In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Todd Davis
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Todd Davis
Original artwork by swords4two
Your poem, “Deposition: What Was Lost,” brings grief to the page with gentle, yet visceral, imagery, blending every other phrase with life and death. There’s a very cyclical feeling to the poem with these images. How did you find that pattern when writing this piece?
The older I get the more obvious it becomes to me that we live in many times and places at once in our perceptions of reality.
With the deaths of those I’ve lived with and loved, I find that I slip in and out of a present moment–perhaps walking a stream in the woods near my house, seeing a fox move in the undergrowth–to settle in another moment from long ago. I find the triggering points of such movement in time evocative and fertile for writing.
The cyclical nature of this poem and its images feels organic to me, feels closer to the way I experience existence. The more-than-human natural world is rooted in cycles, and I’m more content when I follow those cycles than when I get lost in the pressures and stresses of the notion that time is linear. I love how the moon is present and affects so much of our existence, how sunlight grows and diminishes through the year, how where I live growing seasons lead to the harvest, lead to dormancy, and eventually to rebirth.
As for the images, they come from different moments in my life. When I think of my mother, and her descent into dementia, they serve as holding places of love in the moment of that loss.
The spacing of the poem seems to invite watching it flow across the page, and brings to mind the dripping honey on the last few lines. What was the impetus to space this poem in the way you did?
I like very much your description of the lines as appearing as dripping honey!
With most of my poems I try a range of forms. Anything from a single stanza to multiple stanzas of similar or exact length.
I also play with lineation, which might lead to a very thin, short line or to the explosion of the line, the erasure of which creates a prose poem, a form I like to work with.
This poem felt like it needed breathing room, space for the deep and ragged breath of grief, moments to stop or pause, to take in and remember.
Speaking of honey, that seems to be a recurring theme in your work; one of your published poetry collections is titled “Coffin Honey.” What draws you to this subject, or image? What other themes do you use throughout your work?
The simplest answer is that I love honey. I have two big mugs of tea each day with heaping spoonfuls of local wildflower honey.
In other poems, I’ve written about my great aunt Alverdia Davis who was born in 1887 and died in 1984. She kept bees and would take a metal wash basin and a wooden spoon and drum out a song that would lead a swarm back to the hive.
I’m interested in the intelligence of all animals, of all beings. The collective work of bees, the importance of their work as pollinators, and the gift of honey, simply leaves me awestruck.
You teach environmental studies, and in an interview with Speaking of Marvels, you talk about how working with your veterinarian father as he recited poetry led you to both a passion for writing and nature. Does poetry find a place in your classroom in any way?
My father’s love of poetry is undoubtedly the reason I started writing poetry. And, yes, I bring poetry into every class I teach. I want poetry to be something that is part of my students’ everyday life and experience. And I try to write poems that most anyone can enter. I like to think of my ideal audience as my Appalachian grandparents who had very little formal education but who loved the sound of language and played with words and story all the time.
As someone who studied literature, and Thoreau in particular, I was excited to hear that you’ve written a chapbook called Household of Water, Moon & Snow: The Thoreau Poems. What was your process in writing that book, and in balancing research versus creativity?
More than 30 years ago, during my doctoral studies I, too, studied Thoreau and many of the writers that comprise the American Renaissance and in particular the Transcendentalists. I was especially drawn to Thoreau because of his deep love for the natural world. Emerson, for instance, seemed to “use” the natural world for his higher spiritual purposes. Thoreau, especially in his later work, seemed to take nature on its own terms.
A moment in Walden that has stuck with me is the winter scene in which Thoreau tries to measure the depth of the pond. On the mountain just to the west of our house is a pond I visit throughout the year. One winter I snowshoed back to it after a heavy storm. The woods were white and glistening and the voice in my head was not my own. The pond is spring-fed and where the ice thinned because of that constant flow I threw a larger stone to break the ice. A poem began at that moment, with the descent of that stone, but it was a persona poem, which later I understood was in Thoreau’s voice.
