Wednesday, September 18, 2024
Joyelle McSweeney, Death Styles
Tuesday, September 17, 2024
12 or 20 (second series) questions with Michelle Winters
Michelle Winters is a writer, painter, and translator born and raised in Saint John, NB. Her debut novel, I Am a Truck, was shortlisted for the 2017 Scotiabank Giller Prize. She is the translator of Kiss the Undertow and Daniil and Vanya by Marie-Hélène Larochelle. She lives in Toronto.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
Publishing my first book made me a writer; getting it shortlisted for the Giller made me a suddenly popular writer, an experience at once glorious, terrifying, wonderful, and fraught with self-doubt. Hair for Men is a more assured book than I Am a Truck; the concepts are stronger and better argued, the writing is more fluid... I used to worry about I Am a Truck out there in the world with its wobbly little legs; Hair for Men can handle anything.
2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry?
I’ve always been a sucker for character and narrative. I love a story that develops as a result of the way a person is. It’s an otherworldly kind of fun.
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 won’t spend too much time planning, because I find the idea only develops while I’m actively writing. This means that I discover the story as I go, and it changes a lot, but it gets written!
4 - Where does a poem or work 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?
I keep a lot of observations, episodes, character studies, etc. tucked away in a Notes folder. There are Big Notes for novels and Small Notes for short stories. I usually know whether a note is Big or Small, but it tends to be a particularly compelling character that pushes a note into the Big folder and sets a novel in motion. I watched a man on a flight the other day close all the overhead compartments before takeoff, not in order to help the flight attendants, but because he seemed to think he’d do a better job. Then he stood in the aisle and talked about himself to anyone who would listen for the whole five-hour flight. That guy was a Big Note.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love doing readings. I only consider my own work complete once I’ve read it out loud - very important for flow and pacing. I studied theatre, so delivery is important. Hair for Men is written in such a way that you should be able to read it out loud, in character, as Louise.
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 like to think I’m turning over a number of rocks, taking a look at what’s underneath, and seeing how it responds to the light of day. I’m more an asker than an answerer, and the question I’m always asking is “Why this??”
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?
The writer is there to reveal humanity to itself.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I find it essential. My structure is absolutely everywhere.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Write for the top 5% of your audience.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres? What do you see as the appeal?
I write, translate fiction, and paint. Translation is wonderful practice for my own writing; it’s expression without the strain of creation and is deeply satisfying. Painting clears the whole slate, returning me to my factory settings - but I can ruminate on a story/character idea while I’m painting, which is a refreshing way to get there. All the arty activities feed one another in a nice symbiosis.
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 still work a regular job, so when I’m not doing that, I’m cramming the rest of my moments with creative things. I do get a few full, glorious days a week where I can just write. Those days start with coffee (obviously) and proceed with as little interruption as possible. After dinner, I’ll jam in another couple of hours. Then a sensible hour of prestige television. Time is so precious.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
Walking helps, and a good, long stretch, but also picking up any book from the shelf and reading a few pages reminds me that anything can be written. My idea is as good as any other. Sometimes, I listen to The Streets, A Grand Don’t Come for Free. It’s like an electronica hip/hop operetta about the mundane events surrounding a guy misplacing a thousand quid. Again, it reminds you that you can write anything.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The smell of the Bay of Fundy at the Market Square docks in Saint John. The scent of a shipping port will always bring me home.
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 man, music, film, visual art – but I also love sitting quietly, watching my fellow humans. The things we do…
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Martin Amis – for better or worse - has influenced me heavily my whole reading/writing life. I’m aware of his difficulties, but no one was more generous with humour – plotting it out bit by bit, laying his little trap, until he delivers the punchline, and you realize just how much work he was doing all that time - what subtle, devious work - in the pursuit of your amusement. I loved Mart.
I aspire to the brisk, no bullshit style of Patricia Highsmith, I seek guidance from Lynn Coady, Lorrie Moore, Lydia Davis, and the superhuman Jennifer Egan. Also, George Saunders, Barbara Gowdy, and Raymond Carver, of course.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I toy with a one-person performance – where I’m the person. Or maybe a musical...
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?
