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An Interview with Patricia Clark
Patricia Clark is the poet-in-residence at Grand Valley State University, and the poet laureate of the city of Grand Rapids. She has written two books of poetry entitled North of Wondering and My Father on a Bicycle, in addition to many individual published poems in journals such as Poetry and the New England Review. She also co-edited an anthology of contemporary women writers. Currently, she teaches poetry at Grand Valley State University.
On February 24, 2006, Erin Jewell and Catherine Sundt interviewed Dr. Clark as representatives of UpInMichigan.org. Both have taken classes with Dr. Clark, and arranged to meet with her at the Grand Rapids campus of Grand Valley State University.
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Patricia Clark: So, what do you want to know?
UpInMichigan.org: Well, we have to start with the obligatory methods questions.
PC: Like, who are you? [Laughter]
UIM: Who are you, and what are you doing here? [laughs] You know, when do you write, how often, what sparks you?
PC: I'm very methodical. It seems to me that Flaubert said something like: you must be regular and boring in your life so that you may be wild in your writing. (Note: the direct quotation is: "Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.") I really subscribe to that view. I don't think my life is that boring, but I try to go to bed at night so that I can get up in the morning and write with a fairly clear head. I would much prefer a very regular kind of habit like that.
Morning, I think, is ideal, and I'm very particular. I don't turn on the radio or the television, and I do look at the web before I get going, but then I try to turn all that off. I just sit there with a blank page and start, because it's really hard to do that and get focused. Everything just militates against getting focused, so I think artists and writers really have to guard their psychic space. It's the rare person who writes late at night; I love the morning. I don't really want to be out at six a.m., but even if I'm not teaching, I still try to get up at seven or seven-thirty and write.
My method, often, is to start on something new every morning, but when I get stuck, which is frequent, then I'll say to myself, "This is not going well, let's see what I did yesterday," and I'll go back and look at other things to revise. It's nice if you can have things in different stages, because you're not stuck then if you can't think of anything. It's just miraculous how it works, I think, because you start tinkering with something else and then you get other ideas and you get warmed up a little bit. So, that's my method.
UIM: And how many hours a day is that?
PC: Well, I go to quotations, I don't know why, but there was someone who said, "Oh, that person's a poet. What do they do with the other 23 hours of the day?" You know, like they do nothing, and poems are short. But I'd say, like this morning, I really worked pretty solid until noon. So, if I could have from the time I got up until noon, that would be ideal, and then I'm happy the rest of the day to do errands, do reading, do other things sending poems out, but I try to really guard that time for generating.
UIM: So, from seven to noon?
PC: Yeah. I think especially because you're right out of dream and sleep, and I think your mind is less guarded. That's my psychological theory. Usually it works. If I were going to offer advice to anyone, and I think I got this advice and took it, it's just to develop good habits early on, because whatever habits you develop, you may have them for a long time, and you want them to be good. Whatever good habits you can develop them, develop them early on.
UIM: Great! Well, we both read North of Wondering and My Father on a Bicycle, and you deal with a lot of different periods in your life. Do you think there is one period in your life that influenced you to write the most, more than others, or do you just deal with all of them at the same time?
PC: Oh, no, I think I—you know, things are going to happen to you, there are going to be enough new things happening to you that you will have new material. I suppose like anybody else, I wonder at times, "what next?" There's plenty of stuff. I don't think there's any one period. I'm actually trying to turn away from childhood types of things and just say, "Done with that." I think like any other writer, you're always trying to go deeper into whatever you sense is important as an issue, as a source of emotional resonance. So, I'm always just trying to go there.
How you do it, though...you kind of have to almost trick yourself. That's the part you can't teach anybody about writing. Through reading, I think you can find, "Why does this move me so much?" and "This, I'm just completely bored," and "What's that writer doing?" And from that, you can sense, "I should go there," and try the same subject. I think you start to find the place, and it changes, the stuff that you have to go into.
UIM: We were talking about grad school and higher education (before the interview)—what in college, or grad school, or both, was the most important thing you learned about writing? Or, maybe, the most important thing you learned in general?
