He is on the core faculty of the Center for Existential Studies and Psychotherapy, for which he gives presentations on existential themes in plays and novels, ranging from Sophocles to Ta-Nehisi Coates. He and his partner live with their two dogs, who inspired Richard’s initial foray into sonnet writing.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
The day before my first book was accepted for publication, it got rejected (again) by another publisher. I’d begun work on the second book but that day decided to drop it and devote my time and energy elsewhere, as the whole enterprise felt pointless. So without that first publication, there wouldn't have been a second book, and now a few more in gestation.
My first book, Not a Soul but Us, is narrated by an illiterate mid-14th-century shepherd, so I kept his language as plain as possible—mostly words of Anglo-Saxon origin. My second book, Beyond Where Words Can Go, is narrated by a 16th-century monk raised bilingual in English and Latin, whose vocabulary would have been quite broad, so his voice could be much more sophisticated. (I could claim that this difference in narrators’ voices is the reason my second book reads a bit more smoothly than the first, but the real truth is just that I got more fluent in the sonnet form.)
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I didn’t. I came to fiction first and in my twenties wrote two mediocre novels (all typescripts of which have been destroyed or hidden). Poetry came later: I was listening to a lecture about Romeo and Juliet and was reminded that at their first meeting they spontaneously co-create a sonnet. And I thought, “I love our dog; I should write sonnets to him.” One of those sonnets imagined the two of us as medieval shepherd and sheepdog. Then it expanded, eventually morphing into an 84-sonnet story about a 12-year-old boy orphaned and abandoned during the mid-14th century plague pandemic.
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?
Because I’m writing about past historical periods (my second book traces a group of monks through the English Reformation and Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries), I spend a lot of time researching. By the time I draft individual sonnets, I’ve taken lots of notes and sketched an outline and let it all simmer awhile. Whatever I’m writing has to happen first inside me—inside my body—vividly enough that my mind starts finding words for it. Then, once I start writing, it tends to flow pretty steadily.
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’m doing book-length projects. Some sonnets show up early on, during the research and outlining phase, and may inspire a change in the overall shape of the book. Some sonnets grow out of the arc of the narrative but don’t bend that arc. I like the interplay between planning and randomness.
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. Humans have been speaking a lot longer than they’ve been reading and writing. And I like it when the common space between me and my audience isn’t figurative but real.
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 doubt these qualify as theory, but I have two main preoccupations as I write. Top priority is my relationship with the reader. I want readers to be as fully engaged as possible—mentally, emotionally, physically. And the narrative should pull them forward, so they want to keep reading, but also invite them to linger, so they want to stop and reflect. Which they choose is up to them.
My second concern is—well, I like aesthetic experiences that are both dense and spare. (Imagine dark fudge with no nuts or other add-ons.) I prefer Bach’s pieces for keyboard or solo cello or violin to his orchestral works, and I’d rather hear a good singer-songwriter solo than with a backup band. In other words, I want the music or writing or painting or whatever to be interesting and involving—with as few component parts as possible. One thing I like about the sonnet form is its demandingness: It takes lots of work to say anything of substance in 140 syllables.
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?
This is a complicated question. I don’t think writers (or anyone, really) deserve a societal “role” simply by virtue of occupation or publication. But writers can choose to take on responsibilities. Different writers will opt for different ones: commenting on social injustice; ridiculing human folly; imagining and depicting people whose stories haven’t been told; entertaining, comforting, challenging, unsettling, shocking, teaching, enraging (etc.) the reader. What responsibilities writers assume depends on their values, and readers get to decide whether or not they’re interested.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Essential. And I like getting reactions from a number of first readers.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
“Pause awhile.” (Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing)
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?
Every day begins with a lot of coffee. I don’t have a writing routine. If I’m in the researching phase, I read and take notes in whatever chunks of time I have free. When I’m actively writing, I try to clear longer stretches. Most importantly, I try to write at least a bit every day, so what I’m working on lingers in my mind and my brain can work on it in background mode.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
The best way to get my mind unclenched is to walk in the woods with my dogs.
12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Furniture wax. My maternal grandparents’ house (which I loved) had a curved wooden banister on the staircase leading to the second floor. It must have been waxed regularly. As a little kid, I’d stand and scratch at the wax with my thumbnail to release more scent.
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?
Music is huge. I studied piano for 12 years as a kid and 12 years in adulthood. I try to absorb music from the period I’m writing about. Most recently this involved listening to all 150 Psalms as they would have been sung by medieval monks. Music’s ability to stir a complex emotional, cognitive, and physical response is something I envy and try to emulate in writing.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
E.M. Forster, Virginia Woolf, Milan Kundera, Charlotte Bronte, Anton Chekhov. Of course, William Shakespeare.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
See the Northern Lights.
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?
Well, I did pick another occupation. In my thirties, I got my doctorate in psychology and have had my own clinical practice ever since. I find the work profoundly gratifying, and I can’t imagine a better day job for a writer than helping people find language for their most difficult and baffling experiences.
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I kept writing, on top of my work as a psychologist, because the process of writing collects and grounds and soothes me. It seems to function as a meditative practice that I rather desperately need.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
The last great book: The Water Dancer, by Ta-Nehisi Coates. Last great film: The Ballad of Wallis Island.
19 - What are you currently working on?
Two projects: My second book is narrated by a man who was left as a newborn on the threshold of a monastery. I became curious about who his mother might be and what she went through, so she’s getting her own book. The other project: I have Long Covid (3 years now), and I’m writing about that: the compromised brain functioning that disrupts the ordinary generation of consciousness; the unease of having a medical condition doctors and researchers don’t understand (and often don’t recognize); the experiences of other Long Covid patients, most of whom have significant physical limitations (which I don’t); our society’s reaction to the Covid pandemic and its lingering aftermath.
12 or 20 (second series) questions;
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