Showing posts with label Kat Cameron. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kat Cameron. Show all posts

Friday, November 13, 2020

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Kat Cameron

Kat Cameron is the author of two collections of poetry: Ghosts Still Linger (University of Alberta Press, 2020) and Strange Labyrinth (2015). Her short-story collection The Eater of Dreams (Thistledown Books, 2019) was shortlisted for the Danuta Gleed Literary Award. She has published poetry and stories in numerous journals and anthologies, including Beyond Forgetting: Celebrating 100 Years of Al Purdy, CV2, Descant, Grain, New Forum, Room, and 40 Below: Volume 2. Her short story “Dancing the Requiem” won Prairie Fire’s 2018 fiction contest. She lives in Edmonton on Treaty 6 territory and teaches writing at Concordia University of Edmonton.

1 - How did your first book change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

When my first book of poetry, Strange Labyrinth, was published in 2015, I finally felt validated as a writer. But it was also a learning experience. I realized how little I knew about the business of publishing: the launch, marketing, books reviews.

My second and third books appeared within seven months of each other: a collection of short stories, The Eater of Dreams, in the fall of 2019, and my second poetry collection, Ghosts Still Linger, in the spring of 2020. Both publishers, Thistledown and the University of Alberta Press, were extremely supportive, and The Eater of Dreams was nominated for the Danuta Gleed Literary Award. Despite having three published books, I still feel impostor syndrome every time I send out a new poem or story. Rob Taylor writes, The lot of poets is to feel like a perpetual neophyte.” This is true for me.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

I started writing poetry quite young—I won a prize for a poem I wrote in grade 4. Then in high school and university, I took fiction classes and published stories in student journals.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Some poems I can write in one or two drafts. I wrote a poem, “Trespass,” while my first-year English students were writing their final exam. Usually, the process takes a few weeks (or months) and multiple revisions before I feel a poem is done.

Writing fiction is a slow process. I’ve spent the past two years researching and writing a novel and I imagine it will be another three or four years before I finish. I have a binder of research for this novel, which is set in Tudor England.

4 - Where does a poem or work usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

Many poems begin with an object or one line. One of the sections in Ghosts Still Linger examines the lives of women of the West, such as Annie Oakley. My husband and I took a trip to Wyoming in 2013. At the Cody Museum, I saw a pair of white shoes, which belonged to Arta Cody, Buffalo Bill’s daughter. A note in the case with the shoes said that Arta died two months after her wedding. I wanted to learn more about the life of this forgotten daughter of a famous father.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I’m not a natural performer, so I get nervous before a reading. I admire spoken word poets who can perform a piece. I have written a few dramatic monologues that are structured to be spoken. But at the same time, I think some poetry works best visually on the page. I read e. e. cummings in my twenties, and his experiments with line and punctuation influence my work.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

During my PhD at the University of New Brunswick, I researched female identity construction in post-colonial literature. My interest in identity construction and women’s voices influences my writing. One question I ask myself is “Who is remembered?” Or to put this question another way: “Whose voice is heard?”

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Does s/he even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

I don’t know if poetry has a role. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself, because I think that culture is sometimes seen as peripheral, but I couldn’t live without books and music. As writers, if we’re very lucky, a poem or story will resonate with a reader. Last May, I was reading Martin Heidegger’s Poetry, Language, Thought at the Banff Centre and these lines stayed with me.

                        The thinker says being
                       The poet names the holy
.           

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

Working with Jenna Butler on Ghosts Still Linger was a joy; she is both knowledgeable and supportive.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Be patient. Keep writing. Be persistent.

10 - How easy has it been for you to move between genres (poetry to short fiction)? What do you see as the appeal?

I write fiction and poetry at the same time. I might spend a week working on a short story or a chapter in my novel, but I’ll still jot down notes for poem ideas. Poetry is fun because I can write a first draft of a poem in an hour and then play with line breaks and language. Fiction is more time-consuming and structured. Virginia Woolf wrote that she spent a morning moving her characters from one room to another: the spatial aspect of fiction is a challenge but also interesting.

11 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

I get up, have breakfast and my first cup of coffee, and then sit down at the computer. I listen to CBC or my own playlist. In the summer, I write for three hours most mornings. When I’m teaching, I can’t write every day, but I try to take one or two mornings a week for creative work.

12 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

If I’m stalled, I take my notebook, walk to a park, sit under the trees, and write. Before the pandemic, I would go to a coffee shop, buy a latte, and write for an hour. Typical writer stereotype—I need to have my coffee to write.

13 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Cinnamon buns and coffee.

14 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

All of the above. I’m a bit scattered. Ghosts Still Linger has examples of ekphrastic poetry, poems inspired by musicians (John Mann), poems inspired by the Alberta landscape, and poems about natural disasters such as the Fort McMurray fire. I’ve even published in the Canadian Medical Association Journal.

15 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

Early poetic influences were John Keats, William Butler Yeats, Earle Birney, e. e. cummings, Sylvia Plath, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I love the poetry of folk singers—Joni Mitchell, Cat Stevens, Dar Williams, Simon and Garfunkel. Anne Simpson’s Light Falls Through You showed me what could be done with a long poem. “Usual Devices” uses punctuation to tell the story of the Trojan War and I was awed by her weaving of narrative poetry and form.