From that single poem grew a chapbook of persona poems or biographical poems about Thoreau in the third-person. As I worked on them, I enjoyed reading back through Thoreau’s writing, as well as various biographies of Thoreau’s life. I used some of that factual information to begin poems, but I always gave my imagination the freedom to explore the possibilities of Thoreau’s interior life.
These poems were published in Household of Water, Moon, & Snow (Seven Kitchens Press, 2010), but they also serve as the middle section of my book In the Kingdom of the Ditch (Michigan State University Press, 2013).
Where do you find inspiration? What authors do you keep returning to?
The workings of the more-than-human natural world always inspire me. I’m endlessly interested in the other beings who share the planet with us, who make our very lives possible. There’s a black bear that’s been following me through most of my books, and in Coffin Honey this bear I call Ursus took on a significant and recurring role in the stories of that book.
I’m also inspired by and tend to write about those humans who are neglected or who are treated unjustly. Working class folks are my rootstock. I come from poor, subsistence farmers and grew up in a Rust Belt factory town. I’ve always lived in the Rust Belt, and for the past 21 years my home has been in the shadow of an Appalachian railroad town, in the mountains where coal mining and other extractive industries have left a very damaged landscape that’s slowly healing and rewilding. It’s that landscape and those people who inspire me most and are featured in many of my poems.
As for authors, there are so many, but I’ll try to name a few. I read a great deal of fiction and also always have a book of poems I’m working through.
Here are some authors and titles that I return to often: Bonnie Jo Campbell’s Once Upon a River; Ron Rash’s Something Rich and Strange; Sherman Alexie’s The Toughest Indian in the World; Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union; Rick Bass’s Where the Sea Used to Be; Galway Kinnell’s The Book of Nightmares; Donika Kelly’s Bestiary; Robert Wrigley’s Earthly Meditations; Geffrey Davis’s Revising the Storm; Jim Harrison’s The Woman Lit By Fireflies; Jane Hirshfield’s After; Dan Gerber’s Particles; Ross Gay’s Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude; Charles Wright’s Appalachia; Adrian Matejka’s The Big Smoke; Camille Dungy’s Trophic Cascade; David Hinton’s translations of many classical Chinese poets; and anything by David James Duncan. I love his most recent and long awaited novel, Sun House.
And there are so many more writers I return to, but these are folks I find myself reading and re-reading the past few years.
You are the author of seven books of poetry. What else are you working on?
I’m working on three books at the moment. I’m editing A Literary Field Guide to Northern Appalachia, which is a companion volume to A Literary Field Guide to Southern Appalachia. The University of Georgia Press will publish this book in September 2024. I’ve been busy writing and compiling the poems for my next book of poetry, Tributary: New & Selected Poems. And the third manuscript is a prose book of linked essays about being a father and a son and how those relationships have been shaped by particular moments in the woods and on the water, especially in connection to native, wild fish like the brook trout.
Todd Davis is the author of seven books of poetry, most recently Coffin Honey and Native Species, both published by Michigan State University Press. He has won the Midwest Book Award, the Foreword INDIES Book of the Year Bronze and Silver Awards, the Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize, the Chautauqua Editors Prize, and the Bloomsburg University Book Prize. His poems appear in such journals and magazines as Alaska Quarterly Review, American Poetry Review, Gettysburg Review, Iowa Review, Missouri Review, North American Review, Orion, Southern Humanities Review, and Western Humanities Review. He teaches environmental studies at Pennsylvania State University’s Altoona College.
In the Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Danielle Decatur
In the Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Danielle Decatur
Your wonderful fiction piece, “Lies on the Lips,” shows your main character Nell’s quiet transformation into confidence (and a little past that) with the help of a pair of marker-drawn lips. Where did this idea come from?
The idea of Nell came to me first. I wanted to write about someone who doesn’t always express herself, but has lots of thoughts and opinions! Then, I started to think about what would have to happen for Nell to find her voice?