There’s a chance I’d have ended up back in jail.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
The first word of fiction I ever set down was borne of anger and frustration, and writing felt like the only option. I paint when I’m happy. When something needs conquering, I write.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I loved Kick the Latch by Kathryn Scanlon. The last great film is (and perhaps always will be) Border – the 2018 Swedish one, written by John Ajvide Lindqvist. Utterly transforming. Oh, but I also just watched Jeanne Dielman, 23 quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, which changed my whole cellular makeup. Hoo!
20 - What are you currently working on?
Paintings. Big, defiantly joyful ones. I also have some of a novel started, currently concerning a factory and an accidental murder. I’ll know when it’s time to jump in and write the thing, but for now I scribble bits and let them simmer while I paint and listen to true crime podcasts.
Monday, September 16, 2024
OVERSOUND: Monica Fambrough + Alexis Almeida,
It has been a while since I’ve seen any work by Georgia-based poet Monica Fambrough, back to her full-length debut, Softcover (Boston MA: Natural History Press, 2015) [see my review of such here], although her author biography suggests a self-titled chapbook appeared in German translation by Sukultur at some point. There are such delicate, honed lines to the eight poems across Fambrough’s BLUE TRANSFER. “my wedding ring / thin / as a mint,” she writes, as part of the opening poem, “A SHELTER.” She manages lengthy stretches across such lively accumulations of short phrases, one line following another, carefully set with an ease that is crafted, careful and clear. “Our children, / asleep in their beds / arrayed like canapés / in their particular positions,” she writes, as part of the poem “MEXICO POEM IN TWO PARTS,” “holding in the still space / of time between / when you think / the baby will wake up / and when the baby wakes up.” Her poems hold such a soft intimacy against declaratives, offering a sequence of quiet, precise details. Or, as the first third of that same opening poem reads:
delicate blue transfer
the little life
I bring with
light
everything it
passes through
it passes through
beautifully
even Styrofoam
I will cling
to a ritual
until it is all
that is left
I haven’t seen much work by Brooklyn-based poet and translator Alexis Almeida—beyond the chapbook-length translation she did of Buenos Aires poet Roberta Iannamico’s Wreckage (Toad Press International Chapbook Series, 2017) [see my review of such here]—so I was quite pleased to catch THINGS I HAVE MADE A FICTION (2024), winner of the 2023 Oversound Chapbook Prize as selected by Andrew Zawacki. The pieces here, fourteen in all, are untitled prose poems that each begin with the prompt “I wrote a book where…” and swirl out across such lovely distances. As I’ve mentioned prior, I’m fascinated by works that hold to such deliberate echoes, the most overt in my recollections being works by the late Noah Eli Gordon. These pieces are gestural, open and flow with a prose adorned and propelled through lyric but anchored by logic. Or, as the last sentence of the final piece reads, itself a kind of encapsulation of the project as a whole: “So it went this way, where inside the lists were other lists that started to leak and form paragraphs, and the longer I wrote them, the more it felt like something was happening (a wave), and what I had wanted, or failed to want was taking on the particular shapes of these sentences.” Might this be an excerpt of something larger, longer, even full-length? According to her author biography at the back of this particular title, her translation of Roberta Iannamico’s Many Poems is forthcoming from The Song Cave this year, and her first full-length book, Caetano, is forthcoming next year with The Elephants. I am very eager to see where she goes next.
I wrote a book about pulling, what is a word when pulled from inside another word, or a sound when shaped from another sound, what is a story pulled from another one, what made the original seem less true, where is a dream still pulling you in the morning, why do people say pulling an espresso shot, what does it feel like to write a word that immediately invokes a force in you, what becomes locked when you pull, what shuts down after so much effort, if someone turns away why does it pull in you, what is what pulls you to stay awake long into the night, or toward the door in the morning, are you pulling, or waiting at the beginning of something’s life, have you ever been so afraid as when you didn’t know which, it’s a constant feeling like something tilting inside you, like the walls of language disappearing as soon as you wake up.
Sunday, September 15, 2024
Keagan Hawthorne, After the Harvest
THE DARK
When she was little my
mother wanted to hear
what the river had to
say.
She pressed her ear to
the ice
and it spoke.
A neighbour saw,
guessed where to chop a
hole downstream.
A miracle, they said, our
Lazarus.
