Kurman is also the author of two internationally acclaimed children's books, Counting Kindness: Ten Ways to Welcome Refugee Children (2021), endorsed by Amnesty International, and Counting in Green: 10 Little Ways to Help Our Big Planet (2023), selected as Book of the Month by the Children’s Environmental Health Network. She also writes book reviews, personal essays, and guest blogs and is working on a concussion memoir. She lives with her husband in Amsterdam and can be found online at holliskurman.com.
1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
There was a big difference between publishing my first book, a children’s book, and my first poetry book. I published my first story in a NY area newspaper when I was in 2nd grade but waited decades before trying again.
Fast forward to publishing my first book, Counting Kindness: Ten Ways to Welcome Refugee Children (Charlesbridge) internationally in spring 2020. Just as Covid was disrupting book shipments and closing bookstores, schools, and libraries! But in getting this story out in the world, I experienced firsthand how our words can touch so many people. And what an enormous responsibility that was. All the international attention after such a long slog to publication probably spoiled me, too. Reality check: it’s not always like that!
When I published my first poetry book, Unlikely Skylight’(Barrow Street Books) five years later, I had already published a second children’s book (Counting in Green). But this… was a Poetry Book. Finally. I had been writing poetry most of my life, publishing poems on and off in literary journals, but never committed myself to finalizing a book until the Barrow Street Editorial Board proposed publishing my work.
With my first books now published, I dare
to call myself an author and poet instead of someone who ‘also writes’. There’s
no turning back.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or
non-fiction?
I have been reading, writing, and loving poetry since I was a child. My mother read lots of poetry to us when we were young. Even before I understood poetry (if we ever really do), I loved the sound and bounce of it, the compactness and puzzle of it. In a recent talk I gave on The Power of Poetry to the Amsterdam Rotary, I shared the e.e.cummings poem ‘anyone lived in a pretty how town’. Even though English was not their native language, they felt it. I could see it on their faces. This poem had played a part in my love for poetry. The rebelliousness of it, beginning with the poet’s refusal to capitalize anything. The rhythms. The twisting or reinventing of words and grammar rules. It was an invitation to play with language that I took to heart and never let go. One of the biggest compliments I got during my launch readings for ‘Unlikely Skylight’ was when a young actor said, ‘You make me want to play with language.’ What a gift.
I also really love the challenge of short
formats. Both poetry and children’s books do so much with so little, each word
doing triple duty and having to earn its precious real estate in a piece. I
also love that both genres are meant to be read aloud, so they should feel good
in the mouth and sound good to the ear.
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?
All of the above!
Some poems come to me in the middle of the night and make me sit up in bed to grab a pad and pen. Then I’ll pick it up again in the morning, excited to get to writing, structuring, and editing whatever had knocked on the door of my unconscious. I’ve had amazing results with these but also duds and dead ends, of course.
Some poems, especially metaphorical or allegorical ones, reveal themselves to me while I’m doing something else. My political poem ‘Omelet Nation’, from Unlikely Skylight, was like that. I was making an omelet, zoning out with the spatula and egg mixture heating in the pan, when I suddenly saw it. The current state of the United States, bubbling and hissing right in front of me.
Other poems start with an idea or issue I’ve been obsessing about. These can take me weeks, months, or years to write. The ideas loom large and put quiet pressure on me to do them justice. The bigness of it all forces me to go deeper, pick an angle, and get much more specific. That’s when good work gets done.
Most of my poems, though, start with notes and scribbles. I take constant notes and am never without a notebook. This is also a great way never to face a blank page. I’ll often start with a handwritten ‘écriture automatique’, or automatic writing, a technique I learned studying surrealists as a student in Paris. Structuring and shaping come later.
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 can be triggered by anything that finds its way into my heart or my peripheral vision. An injustice. A news article. A random comment by a taxi driver (two of my poems started this way). A tiny observation in nature or in the street. A painful memory or experience – whether it be mine or someone else’s. And because I’m already doing the thinking and looking, these observations have a place to land and can be turned into something interesting. This is what Arthur Koestler calls ‘thinking aside’ and bisociation in his brilliant book, The Act of Creation.
For poetry, I write pieces separately and then later gather them into a collection. Though I do tend to work implicitly in thematic sections and series, such as migration, trauma and healing, or rites of passage.
