12 or 20 (second series) questions with John Sibley Williams

John Sibley Williams is the author of As One Fire Consumes Another (Orison Poetry Prize, 2019), Skin Memory (Backwaters Prize, 2019), Disinheritance, and Controlled Hallucinations. A nineteen-time Pushcart nominee, John is the winner of numerous awards, including the Philip Booth Award, American Literary Review Poetry Contest, Phyllis Smart-Young Prize, The 46er Prize, Nancy D. Hargrove Editors' Prize, Confrontation Poetry Prize, and Laux/Millar Prize. He serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review and works as a literary agent. Previous publishing credits include: The Yale Review, Midwest Quarterly, Southern Review, Sycamore Review, Prairie Schooner, The Massachusetts Review, Poet Lore, Saranac Review, Atlanta Review, TriQuarterly, Columbia Poetry Review, Mid-American Review, Poetry Northwest, Third Coast, and various anthologies. He lives in Portland, Oregon. 

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

My first collection, Controlled Hallucinations, was a linguistic experiment and structurally different than most of my work. I’d published six chapbooks before that, each with its own tone and themes. But the poems in Controlled Hallucinations bore no titles, meaning it was meant to be read together, fluidly. My concern was that the poems didn’t provide a narrative to bind them. Each was a brief, self-sustaining vignette that played with language and repeated images. Luckily, a lovely small publisher, FutureCycle Press, picked it up and published it back in 2013. The experience introduced me to the world of nonlocal readings, media, and all the things poets must do to get their books in readers’ hands. It was a fabulous experience, and it taught me so many lessons I continue to adhere to today.

My two new or upcoming collections couldn’t be more different tonally or structurally. However, many of the same themes emerge. We cannot change what haunts us. But these new collections are more solid, connective, and the writing comes from a more mature place, both personally and creatively.

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

I actually began writing short fiction around age eight or nine and throughout high school and my first years of college. It seems strange to say in hindsight, but I was 21 when I wrote my first poem. Perhaps dueto the way it was taught to me in school, before that I had never enjoyed reading poetry and had certainly never considered writing one. The story of my first poetry experience still fills my heart with gratitude and inspiration.

It was summer in New York and I was sitting by a lake with my feet dragging through the current caused by small boats when suddenly, without my knowing what I was doing, I began writing something that obviously wasn’t a story. What was it? Impressions. Colors. Emotions. Strange images. I didn’t have any paper, so I used a marker to write a series of phrases on my arm. Then they poured onto my leg. Then I realized I needed paper. I ran back to the car, took out a little notebook, and spent hours emptying myself of visions and fears and joys I don’t think I even knew I had. Since that surreal and confusing moment by that little city lake 19 years ago, poetry has become my creative obsession and life’s work, the lens through which I better comprehend the world and my tiny part in it.

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?

Well, that wholly depends on the poem. Some flow so quickly and organically I almost feel as though they’re coming from outside me, written in another’s hand. A few of my poems that have won national contests took me 20 minutes to write. I’m utterly grateful for these experiences. On the other hand, I always have dozens of poems-in-progress, many of which are years old and may never be completed. Sometimes we just don’t yet have the language or experiences to work on a poem. I’ll jot down a few lines, even a few stanzas, and then the poem stagnates. Its context is lost. Then I’ll revisit it months or years later with a new perspective. Suddenly the poem makes sense. Such a mysterious process. Some skill. Some luck. Maybe some magic.

Similarly, many of my drafts closely resemble their polished versions, especially as I tend to edit as I go. But many others could not look more different. Sometimes I’ll scrap an entire poem apart from a few key lines. Then I’ll start a new poem with those lines.

In the end, I think it’s all about the poem’s specific needs and goals. I know it’s a cliché statement, but poems really do have a life of their own apart from the creator. And I feel we need to honor that sentience and work at the pace the poem demands, strenuous as it often is.

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?