Her father gave the man a
cow.
Three weeks in bed and no
one asked
what the lights were like
beneath the ice,
what darkness.
A shame, she thought.
It was beautiful.
Saturday, September 14, 2024
12 or 20 (second series) questions with Rajinderpal S. Pal
Rajinderpal S. Pal is a critically acclaimed writer and stage performer. He is the author of two collections of award-winning poetry, pappaji wrote poetry in a language i cannot read and pulse. Born in India and raised in Great Britain, Pal has lived in many cities across North America and now resides in Toronto. However Far Away is his first novel.
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, pappaji wrote poetry in a language i cannot read, was released in 1998 by TSAR. The attention that this poetry collection received completely exceeded my expectations. As well as winning the Writers Guild of Alberta award for Best First Book, the publication received a couple of mentions in the Globe and Mail and allowed me to do readings across the country. I have been working on a New, Unpublished and Selected collection, working title The Lesser Shame. I really wish I knew then, at the time of writing my earlier poems, what I know now about craft and structure. Writing and editing my debut novel, However Far Away, I have gained a discipline and rigour which has previously eluded me. In some ways, I am covering similar ground to what I covered in my two published poetry collections (themes of family and tradition, love and commitment) but the novel feels very different in terms of scope and reach.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
My father was a published and much-admired poet, and poetry readings were a regular occurrence in my childhood home. He wrote in Punjabi and Urdu, both languages that I do not read or write. My father was only in my life for a short time before he died of a heart attack. I was ten at the time. In my late twenties I was desperate to understand my father: his life as a soldier, a headmaster, a poet, what led him to move our family across continents, why he wrote, and what he wrote. Poetry seemed to be the natural medium to examine this man and try to understand my relationship to him.
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’ll speak to my novel, However Far Away. In June 2005 I was sitting on a bench in Kitsilano Park. It was a beautiful sunny day, the beach, the ocean, the North Shore Mountains in full view. As I sat and surveyed all the activity around me a determined looking South Asian man, approximately my age, ran past me. I immediately began to wonder what this man might be running from or running toward. That afternoon, at the dining table of my basement apartment I wrote seven pages of prose; an opening scene for what I imagined would be a novella. At that time, I was primarily a poet. I was not one for spontaneous writing. For the next twelve years, immersed in my career in healthcare sales and marketing, I wrote very little. Occasionally, I would open the Word file for Settle (the working title for However Far Away) and write a line, a paragraph or a scene but there was no substantial progress. In late 2018 I was retired out of my career and had to admit I had run out of excuses to not tackle this larger project. I completed dozens of drafts before it was even submitted to House of Anansi Press. The finer edits, however, were only completed once they had agreed to publish the book. The final shape only became clear after my editor and I had reduced the manuscript from 130,000 words to 90,000 words.
4 - Where does a poem or work 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?
For poetry I write individual pieces without a larger project in mind. For fiction I always had a larger project in mind, though just how large the project became is a surprise.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Public readings are critical to the creative process for both poetry and fiction. Perhaps that is from growing up in a house where poetry was frequently read out loud. For me, both poetry and fiction have to work on the page and when spoken out loud.
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 write fiction for the same reasons that I write poetry—as a way to understand, to come to terms with, to uncover a nugget of truth, to seek (or, dare I say, create) beauty and meaning, and perhaps enlighten myself.
7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?
I believe that there will always be a thirst for storytelling and meaning, that the rumours of the death of poetry and fiction are much exaggerated. For sure new technologies like AI will have some impact but we will continue to create and search for meaning through literature, whether through a concrete poem, a ghazal, or a long work of fiction.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential. I wish I had worked more closely with an editor for my two books of poetry.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Before I published my first book, Nicole Markotic said to me, “You need an editor who could tell you to remove your favourite line in a poem in progress and you will consider it.” Those are not Nicole’s exact words, but the sentiment has stayed with me for over twenty-five years. The word “consider” is the most critical word in that advice; you do not have to eliminate that line but you should question what purpose it might be serving in the poem and whether it is necessary. The final decision is always yours.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?
If writing a poem is the bull’s eye, then writing a novel is the entire bull, its lineage, its character, and what it ate today. You need to choose the form based on what it is that you are trying to understand, to come to terms with, or uncover.
