I’m incredibly excited that my chapbook Traveling survived Thunderdome and emerged as one of five (!) winning titles. Margaret and Tess at Hyacinth Girl are wonderful to work with, and I’m so grateful to be publishing a project with a press that identifies as feminist and that encourages work from writers of all genders.
Traveling will be part of the 2015 series, along with books by Thunderdomers Neil Aitken, Jenn Blair, T.A. Noonan, Kimberly Ann Southwick, and by Pamela Taylor.
Traveling is a book that grew out of a book. I recombined the prose sequences from my full-length manuscript Theater of Parts and started sending them out as Traveling last year. The manuscript came in as a finalist and semi-finalist a few times, and I am so happy that it has found a home. I’m also really excited that my first larger publication comes from my first book. More and more, I hear of poets publishing other projects before the book they wrote first. This work represents me well, I think. I couldn’t be happier.
Today, Finery published a poem from s/m BROS, a collaborative project with Alyse Knorr investigating gender and sexuality in the Super Mario Brothers universe(s). “Business Confessions of Fire Flower” is one of those poems that surprises me each time I read it. How did my brain do that? I don’t remember. Check out the poem here.
I was in the middle of the woods in the middle of Virginia when this issue launched last week, but I’m excited that Alyse Knorr and I have had the first publication of our s/m BROS project. We’re pretty excited by these poems, and we’re pretty excited to appear in Cloud Rodeo5 alongside Michelle Dove, Sara Nicholson, Abraham Smith, Mathias Svalina, Talat Darvinoğlu, and Russell Jaffe. So, read forth in this issue for Super Mario, vices, returning to a meadow, elsewhere…
I’m really excited to have a poem in the latest issue of Stone Highway Review (Issue 3.3). Stone Highway is one of the first markets I ever wanted to have work in, as they started up and caught my eye right when I was starting to think about sending out work near the end of my MFA. Stone Highway is an imprint of the wonderful Sundress Publications. My poem “To the tune of waste” is in this issue; it is one of the first poems I wrote toward my chapbook manuscript Imaginary Kansas. I’m also thrilled to share journal space with the incredible Kirsten Clodfelter!
You can purchase the print issue or download a pdf here.
When I was sixteen, I identified as a cactus. Last year, I found a journal that does, too. I found Cactus Heart through Lambda Literary, and I developed quite a crush on them. I’m pleased to have a poem from my Imaginary Kansas chapbook, “Paper house,” in Issue 8. This is an e-issue, available for $5.00 here.
This month sees the rebirth of OCHO as A Journal of Queer Arts. I’m particularly thrilled to share pages with Valerie Wetlaufer and Alyse Knorr. I have three poems in this issue, two of which are brand new, and one of which has been looking for a home for some time.
Here’s the process statement I sent them: “These poems are outside of any of my main projects, but they are related to a chapbook I’m working on called Imaginary Kansas—an obsession on beloveds made distant by geography, identity anxiety, and a general culture of refusal. “If Odetta” is the oldest poem here, and it predates the Imaginary Kansas manuscript but shares its subject matter. “Nantucket” and “And then” are new poems, and it is interesting to me how the three of them form a narrative. A sad narrative, perhaps, but definitely one of borrowing from other sources, from imagination, from memory.”
The Inner Loop is a new reading series that I am unabashedly thrilled about. I recently watched an episode of some house show where a woman who really, really wanted to buy a historical farmhouse left presents on the porch each morning: home-canned jam, vase of fresh-cut flowers, platter of scones. I was sort of like this with The Inner Loop, but with tweets and emailed sweet nothings about how glad I was that they decided to exist.
Despite all that, I’ll be reading there on May 13! This is their second event after an awesome debut last month. I’m performing a feat of genre switching (which just comes down to naming) and reading as a fiction writer. Sweet. I’ll read some flash fiction prose poem things.
Interested in reading for this great new series? Submit some work for a five-minute feature to email@example.com.