I love how the relationships within this piece are fleshed out so well, and you do that with little backstory and instead focus on the character’s interactions. What’s your process when writing these complex relationships?
First, I try to really understand how the protagonist is influenced by the others in the story. Since it’s a short story, I have to make choices on who the reader gets to really know. For example, Nell’s dad has a role in this story but he’s passed. It isn’t important for the reader to know Nell’s dad, but they do need to know how his absence has influenced those still there. Someone told me every character thinks they are a main character and you have to write them as such. So I wanted to write Nell’s dad that way as if to say, he may not be there but he has left his mark.
Both this piece and Come What May (published in Midnight Breakfast) flirt with the edges of magic realism, and yet still remain planted in reality. Is that something that you consciously develop as you write?
This choice isn’t exactly intentional. My writing centers Black characters and even if they are in a situation that reflects reality I try to push beyond the expected. I never want my characters to be bound to a specific narrative and sometimes that means sprinkling a little magic in there.
You utilize the setting of Shaker Heights throughout your work. What draws you to write with that setting? How does place influence plot for you?
I grew up in Shaker Heights! Shaker Heights, as I knew it, was developed in the 60s as a planned community to support racial integration. This purposeful integration and planning is rife for interesting storytelling. For example, two-family homes in Shaker only have one front door to remove the stigma of someone living in a multi-family. Shaker is also very relatable as a midwestern Ohio town, but very unique in its history.
What literary works and authors inspire you or your writing?
I adore Toni Morrison. She created worlds of Black characters without the white gaze. I hope my work does something similar. I also love reading Britt Bennett, Jesmyn Ward, and Celeste Ng.
What are you writing now?
I am currently querying for my novel, searching for the right person to help me bring it to market. I’m also writing another short story that is a little different. It has a little bit of suspense, but that slight hand of magical realism too.
Danielle Decatur is a creative director and fiction writer. She graduated from the University of Virginia with a BA in English and literature and received an MFA from Bennington College. Her short stories have appeared in Northwest Review, Midnight Breakfast, and Silver Needle Press. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and two sons.
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Teresa Carmody
In The Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Teresa Carmody
Your beautifully braided nonfiction piece, “Reading the Deck with Zora Neale Hurston,” speaks about the trauma of growing up in a house where you were not accepted. You deftly layer personal details and history lessons, weaving “Their Eyes Were Watching God” throughout. What was the spark that made you blend these together? How did this piece begin?
First, thank you for these questions and the opportunity to speak about this essay; I’m delighted that it’s included in Water-Stone Review, in the company of such fine writers and artists.
“Reading the Deck” began with reflecting on who and where I was when I first read Zora Neale Hurston’s novel, which was the summer after high school graduation. I was a vibrating shell of unrecognized desire: I didn’t know myself as queer, or that I wanted to be a writer, or that feminism was even a thing. Instead, I had a lot of terrifying and guilt-inducing religious narratives, having been raised both Catholic and Evangelical, with all the spiritual trauma and household warring that implies. Yet I also sensed the world, including earth, as more than “dead” materials or resources, to be conquered and extracted, which is a narrative that serves capitalism and settler colonialism. I had, in other words, an intuition that took years to understand. To find the language for.
Some of the questions I was thinking about more broadly: How do you open yourself to change? Who do you welcome in as teachers and guides? This essay is part of a larger collection that centers some of the writers and artists who showed me other narratives, other ways to be.
I love the conversational nature with readers that you carry throughout the text. How did that voice develop?
I experience voice as frequency I tune into. With any piece of writing, my goal is to calibrate toward what is necessary and true, even as I consider writing as a kind of performance in language, with voice. I think of Djuna Barnes (another writer I focus on in this collection) who used to conduct interviews as “Pen Performer.” To me, this is a very exciting—and honest—nom de plume.
