12 or 20 (second series) questions with Jayson Keery

Jayson Keery is based in Western Massachusetts, where they completed their MFA in poetry at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. They are the author of The Choice is Real (Metatron Press, 2023) and the chapbook Astroturf (o•blēk editions, 2022). They have been anthologized in Mundus Press’s Nocturnal Properties, Nightboat Books' We Want It All: An Anthology of Radical Trans Poetics, and Pilot Press London's A Queer Anthology of Rage. They received the 2022 Metatron Press Prize for Rising Authors, selected by Fariha Róisín, and the 2021 Daniel and Merrily Glosband MFA Fellowship, selected by Wendy Xu. A complete list of publications, awards, and interviews live online at JaysonKeery.com.

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?
Well, I just published my first book, The Choice Is Real (Metatron Press) so I’m currently in the ~ life-changing ~ process. What can I say? It feels good! And also a lot of the book’s content is intimate/ previously emotionally repressed, so knowing all that is out in the world is pretty charged. But the act of publicly sharing has the effect of normalizing the content. Maybe normalizing is the wrong word, but you catch my drift. Like, this all happened. Now it’s in a book. It’s fine.

My past writing was mainly comedic memoir, and I think you can see traces of that in my poetics. My work is still funny, but I also began working with grief and heavier topics.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
At a certain point, I realized that the comedic memoir I was writing wasn’t quite prose, so I felt an obligation to start studying poetry. You know, poetry is one of those arts where people think they can write it without reading it, and I didn’t want to be like that. I wanted to respect the community I was entering. I never expected to get so deep into it, but here I am. I’m obsessed!

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?
Oh, I take an insane amount of notes, then I transfer those notes to notecards and hang the notecards on the wall. I’m a very slow and physical writer. I need to write by hand and be able to visualize everything before I put it on the page. Sometimes a poem will pop right out of the notes, and I’ll only make minor edits. Other times I could be working on a poem for years.

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?
The Choice Is Real started off as somewhat disparate poems that emerged from what I was feeling strongly about on any given day. Then themes appeared (choice, Disney, shit talk, etc), so I shaped poems around them.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
Oh my god. I’d be lost without readings. I do them all the time. And I use them to grow in my practice. I take note of the audience's reactions. I make little marks on the page so that I can go home and edit the poems based on those reactions.

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?
The Choice Is Real is in many ways trying the resist the question of choice in queerness. Queer and trans people are pressured into writing narratives that justify the idea that their queerness is not a choice, often leaning into the born-this-way assertion. My book is kind of like, Who cares? Why be so focused on justifying how we got here as opposed to focusing on the fact that we are here? The Choice Is Real also questions a lot of assumptions surrounding queer relationality in general. Lots of rude uprooting.

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?
Big questions. Small answer: To me, the role of the writer is to help the reader locate aspects of themselves that they wouldn’t have otherwise discovered. When I’m reading, it’s all about relating or not relating, both of which help me to clarify myself. It’s all about me!

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I love an outside editor. I take nothing personally and say no when I need to. But yeah, poetry can be a weird thing to edit so you really need someone who knows how to tap into your flow.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
The people worth loving are the people you don’t have to prove your worth to. I don’t even know who said this to me. (Maybe it was me!) My book is partially about this. If we feel like we’re having to prove ourselves, something’s wrong in the dynamic.

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 fluctuates (and I like that it does) but I write every day. I feel like if you write every day for a few months, you start to feel off if you don’t write one day. I have the same relationship with running. I built the habit, and I go nuts without it!

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
Books, of course! My writing gets stalled every single day and so every single day I pick up a book to get it flowing again. I’ll actually close my eyes and run my hands along the shelf until I feel heat and then pick that book to take inspiration from. I don’t know. It works.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
The smell of a dog’s ear.

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 other than books, the art of conversation influences my work the most. I love paying close attention to people’s cadences and reactions. My poetry feels conversational to me, yeah.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Oh, I don’t even know where to begin, so I’ll shout out the writers who wrote my blurbs because I have the amazing fortune of knowing my favorite authors: Peter Gizzi, Ocean Vuong, Cameron Awkward-Rich, and CAConrad. I re-read their work all the time.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Travel literally anywhere. I’ve only ever lived in Massachusetts and don’t leave much. I like that about myself, but could stand to get out once in a while. Relatedly, I have this fantasy that a wealthy, mature Disney Dyke will take me to Disney World someday. So if that’s you and you’re out there, hit me up!

