12 or 20 (second series) questions with Gregory Crosby

Gregory Crosby is the author of Walking Away from Explosions in Slow Motion and Said No One Ever, and the chapbooks Spooky Action at a Distance and The Book of Thirteen. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Court Green, Epiphany, Copper Nickel, Leveler, Sink Review, Ping Pong, and Hyperallergic. In 2002, as a poetry consultant to the City of Las Vegas, he was instrumental in the creation of the Lewis Avenue Poets Bridge, a public art project in downtown Las Vegas. His dedicatory poem for the project, “The Long Shot,” was subsequently reproduced in bronze and installed in the park, and was included in the 2008 anthology Literary Nevada: Writings from the Silver State (University of Nevada Press). He is an Adjunct Assistant Professor at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice and teaches creative writing in the College Now program at Lehman College, City University of New York.

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 mother died six weeks before my first book was published so… That’s a change that’s difficult to put into words. My most recent work would, I hope, compare favorably to my previous work, but that’s not for me to judge; it doesn’t feel particularly different in form so much as content, as the last four years have washed over everything I write and seeped into all the cracks.

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

I am a failed fiction writer. For a long time, I was a freelance writer and critic; the grind of reviewing and producing features left no stamina for sustained prose writing, but a poem could appear in my mind and tumble out onto the page and be very close to a final draft in an hour or two. After a time, there were many, many poems and very few short stories, so I succumbed to the inevitable.

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 depends upon the project, though I don’t really think in terms of projects (most things conceived as “projects” sit, forlorn and wistful, in neglected Word docs). Poems come quickly, and are usually very close to their final shape—I’m a “first draft” writer in general.

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 begins with a line. Or a title. And I’m always working on a “book,” somehow, whatever I’m writing.

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 because I think of them less as readings and more as performances. I will say that doing a reading over Zoom is, like most things, death by a thousand pixels.

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 more interested in better (or at least more intriguing) questions than in answers.

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?

The role of the writer is 1) to write and 2) whatever that writer defines, for themselves, as their role should be. Although whenever I come across this question, I think of Hawthorne: “The ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and, lastly, the solid cash.” (I suppose two out of three’s not bad.)

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

Depends upon the editor. (Having been an editor myself, I am cursed with Strong Opinions about my own work.)

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

Pay attention.

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

I find it very easy; so easy that I tend these days to stick to poetry. I mostly gave up criticism when I realized that while I enjoyed thinking and writing about art, and rendering judgments about it, I no longer cared about winning arguments. I think a true critic cares deeply about winning arguments (or at the very least putting forth arguments that extend the discourse). When I write critical prose now it’s usually just to express my love (and mystification) about a work of art (usually a film). 

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 keep no routine beyond constant reading and constant openness. I’ve found I accomplish more by simply setting loose goals (write about that this week) than following a strict structure (stop looking at Twitter, you haven’t done your hour today).

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

I no longer get stalled; if something’s not ready, I stop writing and turn my attention to one of my many obscure obsessions, knowing that whatever I’m waiting for will eventually return (if only I’d known this in my twenties…). I do occasionally, in moments of despair, have to remind myself what an artist’s life is—for that, I usually dip into Werner Herzog’s Guide for the Perplexed.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

The petrichor of the Mojave Desert.

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?

Language comes from books, but the work comes from everything, absolutely everything.

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

Too many to recount. But John Berryman’s Dream Songs “saved my life” once, and Anne Carson showed me I could do anything at all in poetry. Also important: Camus, Arendt, William James, James Baldwin, and Beckett, always Beckett.

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

Write a finished novel. I wrote a pulpish potboiler years ago and abandoned it four chapters before the end.

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 could have very easily been an actor, a director, a cartoonist, a librarian. What I really should have been is a conceptual artist; what I wish I could be, if I had any ability whatsoever, is a musician; what I might become, if I had an ounce of discipline, is a magician. 

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

Fate? Sure, why not: fate.