Though this is far from universally true, many of my poems begin with a single image. Be it a dead horse bloated by a river, my young daughter tearing up the paper swans I made for her, or, in the case of “Dear Jonah”, one of my favorite poems in my new collection, children playing in the vast ribcage of a beached whale, I usually start with a single haunting image written at the top of a page. Then I try to weave a world in which that image makes sense. I have multiple notebooks filled with individual lines, words, images without context, and I tend to flip through these while writing to see if any previous little inspirations might tie into the new world I’m creating. That said, I do sometimes start with a concept, theme, or other larger motivation, often cultural or political. But I tend to find these ideas and themes spring naturally from whatever I write, and it usually feels more organic if I begin with an image and let the context find its voice.

I’m rarely working on a specific book. I simply write and write and build books based on the common threads in the poems themselves.

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

Sharing my work in a live environment is an essential component to continued inspiration. I don’t approach readings as compulsory or goal-oriented, meaning book sales aren’t my main motivation. I learn a lot about my work from performing it before an audience; even poems I’ve written years ago take on a new life. Although my composition process involves reading each line aloud over and over until it sounds right to my ear, audience reaction to my tone, cadence, and enunciation (and my overall presentation style, including gesture and personality) provides a fresh way of perceiving my work. I recognize the intense energy (or lack thereof) certain poems tend to engender in an audience, and I’ve even revised poems based on how they resonate orally to others. In the end, whether it’s spoken or on the page, we’re trying to communicate our vision of the world. We hope to translate our experiences in a way that will resonate with others. And how better to do that than eye-to-eye, directly from mouth to ear?

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?

Though each poem possesses its own unique demands, themes, and structures, my work is always heavily rooted in human attachments and disconnects: to others, to self-perception, to culture and politics, to nature, to language, to the past and future, to hurt and healing. Attempting to balance concept and emotion, my work is geared towards a generous, inclusive approach to discourse, to storytelling. I’m interested in the drama and tragedy of the human condition, the ways we define ourselves and seek meaning in our lives.

The topics through which I explore these themes are greatly varied and derive from a broad range of passions: family, tradition, art, culture, history, politics, landscapes, and seasons. The structures I employ are similarly varied, from narrative to experimental to prose poems, according to which structure best conveys the poem’s specific goals. However, regardless of topic, I always try to express a sharable, universal experience by balancing concept with emotion and by focusing on layered metaphors and the innate musicality of language. I hope my writing successfully emphasizes form and sound, as rhythm carries a resonance beyond literal and figurative meanings.

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?

That’s a huge, loaded question, and it’s one I don’t feel particularly comfortable answering. I don’t really believe in creative should’s or hard-defined roles. Roles end up coffins for creativity. I don’t feel poets should confine themselves by adopting responsibilities that aren’t intrinsic to their creative drive.  Isn’t a writer simply someone who writes? And people write in different ways on different themes for different purposes. Although my new collection, As One Fire Consumes Another, explores weighty cultural themes and histories in an attempt to understand why we do what we do to each other, as well as my own (rather privileged) identity in our country’s tumultuous political climate, my previous collection focused on the intimate themes of parenthood, progeny, and personal fears. Writing about a garden or Trump’s immigration policy are both equally valid and equally necessary. Poetry unravels, reveals, explores, regardless of its larger purpose.

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

Although my writing process is a personal endeavor, I do enjoy participating in my writing group. We’ve met every other week for nearly nine years. I use their critiques and comments as a filmmaker does a test screening. If a poem resonates with most of the group, then it’s probably working. If everyone feels certain lines, themes, or the poem itself are in need of serious revision, they are probably right. A poet can simply be too close to the material to recognize its universality or lack thereof. So feedback is essential. However, I try to retain a balance between initial inspiration and outside critique. We need to stay true to our visions. If, even after harsh criticism, I still love a poem, I likely won’t revise it much. I want to be proud of each poem, and revisions can hamper that. But I do tend to revise, at least a little, based on such feedback. Changing a single line (heck, even swapping a for the) can open a poem up to greater resonance.

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

There’s a reason “keep writing, keep reading” has become clichéd advice; it’s absolutely true. You need to study as many books as possible from authors of various genres and from various cultures. Listen to their voices. Watch how they manipulate and celebrate language. Delve deep into their themes and structures and take notes on the stylistic and linguistic tools they employ. And never, ever stop writing. Write every free moment you have. Bring a notebook and pen everywhere you go (and I mean everywhere). It’s okay if you’re only taking notes. Notes are critical. It’s okay if that first book doesn’t find a publisher. There will be more books to come. And it’s okay if those first poems aren’t all that great. You have a lifetime to grow as a writer.

