Evan Nicholls, Easy Tiger

 

EASY TIGER

The tiger makes it all so easy, the way it sweeps the woman’s house, packs a satsuma for her snack, accounts for the taxes. The way it ambushes need. How it steps the ache out of her back after work, shifting like a moon man or a dressage horse. This tiger is better people than most, the woman thinks. Stil, it is shit at being a tiger. The way it obeys all rules of the IRS.

The latest from Charlottesville, Virginia poet and artist Evan Nicholls, following his prose poem and full-colour visual debut, Holy Smokes: Poems + Collages (Syracuse NY/Exeter NH: Ghost City Press, 2021) [see my review of such here], is the small yet hefty volume Easy Tiger (Future Tense Books, 2025). Easy Tiger offers a quintet suite of surreal prose poems with occasional full-colour collage, all of which appear structured in similar ways, one sentence or phrase or image set atop another into a pile, providing less of a straightforward narrative through-line than an assemblage that suggests a narrative of collisions and surrealisms through the very act of reading. “He is not a white knight or a black knight.” the poem “A REGULAR KNIGHT” begins. “He is a regular knight. / In regular armor. / With a regular sword. / He does not ride a white horse or a red dragon. / He rides a pony and is accompanied by a large ginger cat.” One might attempt to describe such pieces as short narrative fictions or prose poems, as sharp collage works or jumbles, as quirky or oddball, all imprecise offerings for what Nicholls’ poems are doing and attempting, all of the above simultaneously, deliberately riding that fine line between sense and non-sense. The single line of the poem “LAIR OF THE DOG THAT BIT YOU,” for example, that reads: “You mow the lawn. You vacuum up.”

There’s been a heft of younger American poets leaning into the prose poem over the past few years, often with a surreal bent or thread, including Evan Williams [see his above/ground press title here], Shane Kowalski, Benjamin Niespodziany [see my review of his latest; see his above/ground press title here], Nate Logan [see my review of his latest; see his latest above/ground press title here], Ben Jahn [see his above/ground press title here], MC Hyland [see my review of their latest; see their above/ground press title here] and Lindsey Webb [see my review of her latest; see her above/ground press title here], as well as a whole slew of others, most of whom seem to be following an impulse or prompt by such as the late Russell Edson [see my review of his posthumous selected poems here], although with more of a lyric bent. In his own way, Nicholls does write, as Vik Shirley offers on the back cover, with “a relentless commitment to the weird and strange,” or, as Zachary Schomburg offers, “a recklessness,” although one with such a playful, joyful sense of nuance and heart. Nicholls composes poems that can’t help but lift any dark mood, dark heart, through such joyful and surreal ridiculousness, even across the occasional dark thread. In the end, these might just be poems of hope.

CHEKHOV’S GUN

The gun had a bell for a mother. The gun’s father was a cheap crate. If the gun’s mother ever tried to go off, the crate would eat her with the entire length of his arms.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kevin Sampsell

Kevin Sampsell is the author of a memoir (A Common Pornography), a novel (This Is Between Us), and a collection of collages and poems (I Made an Accident). He lives in Portland, Oregon and runs the influential small press, Future Tense Books. An award-winning bookseller, he has worked at Powell's City of Books since 1997. His collages have appeared on album covers, book covers, and in many publications like Kolaj Magazine, The Rumpus, The Weird Show, Chicago Quarterly Review, Little Engines, and Black Candies. His writing has appeared in Paper Darts, Southwest Review, Salon, Poetry Northwest, McSweeney's, Tin House, and elsewhere. He is the co-curator of Sharp Hands Gallery, a website featuring international collage artists.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

Technically, my first book (that wasn't a chapbook) was a self-published collection of stories, poems, and word collages called How to Lose Your Mind With the Lights On (Future Tense Books, 1994). It's pretty wild to think about how long ago that came out. I think it changed my life because it was my first experience doing everything all on my own. I probably could have used an outside editor, but if I looked at that book now, I'm sure I'd still appreciate a lot of its goofy weirdness. My most recent book, I Made an Accident, is a collection of collages and poems. In some ways it feels similar to that first book because it's a hodge-podge of things meant to surprise, delight, and even confound you. 

And how does it feel different? The collages are a lot better this time around.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I started in high school. My best friend and I would write weird little poems, but we didn't even call it poetry. We called them pieces. We were basically just trying to crack each other up, which I think was the early mission of the surrealists too, right? I wanted to write poems that were more Monty Python than Robert Frost.

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?