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

As of last Sunday, John Le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. The last great film I saw in a theater (alas) was Portrait of a Lady on Fire; the film I watched during this past pandemic year that most stays with me is The Vast of Night.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Sadly, inevitably, a manuscript that, so far, is a combination of poetry and prose about the pandemic (I know, I know).

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

two recent essays : on reviewing + on george bowering's delayed mercy and other poems,

My essay, "The further adventures of rob mclennan, reviewer" is now online at The Town Crier (thanks to Annick MacAskill for the solicitation), as is my essay on George Bowering's Delayed Mercy and Other Poems (Coach House Press, 1986) for The Operating System's "poetry month" feature (thanks to Melissa Eleftherion for the solicitation). Essays are fun to write!

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Melissa Eleftherion

Melissa Eleftherion is a writer, librarian, and a visual artist. She grew up in Brooklyn, dropped out of high school, and went on to earn an MFA in Poetry from Mills College and an MLIS from San Jose State University. She is the author of field guide to autobiography (The Operating System, 2018), & six chapbooks: huminsect (dancing girl press, 2013), prism maps (Dusie, 2014), Pigtail Duty (dancing girl press, 2015), the leaves the leaves (poems-for-all, 2017), green glass asterisms (poems-for-all, 2017) & little ditch (above/ground press, 2018). Founder of the Poetry Center Chapbook Exchange for San Francisco State University, Melissa now lives in Mendocino County where she manages the Ukiah Library, teaches creative writing, & curates the LOBA Reading Series. Recent work is available at www.apoetlibrarian.wordpress.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?

Having field guide to autobiography accepted for publication was very rewarding & a huge relief. I had been working on it for seven years - through two Master’s degrees, a baby, postpartum depression, a near-divorce, a big move & a career change, etc. When I awoke to the email from the first publisher, I was ecstatic. Then, it changed my life again when the first publisher was outed as a sexual abuser, and the press folded. As a woman & sexual trauma survivor, there was a lot of emotional labor & I was angry for a time. Ultimately, it changed my life a third time when it was picked up by Lynne from the Operating System & found its rightful home.

My recent work is more direct & uses fewer filters than I did with field guide, for example. In chapbooks like little ditch, I’m mustering courage to confront traumas I’ve experienced instead of using lenses to tell the story.

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

I’ve tried to write fiction in various forms for years but it always comes out poetry. I suck at devising plots and creating narrative structure. Every November, I try to write a novel during NaNoWriMo and fail miserably. It works out, though because I usually get a few poems out of it. Essays are another form I can get into, but they require a lot more time. Right now in my harried librarian/mom life, it’s the marginalized world of poems for me.  

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 depends on the poem. Some emerge over time from copious notes, and others spring forth, almost parthenogenetically, where it feels like the poems are writing me. As I know is true of many poets, sometimes the poem comes, takes over, and is balls-out take-no-prisoners - you must write the thing. Spicer’s radio. Other times, I’m a procrastinating jerk who reads too much instead of writing. 

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 usually begins for me with a line or fragment. Depending on timing, I’ll try to jot down the line and see if it leads anywhere. Most often, I’m trying to make poems in the spare moments between running to work or picking up my son from school. Sometimes, I’ll actually leave the library during my break & try to go write. I tend to compose larger works by accreting these fragments until they become something else.

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

Public readings have their place in my creative process. They sometimes help me test out newer work. Though, I’m an ambivert so they often require energy I have to cajole from the depths, and time away from my family which can be challenging. As the branch librarian & manager of a small-town public library, I spend my days interacting with lots of people in & around my community so it can be challenging to summon more energy for social stuff. Once I get over my anxiety, I usually enjoy them, though. 

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’ve had this intuition that we’re all fragments of one magnificent, multi-cellular organism and that was the impetus for field guide to autobiography, which I started writing back in 2007 when I was pregnant with my son. So - with field guide, I wanted to explore the connections and relationships between and among various organisms.  

