. I’ve been calling this “my living phase,” but the pause challenges me.
The real work of writing occurs for me in revision— poems look entirely different when I finish them, and sometimes the initial line that opened the poem is gone by the time it is “finished.” I write for thirty minutes to an hour at a time— I always admire writers who can sit at their desks all day, but I’m not one of them. I’m always getting up to get another beverage. Sometimes it’s hard to quantify a “day’s work”— the process is still mysterious to me.
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?
A poem usually begins with an image or a line, often while doing something other than writing (running, walking, cooking, etc). That line rarely makes it into the final poem, but serves as a compass towards the poem beneath the poem. I tend to write widely until I’m clear what I’m writing about, and then I search for the structure or story/myth the book is telling. Once I’ve identified that, I know I’ll need to spend another chunk of time writing into the gaps.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I just completed a degree called Master of Religion in Public Life at divinity school, so I am very interested in the public aspect of readings. There’s something so beautifully nourishing and grounding about them— the simple act of showing up and saying here, I made this. On this first tour, I love that I got to drive to every city where I’ve lived and hug the people I love most. In that way, for those of us who have patched together our livings from fellowships and programs, the book tour really knit my life together. I learn so much from those who read Glass Jaw— and I also am aware that part of the process of being in a public space is embodying an archetype or image for others that is sometimes accurate, sometimes not.
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?
There’s that saying, and I’m not sure who said it, that we ask the same question throughout our lifetime many different ways. I am always asking about how to live in my body. I am always asking what it means to love hard, in ways that are often painful. More of my recent work is interested in where divinity enters or exits a life. I’m also interested in bending time. Writing is a way to be in conversation across many selves.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
For me, the writer is one who embodies moral imagination, sometimes beyond the current era— the one who courageously listens. Sometimes, the embodiment of Cassandra.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I’m so grateful to work with editors, teachers, friends who can point out my blindspots. All my work is a collaboration of sorts, although sometimes with whom I’m collaborating is a mystery— everything from ancestors to songs I listened to as a kid, turns of phrases that entered my mind and reappear in rhythm or pacing of a poem.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
“I think we are well-advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” - Joan Didion
“If your Nerve, deny you— Go above your Nerve—” —Emily Dickinson
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 tend to work well in the mornings. Coffee, some kind of movement practice, either before or after the page. I’ve learned from my father, who is a playwright, to open the document every day, even if I make no changes. It’s a way of keeping the poem alive. The things in my daily routine that tend to be consistent no matter the season are coffee and long walks… especially now, as I’m trying to figure out the shape of my current manuscript, I find that I can’t really be at my desk “thinking”— I need to encounter, to play, to walk aimlessly. It’s a way of making a date with inspiration or chance. I love the story of David Lynch who showed up at Bob’s Big Boy every day at 2:30 pm for ten years. He received “only three perfect milkshakes out of more than 2,500. But that wasn’t the point. For Lynch, it was enough to know he had set the stage for excellence to occur,” believing that “whether with milkshakes or movies,” one “must make room for inspiration to strike — to lay the proper groundwork for greatness to take hold.”
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
Silence. Trees.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Lake water, sun warmed wood, burnt coffee.
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?
Definitely music. Country ballads. I’ve been listening to Adrianne Lenker and Jess Williamson lately. Definitely artistic friendships across the centuries. Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe, to name a few. Pilgrimages to places—New Mexico shows up a lot in my recent years because I’ve gone to Ghost Ranch (Georgia O’Keefe’s home) a few times.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My partner, fiction writer Derick Olson, who is brilliant and kind and makes the best cappuccino I’ve ever had. On my desk right now are books by A.R. Ammons, Jorie Graham, Lexi Rudnitsky, Kiki Petrosino, Maggie Millner, Helene Cixous, and Eugenio Montejo.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Lift more heavy weights. Write a novel. Go on a walking pilgrimage for my thirtieth birthday. Learn more bird calls. Get more comfortable driving, since I learned in my late twenties.
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?
It’s always been a writer’s life for me. Maybe a
dancer or a painter or a carpenter, but I have none of the attributes needed
for those jobs. Without poetry, I’d probably be a chaplain or a therapist.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
It’s FUN. And strange. And magical. It makes me feel alive. Some days I’m frustrated, but most days I get to be surprised.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Great book: Couplets by Maggie Miller. Alternatively, The Highly Sensitive Person by Elaine Aron— I picked it up because I thought it said The Highly Sensitive Poet— ha!
Great Film: Not a film, but I’m watching Twin Peaks for the first time. My partner and I started it in May on a road trip when we stayed at a creepy ski lodge…
19 - What are you currently working on?
A book about the heart!
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