Temenos put out a call for submissions a while back that included a special print issue themed on obsession. So, I sent the creepiest poems from Imaginary Kansas. They chose two for the Fall 2013 online issue, which is now live. I’ve read through the poetry section so far, and I particularly enjoy the two poems from Detroit-based poet Sonya Pouncy. “Seedbed” is really compelling in its content, voice, and form. Yes, in everything, and how the parts work together. Head on over to read them and to read my two little shorts: “I am always seeing people” and “On some days not in Kansas.”
In this moment, a lot of things. For a while recently, I felt between projects. I had been working exclusively on two manuscripts for about a year (with no other side projects), and I was restless. I was looking for something new. I think because I didn’t have anything to write in as a break from Imaginary Kansas (a chapbook, by intent, that’s becoming something else) and Theater of Parts (full-length), I started to feel stuck in these two as well. No new project, stale current projects. First I wanted a new project because these were “done.” Then I realized they weren’t done–I just needed to look at them new. I’ve been wanting to pick back up a chap called [ ]vert, which engages with the early and quirky sexologist Havelock Ellis, but I haven’t had a lot of luck getting back into the mode or mindset.
Then, I stopped worrying about it so much, stopped actively looking for something to work on, and suddenly, I am rich with collaboration. I’m working on a project with Valerie Wetlaufer, a few projects with Alyse Knorr, and a group project with Alyse Knorr, Brian Fitzpatrick, and Rachael Lussos. I will speak vaguely of the projects to protect their innocence. These poems are such a surprise, and I think the surprise is what makes them feel so good. Creating a new thing takes such a different kind of energy than shaping and working within and writing into. These projects are play. I wrote a poem a few weeks ago as an address between two known cultural characters, and I keep going back and reading it. It came easily, and I want to read it and read it. What a strange delight.
And now that I do have something else occupying my brain, I am re-entering both of the manuscripts that I had felt stuck with. Imaginary Kansas is made of fragments and small poems, and I’ve been writing some new ones. Theater of Parts has a cast of characters and something like a narrative arc, and I’m starting to understand what needs to be done with that, how to handle (or not handle) the conflict arcs that intertwine. I’ve also written a few new scenes, though they may stay outside of the book, based on this fabulousness [Paloma Faith’s cover of “Never Tear Us Apart”]. Milquetoast really liked Paloma’s work here. Milquetoast was inspired.
How does your writing differ from others of its genre?
One of my biggest interests in poetry, scholarship, teaching, and life in general is genre. I’ve taught literature and creative writing classes themed on gender and genre, and this is where my work is based. Genre is an organizational system that enacts many other kinds of cultural systems. Genre is therefore a place for blur and for breaking.
So if I consider how my work is like or not like other work in the same genre, I first have to decide which kind of genre to consider. It used to bother me–this idea of “genre fiction” for example–that we don’t have a different word for genre (poetry, drama, fiction) and syntactical structures (verse, prose) and subgenre or flavor or classification (horror, sci fi, fantasy). Genre gets used for everything. We talk about trans genre and cross-genre and hybrids. And I love this now, because this lack of language for classification (which is rare in our culture) leads to a further blurring. Because if my work is in between genres, and you ask me about its genre, I get to say:
If genre means queer poetry, then. Or if trans* and genderqueer poetics, then. If genre means pop culture, then. If genre means lyricism or lack, then. If genre means obscenity or rating, then. If genre means poetry of received and manipulated form, then. Of drama and theater, particularly. Then? I want to spend more time with each of these, but I am prepared now to answer this last one. I have been obsessing over characters and narratives and how other people have them or don’t. When poets write theater (andthey do), they choose what to take and what to leave. Often, the narrative gets left. It exists in small pieces, or as the organizing conceit, but not in the page-to-page development. I thought I had done this, too, or that I had diluted the narrative. But I need to re-visit if that’s true. I need to re-think the closure of the book.