Also - what are the stories of the apple tree, of the echinoderm? They’re not for humans to make up, of course, but to imagine a glimpse into their world for a moment using scientific language from field guides about their habitats, their small parts, and ecosystems was exciting.  And - what can humans learn from trees, sea stars, ammonite, and wrens to live more harmoniously, & fight the capitalist push to assimilate and be a body of war?

The question that comes up for me most often is “am I doing enough as a white ally to combat the rampant racism & white supremacy that pervades American culture & what else can I do?”

The current questions (in the U.S. at least) seem to revolve around how to prevent more damage from being incurred - to our people, our water, our air, our food, our human rights, our educational system, our healthcare - they’re being callously & heinously mistreated or polluted by pathetic, greedy, bloated, racist white men in suits.    

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’ve said this before but it bears repeating - This is a critical time for poetics and creative communities to share resources and support one another against these myriad, heinous assaults on our human rights. There is such strength and resilience and courage in using art to overcome adversity, to educate, to connect, to galvanize, to transform, to activate people to see beyond & keep fighting & caring for themselves and one another. As poets, we have the capacity for shaping language to create new paradigms where racial & cultural differences are celebrated, consent is actively taught to all genders, privilege is acknowledged, and intergenerational communities live among one another symbiotically. Art & language can mobilize people to reshape not only our understanding of ourselves, but also transform our impact as a species.

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

I’ve only worked with a few outside editors on anthologies & found the input to be helpful, but neither difficult nor essential.

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

Nolite te bastardes carborundorum

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 typical writing routine right now because I’ve been working 60 hours a week & have a kid, but in all honesty - I haven’t ever done the thing consistently where I wake up at 5 am to write. Lately, I write whenever I’m not too exhausted, sometimes on lunch breaks, sometimes late at night. My most consistent writing “routine” has been to stay engaged with various poetry projects so I continue to produce poems, even if I’m in a fallow period. 

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

Most often, I turn to other books. I read omnivorously. I also try to re-engage my work playfully by working with found poems. Creative play helps me loosen & dislodge stuck ideas & helps me puzzle out problems. I work a lot with source texts for found poetry projects - my two consistent texts are my “autobiographical dictionary” & field guides.  I also try to collaborate with other poets in various 30/30s. Last year I wrote 31 erasures using Anne Rice’s Ramses the Damned: The Passion of Cleopatra. Another favorite project is the poetry postcard project. For about 10 years, I have organized & participated in ongoing exchanges where poets & artists send handwritten poems on postcards back & forth for a period of several months. Writing pithy postcard poems has been very generative.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

C. Howard’s violet chewing gum.

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?

Yes, all of the above. I’m in perpetual fascination with science & nature, and am a big curious nerd (even though I had to take summer school Physics 2x in undergrad). I also love working with ekphrasis, and being in conversation with visual art & various kinds of music.

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

Leonora Carrington. Will Alexander. Juliana Spahr. Diane di Prima. Bhanu Kapil.

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

For starters, I’d like to gain confidence with driving on the highway. I didn’t start driving until after we moved to a small town at age 40, and only recently bought my first car. I’d also like to visit Southern Italy & Greece, and hike Mount Olympus with my son. 

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’ve wanted to be a BMX racer since I was 12, but I’ve finally surrendered the fantasy. I guess I’m doing the only other job I’m capable of doing - librarian.

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

Somewhere during a regressive period in my late 20s, I realized I had to choose either photography or poetry to commit myself to, & stop being such a dilettante. As a first generation college student who dropped out of high school & put herself through college while working full-time, I had spent my late teens & most of my 20s focused on making rent. Going back to school for my MFA allowed me a sense of permission to spend time working on poems, and a sense of direction in helping me to learn craft & shape my work.

