"'Writing Is Thinking': An Interview with Genevieve Kaplan" by Alexis Ash

As someone who does not come from the literary community (fashion marketing major, here!), I find myself fascinated with the lives and evolutions of writers and poets. Being an outsider looking in, it often seems as though they live in an entirely different world from my own. Finding myself at MORIA and ATHENA this semester has made me feel like a kid in a candy store. Reading, reviewing and discussing new pieces of writing each week has only increased my already immense craving to know more about what goes on behind the words on the page. How did they get there? Why does this writer write the way that they do? What got them started? What is their process? All these questions and more are constantly racing through my mind.
This week I was given the immense honor of interviewing acclaimed author and poet, Genevieve Kaplan, who is responsible for wonderful works such as (aviary) (Veliz Books, 2020), which was reviewed in ATHENA by MORIA’s own Saad Alsoghair, who served as an editor for Issue Five. Kaplan is also responsible for the poems “They Trail There, They Trail,” and “(ladies vary),” which appeared in Issue One of MORIA. I am personally looking forward to “Sometimes A Note Gets Lost,” which can be found in the upcoming Issue Six of MORIA. Kaplan was gracious enough to give me some deeper insight into her life as a writer, and the things that drive her onward through her career. The experience was nothing short of spectacular. 

I was wondering if you might be able to tell me about what it was that got you started in writing, and why you chose to pursue poetry? Was there a specific moment or influence in your life that started you on the path to becoming a writer?

That’s a great question! I think my love of poetry really stems from my passion for words. When I was younger, learning that I could communicate ideas and images through language was exciting. I remember in first or second grade, when a lot of kids were getting their ears pierced (and I wasn’t allowed to yet), one of my friends came to school wearing a pair of white, spherical earrings. And I considered how these earrings looked on her earlobes and thought: “nestled”. That moment, of using figurative language to compare the earrings to eggs, my friends’ earlobes to birds’ nests, to suggest what I imagined would be the comfort and magic of being allowed to wear earrings, that felt really good to me.

Given the unique and shocking course of events that have riddled the year 2020,  I think about how the writing going on now will influence society going forward, and so I ask Ms. Kaplan, What is writing to you? What does it mean for you personally and how do you see it affecting the world?

For me, writing is a lot of things: a way to release, a great puzzle, an illumination, an experience. Most useful, for me, is remembering that writing is thinking – I often discover new ideas or new ways of having ideas through the writing and revising process (both in poetry and prose, or like this – answering questions). There’s a joy in being able to convey ideas precisely and accurately, in capturing intention or emotion on a page. And that’s how I see writing affecting the world: by creating and encouraging new conversations, by bridging the gap between the reader and the page.

Wanting to know a bit more about how the events of 2020 might affect a writer, I asked Kaplan, to describe what her experience has been over the past several months, both personally and professionally.

This has certainly been a stressful year for all of us! I’ve felt incredibly lucky, since our #SaferAtHome order began in southern CA in March, that I have a safe and comfortable place to live, that I have a cheery partner to live with, that I have a little outdoor space, that I have pets to talk to, that I have a reliable internet connection, and so on. Of course, our families and some of our friends live further away than is feasible for a casual visit, and it’s been hard not seeing them, and not knowing when we’ll be able to see them.
My husband and I both teach, so we’ve been Zooming from different parts of the house on most days this year. While I know it would make me happier to be able to see my students and colleagues in person, I definitely would rather err on the side of safety, and it’s been surprisingly comforting to see and hear my students on Zoom. I’ve found that I like listening to the murmur of my husband’s classes behind his own closed door, too. I often bring my laptop out to the living room, so when I’m grading or working on other projects I can hear their voices just a bit. It’s nice to be reminded that even though we’re physically distant, we’re all still learning, and we’re still able to continue having interesting and engaging and thoughtful conversations with each other.
Writing-wise, my book (aviary) came out in March and I’d planned to give a lot of readings, and to host a fun backyard launch party in April. I postponed my launch party, though I still hope to have it someday. Maybe a 1-year (aviary) celebration instead? Luckily, online literary events have really stepped up during Covid-19. It’s been great to be able to participate in some of these as a reader, and even more fun to attend events from the comfort of my couch. Being able to attend readings in other parts of the country, in other time zones, to zoom into poets’ living rooms and listen to them speak and read, these have been great highlights of our difficult year.

