It's been cubbyholed for years at a time, but I always knew I would finish it. At times the story was in a form that can hardly be called a draft, it was more in pieces, lying around like a jigsaw puzzle.

I’m interested in the way in which memory—the way that we think about the past—is a re-creation of the past, how the past keeps happening.

I’m definitely methodical and imagine the metaphor as building paper mâché. I have these delicate sentences that layer atop each other until there’s something solid.

I’m deeply committed to not knowing what kind of writer I am. I rely on spontaneity and my habits change constantly. In that way I hope I’m evading stale, pat poems.

When I have an idea for a story, I never know how it’s going to turn out or, even, what it’s really about. I tend to spill out my guts all over the page, and then go back and shape it.

Here lately, I suppose I’d describe myself as a collagist. I collect slim notebooks of overheard language, odd images, possible poem frameworks, & run-on thoughts that keep me up at night.