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

Kindred - Octavia Butler

I can’t remember the last great film I’ve seen. Possibly The Last Jedi.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I’m currently working on a few projects - right now what stands out is this series of poems I’ve been writing about various minerals. It’s been both generative and satisfying to learn about minerals and write about them. I also found this cool online mineralogy database. Some of the language used is oddly foreboding of the ways our land & its people have been ravaged by capitalist greed (and grief). There’s a strange, rich understanding - right there in the Earth’s crust.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jay Besemer

Jay Besemer’s books and chapbooks include The Ways of the Monster (forthcoming, *KIN(D)/The Operating System 2018), Crybaby City (Spuyten Duyvil), Telephone, Chelate (both Brooklyn Arts Press), and Aster to Daylily (Damask Press). He was a finalist for the 2017 Publishing Triangle Award for Trans and Gender-Variant Literature. He tweets frequently @divinetailor and sometimes does things on Tumblr http://jaybesemer.tumblr.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?

This question makes me laugh, because my first book was such an anticlimax and at the same time a generator of such ambivalence, in myself and (weirdly) in others. Some of that has to do with my age: I was 43 when my first book was published, though I’d been in mags and journals for about 25 years by that time. I had shed a lot of my fantasy notions about what a book would do. That’s not to say it isn’t/wasn’t important to me. More than changing my life, I think TELEPHONE coincided with a period of intense change that began with its publication and is still hotly ongoing five years later.

There’s a chronological assumption that people make—mostly non-writers, but some writers too—that books are published consecutively in the order they were written. Because of the way I work, that would never be possible for me, but even people who work more traditionally don’t experience their publications in that order. For me, the order of the books’ publication has obscured their relationship in ways that are probably pretty fertile. Telephone is actually the first in a trilogy formed with Chelate (my third) and The Ways of the Monster (forthcoming in December 2018) and drafted more or less in sequence. But the intervening two—A New Territory Sought and Crybaby City—were erasure/cut up projects that were both begun somewhere in 2009-10. Crybaby took seven years to finalize and place, and in fact its final version was determined by some of the practicalities of the production process.

I once joked, with my editor/friend Joe Pan, that all my books are the same single huge book, done differently and published as a loose “serial.” I think I was adapting a quote from George Bataille. Anyway, all my work has certain throughlines that I will touch on in other answers. I use different methods and structural choices to make them happen, but they’re all obviously mine.

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

I didn’t come to poetry first. Or maybe I don’t understand the question. I stared writing fiction and non-fiction before poetry. Very little of my fiction has been or is likely to be published, and the non-fiction is moving into a different mode, which will not see publication for a while. If you mean, why did I emphasize poetry or why is poetry the main thing I do now, I’ll quote my convenient tweet: I'm a poet because poetry is the only vehicle that allows me to simultaneously occupy all possible dimensions.

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? & 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 don’t have a way to generalize about temporality with my work, for two reasons. The first is that each project is very different and works according to its own sequence, its own temporality. The second is that I myself operate on a temporality that’s quite different from other people’s. This, combined with my working process (having multiple projects in varying media/disciplines) makes it impossible to put a sequential start-stop chronology on projects. Some things are offshoots of other things that then become more fully formed as their own project, while the original also continues. I’m always-beginning, always-continuing, sometimes-finishing. (Not everything gets finished; not everything published is something I see as “finished”).

Also, some of my work is sourced (cut-up, collaged or erasure work) so that has its own temporality, its own duration, its own physical limits in terms of length, start-stop (an erasure work tends to be self-contained, not starting before the source text starts, not continuing after the end of the source text).

Regarding “bookness,” combined shorter texts, etc., it is safe to say that all of those fit! I’ve done it all those ways. It’s mostly determined by the projects themselves how it tends to go.

My last in-person reading was at Woodland Pattern in Milwaukee. I passed around the notebook in which I have been drafting the poems I read aloud (I’m still working on that project). I like de-mystifying my various working processes, but not all of them begin in a notebook. That green notebook containing what’s become The Horse shows how little revision a non-sourced project of mine tends to undergo. The ones that draw on source texts can have a lot more iterations and a lot more complexity in the revisions.