Though I may not be able to call myself a writer, I am an artist in the dance field. As such I find inspiration from a plethora of sources. These include other dancers, literature, cinema and music. As a writer, I wonder what it is that inspires you? and do you seek it out or is it a matter of happenstance?

That’s great! So many fields are inspiring, and your mentioning dance has me now thinking spatially about blocking, repetition, interactions between bodies and limbs – the way a dance is choreographed and the way a poem could be. In these art forms, words and bodies can create music, which is so lovely.
I tend to find myself most drawn to visual arts, and to the natural world, as well as to the sciences for inspiration. I don’t know that I specifically seek these out, but I do think that as a writer, with the whole world out there to draw from, I have some kind of responsibility to not just write the narrow set of things I might encounter or think about daily. I should explore and look for new materials, new combinations.
Sometimes I start writing a poem with an idea, and then some word or idea in that poem leads me to realize what I don’t know, what I need to look up, what I should find out more about. For example, this spring I started drafting a poem about a mylar balloon that I got for my birthday. The balloon—in the shape of a smiling shark--had drifted cheerily around my office for months. I happened to read a newspaper article that mentioned a helium shortage, which got me started wondering about the ethics and implications of my balloon. I know balloons are problematic when they drift into power lines and knock out transformers, but I had figured: I was keeping my shiny shark inside, so I was being responsible. Then I started wondering what my balloon was actually made of (what is Mylar?), could it be recycled, how many deflated balloons are found in the ocean, etc. So here, I’m inviting myself to seek out more information, perhaps do some research. I’m not yet sure how knowing that Mylar is a brand name for stretched polyester, or that helium is created from radioactive substances will inform my poem exactly, but I can see the scope of my poem expanding as I expand my thinking: my lines might consider not just the my birthday balloon floating around the room, but my balloon and its potential relationship with other elements in the outside world.

The fact that me mentioning my dance background sent someone like Geniveive Kaplan down a path of creative thought had me absolutely bursting with joy. I may be new to the lit world but she is certainly someone I already find myself looking up to and being inspired by. With that in mind, I asked her about her specific process when writing.

My process shifts around a lot, but one aspect that has stayed the same is that I like to draft by hand, with pen and paper. Ideally, I write my first drafts in a notebook—spiral bound, because I like to see the whole page, and not get trapped by the gutter of a book. When I’m drafting, I don’t worry about making something too poem-like: I mostly don’t use line breaks in these initial drafts, I make spelling errors, I cross things out. These initial writings are generally rather messy. I tend to accumulate a lot of handwritten language and poem drafts in my notebook, and then later I go back and type them up on my computer, into something that resembles a poem. Then I revise and continue working on that piece until I’m happy with it. I feel most comfortable when I have a lot of messy, handwritten pages to draw from, and when I have at least a poem or two in progress in a word document on my computer.

Has that ritual evolved since you first began writing professionally? And what effect would you say that has had on your writing style?

I used to write much more at night, and as a younger writer I actively sought out and blocked off long periods of time to write, thinking that I wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything worthwhile if I felt pressured by knowing my time was about to run out. Of course, as life and responsibilities changed, I found it harder and harder to create these multi-hour immersive writing sessions. My writing practice now frequently consists of shorter writing sessions – frequently just 20-30 minutes – that I take when I can find them, or when I feel moved. Actually, offering myself these smaller writing times has been useful. I find a short session less daunting to sink into, and—especially now, when we’re all spending so much time at home—if I find that I need some more time because I’ve stumbled onto something I have a lot of energy to pursue, I can usually just go ahead and take it.

