How did you begin writing, and what keeps you going?
Have you ever seen someone make an odd facial expression and then you immediately catch yourself copying it? That’s something like the feeling which stirs me to write. At first writing is like trying to land a jump figure skating; the actions are prescribed, and you do your best to land the move as technically correct as possible. It feels good when you nail it, and that’s fine for a while, but what keeps me going is the feeling of innovation; landing a move that nobody has pulled off before, even if it’s not technically correct. That’s exciting and dangerous and takes a lot more work than you would expect, and more often than not the victory is symbolic. In my opinion, creating something truly unique has been overly romanticized, but I do think it’s possible to make contributions to your artistic community, and that you feel it happening when you do. I’m not one of those writers who can crank it out every day, I only tend to allocate time for writing when I have a project with some momentum behind it. I spend a lot more time reading, editing, publishing, and selling books than I do writing them, so I guess what really keeps me going is that occasional feeling of urgency which tells me I’m on to something worth putting pen to paper.
Have you noticed a difference in the ways in which you approach the individual poem, now that you’ve published a handful of chapbooks?
Absolutely. I always felt like a chump writing standalone poems, as if I had to pack an entire world-view into a single poetic statement. Don’t get me wrong, individual poems are a fine place to start and as necessary to poetry as attention to each line, but once I started to conceive of my work in terms of sets I let go of the single poem as the best formulation of an idea. I like to explore things through multiple iterations, repeating and modifying as you would a musical phrase. If an overarching concept has been established then each poem is at greater liberty to be itself within the established parameters. Less is required of individual poems to convey the poet’s central message. This is ideal for me because I tend to overthink minutia, which can be paralyzing at times. Having a structure to fill allows movement between parts and the development of better organic whole, at least for my projects. Some people focus on one perfect bonsai tree, others tend a whole garden; I think both approaches are valid though I tend toward the latter.
How has the process of putting together a manuscript evolved? How do you decide on the shape and size of a manuscript?
I must admit I haven’t published any book-length projects so far, though I do have a couple on the go, so my notions about manuscript development are still somewhat juvenile. To me a book-length manuscript can be the natural extension of a chapbook or a collection of thematically-linked chapbooks. Generally the length of a project should be determined by one’s approach to the subject matter; content informing form and vice versa. Does the subject matter demand a thorough sounding or a cursory glance? How exhaustive should be the rendering, how many permutations executed? For instance, Sonnet L’Abbé has overwritten every single one of Shakespeare’s 156 sonnets for her book Sonnet’s Shakespeare. Her completionist approach is informed by the total colonization of the limited set of her subject matter. I’m working on a series of visual poems 101 parts long, and that number has been questioned by a lot of early readers. For me the central subject of Barcode Poetry is the mediation of human expression through capitalist communications technologies, and so to my mind a set bounded by 1s and 0s has an internal logic. Rather than cull poems from an established set I’d rather write beyond those limits and trim accordingly.
What poets have influenced the ways in which you write?
I have what I think of as two distinct poetry practices, a text- and sound-based practice, and a visual practice. There are, of course, lots of overlaps between those pursuits, but I think of them as distinct largely thanks to those who have impacted my writing. On the text side of things I have been profoundly influenced by Sina Queyras, under whom I studied at Concordia University, and her style of lyric conceptualism. I also read and think a lot about the science-minded poetry of Alice Major and the brilliantly erudite Lisa Robertson. As for visual poetry, I would align myself behind derek beaulieu, Catherine Vidler, and Sasha Archer, all of whom create beautiful and conceptually engaging visual work, the spirit of which I hope to emulate. Finally, I think a lot about the work of interdisciplinary artist and scholar Aaron Tucker, whose experiments with machine co-authored poetry make me want to test the boundaries of what poetry is capable of, both conceptually and materially.
You are editor/publisher of The Blasted Tree, as well as managing editor of filling Station magazine. Why do you feel this work is important, and what have you learned through the process?
Editing and publishing are vital parts of our literary ecology, each with aspects I’m drawn to and others less so. Editorial control grants a degree of freedom and power, but there is a lot of responsibility incumbent on editors as stewards of creative work. We occupy this paradoxical position between writers and their readerships that enables their relationship, but the work done by editors and publishers is easily eclipsed in the public imagination behind that of the authors they support. Honestly, it does take a lot of effort to build and maintain a platform for the use of many people, and I’m not really sure that’s what I set out to accomplish when I started, yet I’ve learned it’s a privilege to be exposed to so much new and exciting writing and an honour to find ways to get it in the hands of the reading public. I find publishing a lot more immediately rewarding than my own writing practice, which has become something of a private pleasure. Well, I still share my stuff when the time is right, I’m just less thirsty about it now that I have the work of others to care about.
How important has mentorship been to your work? Is there anyone who specifically assisted your development as a writer?
Besides my former creative writing professors, Sina Queyras in particular, and my honours thesis supervisor, Katharine Streip, mentorship has by and large emanated from my peer group. Because the community is a high priority in my literary activities, there have been many opportunities to meet, learn from, support, and be supported by people at similar stages in their writing lives. This has benefited both my writing and my work in the community. Editing filling Station would not be possible without the guidance and encouragement of Marc Lynch and our dedicated team of editors, and The Blasted Tree would be a lonely venture without the many other small press publishers I’m grateful to have connected with. Jake Byrne has been the most honest and valuable editor of my creative work, and I can’t thank him enough for the many times he’s saved me from circulating something abysmal. All that said, I think there’s an upper limit on the effectiveness of mentorship in that so much of art is dependent on navigating it yourself. Like most things, growth as a writer requires patience, dedication, and a lot of practice on your own. No mentor can give you these things, you’ve got to cultivate them yourself. Suffice to say, I’m grateful for the mentorship I’ve received when I needed it, and equally grateful for opportunities to be left alone with work in progress.
Can you name a poet you think should be receiving more attention?
I have a lot of love for Alice Major and wish she was celebrated more. Not that her work isn’t respected, but I see her as a model for science-inspired poetry, informative yet lyrical, and I would love to see more of that in the world. In my travels as a poet interested in science and technology – space exploration especially – there seem to be only a handful of names in circulation. In my view Alice Major has done more to advance cooperation between science and poetry than any other Canadian poet, supporting volume after volume of science poetry with essays, lectures, interviews, and more. I have a deep admiration for her work and the ways she fosters community. I also have a lot of love for Catherine Vidler, an Australian visual poet who is constantly exploring new ideas and themes within a particular era (i.e. aesthetic) of digital workspace. Honestly, I’m floored by the volume of her creative output, and it’s a real treat being able to follow her ever-evolving work in real time on Instagram. While poetry could stand more public appreciation, visual poetry in particular, I would gladly see Vidler lauded much more widely by poets and readers alike.
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