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?
During the most intense periods of writing However Far Away I had a strict daily schedule; three hours of writing each morning, two hours of writing and one hour of editing each afternoon. Most days I exceeded the scheduled number of hours, but it was okay if there was an occasional day when I failed. I took evenings off since I am a social being and needed the nourishment that good conversation provided. I am looking forward to the time that my next project will require me to get back to a similar routine.
12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
There is a list of books, films and music albums that always inspire me to create. That list continues to shift and grow. It’s a long list, but some of the writers that I turn to are Michael Ondaatje, Robert Hass, Jorie Graham, Hanif Kureishi and, more recently, Sally Rooney and Anna Burns. I would occasionally revisit the film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, especially for the two scenes that I consider to be the most emotionally wrought ever put on film. If nothing else works a bit of travel and long exploratory walks seem to help.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
An Indian spice mix tempering in a pan.
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 am as influenced and inspired to create art by film, theatre, contemporary dance, and music, as I am by books. If I am writing, I need to be actively engaged in other arts. I will carry a small notebook with me everywhere I go and often write lines that will later make their way into a poem or a work of fiction. These lines might be inspired by anything from a work of art to psithurism to a beautiful horizon to overheard conversation.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
If a book really strikes me, I will read it multiple times. There were a few books that were constant companions during the most productive periods of writing However Far Away: The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes, Milkman by Anna Burns, Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi, All About Love by Bell Hooks.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I have an idea to create and produce a performance piece for stage incorporating poetry, music and film; something that could be performed at Fringe festivals as well as at literary festivals.
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 had a thirty-year career in sales and marketing in the healthcare industry. When I was retired out of that career in 2018, I was able to fully focus on completing However Far Away. In the future, I would like to facilitate creative writing workshops—poetry and fiction—but have no desire to be a full-time instructor. Other than that, I just want to create and stay healthy.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Standing beside an upstairs banister listening to emotional and powerful recitals floating up from the gathering of poets in the downstairs front-room.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Book: Soldiers, Hunters, Not Cowboys by Aaron Tucker. Film: Past Lives written and directed by Celine Song.
20 - What are you currently working on?
As well as the new and selected poetry collection, I am mapping out two possible works of fiction.
Friday, September 13, 2024
12 or 20 (small press) questions with Ken Taylor and Fred Moten on selva oscura press
Fred Moten lives in New York with his comrade, Laura Harris, and their children, Lorenzo and Julian. He works in the Departments of Performance Studies and Comparative Literature at New York University.
Ken Taylor is the author of three books of poetry, two chapbooks, three plays, and a collaborative work with twelve artists. found poem(s), with Ed Roberson, is forthcoming from Corbett vs. Dempsey—Ken’s photographs and Ed's poems.
1 – When did selva oscura press first start? How have your original goals as a publisher shifted since you started, if at all? And what have you learned through the process?
We want to publish books that we love by writers whom we love. We are especially glad to publish first books and to imagine that these will be platforms that can propel their authors onto a trajectory in which their work will continue to be seen and heard. We also love recovering and making available older texts that have fallen out of print and off the map. And we are committed to seeking out and finding and publishing the work of black authors, authors of color, and queer and trans authors. We have been primarily focused on poetry, but we have been branching out into fiction and non-fiction prose and have some plays forthcoming, as well. We are especially committed to making sure that the authors love the way their books look and so we are especially happy to work with authors who know how they want their books to look.
2 – What first brought you to publishing?
In the Research Triangle of North Carolina, we were part of a great community of writers which included Shirlette Ammons, Joseph Donahue, Nathaniel Mackey, Pete Moore, Kate Pringle, Ken Rumble and Magdalena Zurawski (among many others), all of whom had made it their business to serve the community by providing venues for people to read and publish. We wanted to follow their example. Three Count Pour and selva oscura emerged from that desire.
3 – What do you consider the role and responsibilities, if any, of small publishing?
Get the word and the work out.
4 – What do you see your press doing that no one else is?
There are so many presses serving poetry in so many ways. Not sure we’re a step above or beyond. We lean into collaboration. Listen. Are renewed with new enthusiasms that come our way with new and established work.