Sometimes, a first sentence will come into my consciousness, as if someone else, or a different part of me, is speaking. This happened with “Reading the Deck,” but that did not mean the essay came easily. I initially drafted it by writing topics or words on a set of notecards, which I drew randomly, like tarot cards, as prompts for freewriting. The first draft was rough and problematic, in part because I wasn’t interrogating my distorted white gaze. A friend (and the wonderful poet), Vidhu Aggarwal, pointed this out, along with some structural issues. Two years and more revisions later, I brought a draft to my writing group, and their feedback and insights helped me to finally land the piece. What I’m suggesting is that the conversational tone may come, in part, from the conversations I was having, literally about and through the writing, for several years. As I like to tell my students: even if we are sitting by ourselves, we do not write alone.
Also, the essay is also about gossip, so maybe it should feel a bit talky!
Looking at your process for a piece of this magnitude, how does the creation, as
well as the editing for all the layers, work for you?
This piece includes a lot of research—everything from one of my PhD topics (hello, gossip), to spending a week in Hurston’s archive at the University of Florida. I have taught Their Eyes Were Watching God repeatedly over the past many years, re-reading it every time I do (I also recommend the audio book, narrated by Ruby Dee). In some ways, I see writing itself as a process of layering, fueled by questions you are bringing to the work, and questions posed by the writing. What does the writing require of you? I am obsessed with the relationship between art and life, and much of my work is autotheoretical, so I also keep returning to ways in which the personal and the historical are always entwined. How every life is situated within a particular time and place, and just as political, social, and historical forces shape the physical landscapes we move through, so, too, with our internal landscapes, or imaginations. It is scary and wondrous to realize that our preferences and desires are malleable, even as each person is a unique expression of everything that makes them, from their grandmother’s oocytes to the food they eat and the media they consume.
I’ve wandered away from your question, I realize, even as this is often how my writing emerges. Slant.
While some of your deck interjections are based on writings of Butler and Hurston, what was your process in crafting the others?
I read tarot cards as part of a divinatory practice, but you don’t need a tarot deck to read cards. Many people have and do use regular playing cards, which are the cards referenced in Hurston’s song, or rhyme, that runs on the left-side of my essay. The right-side readings, or interjections, are some of my understandings of the cards—yes, in conversation with others, including Butler—but also in conversation with other tarot readers, like the writers Selah Saterstrom, Lou Florez, and Kristen Nelson. To me, cards don’t ‘predict the future’ as much as they signal questions and situations the querent is invited to consider. Today, for example, when I sat with your questions, I pulled the Queen of Swords, which corresponds to the Queen of Spades. I’ve learned the queens as mothers of the deck, the readers, the gate and the one who opens the gate. Swords for intellect, for the quality of air, for articulation. For attuning to intuitive logics set on your higher purpose, or reason of being. I think about adrienne maree brown’s Emergent Strategy: your evolution requires speaking yourself into existence, but also speaking your fears or bad programming into view. Which brings me to your next question…
I love how you talk about internalized misogyny and your story of being on a plane with a woman pilot; I had a very similar experience, and had to take a long look at my preconceived notions. How do you break down your misconceptions?
I think misconceptions, including fears, get stored in the body, which means the body is a great source for understanding the many social and cultural beliefs we’ve internalized, including the toxic ones. I mean, if you convince a woman she doesn’t matter and isn’t worth listening to, then she shuts herself up! And isn’t that convenient for white patriarchy?!
I can know something intellectually, but still hold the lie of misogyny within my body. And it’s a blessing, really, when moments like my experience on the airplane bring such beliefs into awareness, because that’s when you can release or transmute them. One bit at a time.
The philosopher George Yancy, who I reference in the essay, theorizes similarly around whiteness, which he describes as ‘insidious,’ rooting etymologically through the Latin insidiae, meaning “plot, snare, ambush.” As an antiracist white person, I’m perpetually caught within, and constituted by, the structural and material power of racial hierarchies. I’m paraphrasing Yancy here to note that those moments when my whiteness becomes visible, when I’m ambushed by my whiteness, are also profound moments for shifting misconceptions and harmful beliefs.