Do we write to be cool, to be popular, to make money? We write because we have to, because we love crafting stories and poems, because stringing words together into meaning is one of life’s true joys. So rejections are par for the course. Writing poems that just aren’t as strong as they could be is par for the course. But we must all retain that burning passion for language and storytelling. That flame is what keeps us maturing as writers.

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 don’t have a specific location or time of day, especially now that I’m a parent. I must steal every moment I can. However, even before fatherhood, I found that ideas and phrases and images emerge at the oddest times. I’d taken to carrying a pocket notebook everywhere some years ago. During my daily work commute. In the hospital visiting an ailing friend. While walking my dog. Even in the middle of a concert or film. Though I tend to write best when outside, inspiration can come from anything. At its core, I think creativity is all about curiosity and how one chooses to communicate with the world. As adults, we’re programmed to think linearly, reactively, and, dare I say it, boringly. But if we retain a bit of that childhood innocence, that unabated curiosity, then we can find metaphors in everything. Why look at the night sky and think “sky, moon, stars”? Why can’t the sky be a river? Why can’t the stars be that part of our hearts we leave open to love?

My process is a bit different with every poem. Some pour forth as if on their own, leaving me the easier task of revising for sound and clarity. Other poems take serious effort, time, and struggle. But generally my routine includes having notebooks filled with phrases and images splayed out before me. My goal is to find connective tissue, loose threads, unexpected contexts, from which a poem may emerge.

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

When my writing gets stalled, I usually take it as a sign that my mind needs a break. Often writers block hits me after an extended period of hectic writing. Six months. A hundred poems written (not all of them good, of course). I’ve opened my heart and explored the ways it hurts. Then…the page goes blank on me. And that’s okay. It’s an essential part of the process, as sleeping is to wakefulness. I take that time to regroup and work on other things. Sometimes I forget there’s a whole world out there. I forget I actually have hobbies and interests outside of writing. So I take these stalled times to get inspired by the non-literary world, and I wait until the need to write returns. It’s rarely a long wait. Then, as a warm up, I tend to write a few choppy, rather poor poems that no one will ever see. Then, hopefully, the better writing returns in full force.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

I’d love to say something poetic here. Is it calming sandalwood streaming from a candle? Summer rain baking on the driveway? Freshly sliced onions frying in a pan? As I’m a parent of twin toddlers and two aging pets, the fragrance that defines home for me at the moment is…less lyrical. You can imagine the scents of which I speak. However, they’ve become comforting. They speak to the hard work of love and nursing a new generation.

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?

Not to sound coy, but I believe everything is a storehouse of inspiration. It all depends on the author’s curiosity and on retaining an open mind. From other books and current events, from overheard conversations and history, from memories and mythology and the way a bridge sways against the sky and my son’s hand brushing against mine. And I’m heavily inspired by the landscape itself, from weather patterns and animals and cityscapes and rivers and the bridges that span them. And sometimes ideas seem to materialize from the ether, as if they never existed until that moment.

But I think most of my ideas stem from how things interact with other things. Be it people in love or coyotes sniffing a deer carcass or clouds darkening the sky or trains shooting through the night, warming the rails. The effects one thing has on every other thing are astounding, ever-changing, and so very inspiring.

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

Although I could name dozens of poets whose work I return to again and again to inspire and sustain my own, the book that’s had the most lasting impact is Man’s Search for Meaning by psychologist and Holocaust survivor Viktor E. Frankl. With each fresh reading of it, I find new questions to ask myself. This seminal work frames much of my understanding of human nature, and I don’t think a day goes by in which its insights aren’t validated in my daily life. From it I also better realize our motivations and basic intangible needs, which translate into the landscapes I write about and the characters I populate them with.

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

If I had greater resources (monetary and time), I’d love to open a youth poetry camp here in Portland. To supplement traditional poetic education and to keep young people thinking and writing during the summer, the camp would include instructional and inspirational speakers and guest teachers. The group would travel extensively throughout the area and learn to write in different settings, from city to country. As Portland is within driving distance of mountains, deserts, rivers, and an ocean, not to mention the uniqueness of the city’s downtown, youth could practice writing about their world with their feet actually sunk deep in those various soils.