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 was an arts/events coordinator. A kind of glorified party planner, I guess. I love to throw a party! I’ve partied maybe a little too much in my time. :/

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
What I’m about to say is ironic because I wrote a book called The Choice Is Real, but it felt like I never had a choice but to write. It’s the only thing that regulates my nervous system. It’s the only thing I consistently feel compelled to do. I’ve never even cared whether or not I was good at it. I just do it all the time.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
A Queen In Bucks County by Kay Gabriel. I just re-watched Only Lovers Left Alive, directed by Jim Jarmusch.

19 - What are you currently working on?
I’m writing a series of letters to the men I’ve dated. I love how humiliating it feels!

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Lee Suksi

Lee Suksi’s first book, The Nerves (Metatron), won a 2021 Lambda Literary Award. They've written for art magazines and exhibitions, conducted interviews, crisis counselling, drawing classes, bookselling, astrological consultation. They are at work on several projects, including daily address at https://psychiclectures.substack.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?
Probably the question I most frequently ask editors and other people is “does that make sense?” My central doubt. Hearing how people read The Nerves convinced me that I do.

Everything else will be a deepening of that reassurance. I’d like to let people know I understand what they mean too.

2 - How did you come to fiction first, as opposed to, say, poetry or non-fiction?
No, I came to poetry first. I love what meaning is generated through beauty, silence, and contradiction. I love language at the level of the voice, then the sound, the pause, the word, the line. The scaffolds of genre at this point seem onerous, but I use them, for now, to convey sense. I don’t really think about storytelling unless I absolutely have to, which is less than you might think.

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 notes are non-stop and I try to sort them but they aren’t usually towards a particular project when they come down off my head. But everything comes from there. I guess writing is sorting them and making them make sense.

4 - Where does a work of prose usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?
A sound becomes a sentence when there’s a collision, and so on. I admit to being kind of precious about books (The Nerves was gorgeously designed by Sultana Bambino)  but when writing becomes commodity the writing part of that project is over.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I love readings. The reading and listening parts. I love reading and being read to. I record myself while writing. I love the extra information conveyed by posture, dress, voice, atmosphere. And the audience’s stillness or noise. Reading is lovely and writing is simply not. Writing is bad posture and staring at the wall. It’s quarantine.

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?
Is Voice theoretical? It’s nice when my theoretical concerns feel cosmic, like the social and the personality are gone and the Voice is a chorus. I wrangle those socials and individuals with genre but it’s exciting when they recede. It would be amazing to write without power or grief but they are always major.

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?
Well they have lots of different roles. Medium, teacher, adjudicator, observer, entertainer are a few. I find it hard to relate normally when compulsively writing. Ironically, I don’t think I’m alone in that. Maybe I can put some pressure on that.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I have to be ready, but at their best the editor is the first sense-maker! Amazing. I’m in awe of people who share their work at all stages.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
I took a workshop with Leah Sophia Dworkin where she shared a technique for envisioning where you store your memories, and how to tuck them away when you’re done with them. Until that point I’d been going through a period where writing felt really overwhelming and even distressing, a boundless and vulnerable endeavour. That was great. The container doesn’t have to be a strict form.

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?
No, I’m not regular but I do it every day. If I do it well it usually happens when I have a free afternoon and the light is right. I write in bed with my cats if I feel evil. Or I go to the Hart House Library (hot tip). I’m newly obsessed with how unhealthy writing tends to be, how much ruminating, drinking coffee and alcohol, scrunching the body. No wonder it can get a bit morose and tortured. I want my writing to be embodied so I try to get into the body with meditation, stretching, music. Sex if I’m feeling committed. The only thing I don’t like about the library is I can’t do Wheel Pose without inhibition. My best advice to writers is to take care of your body. It moves your head. So, note to self, get out of bed.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
The world is too much with me and I’m chronically over- rather than understimulated, but I guess if I feel confused I read, let the notes come out of my head, return.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Boys. All my past and current homes. Even when I lived with my best girlfriend, but then it smelt like patchouli too.