Two more guides in addition to names already mentioned: bell hooks and Marshall Rosenberg’s teachings around non-violent communication.
“Books are energies we draw to us when we are ready” is a line I absolutely love in here. What other authors, or their writing, bring you that inspiration?
So many! This particular essay is part of a longer collection that also focuses on Clarice Lispector, Kathy Acker, Audre Lorde, Virginia Woolf, Djuna Barnes, and Tee Corinne, their work and their archives, official and unofficial. These are just some of the artists and writers who have nurtured my artistic, political, and emotional growth over the years. In queer community, we talk about chosen family, often because our bio families refuse us. To me, that chosen family includes friends and the people I read, living and dead. My chosen mothers, and I count Zora Neale Hurston as one of those.
You have authored Maison Femme: a fiction and Reconception of Marie, among several other books, and your work appeared in numerous literary magazines. Where did your writing journey start?
I kept misreading this question as when, not where, and then resisting it, because I experience writing as beginning again and again, in a time of its own logic, outside of the Gregorian calendar (which I write about in The Reconception of Marie). I’m talking about writing generally, the way we are scripted and then, with grace and in dialogue with others, re-vision that script, repeatedly. And I’m also thinking about the experience of writing something specific, how a particular story or essay or novel unfolds in its own time, sometimes quickly, but sometimes over the course of many years.
To get to where: I was living in the Pacific Northwest, in Olympia, WA, when I gave myself, internally, to writing, deciding to study this art and to cultivate a writing practice, as more important than any day job. For me, the where of writing continues to be deeply internal, a site for the liberatory and radical work of reclaiming the imagination.
What writing are you doing now? What’s your next big project?
I’m finishing revisions on my next book: A Healthy Interest in the Lives of Others, forthcoming from Autofocus Books in 2024. It’s a novel-in-stories, or collection of autofictions, about Marie, the same-ish character in Maison Femme: a fiction and The Reconception of Marie. These three Maries share many qualities, friends, and background stories, but the form, tone or atmosphere, and even some of her specifics, shift from book to book, like how bodies change. To me, this is a question about auto-bio writing, what it means to “write a life.”
I often think about the book as a body, with its spine and feet-notes and head-er. And then the experience of knowing one’s consciousness, in some kind of steady or familiar way, even as the body changes, ages, sprouts pubic hair and later, bags beneath the eyes. But there is still the five-year-old inside you, and you knew yourself then, and you know yourself now. Differently but the same.
I’m trying to write that.
Teresa Carmody (she/they) is a writer of fiction, creative nonfiction, inter-arts collaborations, and hybrid forms. She is the author of three books: The Reconception of Marie (2020), Maison Femme: A Fiction (2015), and Requiem (2005). A collection of autofictions, A Healthy Interest in the Lives of Others, is forthcoming. Carmody is a co-founding director of Les Figues Press in Los Angeles. She teaches in the Writer’s Workshop and low-residency FMA program at the University of Nebraska Omaha.
In the Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Rebecca Johnson
In the Field: Conversations With Our Contributors—Rebecca Johnson
“Daybreak Comes and I Offer Light,” opens Volume 26 of Water~Stone. Your poem speaks to watching a parent grow older, and the emotional difficulties that accompany that, a longing to return to an earlier time. What was the impetus of this poem? Have you done other work focusing on this theme?
