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 don’t know if it changed my life much! The best part is seeing the unexpected places where my writing lands. I often get messages via social media from folks who somehow came by my book. They always have such wonderful things to say! I feel honoured, and surprised sometimes by how far it’s travelled.
All my books are connected, whether I meant for them to be or not. I seem to be preoccupied by similar ideas. Even though the subject matter varies, poems from both my collections with Gordon Hill Press (and even my chapbooks with Anstruther Press) excavate themes of ecofeminism, epigenetics, physical dis/ability, madness, grandmaternal ancestral trauma, the matrilineal inheritance of song and oral identity, historically suppressed voices, conflict, womanness, ptocd, disordered eating, accent, classism, and care. I think of the problem with having a body and grenoside as sister books.
2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
I took an Introduction to Creative Writing class with Professor Dale Lakevold at Brandon University. I wanted to be a fiction writer, a novelist. I thought I hated poetry, so I looked ahead at the weekly schedule on the syllabus, noted that in Week 6, or whatever, we would be reviewing poetry, and vowed not to attend. Turns out I forgot to miss it, and fell immediately in love with poems. I was studying opera at the time, and had just been diagnosed with Muscle Tension Dysphonia. I was put on complete vocal rest, meaning I couldn’t speak for many weeks. Poetry found me right at a time when I needed a new creative outlet to communicate.
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 varies. In the problem with having a body, for example, some of those poems were a decade old, taken from my graduate thesis; however, some were written a month before publication. I must be preoccupied and ruminating on the same themes all these years later. Often, I jot down notes in a “dump document” on Google Docs or in the draft of an email, and gradually add more lines and eventually shape it into a poem. Sometimes I feel like a vessel for the words, like they’re just zooming through me onto the page and I have to work super quickly to capture them. Sometimes the process is slow. A poem could take a morning, a month, or a year.
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 usually working on a cycle to make up part of a book without knowing it. Stand-alone poems are not typically my forte. I find that I have more to say that can’t be contained in one poem, so I write mini cycles of six, seven, or eight plus poems. I can’t always be sure when the cycle is done. I have to feel my way through it
5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love readings. I put my opera singer hat on and immerse myself. Many of my poems are written phonetically in Yorkshire dialect, so they’re fun to perform and speak/sing out loud. I don’t think readings are part of, or counter to, my creative process. They’re more like a rip-roaring exclamation mark or semicolon to my poetic process.
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?
My poems ask loud questions about epigenetics, ancestral trauma, and the genetic inheritance of madness and disordered eating. They consider gender-based, intimate partner violence and coercive control, and tap into dis/ability justice by countering institutionalized ableism. I think a lot about womanness, PTOCD, classism, marginalization, and voicelessness. Yet, I’m always wondering what is my story to tell, and I think there are more pertinent, current questions that poetics can excavate and illuminate, and my job is to know when it’s my turn to speak, and when it’s my time to sit down and pass the mic to others.
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 subscribe to Nina Simone’s theory that “an artist's duty, as far as I'm concerned, is to reflect the times.” This is true for me, at least. I feel compelled to tell the stories that are mine to tell, and it often happens that those stories intersect with larger cultural phenomena– intersectional feminism, madness, dis/ability, classism, intergenerational trauma, geographical rupture, ablemism, et al. I’m have the bandwidth to “reflect the times” in my work, and I belive it is also my job to uplift the voices of those who have been marginalized by society, although it is not their duty to educate us about their experiences of subjugation. Nor are dis/abled writers, or readers, for example, a monolith. I don’t seek to represent every dis/abled person on the planet in my poems, but if what I share can touch a heart, or a hundred, I’m happy.
8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
Both! While I don’t always love how an editor might morph my poetics, I trust deeply in their talent to improve them. I do think it’s important to push back, though, if the edit obfuscates what you originally hoped to communicate. I’ve found that leaning into the wisdom of experienced editors and writers ultimately strengthens the work.
9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
That multiple versions of one poem can coexist. This advice was granted to me by Roo Borson. I’m a perfectionist, which can halt my creativity. If it isn’t going to be perfect, I don’t want to write it at all. But Roo had me take a poem, and splash the words across the page, then make it into a spindly, skinny little poem with short line breaks, then elongate the lines to allow longer line breaks, then chunk it into couplets, or triplets, or quatrains. If many versions of the poem can exist at the same time, I don’t need to worry about creating the singular, perfect iteration of it.