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 love to draw and I find ease there, probably because it’s more in conversation with myself and less others so I have less responsibility. The freedom of association in that kind of mark making, the immediacy of emotion in a line, taught me a lot about what’s important to me in writing and in general. In art school I only wrote ekphrastically and I think the care of conveying the world while surrendering to its mystery (artists hate having their work explained but need it to be described) comes from there.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
I’m reading very distractedly since I started working in a bookstore, but writers I carry around with me (quite materially) are Eileen Myles, Joshua Whitehead, Liz Howard, Dionne Brand, David Wojnarowicz, John Wieners,  Renee Gladman, Tamara Faith Berger, Hannah Black, Aisha Sasha John, Prathna Lor, Lucy Ives, Lucy Ellmann, Shiv Kotecha. Kafka, Berlant, Sedgwick, Davis, Carson, Dickinson, Woolf, Weil. Notley, Mayer, Niedecker. Woof.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
Reflecting on that list, read more work in translation, read more work from the ancient world.

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 helping profession for sure. I used to have a lot of guilt about the arts, now I feel like they’re one side of a call and response. I still feel like my most instructive experiences are listening to or caring for people. Reading is like the desultory, or preparatory way of doing that. Writing at its best distills something from all different kinds of experiences, alchemizes, offers something weird and ripe. I’m not sure about that mirror-to-the-world metaphor, if it offers a clear picture. It’s more like cultural production is a twisted, distinctive little farm grown in the soil of experience, the compost of living. I believe in it a bit more now, I believe that my connected experiences came from reading as much as anything else.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
I love to draw but I’m in my thirties now and I think I’ll have a lifelong struggle with the substance of the world, with caring about lasting materiality, with the value of objects and the realities of bureaucracy and money. That eliminates a lot of professions and visual artist is one of them. Writing has cheap overhead and needs no storefront. And it can be joyful.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Darryl by Jackie Ess. I’m loving the new season of Couples Therapy. That show is nuts.

19 - What are you currently working on?
Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, poetry about everything, and my daily Psychic Lectures: https://psychiclectures.substack.com

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Bára Hladík

Bára Hladík is a Czech-Canadian writer, editor and multimedia artist. Born in Ktunaxa Territory, she received her Bachelor of Arts in Literature from the University of British Columbia in 2016. Her work can be found in THIS Magazine, Contemporary Verse 2, Carte Blanche, EVENT Mag, Hamilton Arts and Letters, Bed Zine, Empty Mirror, Cosmonauts Avenue and elsewhere. Bára’s microchapbook Book of Mirrors was selected for the 2019 Ghost City Press Summer Micro-Chap Series and her collaborative artist book Behind the Curtain (Publication Studio, 2018) was an honourable mention for the Scorpion and Felix Prize (2017). Bára’s first book New Infinity appeared this spring with Metatron Press (2022).

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?
My first publication was a microchapbook called Book of Mirrors published by Ghost city Press. It was in many ways the beginning of New Infinity, and the microbook perseveres in the pages of New Infinity.

It was life changing to have people read and resonate with my work. I still sometimes get snippets of someone sharing or commenting on it. It gave me the validation and confidence to continue to compile my work, as I began to see that it was needed.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?
My first encounters with poetry was lyrics written in the sleeves of records, tapes and CDs. Analogue style. In those days, those words were the only glimpse you could get of the artist. As an immigrant, it was a way for me to learn English and better understand the new world I was growing up in. My parents fled Soviet occupation in former Czechoslovakia, so they grew up in a media-controlled society. Having access to western music was a big deal. I grew up on everything from Pink Floyd to Nirvana to Muddy Waters. I was writing lyrics from a young age and I still write a lot of songs.

I didn’t come to poetry in more of a literary sense until I went to college in the city and began to be exposed to more writing and arts than I could access in the rural setting I grew up in. I read a lot. The first poets that really turned me upside down into the world of poetry to never return at that time were constraint and found poets. I found this approach to language very liberating, as it challenges a linear reality. At the time I was dealing with undiagnosed severe pain and struggling to put my story to words. Constraint and found poetry allowed me to express my existence from a vantage beyond the constraint of a linear body or narrative.

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 can be incredibly slow. The majority of my writing process is done in my head. As a chronically ill person, I spend a lot of time in a waking dream state allowing my body to recover. This is when I dream of images, themes, narratives, characters, or when I receive insight as to what is necessary to be said. Often by the time I reach the page, the shapes of the dream are formed. I dream up solutions to details and questions and problems, and update the document. I have several formed stories I have not yet managed to put to the document that exist in my head as holographic universes.

