Interview, May 2012
In may 2012, Rachel Burton, a student at Eastern Oregon University, sent me a great set of interview questions for a project she was working on. She had heard a lecture I gave on Emily Dickinson's poetry, and her questions ranged from Dickinson to writing and even to love, which really stumped me...
(many thanks to rachel for her permission to include the interview here)
* * * * * * *
RB: When/why did you choose to study Emily Dickinson?
I’ve been thinking about Emily Dickinson’s poetry for a number of years – ever since I realized that by not knowing it well I was missing out on something intense and beautiful and carefully crafted. I had been scared off by her poetry as a student: all that complexity and beauty was difficult to handle! When I finally came back to her work as an adult, it was with more curiosity and patience, and with a desire to read the poems slowly and see what was there. Dickinson said that she knew she was reading a poem when she felt like the top of her head was taken off, and that’s just how I often feel when I am reading her work. It’s definitely an intense sensation – alarming but incredible!
RB: Are you a full time writer, a student, or do you have some other job that forces you to write on the side?
Hmm. This is an interesting question. I do write daily, but my official full time job right now is as a mother of two young children. I write while the baby is napping and then when they are both asleep at night, so in some ways, my job requires me to write “on the side,” but I have to admit: I get more writing done now with two small children than I did when I was teaching and had much more free time. There is something about having just a few small stretches of time that helps me settle down and write whenever I have a quiet moment. My mind has been trained by those few daily moments. I used to have to go to the library, clear a space, read a bit, fidget, jot notes, and then eventually write. Now I take notes whenever I can, read while the bread is in the toaster, and then later, when the house is quiet and I can write, I jump right in.
RB: Did you always know that you loved poetry? If not, when/why did you discover your interest?
I hadn’t thought of this before, but your question has me thinking and following a thread of thought back into the past. Did I always know I loved poetry? I definitely always loved it, but I didn’t know that I did, didn’t realize it. In 4th grade when we had to “write a book,” I wrote a book of poems called Thoughts about Everything Around You (in which I rhymed things like hear and beer, among other terrible rhymes). I loved the jump rope jingles that I didn’t know were poems, and I loved a mysterious magical red leather-covered book high on my parents’ shelf called Magic Casements, which I looked up at for years before actually reading it, never knowing it was full of poems.
I didn’t know I loved poetry itself until I started writing it as an adult. All of a sudden I looked around my life and realized that the stacks of books by my bed were poetry books and that what I had pinned up on the walls and door of my office were poems and even what I had taped up all around the mirror were poems! I had loved them all along, but I hadn’t thought to single them out as such or, rather, notice that they all went together.
RB: Do you have your degree in English or are you just following your interests?
Yes, I do have a degree in English. I have a couple, kind of a weird collection. My undergraduate major was in English, and I went on to get a master’s degree in English literature, and then years later, when I realized that my passion was poetry itself, I went back to school for an MFA in poetry.
RB: Do you write poetry?
I do write poetry. I love to write it, or rather, I love to finish it. Finishing a poem, having it on the page in front of me, having it done and sitting there on the table, pushes my happiness button. Sometimes I suspect that my daily writing habit just exists to have the happiness button repeatedly reset. I’m continually amazed by how poems get made – how they come into being out of a word, a sound, a memory, an idea, or even out of thin air. I love being a part of that process.
RB: What in your opinion was the most valuable lesson you've learned (life, writing, family, love)?
You’ve stumped me with this good question. I’ve been sitting here watching the cursor blink for a while. I think to answer it I’ll try a writing exercise I used to give my students, an exercise called Fastwriting, in which you write as quickly as you can without thinking too hard about the whole process – just seeing what arrives on the page. Here goes:
Life: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned about life is to live it consciously – to be fully in each day, to think about it, to really look around in it. We can look without seeing; we can hear without listening. We could live our whole lives that way, without thinking deeply, feeling deeply, looking or hearing deeply – and what a waste that would be. Poetry is one way of living consciously. Through reading it, I wake up to my life. Emily Dickinson says, “The brain is wider than the sky” and I’m already thinking, “Wow! Is it? How?” and when she goes on to say, “For -- put them side by side -- / The one the other will contain / with ease -- and You -- beside” I’m already lifted up out of my own mind and eyes, and into a new way of seeing and thinking. When I come back to my own little self, I am changed, already thinking differently.
Writing: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is just to write -- to see what comes, to not worry about how good or bad it is, but to just see what happens on the page. This sounds like I’ve got it all sewn up, that I’ve got this particular skill down, but I don’t. If I’m writing and it’s not working out, I’ll often have to remind myself to keep going, to just try it out, see what happens. I used to give my students a terrific quote from E.M. Forester: “How can I know what I think until I see what I say?” but I never knew how really, really wonderful that quote was until I started writing every day, until I realized that the writing is my thinking. And to get to think every day – to have a few moments of quiet in which to think -- well, that’s a pretty amazing thing to be able to do. I feel very lucky to have the chance to write.
Family: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned? Hmm. There is a wonderful play by Steven Dietz called Lonely Planet in which he says, “We give our friends our rough drafts.” I think that’s what we do with our families: they get to see the rough drafts of our lives – all the thoughts, emotions, events that we go through. And the lesson I’ve learned is that in those rough drafts, things change all the time: children grow, we lose friends, have hard times – but the important thing is in the giving together. We keep giving each other the first drafts of our lives, knowing that we’re working toward something kind and good.