PC: I don't know if there's one, the earth-shattering one, but I certainly remember people talking about how you need to learn your craft, as opposed to what I was just talking about with finding your subject. Like a painter learns about different brushes and paints, and pastel versus oil, as writers, all we have are words and sentences. I took that pretty seriously. Like anyone else, I was an okay writer, but I don't know that I was brilliant. I think setting out and learning your craft, how to write a good sentence, figuring out the grammatical things that you're kind of fuzzy on, even parts of speech, and then working on vocabulary, those are things that are doable.
And then reading, the importance of reading more poets. I wish I'd read even more, looking back. I was always reading novels, and I may still yet try to write some fiction, but I think you learn so much reading other poets. There's so many different ways of doing things. It's bad to get stuck in one kind of way. Reading can infuse you, like trying new foods, or getting a palate that you can taste so many different things. So, those are the things I learned throughout schools. Learn your craft, read a lot, and I think, too, other poets and writers saying that if you hung in there, you could do it.
I thought, starting out, that there was some magic involved, but really, if you apply yourself, well, I don't know if you could be a brain surgeon if you say, "I'm going to really apply myself," but probably the same thing is true. Whatever you have to do to be a brain surgeon, you have to learn anatomy, physiology, and pharmacology. So, there's a lot to learn with writing too. To me, that was comforting. Here's a body of stuff, start learning that, and then you can get somewhere over time as a writer.
I think for anyone young reading an interview like this, the encouraging thing is that there's always room for more writers. It's not a closed shop where they're saying, "You're in, you're out." Clearly, the world needs more writers. Art helps the soul, and clearly, we need that. It doesn't mean everyone's paying attention to poetry; they're not, but they should. They would be better people, I think, and more sensitive, and they wouldn't do such awful things. I guess I'm not a messiah in terms of, "poetry can save the world," but I do believe in art, and that there's a great value. Look how it develops an individual person! I think it makes you a better person. I guess I have a religion, and it's art. The poet John Keats called poetry a "vale of soul-making." I think he believed it was an education for the writer: who you are, what you believe, and I've found to be true.
UIM: Along the same lines, what do you hope is the message that your students take away from your classes about their own writing?
PC: I certainly want them just to see the exciting possibilities for themselves. I don't want to make people into little replicas of me. I don't even think that's possible; you all are strong enough willed that you would resist that. Really, the secret is seeing with your own eyes, because everyone has this unique thing to say. Of course, I can't tell you how to say it because I can't see it. I don't know what you're seeing. If you can find that thing, and it's going to take years and a whole life to find that, but what an exciting thing!
I can't imagine why more people wouldn't want to be in writing. It just seems like the very best thing. Now, I'm saying this on a good day, when I did write this morning. (laughter) On bad days, I think, "What a stupid thing to do. What a waste of time. Why didn't I go earn a lot of money somewhere?" And yet, look at the freedom that professors have. Driving down here, I was thinking, "Gosh, it's so nice to have a flexible schedule," and I wondered what percentage of the workforce has a flexible schedule. How sad it is that most workers are under the thumb of somebody.
I feel it's a privilege to have that, and I believe in being responsible about it. You know, if I'm home sleeping every day until noon, that would be the wrong thing to do. It's a privilege to have such freedom, and the intelligence and the gift to be able to write. You don't want to squander that. A lot of people, they can't even read really well.
UIM: How has your writing changed since you moved from the Northwest?
PC: I think it's just changed. I guess the thing that might be interesting for Up In Michigan is that I think it's good to go away from where you grew up. Now, I say that because I did that, but I think you can get stuck in a smaller vision, if you will. When you go away, far away, there are a lot more influences that come in. It's why you shouldn't go to the same school for undergraduate and graduate school. It's frightening to get tossed out, but wait, and you'll see how you adapt and how you succeed. You're going to feel such a sense of confidence. It's priceless.
How has my writing changed? I hope that it has opened up and let in much more of the world, because out in the Northwest, at least the people I was with, and a lot of them are still there, they're still writing about trees and rain, and it's like, "Okay, get over that." I think you have to get out and test your skills out in a new area. You're enriched, and then you can go back. It's unbelievable what it does for you. How can you even begin to say what it's like to go to another country? It alters you. I hope I continue to change. I like to think I do.