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

You’re asking this at a time when my relationship and approach to public readings is changing drastically to reflect changes in my capacities and needs. So my response is not fixed in space-time, exactly. Historically, I’ve always enjoyed reading/performing in public, and attending others’ readings/performances. Both things have been vital to my sense of connection with a community and in discovering my audience (or that I have one at all!). But I have never been able to “tour” and lately I am not able to even (physically) attend more than two or three local performances/readings a year, much less perform myself.

This has everything to do with my own needs as a disabled writer, both as an audience member and as a performer. These needs are complex and often mutually-contradictory, and no matter what I do I’m pretty much guaranteed to have to sacrifice some form of bodily safety in order to be physically present at an event. This isn’t acceptable, so I’m far less physically involved than I was.

These days, I’m emphasizing remote participation using adaptive tech like videochat services (Skype etc.), which often involves having to argue for this as a legit form of disability accommodation. This takes valuable energy, so I’m overall very choosy about what invitations I’ll accept—“acceptance” meaning “send my list of accommodations needs with an affirmative contingent on their meeting those needs.” I don’t try to secure gigs for myself any more, for the most part. I don’t have the energy.

Another change in my approach to performance involves moving away from more traditional readings. Because a traditional 15-20 minute in-person reading slot can be too much for me, I’ve been trying to find ways to either mix this with a video projection or have the video be the performance. This is actually great for developing stronger video works, and for getting more of the videos out there. But there’s a downside to that as well. Everything takes energy, everything takes time and not every space or curator can accommodate that kind of work. I’m also often unable to produce work that fulfills my own commitment to offer poetic experiences inclusive of those with other kinds of disabilities, so I have to live with the disappointment of falling short there.

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?

Many. I am deeply engaged with queer theory, affect theory, various “crip” theories, theories of failure and precarity. I’m deeply involved with language as a mode of shaping reality, from thoughts to policy to bodies and built environments. I’m queer, trans, disabled. All of those things inform my writing, but I think it’s more accurate to say that I write from/through those embodiments, and the theories arising from and around them, than to say that I write “about” anything.

Here’s a statement I recently provided to a curator who wanted me to describe my work. I think it’s relevant to the question: “Jay Besemer’s work inhabits and engages the tense spaces where body meets land, selves meet society, illness meets expectation and language meets its own failure. In this constantly shifting setting, the poem itself is variably-embodied, and serves both maker and audience as a mode of processing and experiencing an increasingly precarious existence.”

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 feel a writer’s purpose or role is to change, learn, grow, same as everyone else’s purpose. Maybe a writer has to do that more, though. Also, I believe that, like a doctor, the writer should do no harm. That’s not to say writers should not expose, criticize, take action, resist autocratic regimes, etc. We can and should. But I am anti-violence, and my commitment to nonviolence extends to language. I am unable to get behind any writer who harms others in their personal life, for any reason, or who behaves abusively (or even just badly) and calls it “political.”  I live my life from the awareness that we are accountable to one another, all over the world, and to the planet. I think other writers can and might commit to this too—but I honestly don’t have the right to choose for others what that looks like or how it should go.

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

I’ve had some truly wonderful experiences with editors, some just okay, some really bad. It’s like any other working collaboration/potential friendship; you show up to the process hoping to be as professional as you can as you try to meet what you hope are shared goals. I know any editor is going to be as goofy as I am; people are people. What helps us both is being clear about goals and expectations from the start. Also, because of the flowing and change-reliant nature of my working process, I’m generally very open to editorial input. Another person can give me deep insight into how something’s working that I wouldn’t get independently, so that is really important. There are very few things in any given project that are non-negotiable, but I do stand by those, and once or twice (in a writing/publishing career of nearly 30 years) they’ve been dealbreakers.

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

“Separate your hazards.” I learned that in driver ed.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to performance to video poems to critical prose)? What do you see as the appeal?

