The Interview with January Gill O'Neil.

Hello to new subscribers and welcome to Sitting in Silence, a newsletter for readers, writers, and thinkers. The Interview has become a popular feature for the newsletter. I love talking to writers of all stripes regarding their journeys. They never disappoint. This issue’s conversation is with the poet January Gill O’Neil.

I write this from the Read My World Literary Festival in Amsterdam. I was last here in 2017. I enjoy the Netherlands for the many similarities with southeast Louisiana. We have swamps. They have bogs. We both face huge challenges in the climate crisis. They have a state-of-the-art protection system to stop flooding. Louisiana has…um. The writers, artists, and literary organizers here are some of my favorite people. I’m happy to be back and working again with a team of international thinkers.

My hot writer summer is coming to a close. *sigh* The past few months of travel, speaking, and teaching have been so enlightening and encouraging, truly a dream made reality. I wouldn’t change a thing.

Here’s a reminder that I’ll be teaching my first workshop for the popular the Work Room series on Wednesday, September 14, 2022. Limited scholarships are available, and the online class will feature closed captioning as well as ASL interpreters.

January Gill O’Neil is the author of three books of poetry: Rewilding, Misery Islands, and Underlife. She’s an associate professor at Salem State University, but I know her as the person who preceded me at my Grisham House residency. She and her lovely family left the house better than they found it, including leaving a basketball goal that I used in between writing sessions. I’ve been wanting to talk to January for a while and am happy that she’s the first poet to appear in Sitting in Silence.  

As always, thank you to the premium subscribers who make this newsletter possible, especially those who just signed up. I appreciate your support. This would be so much harder to do without your help. For your information, Sitting in Silence is also doing well. Our readership has gone from zero to hundreds a few months ago to thousands now. So, thank you for all the referrals. My goal has been to create a place to share my thoughts on writing and life. I’m glad y’all like it.

Maurice: What are your earliest memories of reading or writing stories?

January: I used to write (very bad) song lyrics. My parents were not big readers, but we had a set of encyclopedias that I read all the time. I didn't really start writing until college. Thought I was going to be a business major but an 8 a.m. Econ class cured me of that. I was always good in English, so I found myself in a creative writing class at ODU with Toi Derricotte, future co-founder of Cave Canem. She was extremely encouraging, but in her class something about language clicked with me. Bottom of Form

Maurice: I feel like a lot of writers come to it by changing course at some point. I know so many who started out on one path only to find it unsatisfying. Did you want to do business because it felt practical?

January: I wanted a business degree so I could open up a three-story restaurant and dance club in downtown Norfolk, VA. What can say? I was young and foolish.  

Maurice: Did it feel good to change over?

January: Once I switched majors, however, I felt like I found my purpose. And I didn't know what I would do with an English degree. I just knew I loved writing and editing. Once it was clear to me that poetry would be my center, my choices became easier because it narrowed my focus. I was rooted in purpose.

Business was not in the card for me. That being said, I used to work as a senior writer/editor in the marketing department at a business school. Over time, I learned that entrepreneurs and writers share a common DNA. We're self-starters, we work alone, we put in long hours with no guarantee of success--but we do it because we love the work. We're constantly searching for new ideas, the next project. Entrepreneurs call it "opportunity recognition."  In less formal terms, writers view the world through a different lens. 

Maurice: Wow. That's an incredible point about the similarities between entrepreneurs and writers. I completely agree. Every chapbook or novel is an enterprise, isn't it? Talk more about finding your purpose. How did you know you found it? What does that mean to you? And did it take time to find your voice?

January: I don't know when it happened, exactly. In grad school (at NYU), I knew I would write but had no idea how I would support myself. At some point I looked at all the threads of my life and figured out the patterns. My work life involved crafting words. I didn't start teaching until I became executive director of the Massachusetts Poetry Festival. Poetry and my children are what get me up in the morning. Once I had some life experience under my belt, I could feel my voice becoming.  

And in those days with a husband, toddlers, and a full-time job, I didn't have much time to write. I found my voice back in the days when blogging was a big deal. In the early 2000s, the online writing community was a generous place where you could share your work, get feedback, and build a following. Several poems in my first book Underlife (CavanKerry 2009) were honed in the blogosphere. And many of the poets I connected with all those years ago have remarkable careers today: Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Oliver de la Paz, and Kelli Russell Agodon, to name a few. 

Maurice: Community is everything, isn't it? I have yet to meet a poet who is solitary and disconnected. You've written several wonderful books of poetry, including Rewilding and Misery Islands. One thing I notice in your poems is an ecstatic intimacy. It embraces your family and friends, but allows fans like me to feel as if we're sitting across the table from you. And there's brilliance in how you present the moments of a life. For example, in a poem like "How to Make Crab Cake" you write: "Start with your own body,/the small bones of the hands/moving toward the inlets of the fingers//Wanting it too much invites haste/You must love what is raw/and hungered for." A beginning like that can go anywhere, but I'm with you and excited for the journey down the page. Talk about your goals when you start a new poem. Where do the words and ideas come from? What are you hoping to create?

