12 or 20 (second series) questions with Blair Trewartha

Blair Trewartha’s debut collection, Easy Fix (Palimpsest Press, 2014), was shortlisted for the Relit Award. He is the author of three chapbooks: Break In (Cactus Press, 2010), Porcupine Burning (Baseline Press, 2012), and Human Energy (Anstruther Press, 2022). Blair’s poems have recently appeared in The Dalhousie Review, Prairie Fire, and The Fiddlehead. Born and raised on a farm outside of Clinton, Ontario (Treaty 29 Territory), Blair now lives in London, Ontario (Treaty 6 Territory) with his partner, two children, and their hyper Beagle. Half-Earth is his second full-length collection.

1 -How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

It’s hard to compare them, but I think the biggest difference is the context and the focus of the poems. My new collection, Half-Earth (Palimpsest Press, 2026), feels broader in scope and yet much more personal than Easy Fix, which was published way back in 2014. Easy Fix generally explored the current culture at the time and alienation, the tension between rural and urban life, and the poems had the restless energy of a younger narrator trying to locate himself within a fractured culture, asking where he fits into it all (which makes sense since I wrote a lot of that book in my late 20s). 

Half-Earth looks outward to climate change, artificial intelligence, and the pandemic while filtering those concerns through fatherhood, illness, and family history. It moves more deliberately between personal memory and experience, deep history, and an uncertain future, and it is written from the perspective of a parent wondering what kind of world his children will inherit. It’s much more personal. Half-Earth feels like the question has changed from one of belonging (like in Easy Fix) to one of coping; the poems acknowledge where we are now, how we got here, and where we’re going next, but they’re exploring how we cope with all of this. What does it mean to live, and go about our lives and raise children in a world full of failing systems, whether environmental, socio-political, economic, technological, a planet and species nearing our demise?

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

I actually started writing mostly fiction in my youth, several short stories and a never-finished novel, but once I had initial success with publishing a few poems in literary magazines in my early 20s, I started to focus more exclusively on poetry. Eventually, fiction fell to the wayside. Although if I think back to high school, frantically scribbling in my journal at night when I couldn’t sleep or sneaking back to the creek on my parents farm to smoke cigarettes and attempt poems and song lyrics; that was all poetry, long before I ever attempted to write a short story. Poetry was always the initial impulse to write. 

Every once in a while I make another attempt at fiction, but I rarely get far. It feels sluggish and stalled, like I’m learning a new language and struggling for vocabulary and structure. I’d like to get back to it someday, but there’s something about poetry that feels more intuitive and also more malleable, more workable, and I find it easier to actually finish a poem or collection. The initial creation seems to come from impulse and spur of the moment; but then I can edit and fine tune it later. I think poetry will always be my first impulse, and more workable as a craft to 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?

My writing process varies, depending on the poem, so my answer to most of these questions would be yes and no. Sometimes, a poem flows quickly out of an experience or moment, like it did with the poem “Lightshow” in my new book, Half-Earth. I was putting my son to bed one night after he had choked on a marble earlier that day, and he started asking me questions about what dying looked like. The entire poem is almost verbatim our conversation, and I wrote that down immediately after leaving his room once he was asleep. It went through some editing in my workshop group and with my editor, but 90% or more of that poem hasn’t changed from its first draft that night.

Most poems though have a much longer grinding process, working through drafts in my workshop group and with my editor, even if the initial draft comes out in full. It could take months to write a single poem and have it ready for publication, while once in a while a poem comes full force in a matter of minutes. It’s rare, but beautiful when it happens.  

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?

For both my poetry collections, I was never working on a book as a cohesive concept until at least 75% of the material was written. It was more a matter of slowly churning out enough poems to finally justify structuring it into a manuscript and submitting to publishers. I think the themes and topical sections of the book came out organically based on the things I was preoccupied with over several years.   

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

Public readings are always a mandatory after thought and never part of my creative process. I’ve never actually thought about reading a poem in public until the book or chapbook is published, and discussions about launches start. Like many writers I’m sure, I’d rather be reading or writing privately than performing in public, partially because I’m introverted, and partially due to a moderate but consistent level of social anxiety.

