CDR interviews Heather Cousins
Danielle Sellers: Your
first book, Something in the Potato Room,
was chosen by Patricia Smith as winner of Kore Press’s first book award. The
book has been touted by Smith as being “sparse and stunning, [an] addictive cinema
[which] unwinds with lyrical and dramatic certainty.” Judith Ortiz Cofer
describes your work as “fanciful and menacing, a strange pairing of the
quotidian with the macabre.” How did the idea for this book come about? Did you
have any reservations about finding a publisher for a book-length poem?
Heather
Cousins: Something in the Potato Room
emerged from a variety of autobiographical experiences. The “potato room” in the book is an
imaginative re-visioning of a little room in the basement of my childhood
home—a cold room with a creaky wooden door.
My interest in anthropology and archaeology fed the details of the story
and its plot. My mom grew up in a
funeral home, and I’m sure her stories about my grandfather’s basement
embalming room also influenced the story.
I wanted the book to reflect a version of the world I have experienced: absurd, awkward, overwhelming, and tragicomic. I also wanted the book to reflect the sense of search I experience in my own life. Against the absurdity of the world, I’m always looking for a purpose, a sense of meaning, which will allow me to transcend my fears and uncertainties—to, ultimately, transcend the black hole of death. I suspect this may be a common human experience
When
I was finished, I sent Something to
about a dozen first-book contests over the course of a year. I didn’t believe it would find a
publisher. The book was too
strange. It is an odd little thing. Kore’s contest was one of the last I
entered. I would have shelved the book
if they had not published it. When they
called and told me that I had won their First Book Award, I was in a parking
lot at the University of Georgia. I hung
up my cell phone after speaking with Kore’s editor, Lisa Bowden, and ran around
my Toyota Camry four or five times.
DS: For someone who
writes shorter narrative poems, a book-length poem seems like a daunting task. How
did you keep momentum going? What other book-length poems served as models?
HC:
It wasn’t terribly daunting because I didn’t know what I was in for. I always thought that I was a step away from
being finished. One year into it, I
thought: just a few more changes. Two
years into it, I thought: let me just try re-writing it one more time. In the end, it took me about five years, working
on and off, while involving myself with other projects.
When
I wrote the book, I wasn’t self-consciously thinking about other book-length
poems.
Something in the Potato Room was very intuitive for me in its
development. Some suggestions, such as
layout on the page, came during a workshop with Judith Ortiz Cofer in
2006. I know that what I conceived of
would not have been possible if I had not read The Dream Songs by John Berryman, Thomas and Beulah by Rita Dove,
The Babies by Sabrina Orah Mark, and Out
of the Dust by Karen Hesse.
DS: You grew up near
Bear Lake, Michigan. How does the Michigan landscape speak to your work?
HC:
Winters in Michigan were stark, brutal, and long. The winter landscape could be beautiful, but
it was always severe. I think there’s a
bareness to my writing that symbolically connects to my formative years, spent
in a northern place with long winters.
DS: You live in Georgia
now. Does the southern dialect affect your ear at all?
HC:
I think so. I’ve lived in Georgia for
eight years now. My husband makes fun of
me because I slip into a strong Southern accent when I’m speaking to other people
who have one. I’m sure real Southerners
can hear the falseness in what I adopt. I love listening to the way different people
speak—their word choices, inflections, and facial expressions.
DS: The unnamed
character in Something in the Potato Room
is very quirky, but endearing. How closely relatable is she to the real Heather
Cousins?
HC:
I’m not sure every reader would necessarily find her endearing, though it’s a
slight relief to hear that you think she is.
I would describe her as a hyperbolized version of myself. Like her, I
can be a hypochondriac. I’m enthralled
with historical artifacts and the stories of bones. I’ve worked in museums. And I’ve struggled with depression and
anxiety for all of my adult life, which has led me to periods of isolation
during which I rarely leave my own house or even bedroom. These periods of
isolation directly connect with the experience of the main character.
She
is unlike me in several ways, too, the most important of which, I think, is the
absence of other people in her life. She
has no network of support and no real sense of camaraderie with her
coworkers. Throughout the text, there is
no mention of any family and friends. I
think she is who I would be if I were more alone in the world. My family and friends save me from my worst
eccentricities—from being too self-centered and from sealing myself up with my
own obsessions and fascinations in a potato room.
DS: Why did you
ultimately make the decision to keep your character anonymous?
HC: Something in the Potato Room contains purposeful
gaps and mysteries. Having an unnamed
protagonist, I think, adds to the mysterious energy. Anonymity is also appropriate considering the
protagonist’s feelings of powerlessness and lack of purpose: she doesn’t
perceive herself as having an identity—in her work or in her personal
life. And leaving my character unnamed
allows her to more easily function as an everywoman. As I said before, I see my character’s
frustrated search for purpose and feelings of isolation as being a fairly
prevalent problem: that difficult-to-locate hankering—an ongoing sense of search—that is common in the human
experience.
DS: How does a
background in anthropology inform your writing? How important is it for writers
to have outside and seemingly conflicting interests?
HC:
I majored in anthropology as an undergraduate and am particularly interested in
archaeology and physical anthropology. In
all of my writing, I think that objects and specimens play an important role. I love things. I love how an object can resonates with its
own particular story—how it is weighted with its own history. Maybe I’m a little bit of an animist.