January: With "How to Make a Crab Cake," I wanted to write a poem about home through food (I'm a Virginia native), and I didn't want to approach in an expected way. In general, that's how I approach most of my work--I want to surprise myself. I have no idea where I'm going when I start. I'm just working in service to the poem. I go where the words take me. Often I'll ask myself,  "What am I risking in this poem?" If I can't see it, then it needs more work. 

My poems are born out of the everyday. I try hard to see the world anew at every opportunity. That's not always easy to do, especially during the worst days of the pandemic when I would stare at my bird feeder and wonder how many bird feeder poems do I have in me? *Ugh.* But it's all practice. Not everything I write sees the light of day--nor should it!  

I try to write every day, but I don't stress out if I don't. I believe in failure, false starts, and going down wrong paths. That's the only way I know to improve.

Maurice: I love what you say about working in service to the poem. Sometimes we fall short of that, right? Occasionally, I imagine that I can see the perfect version of the piece, but it's just out of reach somewhere in the mist. What does failure in writing mean to you? And how does that help you improve?

January: We don't talk about failure enough as a culture, do we? We have to be willing to take a risk in our work, and that means risking failure: having the poem collapse and not be able to salvage it. Putting in all that effort only to get to the conclusion and have a "so-what" moment. We go to poetry to be changed, and if that doesn't happen in some small way, then so what? Why write this? Why read it? Maybe the writer hasn't decided how to end the poem. It might mean going deeper into unfamiliar territory--saying that unsayable thing. All of it is a risk. All of it signals disaster.

But, we don't grow as writers if we're not willing to suck now and then. I'm an optimist, so maybe that sucking sound means I'm bored with myself and am ready to rise to a new level in my poetry. Maybe the piece needs a good revision; I need to leave my ego at the door. The breakthrough is the hardest part. Writers have to say the unsayable thing. They have to be willing to fail.  

Maurice: Whenever I read a great poem, yours included, I feel like the writer has gone through that journey to say the unsayable thing. Who did you learn that courage from? Which poets do you turn to for knowledge and inspiration? Which poems?

January: Thanks. Sometimes there's no other way other than saying what needs to be said. But it helps to turn to my influences: Sharon Olds, Toi Derricotte, Phil Levine, Lucille Clifton. One of my favorites is a poem called "The Victims." http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/victims.html 

I studied with Toi Derricotte as an undergrad at Old Dominion University, and she taught this poem in her creative writing class. It was the second time in class I thought to myself "You can say this in a poem? You can be that specific and honest in a poem?" The first time was earlier in the semester when she played a cassette tape (am I showing my age?) of Alan Ginsberg's "Howl." (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49303/howl) I remember following along with a photocopy and being overwhelmed by the enormity of that poem. I was hooked. 

Maurice: It's truly incredible how big of an impact a mentor can have on us, isn't it? To wind up our discussion, can you tell readers what's important to you in life? Also, what brings you joy?

January: Well, funny you should ask because I just dropped off my son Alex at Syracuse University a few days ago. Ugh. Talk about hard! They say it goes by so fast, but I didn't believe it until my daughter, Ella, and I left campus. So, to answer your question, family is so important to me. 

Besides spending time with the kids, writing a poem is my center. It's a spiritual act. It's a little like creating a force field around yourself where it's just you and your thoughts. When I write, I am saying to the world this moment, this act is important to me. Give me just a little time in the day to write. I matter. 

Maurice: Your family is so beautiful! I know you're proud of them. You've taught them so much, no doubt. Speaking of learning, I've been writing poems lately, much to my own surprise. Any tips for a new poet or, better yet, for all the poets out there reading this interview? What have you learned on your journey as a poet about poetry?

January: Hmmm ... good question. Write about the things you don't know. Write from a place of inquiry. Research. Ask questions. Say the thing that you've been afraid to say all this time. Don't edit yourself before you get the words on the page. Remember, you don't have to share or publish everything you write. Try to write routinely if you can. 

Also, I would read a lot. Not just poetry, but all genres. Good writing influences good writing. 

Lastly, find your community. Find people who will tell the truth about your work. For instance, while I love my mom, if I showed her half the poems I wrote she would flip out! Show your writing to people who have your back. And do the same for them. That's how we start to build community.   

And yay! that you're writing poems. I'm curious how poetry influences your fiction? 

Maurice: That's wonderful advice, January! I'm not sure I know how to talk about my own poetry yet but I suppose that as someone who has written a lot of fiction I lean towards narrative poetry. But it's s fun to pull away from that tendency and write more lyrically. Following the emotional arc of a piece rather than plot or character is thrilling!