I would say that a lot of my work centers around the sticky fluidity of time. I feel that I am often overcome with this intense nostalgia that influences my writing heavily, and as I am growing into “adulthood,” I am often reflecting on my relationship to my mother. It’s funny to see the ways I find myself replicating her in my day-to-day. Whether it be the way I make a certain soup, or what record I might put on. I cling to the parts of her that she has shared with me, and I think often about my mother’s resilience. She is such a maker, a sculptor. She has made a life, and that is never an easy feat. In my later teen years, I experienced a traumatic relationship that left me changed. Throughout my processing of what had happened to me, my understanding, compassion, and sense of community has developed in different, more complex ways. And I suppose, in this poem, I am exploring what that means—the necessity of community, how to continue creating, post-trauma, and an attempt to reconcile the binary belief of two existences—the pre-trauma child and the post-trauma continuation. Throughout this, even if she may not know, my mother holds me in healing and in this, there is palpable wish to pause time, rewind, hold her hand a little longer. But she pushes me to continue growing, enjoying life as it is happening.
The line, “And I practice peeling the layers of myself, in replication,” creates this beautiful, if painful, image of self-discovery. What sort of surprises of self-discovery do you find as you write?
I feel like writing, for me, is an attempt at meaning-making, so I am constantly in the process of understanding. And that’s ongoing; I don’t know if that’s something that ever stops—the work of understanding, I mean. In that, I think writing opens me up for greater compassion. A lot of my work is me sifting through feelings of connection, community—how I fit in the world. Writing, and poetry specifically, has allowed me a vessel to explore. I think it used to surprise me how often certain images or themes would crop up in my work, but now I greet them like old friends.
You’ve been on both the artistic side and the production side of literary magazines. What balance do you strike between creation and production in your own work?
I was lucky enough to work on The Tower during my undergrad at the University of Minnesota, and I truly loved my time there. I felt so inspired being surrounded by other creatives while working on its production. Balance between creation and production can be tricky, of course everyone has that internal editor, and it can be hard to turn that off when in your creative space.
What are some literary or artistic works that inspire you?
There are so many! For poets I would say some would be Natalie Diaz, Mary Oliver, Saeed Jones, and Alice Oswald. I am often drawing inspiration from songwriters such as Ethel Cain, and artists like Hilma af Klint.
What other projects are you currently working on?
I am currently working on a short story that explores the idea of “unbecoming” through a lens of trauma response, compassion, and roadkill.
Rebecca Johnson is a graduate of the University of Minnesota, where she studied English literature and Asian Middle Eastern studies with a focus in Korean. She held positions at The Tower from 2022 to 2023 as an art editor, a poetry editor, and a marketing director. You can find her on Instagram @teeny.bee.
A Conversation with Kathryn Savage—WSR Contributing Creative Nonfiction Editor
Water~Stone Review is a collaborative project of students, faculty, and staff at Hamline University Creative Writing Programs. In addition to working with our faculty, and to fulfill a larger initiative of providing a place for new/emerging and underrepresented voices at Water~Stone Review, we now have rotating contributing editor
This is a wonderful opportunity for our graduate student assistant editors to collaborate with renown writers in order to expand our reach and further innovation. Past Contributing Editors include Sun Yung Shin, Keith Lesmeister, Sean Hill, Carolyn Holbrook, Mona Power, Kao Kalia Yang, and Ed Bok Lee.
In this post we introduce Vol. 27 Contributing Creative Nonfiction Editor, Kathryn Savage
Welcome! We’re delighted to have you as our contributing nonfiction editor for Volume 27. As a hybrid author and lyric essayist, how do you find the connecting threads of your pieces? Do you have a process for bringing your nonfiction characters to life on the page?
Thank you for the warm welcome! I’m equally delighted to be serving as a contributing nonfiction editor for Volume 27 of the very wonderful Water~Stone Review. A lot of what informs my approach to nonfiction comes from the dual influences of short fiction and poetry. Before I wrote essays, I studied fiction and poetry writing. Now, I apply what I’ve learned about plot and character, lyric precision, and the pleasures of language, to nonfiction. I attend to character interiority and descriptive language as I write. On finding the connecting threads—thank you for the question, I love it—I draw inspiration from Lidia Yuknavitch’s insights about the braided essay. In short, I try to understand the threads within essays as physical and woven, and, like strands of a braid, weave them together as I work.