With that said, I also can’t deny that magical, extremely rewarding feeling of a book launch, the responses and feedback from the audience, the relief afterwards when it all goes well. It’s a special moment, to feel part of a literary community that welcomes you and wants to hear what you have to share.  

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 think in Half-Earth in particular, I’m trying to explore what it means to live in our current reality, to progress and raise children and attempt to move forward and what impact that has on us, knowing that as both a species and a planet, we are devolving, we’re in decline even as we continue to innovate, expand, procreate, and live our lives. I’m stuck on this idea of how do we continue individually and collectively living day to day, which is always focused on progression (whether that’s our passions, careers, children, relationships, homes, etc.) knowing full-well that the human population and the planet are on a downward trend.

I guess I want to know what it means to survive on a personal level knowing that it’s likely no longer possible for us to thrive or even potentially survive long term collectively. What does it mean to cope and live our lives with so many facets of our world (environmental, political, social, economic) in decline? It’s a strange feeling in the back of your mind, this backdrop that’s always in crisis, as we commute to work and buy coffee and take our kids to soccer practice. Cognitive dissonance is used a lot, but I think that implies it doesn’t affect us consciously or subconsciously, but I believe it does. It’s the impact I want to explore.

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’d love to say the writer has a specific, vital role in a culture because I believe we do have that potential, but ultimately, I think the writer’s role is simply to participate in a given culture, to  experience the world and cope with life by producing art. Ideally, the work they produce helps others cope as well. Writers are often expressing joy or sorrow, portraying social or political injustice, or deeply intimate personal experiences. Either way, I think it’s all a form of processing and coping with the world around them, and expressing that aloud for others to experience as well.  

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

I only have experience working with two editors, Karen Schindler from Baseline Press, and Jim Johnstone from Anstruther Press and Palimpsest Press, and both were essential. A good editor can see things you can’t, weaknesses in your poems that you’re too close to. I’ve never actually found it difficult, but I’ve also been lucky to work with incredibly skilled editors. With both my first book and my second, I think I placed an immense amount of trust in Jim Johnstone, knowing that he has the rare ability to balance deserved praise with much needed criticism. He finds that perfect middle ground between generosity and objective ruthlessness (and that is a compliment). He knows when to tell me a poem is complete and impactful, and when to chop off a stanza or two or even pull an entire poem from the manuscript because frankly, it’s not good enough yet. That’s such an incredible gift to receive as a writer trying to improve their craft.

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

If you’re given a space in the literary community, create two.

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 wish I had a writing routine, but I don’t. Two kids and a full time career, and an autoimmune condition that requires me to put a lot of time and energy into physio and exercise and self-care, makes it very hard to have a regular writing routine. Instead, my writing is sporadic, writing a poem in my head as it comes to me on a walk with the dog or driving or reading a book, and at other times it’s extremely intentional, where I block off time to be alone for a couple of days so I can be more productive. In order to finish Half-Earth, I had to book four days of vacation and go solo to an off grid cabin with nothing but my laptop, no internet, and a pile of books. If I could do that even just a few times a year, I’d be far more prolific than publishing two books 12 years apart. Hopefully the third book comes much sooner.

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

I turn to nature and reading, coffee shops and libraries. It’s very much a physical location change that’s needed when I’m most stuck. That, and I read when I can’t write. It softens my mind and gets the words flowing again. If I can be reading at a cabin in the woods, or a hammock at a campsite, even better. Also, listening to music and walking the dog at night. I don’t look for specific sources of inspiration to initiate stalled writing; I look for specific environments and stimulation to get my mind to the right place.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home? 

I grew up on a farm in a drafty farmhouse built in the late 1800s, so three distinct smells remind me of home: dead flies, cow manure, and fresh cut hay. I haven’t lived in that house since my early twenties, and it was sold and destroyed many years ago, but to this day, I can still vividly conjure the exact smell of the upstairs hallway and my old bedroom, and I think it’s a combination of those three smells. Such a weirdly comforting combo of good and bad smells.   

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? 

I tend to agree that books come from books. Reading puts me in the mindset to write, and nature gives me the temperament needed to write a poem and open myself up to the lines that come. Most of the time, that’s the peaceful quiet walking down a nature trail or camping or cottaging by a lake or river, but sometimes it’s also the chaos and energy of a busy downtown street, staring out a coffee shop window and watching a city churn. 