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 used to have a dedicated writing practice. Up and at a coffee shop by 6:00 a.m., writing until noon or later, drinking tea constantly. Brioche Dorée is where I wrote almost all of my graduate thesis a decade ago. They let me pour my own hot water for tea refills. I could never write at home. But since the pandemic, I’ve gotten better at writing in my own apartment. So my day usually begins between 4:30 a.m. and 6:00 a.m., first by walking my dog and doing yoga, by reading poetry or prose (for my latest collection, I leaned into Damian Rogers, Jeanette Winterson, and Ocean Vuong), and then by jotting ideas in either my notes app or an email draft, before transitioning it to Google Docs. I’m typically useless in the afternoon, so all writing occurs in the morning; never the evening; however, sometimes, I’ll be out and about, throwing the ball at the park for Maggie, or taking a yoga class, and I’ll have to stop and write an idea down. Poems often write themselves in my brain, and I have to capture them before they flit away.
11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I listen to audiobooks by authors I admire, or pick up a novel. I return to books of poetry I’ve enjoyed, or head to my favourite local bookstore, Queen Books, to stock up. I might listen to a podcast, like On Being, as it typically has really thoughtful, inspirational guests. Often, I’ll take my dog for a walk into nature, Cherry Beach, perhaps, to see if that sparks any ideas.
12 - What was your last Hallowe'en costume?
Not my last, but my most memorable was Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs a decade ago.
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?
Certainly nature; annex, king west, to york, cannon hall farm, and essentially the entirety of grenoside have nods towards nature. Roo Borson said that my book is “full of monologues and stories, the common names of birds and trees that mark out particular neighbourhoods,” which is true! I try to use the precise bird breeds and tree species typical to each area. I'd say almost every poem has a pastoral element. Music is also an enormous influence. I’m a classical/opera singer, so I imbue my poetics with musical vernacular and metaphor, and I’m often told there’s a musicality or singabiity to my writing. Visual art also plays a role as, for my graduate thesis, I documented my grandmother’s paintings, and used them ekphrastically to inspire poems.
14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I will always have a soft spot for all of Di Brandt’s poetry, especially Questions I Asked My Mother. She was my undergraduate thesis advisor, and she taught me everything I know about ecofeminist poetics. Roo Borson, too, who was my graduate thesis mentor. I will always return to Rain; Road; an Open Boat. Michael Ondaatje’s Handwriting is another collection I keep close at hand, along with Ian Williams’ Personals. I shamelessly fangirled Katherena Vermette (I’m in love with The Break) and Zoe Whittall (Bottle Rocket Hearts changed my life) at literary events.
15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Start work on a new collection! I’ve been so caught up in editing, I haven’t written much new material recently. I have four or five new poems floating around, but not much more. I’d also like to work more with video or installation poetry. I did a lot of that during my undergraduate degree, but that feels like a lifetime ago.
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?
In another life, I would have been a costume designer. Before moving to Canada to pursue opera and poetry, I had a place at the Central School of Speech and Drama to study costume construction, but fell back in love with voice after (somewhat) healing my muscle tension dysphonia. I still love to sew, making baby clothes, dresses for myself, and masks during the pandemic. I think if it weren’t for art, I’d be a midwife, or work with children in some other way. I also dream of opening a dog sanctuary, which I suppose is still possible alongside being a poet!
17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I’m only any good at art. I scraped a pass in maths and science in high school. I love to paint, draw, and sew. I almost became a costume designer, but fell too deeply in love with music. While pursuing an opera degree, I lost my voice to muscle tension dysphonia. I was put on complete vocal rest. My only way to communicate was through writing, and, luckily, I found poetry. I thought about being a teacher, or a therapist, but I feel so fortunate that, instead, I’m able to write.
18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I love A Little Life, which I know is controversial, and I absolutely hear those on the other side of the controversy, but I connect so deeply with the lead who, like me, moves through the world with dis/ability and sings Mahler, one of my favourite composers. The Lied he sings when asked to perform something emblematic of him is one I sang during the final jury of my undergraduate degree. Douglas Stuart’s Young Mungo and Shuggie Bain stay with me always. Nadine Sander-Green’s Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit completely shook me. I love everything Billy-RayBelcourt, Katherena Vermette, and Souvankham Thammavongsa.
19 - What are you currently working on?
I’m still sitting with book two, grenoside, out with Gordon Hill Press in Fall 2026. A flush of new poems hurried in, and my editor and I are spending time deciding if they belong in this book, or in a future book. Good problems to have: too many poems.
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