For fiction, I could list a hundred books, so I’ll just name a few on my bookcase: A. S. Byatt’s Possession, Margaret Atwood’s Robber Bride, Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, Marge Piercy’s He, She and It, Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life, Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, and Michael Ondaatje Anil’s Ghost and Runningin the Family.

16 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

I hope to travel to Egypt to sail up the Nile and see the Valley of the Dead.

17 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

I would love to be a composer, but I don’t have the ear. I can’t imagine not writing. Even if my work was never published, I would still write. 

18 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

I’ve always loved reading. When I was a teenager, my grandma said to me, “When you’re 80, they’ll find you on the couch with your nose in a book.” I’m not sure it was complimentary, but my reaction was “Wonderful!” I think I write because I want to be part of a community of people that gives so much joy to readers.

19 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

I’m reading Guillotine by Eduardo C. Corral, who was my mentor at the Banff Writing Studio in 2019. The book documents the experiences of people on the borderlands between the US and Mexico. His work is stunningly painful and haunting. I’ve quoted two lines from the book.

                        gently he hammers gold into a sentence           gently
                        the sentence enters me
           

The last movie I watched in a theatre was just before the pandemic began. My husband and I saw Parasite at a small theatre in Banff. Brilliant movie, but also terrifying in its depiction of class conflict.

20 - What are you currently working on?

I just finished my third poetry manuscript, With Her Eyes Wide Open, which examines the multiple selves contained within the female body in art, literature, and twenty-first century media. I’m also working on a novel set in Tudor England.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Thursday, August 06, 2020

Kat Cameron, Ghosts Still Linger



Cracked

If we’re cracked open,
it’s only because something wants out.
            —Anne Simpson, “Winter”


Imagine her in 1916, a child in a tanned
hide jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves,
brass and plastic buttons, fringes
and glass beads. There are no pictures.
She always effaced herself
in photos, one hand shielding her eyes,
wavering at the edge of family.
If we’re cracked open

all the stories spill out. But there are no stories,
only a four-year-old girl and her little buddy
in the years of the Great War.
She reappears in 1935,
now wife and mother, all stories silenced.
She was never quite there.
Cracked, the roles rubbed thin—
because something wants out.

Edmonton writer Kat Cameron’s second poetry collection and third published book is Ghosts Still Linger (Edmonton AB: University of Alberta Press, 2020), following on the heels of her debut poetry title, Strange Labyrinth (Oolichan Books, 2015) and short story collection The Eater of Dreams (Thistledown Press, 2019). There is something in Cameron’s collection comparable to Calgary poet Emily Ursuliak’s own full-length debut, Throwing the Diamond Hitch (Calgary AB: University of Calgary Press, 2017), [see my review of such here] in the shared historical depiction of prairie women; whereas, admittedly, the women being written about in Ursuliak’s collection were very specific. Whether the women in Ghosts Still Linger are based on actual people does fall into speculation. Either way, Cameron does articulate a sense of how these women were held to the expectations of the times in which they existed, versus Ursuliak’s depiction of two women very much refusing those same set of expectations. “I will drive up the Old North Trail,” Cameron writes, as part of the poem “Old North Trail,” “the same trail my great-great-grandparents / followed in 1891—that spring // the Red Deer River flooded, the men / missed the ford and foundered, a horse drowned, / and a loaded wagon floated downstream // with a young man clinging to his possessions.”

From prairie history to cultural considerations such as the Edmonton Oilers and Alberta bumper stickers, Cameron’s poems examine what occurs when life gets caught up against external forces, attempting to articulate the ghosts of what has been lost, and what may have been set aside, writing out a confluence of women from Alberta to Wyoming, through boom and bust, through hope and loss and sadness and grief. These are characters that fight to remain standing, something that, at times, is either all or more than they are capable of. In three sections of short lyrics—“Ghosts are Ordinary,” “Alberta Advantage” and “Lightning over Wyoming”—Cameron composes her lyric narratives as short scene-sketches, writing out a particular moment or sequence of moments in the lives of the woman or women she is attempting to capture. Her articulation of the boom and bust, the “pissing it away” of Alberta wealth is rife throughout the collection as well, such as the poem “Rollerblades,” speaking of urban scavengers, a poem that ends:

Urban magpies pick up debris
like mudlarks on the banks of the Thames
who scavenged for scraps
of coal and copper
in the raw sewage of the river.

The third section explores some of the characters of the semi-mythological west, writing out William “Buffalo Bill” Cody, Louisa Maude Frederici Cody, Louisa Cody Garlow and Annie Oakley Butler on the endurance and calculation of independent prairie women, on what they had to endure or choose to cultivate their freedoms. To end the poem “Little Sure Shot,” on Annie Oakley Buckley, she writes: “Would the act have worked / if she hadn’t skipped into the arena / blowing kisses, if she hadn’t done / that cute little kick at the end of each show? // An image cultivated as carefully / as a homesteader’s garden.” While certain of the individual poems in the collection might not be as strong, they work in unison, in collage, as a single, book-length unit. Some poems are longer stretches of narrative, while others are moments, each working their way towards a collective arrangement of loss, grief and ghosts.

Paper Chambers

She cries so easily now, over her dead sisters, how she is a burden.
When I was young, she would collage Valentine poems onto paper hearts. Now
her hand trembles, curls into a claw. She can’t write her name on birthday cards,
that smooth cursive. She says, “I can’t make my body work,” and her words
rip my heart’s paper chambers.