You are an assistant professor at The Minneapolis College of Art and Design (MCAD), where you teach creative writing courses. What are some essential craft lessons that you impart to your nonfiction students?
I encourage the nonfiction writers I meet in the classroom to trust themselves. To read widely, with respect to both form and content, and find ways to cultivate stillness and patience within their writing practice. I think nonfiction writers, all writers, have an innate wisdom about what we write about and the shapes our stories take. Even more exciting, I teach at an art and design college. The writers I meet at MCAD are illustrators, filmmakers, textile artists, photographers—I could go on! It was encountering Montaigne’s characterizing of essays as “attempts” that nudged me to radically reconsider what the essay is, can be, and what my relationship is to it. Now, I love thinking about collage and visual elements alongside nonfiction writing, and I actively encourage experimentation across various media forms. In my classrooms final writing portfolios have been accompanied with photography; poets have woven their words into textile installations; essayists have animated their memoirs. I draw inspiration in my writing and teaching from works that are hybrid or multi-genre, like Victoria Chang’s Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief, and Kenyatta A.C. Hinkle’s multi-genre memoir SIR. I believe it was Marilynne Robinson who said, “Find the dense warm urgent place in your imagination.” This is what I encourage in the writers I have the honor of working with: find the dense warm urgent place in your imagination, show it tenderness, and then see what emerges in your work.
When reading nonfiction, what elements often make you remember
the piece after you’ve set it down?
I think reading is incredibly intimate, and I find a feeling of closeness stays with me. Reading Natalie Diaz’s poetry; Lesley Nneka Arimah and Amy Hempel’s short stories; Teju Cole’s essays–how to describe it? I feel drawn in, close. Maybe more practically, aspects of interiority, by which I mean the reader’s ability to perceive a character’s thoughts, feelings, internal reactions, and impressions, is compelling. I am also interested in place. Currently, I’m reading Charles Baxter’s Wonderlands: Essays on the Life of Literature and have been drawn to what Baxter calls wonderlands. Places where (I paraphrase), setting is as alive as the characters. (Think the Overlook Hotel in The Shining or the Manhattan apartment building in Rosemary’s Baby). There’s something psychically or psychologically supercharged in wonderland narratives. Whether the genre is horror or otherwise, tension held in the balance between what’s known and unknown, and known but unspoken, compels me. I had the honor of studying with Douglas Kearney when I was an MFA poetry student at the U of M, Twin Cities. I remember when he quoted Fred Moten in class about how poetry, inspired by music, can attempt to, (quoting Moten): “Get at what is essential to that music, perhaps it will approach the secret of the music, but only by way of that secret’s poetic reproduction.” The idea of something being invaluable yet beneath the surface draws me in. Related, here’s a wonderful interview between David Naimon and Douglas Kearney that gets further at some of Fred Moten’s ideas. I highly recommend their conversation!
Are you working on any new pieces now?
Thank you for asking! I am writing short stories and poems. I have a new idea percolating for a second work of lyric essays (it’s so fresh it’s mostly something I think about while walking the dog). I used to think, naively and mistakenly, that writers’ chose the genre they worked in, and never departed. But recently, I’ve drawn inspiration from Ocean Vuong and Diane Wilson and other writers whose work spans genres. Mostly, I’m focused on process now. Just making more time in the days to write. Reinvigorating my writing routine, and seeing what comes.
Kathryn Savage’s Groundglass: An Essay (Coffee House Press), explores topics of environmental justice and links between pollution and public health. Recipient of the Academy of American Poets James Wright Prize, her writing across forms has been supported by the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Jerome Foundation, Minnesota State Arts Board, Ucross Foundation, and Tulsa Artist Fellowship. Recent writing appears or is forthcoming in American Short Fiction, BOMB Magazine, Ecotone Magazine, Guernica, VQR, Water~Stone Review, World Literature Today, and the anthology Rewilding: Poems for the Environment. Currently she is an assistant professor of creative writing at The Minneapolis College of Art and Design (MCAD).