What would you say is the most important lesson you have learned in your career? The thing that you refer back to over and over again. The memory that gets you through the tough spots.

Marjorie Perloff, one of my professors in graduate school, used to remind us all that when writing or generating ideas felt difficult, the most important thing we could do was to just sit down and start working. I don’t recall her exact phrase, but that was the gist of the idea: the work wasn’t going to do itself. I appreciate the freedom of this, the emphasis on generation, the reminder that just “doing” is sometimes enough. When I’m feeling stuck about writing, or like the work I’m doing doesn’t feel smart enough or innovative enough, or whatever, I like to remind myself that the “doing” of the work is always the best first step. And once I sit down and start doing, I know I’ll find new pathways in writing, that I’ll soon get excited again about where my writing might lead me.

How would you define a successful writer? As someone who has been published and asked to speak multiple times, would you say you have reached all your goals as a writer?

I find that I feel most successful when I have a poem that I’m especially proud of, one that I want to read aloud and share. Publishing or speaking at events or giving readings makes me feel successful sometimes, but creating the work itself tends to be more important to me than the impression of it. I think that’s because I’m in charge of the writing, of what I can make appear on a page. But I have very little control over literary trends, or who is invited to speak, or what publishers are into this year. I’m more interested, too, in writing a poem that engages me, rather than a poem that I want to be really popular, a poem that has the potential to go viral. I mean, maybe I could try to do that intentionally? But for me that’d mean a different way of approaching the page, a different way of thinking about the reader and the world at large. One nice thing about not getting paid for poetry/to be a poet is that we’re free from catering to readers unless we want to. Of course, the downside is that unless we poets are independently wealthy we can’t spend as much time thinking about and creating poetry as we might otherwise like.
If I had to base my poetic worth mainly on how others—or how many others—are responding to my work, I know that I’d be setting myself up for failure. That mindset, of relying on others’ responses to help me feel successful, also puts me into competition with all the wonderful poets out there. And I don’t want to compete with them – I want to celebrate words with them! There is room enough for all the poets and all the poems and all the language to live.
That said, one moment that I’d count as a fun success is after my first book In the ice house came out in 2011. I got a fan letter! From an astronomer! Knowing that a stranger had read my work and was so engaged that they were motivated to write to me about it was pretty cool.

At this point in the interview, I felt as though I had already learned so much from this amazing author. At the start, the world of a writer was a foreign planet to me, but now I felt welcomed into it and I could not end my visit without a piece of advice for a souvenir. I asked Kaplan, if you could give a piece of advice to the aspiring writers and poets out there, what would it be?

Read! Read everything you can, both within your genre of focus and elsewhere. Once you’re no longer in school, no one gives you reading lists, so you have to be proactive. Keep in touch with your writing friends and find out what they’re reading and what they’re excited about. To stay connected with the literary world, sign up for the mailing lists of small presses (I like Dorothy: a publishing project, Wave Books, Omnidawn…), subscribe to literary journals (check out Ninth Letter, A Public Space, Copper Nickel…), bookmark excellent sites that share resources online (like Entropy and Poets & Writers), and get the Academy of American Poets poem-a-day delivered to your email. And, of course: sit down and write.

Alexis Ash

Alexis Ash is an Editor-at-Large for Issue Six of MORIA. She is also a Fashion Marketing Major at the Woodbury School of Business, as well as a principal dancer with the California Contemporary Ballet. New to the literary community, Ash is reveling in the tidal wave of inspiration she finds from the written word and has begun to challenge herself to write her own poems. When she isn’t working towards her degree, you can find her in the studio, choreographing new pieces, experimenting with alternate movement styles, and doing her part to bring up the next generation of movement artists.

Headshot credit: Gabriella Gorven

Kaplan photo credit: Sean Bernard