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 me, a poem usually begins with a few words in my notebook or notes app. An idea, contrast, emotion, image. Sometimes I consider the larger project thematically, and develop a series of poems. Other times I’m just vibing. I grew up writing notes and lyrics to myself, instead of writing publicly, so it’s been a practice that has always been with me. Eventually I mash everything together and see what it’s really saying, beyond my own experience. I have several rituals I practice to distance my narrative voice and draw divinatory information from the words, often using found words in practices such as cutting up words from medical texts into a mini deck of cards and drawing them into a sort of healing divinatory reading. I wrote much of my book using these practices.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?
I do enjoy readings. I am a shy person and I often find the seating at readings is difficult for my spinal condition, but when the vibe is right I love the practice of sharing and reading with friends and strangers.

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 the tradition of Czechoslovakian writers, I tend to ask philosophical questions about existence, inspired by surrealism and existentialism. Like my uncles (how I like to refer to Czechoslovakian writers), I grapple with the logic of contradictory truths, the manipulation of language, and the meaning of freedom amongst oppressive forces.

In New Infinity, my questions are related to the metaphysical symphony of the body. I ask about the philosophical implications of autoimmune disease, a sickness of fighting the self on a cellular level. I try to approach story and language in the book as a reclamation and interrogation of the narrative that was put on me by the medical system and society due to my rare disease, and instead create a narrative that becomes an expression of liberation and deep healing. The story is many stories and fragments arranged in a way that can be picked up and read in any order. You can read one page or several chapters, or jump around. It is not linear. Just as healing asks us to visit pockets of time, the stories move like dreams and memories, asking us to revisit ourselves (our cells).

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 feel that writers have a very big responsibility. That is, to be a worker for the people. Whoever “the people” are for you, we as writers (and artists) are responsible to offer our gifts back to our communities. Our work as writers and artists is to archive, reflect, express, research and put a mirror to ourselves. Writers have incredible skill and privilege to communicate on a level that resonates the heart, a powerful technology that should not be underestimated or under utilized. I feel our society creates a lot of shame around creative expression. I think this is because western society has defined “the writer” or “the artist” as a figure of prestige, instead of honouring the act of creation as something that belongs to everyone as a human right. Writers have a very big responsibility to use their time and work to address deep important topics in a way that directly benefits their communities and society at large, whatever that means for them specifically.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?
I love working with an editor, especially since I grew up bilingual and often miss spelling things. I prefer to workshop pieces later on in the writing process, if at all. But working with a good copy editor is very satisfying.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?
Allow your seeds to grow in their own time.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to multimedia works)? What do you see as the appeal?
I find it intuitive to work with many forms. As someone with a complex body, I often have to adjust my creative process based on my ability. I am not always able to write, so sometimes I just listen to music, hum or sing, doodle, slowly dance or whatever. I don’t see these forms as separate, but another language with which to express creativity. They inform and revolve into each other. They are embodied poems.

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?
Routine has been a shifting and challenging thing for me over the years, but lately I have been finding a rhythm. My writing routine tends to be folded between periods of rest and spurts of inspiration. I don’t have a specific time dedicated to writing. Everyday is different, depending on where my body is at and what I have to accomplish despite it. I write in my mind waiting at the blood lab, at the crack of dawn when my spinal pain is keeping me awake, or when I have to lay down for several hours until my spine recovers from over exertion. It is a form of release and self-healing, a way to be heard in some distant echo of time.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?
I turn to my bookshelf, and I turn to my plants. I turn to the wind, the water, the sky.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?
Chopped wood, a wood stove, cooked plums

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?
I am definitely influenced by music and sound. I am also inspired by science and research, I draw poetry from scientific journals and books on space and physics.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?
Jorge Luis Borges, Franz Kafka, Karel Čapek, Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

As well as disabled writers such as Leah Lakshmi Piepzna Samarasinha, Mia Mingus, Johanna Hedva,

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?
I would like to write a film.  