Love: Oh wow. The most valuable lesson I’ve learned about love so far? That it is real.
I’ve been thinking about Emily Dickinson’s poetry for a number of years – ever since I realized that by not knowing it well I was missing out on something intense and beautiful and carefully crafted. I had been scared off by her poetry as a student: all that complexity and beauty was difficult to handle! When I finally came back to her work as an adult, it was with more curiosity and patience, and with a desire to read the poems slowly and see what was there. Dickinson said that she knew she was reading a poem when she felt like the top of her head was taken off, and that’s just how I often feel when I am reading her work. It’s definitely an intense sensation – alarming but incredible!
RB: Are you a full time writer, a student, or do you have some other job that forces you to write on the side?
Hmm. This is an interesting question. I do write daily, but my official full time job right now is as a mother of two young children. I write while the baby is napping and then when they are both asleep at night, so in some ways, my job requires me to write “on the side,” but I have to admit: I get more writing done now with two small children than I did when I was teaching and had much more free time. There is something about having just a few small stretches of time that helps me settle down and write whenever I have a quiet moment. My mind has been trained by those few daily moments. I used to have to go to the library, clear a space, read a bit, fidget, jot notes, and then eventually write. Now I take notes whenever I can, read while the bread is in the toaster, and then later, when the house is quiet and I can write, I jump right in.
RB: Did you always know that you loved poetry? If not, when/why did you discover your interest?
I hadn’t thought of this before, but your question has me thinking and following a thread of thought back into the past. Did I always know I loved poetry? I definitely always loved it, but I didn’t know that I did, didn’t realize it. In 4th grade when we had to “write a book,” I wrote a book of poems called Thoughts about Everything Around You (in which I rhymed things like hear and beer, among other terrible rhymes). I loved the jump rope jingles that I didn’t know were poems, and I loved a mysterious magical red leather-covered book high on my parents’ shelf called Magic Casements, which I looked up at for years before actually reading it, never knowing it was full of poems.
I didn’t know I loved poetry itself until I started writing it as an adult. All of a sudden I looked around my life and realized that the stacks of books by my bed were poetry books and that what I had pinned up on the walls and door of my office were poems and even what I had taped up all around the mirror were poems! I had loved them all along, but I hadn’t thought to single them out as such or, rather, notice that they all went together.
RB: Do you have your degree in English or are you just following your interests?
Yes, I do have a degree in English. I have a couple, kind of a weird collection. My undergraduate major was in English, and I went on to get a master’s degree in English literature, and then years later, when I realized that my passion was poetry itself, I went back to school for an MFA in poetry.
RB: Do you write poetry?
I do write poetry. I love to write it, or rather, I love to finish it. Finishing a poem, having it on the page in front of me, having it done and sitting there on the table, pushes my happiness button. Sometimes I suspect that my daily writing habit just exists to have the happiness button repeatedly reset. I’m continually amazed by how poems get made – how they come into being out of a word, a sound, a memory, an idea, or even out of thin air. I love being a part of that process.
RB: What in your opinion was the most valuable lesson you've learned (life, writing, family, love)?
You’ve stumped me with this good question. I’ve been sitting here watching the cursor blink for a while. I think to answer it I’ll try a writing exercise I used to give my students, an exercise called Fastwriting, in which you write as quickly as you can without thinking too hard about the whole process – just seeing what arrives on the page. Here goes:
Life: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned about life is to live it consciously – to be fully in each day, to think about it, to really look around in it. We can look without seeing; we can hear without listening. We could live our whole lives that way, without thinking deeply, feeling deeply, looking or hearing deeply – and what a waste that would be. Poetry is one way of living consciously. Through reading it, I wake up to my life. Emily Dickinson says, “The brain is wider than the sky” and I’m already thinking, “Wow! Is it? How?” and when she goes on to say, “For -- put them side by side -- / The one the other will contain / with ease -- and You -- beside” I’m already lifted up out of my own mind and eyes, and into a new way of seeing and thinking. When I come back to my own little self, I am changed, already thinking differently.
Writing: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is just to write -- to see what comes, to not worry about how good or bad it is, but to just see what happens on the page. This sounds like I’ve got it all sewn up, that I’ve got this particular skill down, but I don’t. If I’m writing and it’s not working out, I’ll often have to remind myself to keep going, to just try it out, see what happens. I used to give my students a terrific quote from E.M. Forester: “How can I know what I think until I see what I say?” but I never knew how really, really wonderful that quote was until I started writing every day, until I realized that the writing is my thinking. And to get to think every day – to have a few moments of quiet in which to think -- well, that’s a pretty amazing thing to be able to do. I feel very lucky to have the chance to write.
Family: The most valuable lesson I’ve learned? Hmm. There is a wonderful play by Steven Dietz called Lonely Planet in which he says, “We give our friends our rough drafts.” I think that’s what we do with our families: they get to see the rough drafts of our lives – all the thoughts, emotions, events that we go through. And the lesson I’ve learned is that in those rough drafts, things change all the time: children grow, we lose friends, have hard times – but the important thing is in the giving together. We keep giving each other the first drafts of our lives, knowing that we’re working toward something kind and good.
Love: Oh wow. The most valuable lesson I’ve learned about love so far? That it is real.