I’m much more interested in what genres my work converses with than defining those conversations, but I’m intrigued by this question and I think I will return to it.
Why do you write what you do?
Everything came together just so, during my M.F.A. after/during a huge period of struggle. I’ve always written from and through my life. For years, I had been writing the stories OF my genderqueer life and body in ways that felt awkward in their forms (and in my body), and often were accused of being too didactic, or having arbitrary line breaks. I started writing obscene humor in very plain language, and I had about six months of success with this, and then a dear friend died and another dear friend died and my partner and I split up and my life felt like that genre of old country songs and I couldn’t see the humor in it yet. Then I started writing barbaric collages and then lyric prose. I was reading for my M.F.A. exam. I was reading Sappho and Kafka and Ovid, Ronaldo Wilson and Jack Spicer and Federico Garcia Lorca and Gertrude Stein. I’d been trying to figure out, thanks to Caridad Svich, how to write my own Impossible Theater. I’d decided that I would, but I didn’t know how I would. I just kept reading, knowing that I’d proposed to write a book this way, but trying not to think about the im/possibility of that.
Then, one night my dear friend Michael Verschelden and I were going about our lives, watching old movies. We love (deconstructing) Westerns. I was newly in love with Buster Keaton. We read the Netflix description for Keaton’s Go West. Buster’s character was described as a milquetoast. We spent the next few hours on the internet, listening to dictionaries whisper milquetoast in robot voices and finding a wealth of pop culture. I was reading about Caspar Milquetoast and listening with new ears to Tom Waits’ “The Piano Has Been Drinking,”and Michael found a tiny purple cockroach, in an ugly green dress, who had been a lot of different things before. And then I had my first character, a sum of all these things and parts of me that had no home before. I wrote his (our) origin story. It was lyric, it was queer, and it was funny. It, and a disambiguation of milquetoast, acts as the prologue to Theater of Parts.
I wanted drama to be impossible in a particular way. I wanted bodies to be able to do anything, and then anything else. Nothing and everything is physical. Nothing and everything has consequence. I want to write plays that operate the opposite of how my body does. But the plays are of my body. Genre is a body.
How does your writing process work?
In bursts. With other people. Of character. In my body.
I’m a fiber artist. I sew plushiesand crochet and embroider and needle felt and just about anything else. In 2012, after we graduated, Susan Falcon suggested I sew plushies as gifts for my committee. First, I sewed a Milquetoast for Michael as a going-away present. I made it in the style of Charlie Chaplin’s Little Tramp, the major subject of Michael’s work. And when I gave it to Michael, this little felt Milquetoast had a life. Milquetoast in Michael’s hands. Milquetoast in a Crepe Myrtle. I wrote three poems that day. And since sewing five more Milquetoasts (which I still have because Introversion), I’ve been planning to sew the rest of the characters in Theater of Parts. I have a sketchbook full of plans for plushies and embroidery hoops. Now that I’m working on the book again, I plan to sew these this summer. As soon as this semester ends, in fact. Sewing is meditative, and so is revision. So each of these characters (and their conflicts) will get some time and intention, and then I will finally figure out who gets to be satisfied, and who remains frustrated. And it will be freaking cool to have them there with me when I write.
Thanks for reading!
I’m tagging two dear friends who are great models for me–of continuing to write and send out work even when life gets to be full of other things in the way. Check them out! Their posts will go up next week, and they’ll each tag two more folks.
Kathy Goodkin lives in Denver, where she co-teaches poetry workshops in a correctional facility and directs writing center and tutoring services at Regis University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, RHINO, Redivider, and elsewhere.
Sarah Ann Winn is the 2013-2014 Completion Fellow at George Mason University, where she just won the Virginia Downs Poetry Prize. Currently, she teaches poetry in the public schools through a Sally Merton Fellowship. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Great Weather for Media, Ilanot Review, Two Thirds North, and 111o, among others.