Book Bites: Erica Wright, author of All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned
Book Bites: Short and Sweet Interview for Readers on the Go
Today, I have a interview for you with a crime writer/poet: Erica Wright. I've spoken with Wright previously about her most recent crime novel, The Granite Moth, but today Wright is stopping by to answer a few questions about her most recent poetry collection, the haunting, breathtaking All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned . Cheers!
"Wright's lyricism, the fantastic juxtapositions in her diction and imagery all give us an alternate vision of our national moment. Equal parts surreal, sinister, and sincere, this is a place you definitely want to visit. It might just be the kind of place you need to live in."—Jaswinder Bolina
What drew you to the genre you write in?
When I was evacuated from my building on September 11th, I had a copy of T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets in my bag. It was the only classwork I thought to bring along because I naively assumed I would be returning to downtown Manhattan later that day. During the weeks I was displaced, there was a lot of waiting involved. Normally fast-paced New York City slowed to a crawl. Trains being stopped for bomb search squads. Long lines at the post office. Simple errands stretched to a whole afternoon. So I read and re-read Eliot and found comfort in lines like “Go, go, go said the bird: human kind / Cannot bear very much reality.”
The book as a whole, I’ll admit, was beyond my comprehension level but I still got so much out of its images and phrases. I became a poetry addict. In the months that followed, I read Anna Akhmatova, W. S. Merwin, Rita Dove. There was no real method to my reading list. Whatever someone recommended, I picked up. Eventually I started imitating my favorites, but it took me a few years before I found my own style, before I felt confident enough to say that I was actually writing poems, not just messing around.
Are there any writers you’re jealous of?
As a writer, I want to promote other writers as much as possible. There’s usually one poetry collection each year I sort of reserve for myself, though. I may post about it on social media, but I probably won’t review it or conduct an interview with the author because I just want to enjoy it, no strings attached. Does that count as jealousy? I sort of jealousy hoard it? I’m picturing myself as Golem here in case you need a visual. With that one book, I enjoy the poems without trying to articulate why. I suppose you could say that I read as a reader as a opposed to a writer. In 2015, it was Ada Limón’s Bright Dead Things. In 2016, Camille Rankine’s Incorrect Merciful Impulses. In 2017, Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s Rocket Fantastic. Next year? I’m not sure. Beth Bachmann has a new collection out in the fall, I believe, and I love her work.
Have you ever given up on a writing project?
I believe in the practice novel, that you have to write 70,000 words or so that you think will be a book but actually has more in common with training wheels. I have one of those about a whiskey taster whose sister goes missing. The year I lived in Gainesville, I tried to write a play about echolocation inspired by the annual Bat Festival in nearby Lubee. I imagined it as a serious drama, but let’s be real honest about that idea—it was going to be camp at best.
Did All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned have any alternate titles?
This book had the same title from the very beginning, but my first collection of poems—Instructions for Killing the Jackal—went through many incarnations. The only one I can remember is Throwing Matches Around, which I still love. But it’s a phrase from the Patty Griffin song “Icicles,” and I didn’t want to run into any copyright issues. Her lyric is “There's always someone throwing matches around,” and isn’t that true? How does Patty Griffin walk around with all that talent inside her? Shouldn’t it be visible under her skin, a sort of beacon for the rest of us to see?
What piece of your own writing are you most proud of?
Honestly? This book. The poems in All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned are my most honest. I’m embarrassed to say more.
Today, I have a interview for you with a crime writer/poet: Erica Wright. I've spoken with Wright previously about her most recent crime novel, The Granite Moth, but today Wright is stopping by to answer a few questions about her most recent poetry collection, the haunting, breathtaking All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned . Cheers!
"Wright's lyricism, the fantastic juxtapositions in her diction and imagery all give us an alternate vision of our national moment. Equal parts surreal, sinister, and sincere, this is a place you definitely want to visit. It might just be the kind of place you need to live in."—Jaswinder BolinaWhat drew you to the genre you write in?
When I was evacuated from my building on September 11th, I had a copy of T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets in my bag. It was the only classwork I thought to bring along because I naively assumed I would be returning to downtown Manhattan later that day. During the weeks I was displaced, there was a lot of waiting involved. Normally fast-paced New York City slowed to a crawl. Trains being stopped for bomb search squads. Long lines at the post office. Simple errands stretched to a whole afternoon. So I read and re-read Eliot and found comfort in lines like “Go, go, go said the bird: human kind / Cannot bear very much reality.”
The book as a whole, I’ll admit, was beyond my comprehension level but I still got so much out of its images and phrases. I became a poetry addict. In the months that followed, I read Anna Akhmatova, W. S. Merwin, Rita Dove. There was no real method to my reading list. Whatever someone recommended, I picked up. Eventually I started imitating my favorites, but it took me a few years before I found my own style, before I felt confident enough to say that I was actually writing poems, not just messing around.
Are there any writers you’re jealous of?
As a writer, I want to promote other writers as much as possible. There’s usually one poetry collection each year I sort of reserve for myself, though. I may post about it on social media, but I probably won’t review it or conduct an interview with the author because I just want to enjoy it, no strings attached. Does that count as jealousy? I sort of jealousy hoard it? I’m picturing myself as Golem here in case you need a visual. With that one book, I enjoy the poems without trying to articulate why. I suppose you could say that I read as a reader as a opposed to a writer. In 2015, it was Ada Limón’s Bright Dead Things. In 2016, Camille Rankine’s Incorrect Merciful Impulses. In 2017, Gabrielle Calvocoressi’s Rocket Fantastic. Next year? I’m not sure. Beth Bachmann has a new collection out in the fall, I believe, and I love her work.
Have you ever given up on a writing project?
I believe in the practice novel, that you have to write 70,000 words or so that you think will be a book but actually has more in common with training wheels. I have one of those about a whiskey taster whose sister goes missing. The year I lived in Gainesville, I tried to write a play about echolocation inspired by the annual Bat Festival in nearby Lubee. I imagined it as a serious drama, but let’s be real honest about that idea—it was going to be camp at best.
Did All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned have any alternate titles?
This book had the same title from the very beginning, but my first collection of poems—Instructions for Killing the Jackal—went through many incarnations. The only one I can remember is Throwing Matches Around, which I still love. But it’s a phrase from the Patty Griffin song “Icicles,” and I didn’t want to run into any copyright issues. Her lyric is “There's always someone throwing matches around,” and isn’t that true? How does Patty Griffin walk around with all that talent inside her? Shouldn’t it be visible under her skin, a sort of beacon for the rest of us to see?
What piece of your own writing are you most proud of?
Honestly? This book. The poems in All the Bayou Stories End with Drowned are my most honest. I’m embarrassed to say more.
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