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 would be a musician or an actor :)
 
18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?
Writing is one of the most accessible art forms. I am able to write when I cannot move or open my eyes. I am still able to transform myself and others through distilled thought and creation. Writing is only one of my practices, but it is a nucleus of many forms of creation for me.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?
Parable of the Sower - Octavia E. Butler
Spice World  

20 - What are you currently working on?
I have several dreams / projects on the go. My next priority is to write a collection of short stories set in Prague based on family stories of Nazi and Soviet occupation and beyond. I am also outlining a sci-fi trilogy. I won't say much, but it involves a garden on the moon. I am also collaborating with Malek Robbana on a monthly dreamspells event that involves a guided nidra dream, presence and eye exercises, followed by community chats about dreaming. We eventually hope to publish some of our dream findings.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Trynne Delaney

Trynne Delaney (b 1996) is a writer currently based in Tiohtiàh:ke (Montreal). They hold a Master of Arts in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Calgary. Their work appears in The Puritan, CV2, Carte Blanche, GUTS, WATCH YOUR HEAD, and the League of Canadian Poets’ chapbook These Lands: a collection of voices by Black Poets in Canada edited by Chelene Knight. In their spare time they like to garden. They grew up in the Maritimes. the half-drowned is their first book.

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 the half-drowned will be releasing a week after I wrote this in June 2022. I’m not sure how it will change my life once it’s out in the world. Writing it certainly changed my life—I have relationships to texts and people that I know I wouldn’t have without the work that went into this book.

Working on it has been one of the most rigorous processes of my life. It’s taught me a lot about what my own needs are as a writer. For example: I need to have a space dedicated to my writing outside of my house. I didn’t realize how much I was writing outside of my house before covid hit in cafes, parks, libraries, busses… about a year ago I managed to find a studio space. I’m super grateful for it.

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

I think I came to poetry simultaneously with other forms of writing. The first time I remember really connecting to a poem was with Life Doesn’t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou, the version illustrated by Jean-Michel Basquiat—ironically, life does frighten me very much. But the first time I think I understood how versatile poetry can be was in an American Lit course. I chose to write an essay on Crossing Brooklyn Ferry and it was like I’d unlocked a portal to another dimension. In terms of my work, most of it is hybrid form – I don’t think of poetry as separate from fiction or non-fiction or even other more visual genres like graphic novels or film/tv.

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 don’t know! I think of all of my projects as having been started from birth. In general, everything takes longer than expected for me, I am trying not to fight that so much anymore.

I took a lot of notes for the half-drowned. It’s the first time I’ve approached work through a lot of research. Most of the research was at the intersection of histories of Black Loyalist populations and personal experience/connection to those histories.

Writing only works for me if I’m hyperfocused in a quiet environment, or occasionally with background noise. For the half-drowned I listened to a lot of ocean wave white noise while I was writing so that the rhythm could imbue itself into me. When I can get to that state where I’m in a flow, often what I write will be a good skeleton of the final product. I tend to edit my poetic work very heavily as I write. I prefer to write by hand because I find it hard to read and connect with writing on a screen so I will make a first draft on paper then transcribe my work to the computer as part of the editing process.

4 - Where does a poem or work of fiction 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?

Most of my work begins with walking or journaling. When I have an idea that I feel good about I will commit to it and make a book. With individual poems I think of each one as a little book! If I publish a full book of poetry that’s longer than my little chapbook death of the author one day, I want it to be thought out and well conceptualized.

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

Public readings were an essential part of my creative process pre-covid. I feel nervous about submitting anything for publication that I haven’t read in public yet. They were also the place where I learned to have more confidence and push my limits—for a while I was using readings as a form of exposure therapy for social phobia which was an interesting experience—I learned a lot about generosity and humour from that period. I really feel like those readings made me into the writer I am today.

During the pandemic I’ve found it pretty difficult to engage online because the screen makes me feel lonely and outside community. I’ve been so drained and working on more fiction work that I haven’t been as present.

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 a big concern behind my writing is how to find community and love in the ways that we need, especially for oppressed groups. Like, beyond chosen family, how do we build a world that is predicated on caring for and supporting the people and environments around us? How do we become a part of without being apart from our needs?

I’m also interested in mythologies of the Black Atlantic.

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?

Hmmm this is a tough one. I wonder what is meant by The Writer. Some people are writing, some people are writers… I don’t know if I would define myself exclusively as a writer, though that has been a powerful word to claim at some points and made me feel more “professional.”

For a long time I thought the role of writing in society was social change. I think that can be the case, but isn’t necessarily. I think more often writers are simply documenting the movement of time, not necessarily linearly. Capturing an emotional process that reaches with tentacles and sometimes touches people.

I don’t know! Think it depends on the writer!

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

I usually like working with an outside editor. It’s helpful to have a glimpse into how others are reading my work. In my opinion it’s impossible to write anything without collaboration. Sometimes your environment is your editor, which really brings another meaning to an “outside” editor. Other times, it’s just someone who is good at reading. When editing is done well it really enhances the work and the writer’s voice. I’ve learned maybe the most from editors.