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, apart from the usual childhood career desires, I don’t recall ever having wanted to do anything but write with my life. However, if the opportunity arose to work in another medium apart from the written word, I’d work in film. I have a few scripts buzzing about in my head, many rather well sketched out. Given my obsession with unique, haunting images, I’d love to write and direct darkly dramatic independent films. Another occupation within the film industry I can easily imagine adoring is practical effects artist. If there’s anything the writing life lacks, it’s using one’s hands to turn images into tangible objects.

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

I fear I don’t really have an answer for this one as I didn’t choose to write in any objective sense. I haven’t sat down to compare writing against other potential creative endeavors. In answer to the common question “why do you write?”, I can only say “ I don’t know how not to.” I make sense of the world through language. Without it, I’d be lost; I would be a different person.

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

Given my hectic schedule, which allows little down time, I tend to read sample poems and do some research before acquiring a new book. So I’m rarely disappointed in anything I read. A few poetry collections that recently tore at my heart and inspired my own writing include Nostalgia for a World Where We Can Live by Monica Berlin, Cenzontle by Marcelo Hernandez Castillo, and Cutting the Wire: Photographs and Poetry from the US-Mexico Border, a powerful cultural collaboration between photographer Bruce Berman and poets Ray Gonzalez and Lawrence Welsh. As I’m a fan of darker films, especially horror, arguably my favorite film of the past year was Hereditary, which moved me emotionally and terrified me as a parent.

19 - What are you currently working on?

As I have two new books coming out this year (As One Fire Consumes Another, winner of the Orison Poetry Prize, and Skin Memory, which won the Backwaters Prize), I’m not working on a specific project at the moment. I’m just writing and writing, trying to push my own boundaries, stretch my comfort zone, and experiment with new styles and structures with the hope something fresh and authentic will come of it.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Carly Joy Miller, Ceremonial

Weathered Porch

When my grandmother fell through

the floorboards, she cupped her hands

to create an echo that crosses

five acres of cows, and they don’t know how

to listen. Cows don’t know how to move

closer in open fields. They need

whispers in their ears. Branding irons

or cracked whips taught them

how pain sounds—a bellow

from the fourth stomach. When her throat

dried, she settled for listening.

What she heard before having a body:

the rumbling of dirt, shuffling

of the many-headed rush,

a voice calling I’m sorry over

the cows’ shuffling weight.

Winner of The 2017 Orison Poetry Prize, as selected by Carl Phillips, is New York poet and editor Carly Joy Miller’s full-length debut, the poetry title Ceremonial (Asheville NC: Orison Books, 2018). The collection opens with a glowing introduction by Ilya Kaminsky, that includes:

            Carly Joy Miller often begins her poems with the seduction of tone: she is playful and ruinous at the same time. “I have always been the girl in the wrong / clothes for spring,” she starts the poem, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Last week I hunted the blond boys / who hunted a doe.” That catches the eye. But what follows is working on a much deeper, stranger register: “I let out a dry cry. / Only the worms could hear me. / I’ve been that low.” What a curious marriage of O’Hara and Plath! And Amy Gerstler! And the Witches’ words in Macbeth!

I was struck by many of the poems in this collection, but there were times that I wanted more from some of them; times I felt that the poems didn’t go far enough, such as the poem “Letter to Body Made Breath,” which ended on a short sequence that left me feeling short-changed: “Dress billow-whips // my knees. Breathe.: / body arch. Breathe.” In a way, my frustration from such small moments come from seeing just how capable Miller’s work is, and how much better a poet she is, and could be. On the whole, this collection is sharp, wickedly smart and playfully confident, and the variety of structures she plays with, utilizing shifts in line breaks, rhythm and even prose structures, throughout the collection made up for any shortfalls I might be imagining. Her poems are restless, moving through myth and mantra, fable and consequence, seeking out the closest thing to truth that might be possible. Perhaps I make too much of a small thing? As the last quarter of the poem “Fable” reads:

Cry one tear is she is quick enough

to wipe it away. It could freeze on her cheek

and she doesn’t need a mark for loss

visible on her face. The sun fell. She thought

of a swan tucking beak into wing. That’s

what all days must be like. All fall gracefully.