5 – What do you see as the most effective way to get new books out into the world?
Lately it’s been Asterism Books. They have been a godsend since SPD shuttered.
6 – How involved an editor are either of you? Do you dig deep into line edits, or do you prefer more of a light touch?
Our touch is very light. We don’t do line edits. We find books and writers that we like and trust them to get it how they want it. We try to help them find that if they want or need us to.
7 – How do your books get distributed? What are your usual print runs?
Runs depend on the author. 200-400. Asterism Books is our new distributor. They do a good job at stuff we’re not much good at. We don’t have a lot of resources for promotions but try and help with at least one launch reading for each author.
8 – How many other people are involved with editing or production? Do you work with other editors, and if so, how effective do you find it? What are the benefits, drawbacks?
We keep it pretty close. Our copyeditor (Miles Champion) and our designer (Margaret Tedesco) do the lion share of the work in terms of grind and production. The benefits are that they are both badassed. No drawbacks yet.
9 – How has being an editor/publisher changed the way you think about your own writing?
We both get to keep our heads in the game. If we’re excited about something to publish, it usually inspires us to write.
10 – How do you approach the idea of publishing your own writing? Some, such as Gary Geddes when he still ran Cormorant, refused such, yet various Coach House Press’ editors had titles during their tenures as editors for the press, including Victor Coleman and bp Nichol. What do you think of the arguments for or against, or do you see the whole question as irrelevant?
We’re not against it. We are principally focused on the work of others. We’ve talked about various projects we’ve done that might work for selva oscura or Three Count Pour, and also discussed supporting that work financially through other presses.
11 – How do you see selva oscura press evolving?
One thing we want to do is get back to doing chapbooks, through our subprint/imprint Three Count Pour. Maybe that’s a little bit more like revolving than evolving. We’d like to do them in small bundles, like the Durham Suite that we published years ago, combining well-known and less well-known writers in one package. And we’d like the chapbooks to be art books. We want the book actually to be necessary, something held in the hand as that which couldn’t have been any other way. This means that the writers will work in co-accompaniment with the book designer as well as with visual artists.
12 – What, as a publisher, are you most proud of accomplishing? What do you think people have overlooked about your publications? What is your biggest frustration?
I don’t think there have been any big frustrations. I think we both hope and intend to do a better and better job of promoting the books and supporting them after publication. The idea is not only to have a palpable and beautiful document of the work the authors do but also to get the books in the hands of sensitive, generous, and enthusiastic readers.
13 – Who were your early publishing models when starting out?
Initially it was chapbooks, and then an art/poetry collaboration, with the aim to add beautiful objects to the history of folks doing this. We’ve haven’t tried to emulate any model specifically.
14 – How does selva oscura press work to engage with your immediate literary community, and community at large? What journals or presses do you see selva oscura press in dialogue with? How important do you see those dialogues, those conversations?
We just want to be working in concert with, and be part of the complementary variety of, the community that is given to the general field of poetry, which we tend to think of, by way of Juliana Spahr, as “this connection of everyone with lungs.” We’re not picky and we’re here militantly to mess with anyone who is so that the conversation can stay infinite and real.
15 – Do you hold regular or occasional readings or launches? How important do you see public readings and other events?
We have had launches and readings for almost all of the books and will do so for all the authors who desire that. The Pandemic but a temporary hold on that but we are now trying to catch up, and we will. It’s important to get the sound of this writing into the world.
16 – How do you utilize the internet, if at all, to further your goals?
We have a web site, and social media handles, send out invites, but not working the internet much beyond that. That’s largely dictated by the time we have available.
17 – Do you take submissions? If so, what aren’t you looking for?
We don’t take unsolicited submissions.
18 – Tell me about three of your most recent titles, and why they’re special.
To Regard a Wave, by Sora Han, weaves physics and translation, translation and weaving, in a beautiful meditation on love and revolution; Arvo Villars’s Violently Dancing Portraits can’t sit still, teaches how to withstand immersion in (im)migrant energy, kinda like Creole’s – aka Kreyól’s – blues as it pulses under Sonny’s (for all you beautiful Baldwin fans); and, in Shekhinah Speaks, Joy Ladin offers a prophetic trans theology that’s radical as every day.