Shannon Arntfield is a second-career trauma informed therapist whose work explores the challenges and rewards of saying ‘yes’ to all of life’s effluence. Her first full length book collection Python Love was published by the University of Alberta Press in February 2025. Her debut chapbook Fallen Horseman was published by Anstruther Press in 2023. Individual poems have been featured in CV2, PRISM International, The Antigonish Review, The Examined Life Journal, and Snapdragon Journal. She lives in London, Ontario.
Arntfield launches Python Love in Ottawa on April 15 at Octopus Books, alongside Christine McNair.
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?
I’m not sure it ‘changed my life’. But something invisible became visible – which offered a sense of coherence, of integration, in my personal and professional life. Which feels really good. The publication process also engendered a ton of interconnectedness – which was very developing. Between me and parts of myself, which was healing, and between me and others – my editor, the publishers, colleagues who are helping me promote it, the community who comes to listen – all which has been simultaneously humbling and encouraging.
I’m working on a second full-length manuscript now (just submitted a chapbook length excerpt over the weekend – eek!) for something quite different – on the theme of ‘Initiation’. It connects to Python Love, because it extends my exploration of the ways in which love and suffering are inexplicably and inextricably linked – but it goes wide instead of just deep – looking outwards to the archetypal and energetic voices that inform our understanding of our connection to others and the natural world.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I would say it came to me, as opposed to the other way round. I tried to write fiction – but it always fizzled…like I didn’t have the imagination to develop and sustain the ideas and the characters. Poetry appealed to me in being so spare, so essential, so urgent. So completely dependent on being boiled down to the bare essence, to honesty and directness. All of that feels right, and resonant, with whatever or whoever it is inside me that needs to write.
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 both. Some poems just come. In a flood, in a single moment – waking me up from sleep, already full and complete. Others have taken me over 10 years – several of which are in Python Love. The idea was there, but I wasn’t ready…or it wasn’t fully formed yet, or both. More things needed to happen – personally and professionally – for it to open, for me to understand, for me to have the language to share it.
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?
The former. Though my awareness of what I’m working on – the themes and my synthesis of it – is coming much more quickly as I work on my second book.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I’m not sure yet! I brought a lot of public speaking experience with me from my first career, in both large and small gatherings – and I have a longstanding commitment to being authentic – but poetry readings are perhaps the first time where I am encouraged and invited to do both things simultaneously. Medicine is famous for requiring a veneer and impermeability when in front of others – nothing is supposed to affect you – but that never felt natural, and I fought against it always. The risk/reward ratio of being vulnerable and human amidst professional engagements, however, often came with experiences of being ‘othered’ – of feeling misunderstood, of being perceived as weak, of swimming upstream. Poetry is amazing because it is just so honest, and people who gather to read and listen to poetry are – consciously or unconsciously – often seeking authenticity, truth, and connection. We are all just human, and when we are surrounded and invited to participate in that experience with others, it feels good. I mean, it feels uncomfortable too…but that friction is productive when you let it be – when you say yes to it. So yes – I’d say readings are part of my process. Though I didn’t know it was until you asked 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?
I’ve worried about telling other people’s stories – both personally and professionally. We all have such different experiences – even when we’re in the same room, being exposed to the same stimulus – and I am aware that my version of what happened may not be reflective of, and could even be in competition with, someone else’s experience of the same event. And, I’ve worried about upsetting people with what I write about – the medical sections of Python Love would never have been a thing if I hadn’t been encouraged by one of my writing group members to develop a short poem I submitted one week. I didn’t think anyone would be interested – and I was worried about injuring someone else through sharing my experience. It turns out people are interested – at least I have to assume they are, given that the book was promoted and published – and I’ve learned I have to trust people to do what is best for them, both in their decision to listen (or not) in the first place, and in caring for themselves after, if they choose to engage.
The kinds of questions I am trying to answer?
Why and how do we become?
What is the role of love and suffering in our lives?
Why do some people open, and some people close, in response to their experience?
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?
To ask questions. To invite curiosity, and reflection – of self, and of others. To tell the truth – yours – and invite others to do the same. To take risk. To add your voice to the masses, trusting it’s important – while simultaneously recognizing that you are a speck of dust. To learn from others. To be open.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Both. Though I only have so much experience, let’s be honest. When U of A Press accepted my manuscript, they offered/accepted the opportunity for me to continue working with my existing editor, Jim Johnstone. That was amazing – the project and the writing felt super vulnerable, many of the poems being directly about trauma – and I was so grateful to continue working within the safety net that Jim and I had established. Having said that, the first stage of the U of A process involved responding to two independent and anonymous reviewers, who had provided feedback on the manuscript that I had to either incorporate or justify declining, in order for the manuscript to pass through from acceptance to a formal invitation and contract. And that was challenging. Edifying, but definitely challenging.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
a) Just keep submitting - aim for 100 rejections a year.
b) Only submit when you feel moved to.
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 intentionally block off two days a week for writing. I don’t always use them – but they are always available.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I just wait. I know it will come. In the meantime, I do the things I know are supportive, and resourcing. I read. I journal. I talk to other people. I meditate. I pray. I keep working. I keep parenting. I keep relating. I keep curious.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
My mom’s perfume. The ocean. Windy rain.
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?
Nature is a big one - the biggest. Institutions where systems and people intersect would be another – medicine, faith, and faith-based practices and scriptures. And most recently, visual art – specifically the practice of SoulCollageÒ , which has been the basis for many of the poems in my second manuscript. In SoulCollageÒ, I work with the energy emanating from a visual medium (which I created, using an intuitive collaging process). That energy ‘speaks’ with a voice of it’s own, which I then record. In some cases, a poem results from the process – which has been a fabulous and wholly new way of writing that’s been both expansive and exciting.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Go wild in some way, in self-expression.
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 surprised myself and other people by already doing this – leaving medicine to become a therapist. The choice was coherent with my ‘pluripotent’ younger self, who couldn’t decide between medicine, ministry, and counseling. Now, I feel like I do all three.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I had to.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I don’t watch a lot of films…so I’ll take the opportunity to plug Amor Towles and Ann Patchett – literally anything they write.
19 - What are you currently working on?
A perfect loop! See question 1.
Thanks rob! This was really fun J
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