Over the years, it's been all over the place. I think I was more focused and compulsive for the first ten years or so of my writing life. I'd write whole stories pretty quickly, and sometimes several poems a day. I'm much slower now and I edit myself a lot more. But I know that writing, and especially publishing, is a slow game. It doesn't bother me to go slow now. But I'm always working on something, and a lot of times copious note-taking is involved.

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose 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?

Two of my books, the novel, This Is Between Us, and my memoir, A Common Pornography, were written in a non-linear fashion. I'd write chapters or scenes and then later spread them all out on the floor and figure out what order they needed to go. I finished a novel recently though that I wrote in a more traditional fashion, from the beginning to the end. And I challenged myself to write longer chapters for this book too. Off and on, it took about eight years. Who knows if it will ever get published.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I do enjoy doing readings and I actually host about a hundred or more readings every year at my job (Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon). I think I'm a good reader and I'm good in front of an audience, so sometimes it helps sell a few more books when I can deliver an entertaining reading. I notice that at my job too–a great reading sells a lot more books than a mediocre one.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work?

One of the main things I think about when writing is how people interact with each other and how relationships work. I don't think I could convincingly write something very engaging about nature or politics. I'm captivated by people in the world and all the strange things that can happen to them. I especially love writing about ordinary people who find themselves in unexpected situations they probably don't want to be in. More recently, I do find myself fixating on death, loss, and grief as central themes.

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?

There are all kinds of writers and they all have different intentions or missions. I don't really think about what "role" they're trying to fill and I don't think they "should be" attempting to define the larger culture. I think questions like that feel too pointed and put too much pressure on writers to do something that others will see as "Important" (with a capital I). Writing is an art form that can do anything and be anything, and it shouldn't always concern itself with influence. 

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I love it for the most part. I want to know that my writing is making sense to another human. Most of the time, if I get a story or essay published somewhere, there is very little input from an editor. But the times when I've gotten notes from editors, it's been really helpful and eye-opening. 

As an editor myself, I love it when I can help a writer make their work better, whether it be through small edits, suggestions, or playful challenges. With Future Tense, I work alongside my co-editor, Emma Alden, and it's appreciable to have her input and notes. We usually work through a shared Google doc and seeing how our thoughts help shape the book we're working on, makes it really enjoyable. 

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

A publisher friend told me a long time ago that I should be writing off things for my tax returns each year. I found a good tax lady who helped me figure out what I can and cannot do, and frankly, it was life-changing.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (fiction to poetry to memoir to collage)? What do you see as the appeal?

I think it's been a natural progression. I mean, I don't intentionally say, I have to do this genre now. I've always liked to make different things depending on whatever I might feel most interested in. For a while, it was personal essays, and then it was flash fiction, and eventually it was visual art. I even had a haiku phase! And I admire other people who can express themselves in various forms as well–musicians who can write novels, poets who can write memoirs, actors who can paint. Having a range of interests and talents has helped me not get stagnant. It gives me a sense of creative freedom, and also permission to experiment.   

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?

Ugh. I have such a bad writing routine most of the time. But the important thing is that I stick to it and I do have stretches when I can be focused and GSD. That stands for "Get Shit Done" and at the end of the day, that's what gives me satisfaction, whether it's writing, editing, collaging, stuff at work, etc. The name of the game is GSD.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Reading is the main kickstarter. It wakes up my brain and gives me ideas, especially poetry or a good disjointed lyric essay or something like that. Sometimes a good walk can do the trick too. Late night collaging can also inspire.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Sometimes, when my cat, Susan, yawns, I lean in to smell her cat breath, which I find so cute and comforting. I love her that much. 

The smell of baking brownies is probably a close second.

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?

Art for sure. Collages especially. I am obsessed with collage art and have made a whole new world of friends in that world over the past few years. You could look at some collage art and probably transcribe it into poems. And yes, I've always loved music. And movies too! Good, slow movies about people. I don't really like action or superhero movies. 

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Early favorites like Richard Brautigan, Diane Williams, Garielle Lutz, Gordon Lish, Larry Brown, and Mark Leyner were key to my enthusiasm for writing and reading. There were also a lot of British music writers I enjoyed a great deal, before I was even a serious reader in my twenties. A lot of friends of mine are writers I am constantly inspired by as well: Kimberly King Parsons, Miriam Toews, Zachary Schomburg, Caren Beilin, Shane Kowalski. Plus the brilliant graphic novelist Daniel Clowes. 

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I'd love to have a book reviewed in Entertainment Weekly or record an album of Prince covers.