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

There are too many to name, but there were several books I was reading deeply while writing Half-Earth, including the poetry collections I mention later in question 18, but also the non-fiction title The Future is Analogue: How to Create a More Human World (David Sax) and several articles about climate change, technology, deep history, mentioned in the acknowledgements section of my book. A few of my favourite fiction writers are Ocean Vuong, Zoe Whittall, and David Huebert. As for poets, some favourites over the years have been LizHoward, John Wall Barger, Matthew Dickman, Ben Ladouceur, Triny Finlay, and most recently Sabrina Spenser Smith, Zane Koss, Brandi Bird, and Jenny Berkel.

Outside of my own writing, I edit chapbooks for Anstruther Press and on my own independently offer manuscript edits and consultations, and this brings me so much genuine joy. I get to see early drafts from incredibly skilled writers, some of them on the cusp of their publishing careers and others more seasoned, and I get to work with their poems and help mold and tweak and fine tune them into their final published artifact. It’s so satisfying, and I’m continually amazed at what others are doing, how truly spectacular so many emerging writers are.  

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

Skydive, solo back country camping, become fully fluent in a second language, learn to hunt (sustainably & respectfully), publish a novel or short story collection.  

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’m a learning specialist and instructional designer, and formerly a teacher, so education had always been my career plan. Writing was always my passion, but never something I pursued as a career. I suppose if I could pick any job, I’d love to teach creative writing at a University, something I never did in my 12-13 year teaching career. Alternatively, if I could pick any job regardless of income, I’d work in a bookstore or a library, simply because I can’t think of a better place to spend 5 days a week. It’s always been a fantasy of mine. And yes, I realize what I actually want is to be a customer in a bookstore 5 days a week. Working in one, I’m sure, comes with all kinds of stress and pressure that I’m not aware of.

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

Compulsion and anxiety, and listening to Neil Young in high school and discovering Alden Nowlan and Patrick Lane as a teenager. Writing has been there since early high school, when I started devouring novels and poetry books and writing frantically in my room each night when I couldn’t sleep. It stayed with me all of these years, but became more intentional, more steady. The compulsion to write, to me, is more important than every other aspect of writing like editing and publishing and promotion. Whether or not I have a publication or a public reading, or even if I don’t write anything new for several years, the desire and impulse to write will, I deeply hope, always be there, or always return when it’s stalled.  

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

Last great novel was Emperor of Gladness by Ocean Vuong. I’ve read so many phenomenal poetry collections over the last year or so, but the few that stood out the most were Sabrina Spenser Smith’s A Brief Relief from Hunger, Triny Finlay’s Myself a Paperclip, and Matthew Dickman’s Wonderland and Husbandry. I rarely watch films anymore, but on a rare occasion I went to the movie theatre and saw One Battle After Another, which was a wild ride.   

19 - What are you currently working on?

Not allowing my writing to grind to a halt now that I’ve finally published my second book. After my first, I developed my career, had two children,  got a Masters degree, and had a spouse with a very busy career, so it took 12 years to publish my second full length. I’d like to make the third book happen sooner, not for any time line, just so that writing continues to be part of my daily life even when life gets chaotic.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

M.W. Jaeggle, Wrack Line

 

LETTER TO A FRIEND
CONCERNING ANOTHER’S WHEREABOUTS

He’s at that cabin on the Cariboo plateau,
that one he’s always yapping about,
washing chipped bowls with lake water,
careful not to get needle-thin bones stuck in the drain.
He keeps the big red gate locked, the chintz curtains closed.
The garden, long gone to thistle, is home
to his eggshells, burnt barley, soup dregs.
Nothing can stop him from mundane pleasures,
catching rainbow trout only to release them,
noon-warm tea with Kundera, a few laughs
from Diefenbaker on vinyl.
He’s in the cabin at the end of Antoine Lake Road,
counting cracks in the foundation, where the rooms
are parting ways. He’s in that tin-roof tinderbox,
cataloguing birds, flowers, stones,
watching Bogart movies,
reconciling Clapton with Buddhism.
If you were to ask him if it gets lonely
in the hush of the cabin, he’d say
he’s distracted easily.

