Articles

In most of my other essays, I am constantly asking “what counts as work?” It’s a question about gender, a question about the body, a question about values, a question about money, and a question about government.

I’m always looking for intersections between disability and literary imagination.

A scarcity of the kind of books I most want to read has kept me writing—books that rely heavily on the imagination, that thumb their metaphorical noses at form and genre, and that make an aesthetic delight of difficulty.

Schneider admits that he has stolen, “Hasn’t everybody?” Of course we have. It’s the justification of the thievery that is of interest in these poems.

It’s freeing to have the knowledge that yes, you can (and should) probably burn most of your writing away, leaving only the good bits.

Within Way’s work, the exploration of experience permits the reader to become intimate with the narrator—night to night, moon to moon. We live alongside her in her kitchen, her bed, within her ruminations and her dreams.

I have been writing since childhood; my obsessions remain: migrations, grief, and auguries.

Emotion needs a stage in which it can show off and discover itself. I want to say that I love how writing allows me to explore difficult things while feeling safe.

I write every day. I recently got back into writing every day after taking a month off of poetry. It was terrible. I couldn’t handle it. I compare it to being away from a lover, only it’s more intense.

Though each poem possesses its own unique demands, themes, and structures, my work is always heavily rooted in human attachments and disconnects…