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 didn't go to college, so I always imagined myself working at a factory or something. I think being a mailman would be kind of cool. Or a third string quarterback in the NFL, so I could make a lot of money and probably never have to play in a real game. Working at a bookstore isn't bad though.

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I wasn't smart enough to go to college or brave enough to join the military. I wanted to be a radio DJ and I was for a few years before moving to Portland (in 1992). Working in the world of books was kind of an accident. I just ended up here and held on to it because it was rewarding in a nurturing and creative way. Not sure if that answered your question very well. What makes me write is the constant urge to create and make things.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

I really loved Someone Told Me by Jay Ponteri. It was published by a Portland small press so it might be hard to find, but it's an outstanding book of thoughtfully probing and beautiful lyric essays. My favorite film of last year was Marcel the Shell With Shoes On. It made me weep.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I'm working on a couple of Future Tense projects and a new group show at my virtual collage gallery, Sharp Hands Gallery. As far as writing, I'm working on a couple of essays, or maybe they're more like long conceptual poems. One is about things in Portland turning into other things and another one is about things I don't remember–like the opposite of Joe Brainard's I Remember.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Shane Kowalski

Shane Kowalski lives in Pennsylvania. He works for the United States Postal Service. He is the author of Small Moods (Future Tense Books).  

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?
Not much has changed. I continue to work, continue to write. Of course, knowing I have a book out there in the world is a strange thought I remember from time to time and it does give me pleasure knowing there are people out there reading my weird, little stories. It's a surreal kind of space that I like to exist in.  

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
Weirdly, I actually came to poetry first. In my undergrad years there was so much poetry being taught where I went to school, it just seemed like a good idea to write. Always, though, with an eye towards fiction in the back of my mind. A lot of those poems that I wrote were very prose-ish.
 
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 actually cannot quite say. It's all very moody. Some pieces come really quick, others it's a more protracted process. I do a lot of drafting as I write, so the revision process is streamlined. It's rare that the final shape doesn't closely resemble most of what I started with.   

4 - Where does a work of prose 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 definitely a writer of short pieces that end up having to find a home. I always start with a small thing in a prose piece—an image, a phrase, but more times than not, it's a first sentence. What happens from there is the story.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I enjoy doing readings, weirdly. They end up being fun. Even though I don't quite look forward to them.
 
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 don't think I have any theoretical concerns. I just like doing voices.

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 have no clue, really. I always like taking a workmanlike approach to these types of questions. Simply: Use the language—Tell good stories. People will take it from there.  

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I think it's a cool process. Working with a really good editor is like putting on a pair of glasses and seeing your work more clearly.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I remember J. Robert Lennon saying, "Your novel is perfect until you write the first line, and then it is forever ruined."

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 usually try to write and post a very short story to my tumblr every day. My single writing habit I've sustained since 2011. Everything else has just been a mood or passing fancy.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I usually go back to the previous sentence. What's going on in it? What can I use? It is usually giving a direction forward.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
It's a fragrance I couldn't describe unless I was dreaming.

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?
Absolutely. Music, paintings, movies, television—they all have at one point or another influenced my work.  

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Lydia Davis, Robert Walser, Jane Bowles, Chelsey Minnis, Jamaica Kincaid just to name a few.  

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Write 10 novels in one year.

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?
Probably some kind of mundane work you could disappear into. Custodian. Librarian. Postal worker. Butler. Who knows...

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
It was too much fun.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
I recently finally read Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, which is a masterwork. I didn't think it could live up to the hype, but it is one of the finest examples of human storytelling. They should send it out into space. I also recently watched for the first time Ingmar Bergman's Cries and Whispers, which was beautiful and quietly harrowing.  

19 - What are you currently working on?
Oh, a bunch of things. So many short fragments of pieces. A novella-length piece that I've been tinkering with for a few years now about a woman who is a peeping tom. I'm just surrounded by tiny, little pieces of work. Who knows where they'll lead—if to anything at all?

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Wendy C. Ortiz

Wendy C. Ortiz is the author of Excavation: A Memoir (Future Tense Books, 2014); Hollywood Notebook (Writ Large Press, 2015); and the genre-breaking dreamoir Bruja (CCM, 2016). In 2016 Bustle named her one of “9 Women Writers Who Are Breaking New Nonfiction Territory.” Wendy’s work has been profiled or featured in the Los Angeles Times, Poets & Writers Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, The Rumpus, Los Angeles Review of Books, and the National Book Critics Circle Small Press Spotlight blog. Individual pieces have appeared in The New York Times, Hazlitt, StoryQuarterly, Joyland, and many other journals. Wendy lives in Los Angeles, where she is a parent and a psychotherapist in private practice. 