I’ve known his name for a while now (through seeing copies of his three published chapbooks), so was curious to see a copy of Wrack Line (Regina SK: University of Regina Press, 2023), the full-length debut by Vancouver-born Buffalo, New York poet M.W. Jaeggle. Wrack Line is a collection of carved lyrics exploring and examining form, from prose blocks to sonnets to more open forms of the lyric. Jaeggle works through first-person lyric narratives to articulate grief, loss and distraction, writing out the distances and the distances between, as the piece “POEM BY FRIDGE LIGHT” offers: “Here I am in the culvert where we found a car’s die mirror. / Here I am in the fields of horsetails, / in the blackberry with stained fingers. // Here, there’s no wristwatch on a nightstand, / just a mind kidding around / someplace unaware it’s unawake. // If I look up at the canopy now, the day’s / a shredded rag. If I close my eyes, / the light is honeycombed.” There is an intriguing way that Jaeggle works through form through an extensive reading list—examining and echoing form through the masters, as one does—and the poems offer an array of literary models, from cited poets Denise Levertov and Phyllis Webb to Paul Blackburn and Wang Wei, as well as hints of poets such as John Newlove, perhaps. His lines are solid, offering precise rhythms on memory and land, although it is the two-part opening prose poem, “AUTUMN, ACCORDING TO CHILDHOOD,” where the lyric of his line really shines, a sparkle and rush that rise above and beyond the precise specifics of his line-breaks, as the first poem opens: “Your mother whispers your name, draws your eyes away from the / loon threading water, tight stitch. Look, she says. Look: there’s a deer / chewing dandelion, right here in the yard. Knees bending, she slowly / breaks distance.” Either way, there are some stunning moments and movements across Jaeggle’s Wrack Line; I am very curious to see where he might go next.

POEM IN THE MANNER OF WANG WEI

Each time on a well-marked and auspicious day, waiting,
a metic again in some new place,

the thought of you outside the terminal sharpens,
a narrow band of silver on a lake come midnight,

then, far away, there at the baggage carousel,
hawthorn beside fir and cottonwood, you short person you.

12 or 20 (second series) questions with M.W. Jaeggle

Born in Vancouver, British Columbia, M.W. Jaeggle is the author of three chapbooks, Janus on the Pacific, The Night of the Crash, and Choreography for a Falling Blouse. He lives in Buffalo, New York, where he is a PhD student in the Department of English at SUNY Buffalo. Wrack Line is his first book of poetry.

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?

It feels more accurate to credit Wrack Line with confirming the various ways I experience the world than with precipitating a momentous change. I will continue to pay attention to the sensuous qualities of words, continue to place emotion in service of the natural world, and continue to try to put the work before the ego—and I can point to the book as confirming my sense that these things are pretty good ways of being in the world.

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

One of the very few benefits of learning to read and write late in childhood is being able to draw upon distinct memories of struggling with words. I remember slowly pronouncing a certain word, dragging my thumb across its letters so as not to be overwhelmed by the thing in its entirety. I remember the joys and frustrations of reading those first words, and later of stringing them into sentences of my own. Poetry came first, and continues to come first, because my early difficulties with language taught me to be patient and approach words as a tenuous meeting of sound and sense.

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 cannot say how long it takes to start a creative project because I don’t know when any of mine have really started. I don’t keep track of when one idea gives way to another or when the words hit the page. It takes some time, that’s all I can say.

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 typically write a poem with a predetermined sense of how it will fit within a larger project. I try to stay open for as long as possible.

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

Reading poetry in front of others is great on the condition that everyone in attendance is a willing participant. I will never again read in a pub while the Habs-Leafs game is playing on the TV.

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?

In 2016, as part of his commencement speech to graduates of Simon Fraser University and as part of his acceptance of an honorary doctorate from the university, the poet Robert Bringhurst said something to the effect that in order for one to respect the earth one had to think like an ecosystem. Think like an ecosystem is the closest thing I have to a theoretical concern.

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?

To make the case for more humane and ecologically attentive values than the ones that characterize our neoliberal moment. To develop words, phrases, and sentences commensurate with our encounters with the nonhuman world. To exercise a claim on the imaginations of others.

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

It’s absolutely essential to have that outside perspective. If I have ever faced difficulty during the editing process, it’s always proved worthwhile in retrospect.

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

Get some air.

