An Interview with Gaylord Brewer
Gaylord Brewer has published 1000+ poems in journals and anthologies, including The Bedford Introduction to Literature and Best American Poetry, and was awarded an Individual Artist Fellowship by the Tennessee Arts Commission in 2009. At MTSU, he founded and for 21 years edited Poems & Plays. He is the author of 15 books of poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, and literary criticism, including Charles Bukowski, the novella Octavius the 1st, the cookbook/memoir The Poet’s Guide to Food, Drink, & Desire, and the recent poetry collection The Feral Condition. At In Process, he’ll discuss and read from his forthcoming book of poems Worship the Pig (Red Hen, 2020) and also a new project.
How would you describe your relationship with writing? Has this relationship changed throughout your life/career?
I’m several decades into this marriage, so my relationship with writing, good or bad, healthy or enabling of vice, is deeply established. We get along alright. She knows I’m temperamental, but I have my good moments. I can be fun, so she gives me space. For my part, I wish she’d be faithful, but I don’t kid myself. I knew what I was getting into.
You’ve written an interesting variety of works, from poetry anthologies to fiction to a cookbook/memoir. How do you decide what project to undertake?
In college, I was a writer of immortal fiction. When I came to my senses about that — and had burned most of the manuscripts in a very satisfying blaze on a charcoal grill — I started writing poems because a) I could do them faster, and b) I was largely ignorant of the history and tradition of poetry, which is a huge advantage for a beginning writer. No ghosts. So, poetry’s pretty much whom I [have brought] to the dance since then, but sometimes between books I’ll take a shot at something else — fiction, plays, criticism, cookery. This variation can be alternately rejuvenating and humbling. I’m an advocate — I think, although maybe, Ron, you could talk me out of it — of a young writer playing the field a bit but then committing to a single genre. Later, everything’s fair game again, why not? Take a shot. Risk humiliation. Maybe something will stick. Not infidelity, rather an open relationship.
How do you start writing? Are you one for outlines and pre-writing exercises, or does everything come as you go?
I try to keep rituals to a minimum. At this point, I write in fits and starts unless I’m doing a residency somewhere. In either case, the procedure is the same. Get up, make the coffee, don’t talk. Maybe read a bit, maybe walk around in the yard and stare into the middle distance. Maybe not even that. Sit down and type. No outlines, no limbering exercises. Just attack what comes and accrues, whether it’s a personal beating or not. Pay attention. I take a poem as far as I can take it in a single sitting (notwithstanding a run for more coffee or a quick bout of ferocity with the dog). The computer has made process very fluid. Like you, I hear all these tall tales from poets of drafting a poem for weeks or months or years. I’ve no idea how one would go about that or why one would want to.
What do you think are essential skills for all writers to have in their toolbox?
Supreme arrogance. Crippling humility. Not knowing any better. The difference between “lay” and “lie” and how to spell “gray” if you’re not British. Of course, Hemingway’s famous Shock-Proof Shit Detector.
What inspires you the most?
Okay, brother. Be relentless. I respond to you sincerely, if perhaps not too usefully, that inspiration, however one may define that, comes from wherever you find it, in innumerable forms. I believe I have a pretty keen sense of what [gets] me going personally, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I get cagey about spilling the beans. We all must find our way.
When you’re working on a project, how do you maintain your inspiration or preserve the “soul” of the work?
Obviously, a longer and more sustained work — i.e., anything that takes longer than the single sitting an individual poem requires — is more of a leap of faith and demands whatever calm and patience and steady breathing one can muster. A big benefit is trying to keep it contained to one day at a time. One clichéd bite of the elephant at a time. Then keep away from the desk and engage in other things. I think, though, I’ve perhaps drifted from the spirit of your question. Speaking of “inspiration” seems to bring us perilously close to a consideration of “the muse.” I’m not much of a believer in either, really. If you want to write, then sit down and write. Pay attention. (Did I already say that?) Do the job. If you’re not in the mood, that’s fine too. Nobody’s making you. Nobody cares. Go rake some leaves, nice and mindless. Or get a nice stew braising, perfect for a chilly autumn night. Or, yeah, write a poem, good or bad. No inspiration required, just a modicum of discipline.
What is the hardest thing about writing long-form works that few people seem to realize is challenging?
Well, I took that up a bit just now, out of turn. Just maintaining the day-to-day continuity without losing faith or focus, without looking too far ahead and psyching yourself out, however charmingly human that tendency might be. Word at a time. Line at time. Page at a time. Stressing over whether the project’s going to actually work or monumentally flop, or whether you have the wherewithal to even finish it, none of that does you any good, right? Try to practice nearsightedness, the narrow vision, a useful and practicable obtuseness.
There’s a lot of discussion on ways to start writing but not as much on what to do when you’ve finished. So, when you’ve finished a project, how do you proceed?
Begin another one? Alright, man, fine. If it’s a book of poems that we’re after, then for me the idea is to generate a certain number of poems over a certain space of time (say, very generally and just for conversation’s sake, 100 pieces over a 2-year or so period). I never think in terms of a collection until late in the process of writing a big new stack of poems. Then, you can begin to see which ones want to hang out together, or don’t, trash the latter half, and begin to get a sense of whether you have a new book or are getting close. Then tinkering with order and inclusion and — this is important — continuously and arbitrarily changing the title until you can get that monster published and off your back. Last title wins! In the case of a longer single work, say a novel or memoir or whatnot, I suppose it’s, again, a matter of stepping back, letting things cool, and seeing what you have. Does it work at all? The answer to that question determines the next steps forward. Into the forest or over the cliff? Or back home to mom?
Do you have any advice for writers seeking publication?
If we’re talking about poems or stories for literary journals, then it’s a pretty straightforward affair of finding some mags that you like and that you hope might be sympathetic to your conceits, and then approaching them politely, professionally, and patiently according to the nuts and bolts of protocol (which these days increasingly means via submittable). You’ll have to navigate your own moral crossroads in terms of simultaneous submissions. Patience really is crucial, however. You don’t want to be Charlie Brown hanging around, long-faced, at the cyber-mailbox. The best way to avoid that, by the way, is to keep writing. That’s where the buzz is, anyway. Publishing has always seemed, to my mind, more of a hobby, akin to stamp or coin collecting or cross-stitching. Being orderly, keeping an accurate file, materials on hand, et cetera. If instead we’re taking about publishing a book, that’s a different and more challenging discussion, perhaps for another day. No carts before horses. A poem or story that you really dig, your sweet baby, appearing in a pretty, well-edited journal, that can be a hell of a lot of fun. It shouldn’t have any impact on your writing schedule one way [or] the other, of course. Ass in the chair, please. And writing from the heart, regardless of any risible trends of the day.
What would you say to any aspiring poets that may be afraid of sharing their writing?
Do not read poems to your mother, to your significant other, to your shrink, or to some poor schlimazel just there in the café for wi-fi and a bagel. All justified causes for fear. For them. Writing groups and poetry readings are also not advisable, so in moderation and only if you just can’t help yourself. If you seek the lonely-hearts club, you may find a long road ahead. Write for yourself, in blessed solitude if you can get it. But sending out to engaged and serious editors with a vested interest? What in the world [is there] to be afraid of? “Be bold and mighty forces will come to your aid?” Maybe. One way to find out, Ron, and one life to do it with.
