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ANA MARíA
CABALLERO by N I C O L E TA L L M A N
What does your writing life look like? Do you have a particular schedule, habits, or process? I’m a very early and quick riser. There is an engine within me that propels me to write. Sometimes it’s an internal combustion engine—clunky, noisy, polluted. Other times it’s an electric one—sleek, efficient, promising. I try not to get discouraged when I’m burning dirtying fuel and focus on savoring the moments of proficiency. I edit, rewrite, submit in between other tasks, stealing time from my day job and domestic responsibilities. To me, writing is purpose, escape, solace. I dive into my journals when I have a problem—it’s where I go to be honest and seek something that might feel like resolution. I value straightforward verse and love poems that say, this is it. One of my favorite quotes is by Louise Glück: Opacity is fear. When we adorn what we’re feeling, it’s often because we’re afraid of feeling it.
How do poems come to you? Do you have any specific muses? The spark of a poem is very important to capture in the moment—while it’s still hot. The heat of inspiration doesn’t photocopy. Even if you’re just capturing broad strokes, the spark survives. I don’t take the arrival of new verse for granted; I make room for it. When the itch comes, I stop.
Your latest book A Petit Mal is out now, and it won the 2020 International Beverly Prize. Congratulations! Tell us what inspired you to write it. My son began having seizures in 2019, and our family explored every treatment we could find, eventually marrying the worlds of alternative and traditional medicine. I furiously recorded this experience into my book. I wrote A Petit Mal in real time. My life became convulsed, both logistically and emotionally, so I quite literally had to draft this text in bursts, in fragments, in spasms. The manuscript in both form and format represents the moment I was living.
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