UIM: Do you still travel now?
PC: As much as I can. The trouble is, it goes against my writing. I can't really write when I travel. I can take notes, but I like to have a set routine. I'm always kind of torn. There are writers' retreats that people go to. They're just incredible. They're not a conference; the retreats, you just go and they give you a place like a room or a studio. Those are pretty nice as a way to escape. It's hard to have the mental time to write, and be free from it. I don't have kids, but if you have kids, it's hard too. Poets and Writers magazine (www.pw.org) has a website, and I think there's a link there for conferences and retreats. I went to one in Ireland, and it was just wonderful. I think the important thing is to just find what working method works for you, and then continue to have that, if you can.
UIM: Do you think it's important for a writer to identify with a region?
PC: No. No, I don't. (laughter) Are you going to take me off the Up In Michigan site now? For some people, it might be, but I don't think I'd make it a general rule. Some people just don't identify with a region where they grew up, and they want to get away. You might not know that early on, especially if you haven't been anywhere else. That's why it's important to get out and come back. I do think that it's a good idea to explore that region, and the writers, and get as much out of it as you can.
UIM: Do you go back to the Northwest frequently?
PC: I go back, yeah. A lot of my family members are still there, so I go back a couple of times a year. I feel really tied to that place, but I don't know what means. There are a lot of good writers; the literary scene in Seattle is a good scene.
UIM: Do you consider anyone in particular to be especially influential in your writing or your style?
PC: I'm sure there are people, some of my teachers. Richard Hugo was one of my teachers, and Stanley Plumley. Your teachers remain an influence if you enjoyed working with them, maybe even if you didn't. There were some teachers I didn't get much from. I don't hold it against them. Sometimes it takes a lot of time to come around on an influence. People I've read, people like even Neruda, who I think is wonderful, I feel like I liked to be influenced by him and read his work. I realize I'm naming mainly men. Ellen Bryan Voight, who we're reading for our class this term, I really admire her work. I've met her, too, and she actually sent me a fan e-mail once. I was really happy.
The cool thing is that people can be an influence, like painters. I love Matisse. I have never even written a poem about Matisse, but he painted for a really long time, and had a really wonderful, long career, and I get energy from reading about artists. He inspires me, and you need that. Inspiration is everything. Try to be influenced widely. Music, too; there are people that you listen to, and they inspire you. That's worth everything.
UIM: Have you done work in other genres besides poetry? You said you may work in fiction at some point.
PC: I've written a couple of essays, and I've actually written a couple of stories, not that I've shown them to people. I intend to do more. I do keep a fiction file, and I put stuff in it that really sparks my interest. For me, maybe I'm a slow learning, but it takes me a long time to learn a genre and really do it will. It's very consuming. I'm almost not willing to trade off knowing certain things about poetry. Maybe that won't happen, but I feel like I need that time poetry.
UIM: Why the preference for poetry?
PC: That's a really good question. I think it's a musical thing. Something touched me with poetry that's pre-verbal. I think there's a sound with poetry that I find really powerful. I never even considered doing fiction. Later, I thought, "Boy, I should have thought of that." I think I could have been good at it, but, well, you make more money. [Laughter] Note to self. I was really into the purity of it. It was for the love of it. That's the wonderful thing about poetry, that it really draws those who want to do it. Why else would you pursue it? The world doesn't care. Even though I loved fiction, and read voraciously, I never even considered it. I just kept saying, "I'll write a novel," and I really do still intend to.
UIM: Do you find conflict between your narrative and your personal voice, especially since you use the first person so much, and you write so much about your family? Your family poetry is not as abrasive or confrontational as some...
PC: No, it's not Sylvia Plath or anything. I guess I do. I don't even think of it as "I" in the same way, I guess. To me, it still seems kind of made-up. I realize that might be confusing to people. The facts are the facts, but there is some tension between the narrative and the "I".
UIM: Do you think a poet has a responsibility to be factual, because poetry is read as primarily nonfiction?