I can’t talk in terms of ease of movement or appeal in doing so, because it’s like asking my blood how easy it is to move through my body, or why it wants to do that. But I can speak to the moment of choice of medium. I experience it much like a food craving or a physical need. Sometimes it’s fairly general (“hmm. pizza.”) and sometimes very specific (“Bocce Club pizza with double cheese, sausage and pepperoni”). I guess the general is like a desire to have a certain type of experience (start a new video) and the specific is more a desire to have a more defined experience (go deep into this book and write a critical essay about it because there’s something I need that this deep engagement will give me).

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?

Take morning meds, feed cat, coffee, check twitter and email, plant care, probably some journaling. Mostly nothing gets worked on formally until after I’ve had enough coffee for whatever needs to get attention that day to present itself. I call it “listening” for the priority project, but it’s just paying attention to what my work needs most. If nothing presents itself I can choose not to work, or just to work on whatever. If I’m too symptomatic or in too much pain to work then I will read or watch stuff.

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

I don’t stall as much as recognize the need to rest, or the natural ebbs and flows of various projects. Everything I do needs phases of taking in, phases of processing material, and phases of making. They’re not linear or sequential, though! I’m comfortable with this and recognize where I am in these larger processes, as well as where each project tends to be.

Also, because of the realities of my various illnesses and the unpredictable levels of pain and fatigue I deal with throughout each day, I recognize that bodily realities/needs have a greater priority for my work cycles than anything else does. There are sometimes lengths of time when I can’t work, but this isn’t stalling. It’s the way my body works.

Having multiple projects ongoing (“open”) also means that sometimes I have energy for one project or type of project when I can’t muster energy for other types.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

So many versions of “home,” so bear with me:

Buffalo: road tar, radiators & wool, cool concrete & books inside Brutalist college library buildings, snow.

My father’s old place(s): summer hay, peonies, wood smoke, pipe tobacco, tomato vines, dirt, pine pitch.

Where my mother lives, on the shore of Lake Erie: mildew, “that lake smell”, concord grapes, oak leaves, grass, dust.

My own home: finished wood, books, sawdust, coffee, brown-fried onions, chopped garlic-ginger-green chiles, turmeric, coriander, plaster, linseed oil, nag champa.

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?

Yes, many. Architecture, film, several sciences, acting, experiences in built and not-built environments (i.e. “nature”), photography and the other visual arts I also practice, even stuff like cooking, gardening, landscape work, construction and farming.

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

This can only ever be a partial and woefully inadequate list, but here goes:

Tristan Tzara, Samuel R. Delany, John Keene, Eli Clare, TC Tolbert, CA Conrad, Trace Peterson, Max Wolf Valerio, j/j hastain, Bhanu Kapil, Tony Trigilio, Simeon Berry, Anthony Michael Morena, Daniel Borzutzky, Toby Altman, John Cage, Johanna Hedva, Laura Goldstein, Roberto Harrison, Dawn Lundy Martin, Duriel Harris, Ursula K. LeGuin, Harryette Mullen, kari edwards, Judith Butler, Lauren Berlant, Jack Halberstam, Una McCormack, China Miéville, Anne Boyer…

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

Skydiving. Not that it will happen!

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

I write because I need to write; it’s the sine qua non. I can’t not write. But if I could have continued to act (which I began to do in early childhood but could not continue) I would like to have done that. I know many (& of many more) actor-writers.

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

I’m a re-reader and re-watcher, so I’m going to limit my answers to recent one-time (pre-re) reads/viewings. Two recent great books: Jackie Wang’s Carceral Capitalism and Anne Boyer’s A Handbook of Disappointed Fate. Film: Network.

20 - What are you currently working on?

Also just a partial list:

-finishing initial draft of a poetry collection called The Horse

-revising a memoir, The Winter Film

-several video pieces at varying stages of process

-a poem project on acting called Green Rooms

-a poem project dealing with family history & the legacy of lynching, called Spirit Knife/Appalachia

-various blips of mini-projects stemming from my mother’s ongoing end-of-life process & what I’m calling “caregiving while disabled.”

12 or 20 (second series) questions;