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?

My first book was supposed to be Hollywood Notebook; Writ Large Press acquired it in 2013 and we had hoped for a 2014 date, but it got pushed back to 2015. In the meantime, I had been talking with Kevin Sampsell of Future Tense in the summer of 2013, and in the fall of that year, he told me he wanted to publish the manuscript I'd given him in summer of 2014. This made Excavation: A Memoir my first book. 

The publishing of Excavation completely changed my life. I was fortunate to be noticed by the Los Angeles Times and the National Book Critics Circle in the first few months of the book's life. For a small press author, this is a good set of circumstances. The book continues to have a long tail--I tell people, and this is still true--I receive one email from a stranger who has read the book at least every two weeks since its publication date. In that sense, I still feel the life-changing effects of that book.

My most recent book, Bruja, feels pretty different. Excavation is in many ways a much more standard approach to memoir. Bruja is a dreamoir, a memoir of dreams. It feels like quite a radical departure on its own or in comparison to my first book, and my second book. 

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I'm answering this in a project by project context: how do I come to poetry in a project before fiction or nonfiction. Many of my first drafts of what will become prose begin first as poetry. They're usually notes on my phone or words I wrote in a notebook and they are few but sometimes they're a key to a different place, which might end up being fiction or nonfiction prose.

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 typically take weeks, if not months, if not years (really) of just thinking about the project. Ideally it's just weeks. I may take some notes here and there, either handwritten in my notebook or my phone, or no notes at all. My process is often me, hiking, thinking through, forgetting, coming back, thinking through again. First drafts end up very very close to their final shape.  

4 - Where does a poem or work of prose 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?

It changes. I've worked on a book project knowing full well it would become a book. My last two books were derived from fragments and became book-length. I have ideas about next books, so I know they'll be of that length but I don't know yet whether they'll be poetry, short essays, or long chapters. 

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

As a former curator and organizer of readings (eleven years dedicated to my reading series, Rhapsodomancy), I feel like I enjoyed readings much more than reading myself. In recent years I've found some equilibrium when it comes to doing readings. I would not say it's part of my creative process, but it's not counter to it, either. What I've discovered most recently is that I would much prefer to do some sort of performance that involves not only my text or others' texts but also my body. I want to do less readings and more performance, I think. 

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'm constantly trying to ask/respond to questions involving the body, human relationships, missing or omitted narratives, and rendering the experiences that are both mundane and profound into language that hopefully embodies all of it. I'm not sure I know what the current questions are! 

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?

I don't know if there's "a" role or "the" role of "the writer." There are roles and there are writers. Even in my ideal world there would be writers and numerous roles rather than one overarching one. 

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

I may be extremely lucky in that I've always had editors with whom I had an easy relationship. I trust them, they trust me. In the end if I feel like I learned ten things from their editing process, which I usually do, I'm grateful to them forever.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Tend your own garden. 

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to fiction to non-fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

It's easy. It's ideal if I can imagine a form right away and try it out and it works, but if it doesn't, I'm equally excited to try a different genre with the same material.

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 typically wake up before 7am, make coffee, and write two pages in my journal. If I have deadlines, I write in the afternoon, but my best times to write are the hours before 1 or 2pm. I usually don't write much of anything on weekends, when I like to play dead to the world if possible.  

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

Books I've loved, music, the ocean. I also challenge myself to see everything "new" on the hike I take three times a week. The exercise of forcing myself to find new things has not only un-stalled my writing, but also has worked to keep depression at bay.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Cigarette smoke. 

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?

"Nature" sounds so huge, and yes, it encompasses a lot, but I will say, for sure, NATURE influences my work—specifically the nature around me, the mountains, ocean, and desert. Music is an intoxicating influence and I feel almost too susceptible. 

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Lidia Yuknavitch, Myriam Gurba, Maggie Nelson, Cynthia Cruz, David Wojnarowicz, Michael Ondaatje, so much contemporary poetry I find/am exposed to daily online...that's the answer today.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Make a movie. Do a triathlon. 

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 did attempt another occupation, and it was as a psychotherapist, and it's what I'm doing now. But had I never been a writer I imagine I would have wanted to direct. 

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I have no idea. I've never had a something else or felt like I had much access to a something else. I can't draw. I don't play instruments. It's never occurred to me to not write. 

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

Fish In Exile by Vi Khi Nao. Moonlight.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I'm giving myself exercises to experiment with writing screenplays. Meanwhile my brain is working on ideas for two possible books that I don't picture starting to write for a long, long time.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;