She was mistaken. If she’d just looked up

she could have saved him. Someone else

will find him. Someone else will drag him home.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Carly Joy Miller

Carly Joy Miller is the author of Ceremonial (Orison Books, 2018), selected by Carl Phillips as the winner of the 2017 Orison Poetry Prize, and the chapbook Like a Beast (Anhinga Press, 2017), winner of the 2016 Rick Campbell Chapbook Prize. Her work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, Blackbird, Boston Review, Gulf Coast, West Branch and elsewhere. She is a contributing editor for Poetry International and a founding editor of Locked Horn Press.

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 chapbook, Like a Beast, was accepted and published before my full-length, Ceremonial, but was written a few years after most of the poems in Ceremonial. The poems in Like a Beast needed to happen, though, in order to make Ceremonial what it is.

Maggie Smith helped me tremendously with Ceremonial, which I was shopping around in an earlier form simultaneously with Like a Beast. When Like a Beast was a finalist for a contest, she reached out to ask about the chapbook. I thought they were such completely different projects, as Like a Beast was much darker in mood and tone than Ceremonial at the time, but once Maggie sent me her feedback where she put in a few poems from Like a Beast, I knew Ceremonial was done.

It’s still hard to think about the “new work,” since both books were accepted months from each other and there’s only 10 months between them being out in the world. I’ve been working on a series of what I’m calling “litanies but not litanies,” which I’m still trying to figure out. I think, in the few poems that have surfaced, I’m still exploring desire but in the sense of “Why do I love this word so much?” and “Where is desire taking me now?” I’m also working within moments of identity, particularly my Jewish upbringing, that builds into the type of faith I’ve cultivated for myself via the body and language.

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

I’d been writing songs for a few years in high school (when I wanted to go the singer/songwriter route), but the exact moment poetry felt like something I could invest myself in was when my AP English class read Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” We had to write a paragraph or two about it, and I went to my teacher asking so much about it. I wrote poems ever since, and had even thought of majoring in English but wanted to be “practical” so I went the Business degree route, which didn’t last long. Once I found out that my undergrad, Univ. of California, Irvine, offered an emphasis in creative writing, I changed my major to English and pursued poetry.

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?

When I was working on Ceremonial in earlier forms, I was playing with so many poems from my MFA. Later poems, which play true to my current process, came a bit slower. I think it took about 5 months after I graduated to begin writing other poems, but then I averaged a poem about once a month. When I wrote Like a Beast, it was all in the span of writing poems quickly within a month (before I attended the Tin House Summer Writer’s Workshop), then worked on editing pieces for a few months after that. So I mean, it’s essentially a slow start toward a writing project, but once I’m in the poem, the poem takes anywhere from a few hours to a month or two to get to where it needs to go, with the first draft being very close to what becomes the final draft.

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?

Post-MFA, I found that a project/series helped keep me focused. These days, I’m actually returning to letting poems be poems, and not necessarily thinking, “This will go into a collection.” Some happen to fall into a sequence of “litanies but not litanies” that I’ve been exploring, but even then I’m finding that there are moments I’ve been writing that want to veer away from that ideation entirely.  

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

It’s definitely something that is part of my process—I read my drafts out loud as I write, and being trained in music and having a sister who is an actress, I definitely pride myself on reading well. I enjoy readings very, very much, as a sort of celebration and gathering space to listen and take a moment to be with each other.

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 questions revolve around desire: What do we do with it when it becomes too much to bear? What happens when it leaves us, whether in the beloved’s leaving or our own choosing to cut it off? And what, in that brokenness, can rebuild itself into joy?

In my newer poems, I’m also asking about heritage. Growing up in mixed faiths, but practicing Judaism for most of my life, I’m figuring out the pull in regards heritage. I’m not quite sure of these questions yet, but I’m open.

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?

We’ve all heard the “make it new” aspect of writing—we’re all revolving around topics similarly, but how do we make it new? I also think, especially in this age, we’re feeling more inclined toward citizenry within poetry—how do we lift our community, and in what ways? This brings up the idea of questions: I’m gearing up toward asking some of the larger questions that many of my peers have already asked. How we interact with those around us, and how we can do better.