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Yes! I love it all: readings, open mics,
interviews from both ends of the mic, podcasts…
Bring it on. Small or large audiences, live or virtual, in different languages.
I enjoy performing and fielding questions – but I also love being in the audience or moderating readings and events. I recently had the privilege of interviewing US Poet Laureate Ada Limón in Amsterdam for over 200 people, and then, weeks later, listening to NY Poet Laureate Patricia Spears Jones read at Artists’ Space in downtown NYC as part of the Segue series. Lucky 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?
Everything I care about deeply ends up in my writing one way or the other. Probably most writers would say that. In my case, though, I studied international affairs and human rights as an undergraduate at Penn and then for my MSFS at the Georgetown School of Foreign Service. This education, coupled with my family background and professional involvements, taught me to study the world deeply. And it’s all there in my writing, whether my poetry, children’s books, or other pieces: Immigration and refugees; conflict and climate; political polarization and identity. I also explore how we heal from trauma; manage life stages; and keep moving toward the light.
That last point feels urgent now. An image keeps coming back to me from when our children were little, taking swimming lessons in Amsterdam (where I live and where they grew up). The Netherlands is a country of water – and 60% of us live below sea level. So, swimming lessons are serious! Early on, our kids learned a valuable lesson in the water: ‘if you fall into deep, dark water…look for the light. Swim towards the light.’ Yes! In the water, in life – and in my writing.
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?
Until recently, I might have distinguished between the role and the responsibility of a writer. The role of a writer, or any artist, is inherently an act of value, defiance, and humanity. Great writing can clear the fog or bring us to tears. In the words of British artist Peter Kennard, art can ‘show a human spirit that hasn’t been bashed down.’ I might have said that a writer could choose to write for the joy or necessity of writing, to make sense of the past, to give voice to longings. But that it wasn’t necessarily the responsibility of the writer to change the world.
I wonder if writers still have that luxury. Each of us, in some small way, can get people to pay attention. Slow down and notice. Connect the dots. Squirm. Dare to imagine something different and perhaps, as a result, demand or even build something different. In an opinion piece from The Financial Times in April 2025, Margaret Heffernan wrote that history teaches us, ‘if you want to identify when change starts, the best place to look for it is in art.’ Writers talk about creating mirrors (where readers can see themselves) or windows (where readers get a glimpse of another culture or viewpoint, hence the writer’s role in fostering empathy). But we are also uniquely positioned to create doors: a way through if not always an immediate way out.
8 - Do you find the process of working
with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Always valuable, often essential, and occasionally a joy. I’m grateful to
editors who can help unlock some magic trapped in my work to bring it to a higher
level. This has happened many times – especially with Peter Covino, a brilliant
poet as well as editor, in editing Unlikely Skylight for Barrow Street
Books. The back-and-forth with a demanding editor is exhilarating. I even heard
one editor say great editing together was like great sex… No comment!
Working with editors, even the best of them, can also be maddening. As poets and writers, we pick our battles, but the wince of reluctant compromises never fades. I find this to be especially true in poetry and children’s book texts, not only since each word plays an outsized role in the piece, but also because we read them aloud – over and over. And so I hear the compromise over and over, as if stubbing my toe repeatedly on a stone I neglected to move.
Editing is hard. Great editing is gold. I do a lot of editing for other writers, myself, and I know how tough it is not to fall into the trap of rewriting the writer’s work or coasting along with line edits.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
One valuable piece of advice from my student days was a passage I read in an essay by German novelist Thomas Mann. He said if he ever gets stuck with his writing, he can get going again if he manages to ‘write one true thing.’ It almost doesn’t matter what it is. I have found this technique helpful for all kinds of writing through the years. Start with a true thing, keep writing, and come back to revise or replace it later. And yet sometimes that one true thing turns out to be perfect.
I also recently discovered the ‘guiding
mantra’, now much publicized, of writer Suleika Jaouad. She says, ‘If you want
to write a good book, write what you don’t want others to know about you. But
if you want to write a great book, write what you don’t want to know about
yourself.’ This gut punch is already serving me well.
10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to children's
picture books)? What do you see as the appeal?
Writing-wise, and personality-wise, it suits me perfectly. But there are upsides and downsides.
What I appreciate most about writing across genres is: it strengthens my different ‘writer’s muscle groups’; helps me cross-fertilize in terms of both craft and community; and never lets me get bored. Most importantly, being a poet helps all my writing. The economy, beauty, sound and rhythms of poetry can elevate any kind of writing.