PC: There are a couple of things that I think about that. I read this article about lyric poetry, and they were talking about how when you read a lyric poem, you generally believe that, if a person is writing about the death of their brother, you believe they have had that experience. I agree with that. I wouldn't change the truth with something large like that. With the smaller facts, yeah, I would. I don't know what they would be; the color of something, what day something happened. The other facts, though, about things like what a certain flower is called, or what a certain bird is called, I think you should be accurate and look it up. I think if you don't, it's an error.
Not that I haven't made mistakes, I'm sure I have. I was just working on something this morning; I had seen some turtles at Meijer Gardens in a case, and they were just really cool live turtles. Then, I got a book about turtles from the library. I was going to put a turtle into this poem this morning. It was imaginary; I haven't really seen a turtle at this creek near our house. Then I started to think that maybe the turtle I'm putting in here is not even in this area, and then I went back to the book to make sure. You know, probably nobody would care or know, but I care. I'm glad I looked it up, because I'd hate to put the wrong one in. That would bug me. I try to get things right, geographically, things I don't know anything about. I would change other things, if that makes sense. I don't feel constrained by it. I like knowing about these turtles. I think you have an obligation to get it right. It makes writers sound fanatical, but to me, it makes sense.
UIM: Do you look back on previous work and critique it at all, or do you just let it lie? You know, even if you find factual errors like that?
PC: When North of Wondering went out of print, and I talked to Grand Valley, and they agreed to help Michigan State University press reprint it, there had been one poem with a grammatical thing wrong in it that really had bothered me. It was a dangling modifier, and I fixed that. When I look back, I think, "I could write that better now," but I would not try to go back and rewrite it. It's mainly things in the sentences that I think sound young. I let it be. You just have to go on. You can spend your whole life redoing your past, and what would that do? I'm always more excited about new work. I'm glad when people say, "I really like that poem," though.
Philip Levine, who came and read here, said years ago at a conference that he had rushed to published a bunch of things, and then hated the stuff later on. He was really happy to be in print at the time. He never collected those poems; he doesn't go after them and find them and keep them. I'd probably do the same, with certain poems I even write today. Some days, I'm just trying to get something written. I'm happy to have written something. Whether it's going to be good enough to put in a book, I don't know. I'll have to see when I get to that point. It might not make the cut. I'd like to have enough that I can be kind of brutal. With My Father on a Bicycle, I read them and certain ones I said, "These don't fit." A former teacher who's now a friend read the manuscript too, and he's say, "Take these out." He didn't say they were terrible; he just said they weren't up to the rest and they didn't fit as well. Other people, you have to value their advice.
UIM: My Father on a Bicycle came out last year, right?
PC: Right. 2005.
UIM: And are you working on a book now?
PC: I am. In fact, I'm pretty far. I have a lot of poems, but right now, I'm just trying to write more and I'm not really even thinking about what the book's about. I really don't know. I don't even have a title. I'm happy about that, too, because I figure one will just come to me. I keep testing out titles. It's kind of fun to be at that stage. Earlier, you get kind of obsessed trying to get it published. Now, it's just a matter of making it really good. So, that's fun. Maybe after this summer, I'll have enough. I've applied for a grant from Grand Valley. I need some time.
UIM: You're the poet-in-residence, what is the title exactly?
PC: Right. The poet-in-residence at Grand Valley, and the poet laureate of the city of Grand Rapids.
UIM: What does that title enable you to do?
PC: The poet laureate means that I'm supposed to do some events involving the humanities council. There's an event coming up in April down here at the public museum, and we're going to have an exhibit on newcomers and ethnic groups in Grand Rapids. Different people from the community are going to get up and read poems, and I'm going to introduce them. The mission is to raise the consciousness about poetry, and put it on the map a little more, and I'm happy to do that.
Not all cities have poet laureates. We don't have a state poet laureate either. I think people have been pitching it to Granholm. I should write her a letter. I mean, not for myself. [Laughter] That would be impolitic, I think. I think it's cool about the UpInMichigan website, though. I think it's a cool idea. Michigan needs more respect.
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