What is the role of the writer? The writers I read and love create ways to explore humanity through various lenses. I think writers can crack open so much, but it’s up to the reader to continue carrying whatever they felt with them to share it with others. 

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

I think it’s essential, but “editor” holds a lot of different contexts for me. The marvelous poet Erin Rodoni is my primary reader, so she serves as my first pair of eyes toward making any edits to my drafts.

When it comes to “editor” in the sense of magazines and presses, it’s still essential—they’re the ones advocating for your work. And when they offer edits, they’re suggestions toward how, in their minds, the poems can become stronger. And you can take their vision or not, but the exchange allows you to open your mind up to the other possibilities of your poems. In the end, we know our writing best—and can hopefully recognize opportunities to make it shine brighter.

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

A lot of the advice deals with patience. So many writers I admire mentioned how long it took for their first collection to be accepted—some even saying 10+ years. When I felt even a touch of frustration with my manuscript, I kept this in mind. And in the end, the collection is truly the book that I want it to be.

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?

My routine has been a touch sporadic, but one thing remains the same: I listen to music as I write. I used to begin a writing session by listening to Feist’s “Bad in Each Other,” from her album Metals, which got me into a groove/rhythm that I could turn my ear toward. I’ve switched artists around every now and then (Sia’s 1,000 Forms of Fear was in heavy rotation for a year, as well as the xx), but I typically will start with Feist and move around.

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

I move to books! I read and read and read, and am just patient with the process. I’ll also try and watch TV just to give my mind a break.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Coffee is a big part of my home life, since I was a barista for a few years. Outside of that, there’s a perfume, Beach Walk by Replica/Maison Margiela, that brings me just a hint of beach salt to remind me of San Diego, where I’m from.

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 truly the biggest one, especially since I began writing via songwriting and was raised in music. I used to sing in public a lot more, then played flute and a bit of upright bass when stage fright got the best of me. Poetry’s a different type of singing: The words have no background music to rely on, so they have to make their own.

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

Katie Ford and Brigit Pegeen Kelly are two writers whose works led me to figure out my poetics. Ilya Kaminsky and Sandra Alcosser were my advisors in grad school, but have become dear friends. I’ve mentioned Erin Rodoni, who is my “check-in buddy” when it comes to writing, but I have to mention Carolann Madden and MK Foster, who also check in to say “hey, let’s chat about life, but also are you reading/writing?” Natalie Diaz, Carl Phillips, and Maggie Smith have me thinking about ways to push image, syntax, desire, and joy in various ways, and have been instrumental in having me consider how poems can interact and respond to our surroundings, both interior and exterior.

This could become a huge list of people who are writing exciting work (there’s so much work happening), but Eloisa Amezcua, Grady Chambers, Meg Day, Carlie Hoffman, Keegan Lester, Paige Lewis, Meghan Privitello, Leslie Sainz and Analicia Sotelo are writers whose works and persons are so instrumental—just everyday conversations with them keep me buoyed in the best way.

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

Bake a pie from scratch! Go on a residency! Write a long poem (more than 5 pages)! Go to Barcelona!

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 really wanted to go into fashion marketing when I was younger, but I ended up going into Internet marketing, which still involves writing but I act more like an editor. The really big dream was to become a jazz singer, which happens mostly on a car drive, in the shower or if I go out for karaoke (but I mostly sing pop music).

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

Writing, as soon as I began taking it much more seriously, became a necessity. I write in order to make myself feel understood: It helps ease my mind when I’m feeling anxious or trying to work through some form of grief or desire within myself, particularly when I want to talk to another person about it but can’t for various reasons.

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

I’m just about to finish Rocket Fantastic by Gabrielle Calvocoressi, and it is setting off rockets through my whole damn self.

The last great film was Black Panther.

I think both of these are great in the sense of their world-building and myth-making—ugh, yes, they both just bring me a whole lot of joy.

19 - What are you currently working on?

With Ceremonial just coming out, I’m putting a lot of energy toward putting together readings. That being said, I’m letting the poems happen, however they do and when they do.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;