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 writing routine. I steal the time to write from other tasks.

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

I go for a walk. I listen to music. I get in touch with friends. I give it some time.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Smoked salmon.

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?

Fine art and the natural world influence my work just as much as books.  

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

There are too many writers to list here. Most of them belong to an earlier generation.

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

Grow my own vegetables.

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?

A Zen monastic—more of a calling than an occupation, I suppose.

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

It’s portable and low-tech. All you need is a few inexpensive instruments, some solitude, and some time.

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

Hugh MacDiarmid’s A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle.

Terrence Mallick’s Days of Heaven.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Too many things—all of which resemble people in that they don’t like to be talked about when they’re not present.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Karen Enns

Karen Enns is the author of four books of poetry: Dislocations, Cloud Physics, winner of the Raymond Souster Award, Ordinary Hours, and That Other Beauty. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia.

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 book marked a commitment to poetry, to writing, that was already there, so it didn’t change my life in that sense, but having the poems in print did make the commitment public, which adds a slightly different perspective.

My most recent work reflects some of the same preoccupations as the earlier poems but the structures are more variable. The pressure on the line has definitely changed over time and I’m more comfortable working with longer poems.

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

I wrote poems when I was very young and then turned to music for a long time, but I was always drawn to the form, the condensation—when reading, the possibility of being transported in just a few lines. Poetry’s obvious musical component was definitely an inducement.

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?

First drafts of poems often visually resemble their final shape, in the sense that they already have a length of line and a rhythmic pitch, so to speak, but they don’t usually “appear” in any kind of final form. The process is often slow, a chiselling away, but that working out of the lines and arcs, the modulations, is absorbing. It reminds me of learning a piece of music.

I don’t usually make notes, but I’ve probably lost some good ideas along the way because of this.

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 work on a poem, or sometimes several poems at once, without any sense of a longer book form. Much later, when I have a collection of files, I slowly begin to see the possibilities of a larger structure. It’s a bit like standing on a dock watching for a boat to appear out of the fog.

A poem can begin in many ways, but there has to be a recognizable moment for me, a slipping into a different mode of seeing or hearing, with an emotional charge, that generates the impulse of the poem.

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

I write in solitude, so readings are not part of the creative process itself, but they’re part of a broader cultural conversation in a public sphere, like concerts, plays, films, art exhibits, that is essential for artistic exchange. Everyone benefits from that dialogue. Having said all that, I do get nervous for readings.

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 not conscious of trying to answer questions with my work. The searching is probably more crucial, not only for creative reasons, but also—I like to think—because whatever the current questions may be, a sense of open-endedness can be transcending.

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?

Absolutely, the writer has a role. I don’t know that it has changed that much through history, although each era has its own particular challenges. But writers often observe from the outskirts. They create a pause, a space, in which it’s possible to imagine other ways of seeing and thinking, other worlds.

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

It’s challenging to think hard about inconsistencies or weaknesses in your own work, or to question patterns you rely on, but the process is essential and broadening. And there is the possibility of developing a literary friendship with someone whose editorial work you trust and respect.

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

Some of the best advice appears in verse itself. Zagajewski’s “Try to praise the mutilated world” comes to mind.

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 write in the morning before the day’s distractions pile up.

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

Most of the time, it’s simply a matter of choosing whether to push through or be patient while things settle, but bike rides and hikes are helpful. I’m very fortunate to live near forests and coastlines.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

If I moved away from the west coast, I’m sure it would be the scent of cedar when it rains, but to be back in Niagara again, on the farm, in a second, it’s the smell of turned-up soil in spring.  

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?

I’d say all of the above have influenced my work at various times.

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

The writing community in and around Victoria is a strong, lively one, which has been important. Farther afield, the work of writers and thinkers responding to political crisis, violence, displacement, are an important resource for thinking about the future, as well as looking back to my own family/cultural history.

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

Become fluent in German, my first language; learn Chopin’s B minor Sonata; visit Ireland. The list is long.

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 worked as a classical pianist for a number of years, and still teach, so I’ve had the opportunity to follow a path other than writing.

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

A love of reading.

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

I recently read Walk the Blue Fields and Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan, as well as a wonderful collection of stories, Motley Stones, by Adalbert Stifter.

19 - What are you currently working on?

Short fiction.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;