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

Rest!

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

They don’t feel totally separate for me; they slip into each other easily. The appeal of poetry is more emotional and personal. I like that poetry doesn’t need a plot. Plots are very challenging and detail oriented and when I am writing I feel like I am transcribing a dream, so I’m not overly concerned with consistency, which means for prose fiction I have to go back and do a lot of reworking of the plot after it’s written. In the future if I write a book with a plot I will probably try to plan it out more! I prefer writing characters and emotional/natural landscapes.

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 don’t keep a routine… yet. I work full time during the day and have a chronic illness so I write when I am able to, usually in the evenings. If I’m lucky I get a good mid-morning writing session on the weekend after lounging around and sipping on tea or coffee.

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

Walking. Or back to the water.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Frying onions and garlic.

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?

Music is a huge influence on me! I grew up playing music – cello – and when I was getting into poetry, rap and folk played a huge role in how I engaged with crafting before I really knew what to look for in written poetry.

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

Audre Lorde’s work came at a pivotal point in my life. Her essays recontextualized my life.

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

I want to write for TV at some point in the future. Good scripts are full of poetry.

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?

In an ideal world I would be a gardener. I think that’s my true purpose.

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

I don’t think it’s opposed for me, it’s just the one I’m public about. I want to try many more art forms in my life! One other one I like a lot is collage.

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

This may seem out of left field but I recently watched Scream 1, 2, and 3 and there is a lot to be critiqued with them, especially in their racial politics, but I had a really good time watching them and I thought the way that they made fun of the horror genre while also showing the ways that trauma always comes back for ya was surprisingly a lot more thoughtful than I expected.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I’m working on resting! That’s my big theme this year. It’s not something I am very good at yet but it’s something I’ve been forced to do more recently so I’m trying to find ways of slowing down and making sure I’m giving my body what it wants and needs and seeing how poetry might sow itself into this new, quieter life.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch, knot body

 

It does not start the way you imagine. The last breath is the first breath, the lungs stretched to their capacity, and yet too little air makes its way through. The breath hitched, strangers looking back to see you walking towards their backs, quick enough for your shins to stiffen, to forget you have a body long enough to make that last spring and catch the bus before it rushes off.

You sit up straight on the bus seat and avoid the white lady glares, but you’re sitting too straight and looking away with your neck in that crooked way, and you feel it shooting signals all the way down your back. Trading one avoidance for another.

The shame takes a backseat. When was the last time you had the luxury of forgetting about your body? (“Portrait Of A Body In Pause”)

A collection I only picked up recently is Montreal poet Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch’s full-length debut, knot body (Montreal QC: Metatron Press, 2020), a title that was subsequently followed-up with their second collection,, The Good Arabs (Montreal QC: Metonymy Press, 2021). The epistolary prose poem collection knot body focuses on illness not as metaphor, but writing disability, including chronic and daily pain, expanding the possibility of what has been termed “disability poetics” (following work by Nicole Markotić, Roxanna Bennett, Shane Neilson and multiple others); a body that for merely existing is considered political. El Bechelany-Lynch writes of the many layers and levels of endurance, attempting to comprehend how one might safely and comfortably live within the body. “The pain hovers above an impossible memory.” one piece begins, early on the collection. Writing a pain endured, and even lived, one might suggest. The next piece offers: “I worry that in writing this, I am revealing too much.” Written through a kind of direct and even stark tenderness, the poems of knot body examine the possibilities of a body that exists with constant pain, attempting to negotiate the daily elements of living in a world and culture that perpetually denies their existence. There is something really striking in these prose poems, in the way that El Bechelany-Lynch writes as a way to articulate the self into, if not being, but into an acknowledgment and a belonging; writing themselves into existence that, until this point, perhaps had been pushed into invisibility by just about everyone else.

For some writers, the memoir is a space of control, a way to reveal the facts they want to reveal, to share their stories so others know they are not alone, to share their stories in the hope that they are not alone. I try to learn from other writers, and give small parts of me, dropped into a glaze of fiction, fired twice over until the reality of it all changes colour, a lilac purple into raw clay brown. Charles Baxter says poets don’t particular care about the study of character so I guess he’s never met a poet. Tommy Pico would rip him to shreds. Mix around some random details and turn myself into a character, so far away from me that I can convince both you and I that nothing bad has ever happened to me.