On the other hand, writing across genres risks diluting my ‘writer’s brand’ and makes me harder to position. Also, there are surely writers, poets, and editors out there who don’t get how a serious poet can also be a children’s book writer. Or how much poetry and children’s books have in common. Or how difficult it is to write good children’s literature, since it looks so easy.
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 wish I had a writing routine, but I don’t! Especially because I have other professional roles and travel quite a lot. It’s still a challenge every day to carve out the time and head space to get into the writing zone and stay there. I’m best and most efficient when working and writing against deadlines. Whenever possible, though, I start my day with a great breakfast, an oversized cup of green tea, and physical movement – whether it’s pilates, dance, tai chi, or my own workout. Then, with my brain crackling, I get down to work and try to avoid the sinkhole of my phone.
12 – When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
As I mentioned, the best way for me to get unstuck is to rummage around in my notes. They’re my Mary Poppins bag. It also helps just to get moving, pick up a cat, or go outside for a walk. For me, a walk in nature or city streets can do the trick equally, especially if I will myself into micro-observation, multisensory mode. And, if all else fails, or when I think I’ve forgotten how to write and may never write again, there’s the Thomas Mann technique I mentioned – getting started by writing ‘one true thing.’
You didn’t ask, but the worst thing I can do at these moments is check my phone or emails. Inspiration killers and time wasters.
13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
‘Home’ is a tricky concept for me since I was born in New York but have lived abroad most of my adult life. So I’ll pick my long-time home, Amsterdam, with its unexpected scent of chocolate. Not because the Dutch make great chocolate, which they do, but because the wind occasionally carries a hint of cacao from a chocolate factory somewhere outside the city. Subtle and usually off-hours, it reaches us all the way to the canals. The mystery of this smell haunted me for years, so I finally wrote a poem about it, ‘Cacao’, which appears in my book Unlikely Skylight.
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?
Even though I’m a city girl, nature and urban landscapes probably influence my work in equal and significant measures. Flora and fauna, forests and seascapes are inexhaustible sources of inspiration, as are city streets. So long as we keep shifting the lens. I’ve also noticed that there’s a lot of science, math, and mythology woven through my poems. Music and paintings a bit, too, and especially dance. I’ve been dancing (and choreographing) for many years and just finished a new poem called ‘Life Lessons from my Dance Teachers’.
15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
My bible is Arthur Koestler’s The Act
of Creation. He analyzes the act of creation from three perspectives – humor,
discovery, and art – and delves deep into the power of blending seemingly
unrelated things to create something new. It’s riveting and profound. I also
love writers who write non-poetry poetically, like Cormac McCarthy, Claire Keegan, Annie Dillard, and Samantha Harvey. I love poets who make their own
rules, like Sharon Olds and Terrance Hayes. And poets I wish would write more
poetry, like Katha Pollitt.
16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Finish and publish my concussion memoir so I can help others heal. Translate my poetry into other languages – at least into French and Dutch.
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?
Ha! I’ve already had several overlapping careers – as a management consultant, Board member, rights advocate, and speaker/moderator – in addition to being a writer. But I was initially en route to working in foreign policy and diplomacy following grad school, and I occasionally wonder what good I might have been able to do in the world had I pursued it.
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I tried for many years to keep it on the back burner, but it boiled over.
19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I have read some brilliant books recently, such as Ada Limón’s Startlement and Kaveh Akbar’s Martyr. And I finally, finally had the chance to read Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Her sentences made me want to reread them, read them again aloud just to feel them in my mouth, then run outside and look at the world anew, full of wonder at all its tiny moving parts.
I’ve not recently been blown away by films that reach the level of Super Bad, Almost Famous, Beasts of the Southern Wild, or Parasite. But I’ve enjoyed and admired several newer films, such as Past Lives, Anora, The Holdovers, and Frankenstein, and I’m keen to see more.
20 - What are you currently working on?
More poetry, always, and more children’s stories, always. I’ve been writing more poetry with a second book in mind, with some pieces I’m very excited about. I’m also currently working with my publisher and illustrator on the next book(s) in my counting book series. Importantly for me, I’m finally wading back into writing my concussion memoir, an excerpt of which will be published this month in the Amsterdam Quarterly. The excerpt is titled ‘A Summer to Recover’.
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