I
don’t believe there are any “conflicting” interests for a writer, and outside
interests are natural—it’s impossible not to have them, isn’t it? Certain writers have benefitted from an
intense relationship to a field other than writing—Frank O’Hara’s interest in
art pops into my head, and Ernest Hemingway’s interest in travel, fishing, and
hunting. But I don’t think, as a writer,
one ought to self-consciously cultivate—for one’s writing—additional
“interests.”
DS: You received
training in form as a Master’s candidate in the Writing Seminars at Johns
Hopkins University. Do you like writing in form? Does it affect what you’re
writing now?
HC:
I’ve always believed that studying form, meter, and the poetic tradition is
important to one’s development as a poet.
Although it is certainly possible to create something original and exciting
without formal training, why eschew the formal training if it is available to
you? It will only make you better and
more sensible as a poet. Forms and meter
are something that I have practiced, but these days I rarely set out to write a
sonnet or villanelle, and I even more rarely set out to write a sonnet or
villanelle in meter. Right now what
excites me more than forms and meter is the image. I’m letting images drive my poems. That might change at some point in the
future.
DS: Congratulations on
recently graduating with your doctorate in Creative Writing! Care to weigh-in
on the ongoing debate about MFA vs. PhD? Why did you decide to go the PhD route
as opposed to receiving an MFA?
HC:
Thanks! Nearly every student in my creative writing PhD program already has an
MFA, so, from my end, it appears that most creative writers believe strongly in
the MFA, and the debate is not “MFA vs PhD” so much as “Is it worthwhile to get
a PhD in addition to an MFA?” (My MA
from Johns Hopkins was in the Writing Seminars—a creative writing program;
since I graduated, the degree awarded by the Writing Seminars has become an MFA
instead of an MA.)
The
primary reason I decided to pursue a PhD was because of the additional writing time
it would provide. After my year at the
Writing Seminars, I spent a year teaching ninth grade in Baltimore. I had imagined that I could hold a high
school teaching job and find time to write.
I was wrong. The teaching and
lesson planning left me exhausted and spiritless. I wanted to get back into school and stay in
school for as long as I was able, so I began to investigate PhD programs.
I
received a fellowship for five years of funding. Most graduate fellowships provide just enough
money for one to get by, so one should be prepared for a life of relative
poverty and weigh the pros and cons of the experience against the financial sacrifices
one must make.
Bonus
of the PhD: One spends a significant investment of one’s time in traditional
English courses and takes comprehensive exams in literature. Thus, one becomes qualified to teach not only
creative writing workshops, but literature courses as well.
Drawback
of the PhD: It isn’t necessarily going to help one’s immediate job
prospects. Colleges are interested in
hiring a writer who can not only teach, but who also has a substantial
publication record. Many of us who have
recently graduated with our PhDs—both in English and in creative writing—are
struggling to find tenure-track jobs.
DS: Best summer
concert:
HC:
This is a terrible question for me. I
don’t enjoy concerts. I get bored at
them. Music is something I like to
listen to, mostly, while I am doing something
else. My husband drags me to concerts,
and I am always grumpy and irritable at them.
I don’t understand how people can enjoy listening to music being played
at them for two or three hours. Why
aren’t concerts only about twenty minutes long?
That sounds like a pleasant amount of music. Am I really in the minority here?
DS: Best summer
festival:
HC:
The National Cherry Festival in Traverse City, Michigan: fireworks, parades, a
Cherry Queen, races, arts and crafts, and pie-eating and cherry-pit-spitting
competitions. Almost every town in
northern Michigan celebrates some fruit, fungus, fish, tree, or vegetable. Traverse City’s Cherry Festival is the
biggest and best, honoring one of my all-time favorite fruits.
DS: What are the
essential summer smells of your childhood?
HC:
The smell of lake. My childhood home
sits on a small Michigan lake, Bear Lake.
My backyard was a beach. In
summer, the windows of our house were always open. If I wasn’t outside, I could smell the lake
through the mesh screens: fresh wind and water, hint of gasoline from the
boats, hint of rotting fish and seaweed.
That mixture sounds kind of awful, but I love it.
DS: When you were a
child, what books grabbed your attention the most? What books have stayed with
your consciousness?
HC: The Golden Key by George
MacDonald. I found an edition,
illustrated by Maurice Sendak, in the Manistee County Library when I was maybe
ten years old. I read the library
version again and again. Then I bought
my own copy. I don’t know how many times
I’ve read it. It’s a search
story—mythic and archetypal. I am
obsessed with it. I read it every couple
of years.
Also:
The Secret Garden and A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson
Burnett, Alexander and the Terrible,
Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst, The Babysitter’s Club books, and anything by Roald Dahl.
DS: If you could have a
writing cottage anywhere in the world, where would it be?
HC:
Northern Michigan. I want to move back,
but my husband has difficulty walking because of muscular dystrophy—winters
would be impossible for him to navigate.
Someday, perhaps when my husband retires, I hope we can buy a summer
cottage there.
DS: Is your work taking
off in new directions, or have you found your long-poem-niche?
HC:
I’ve gone the opposite direction of the long poem, lately. I’ve been reading Kenneth Rexroth’s
translations of Chinese poetry, and I’ve been writing small, spare poems.
DS: What are you
excited about in your near future?
HC: My husband and I are expecting. I’m very excited, but also
nervous. I’m not sure I can successfully pull off the triple axle
of motherhood, writing, and teaching--at least not while giving the proper
attention and energy to each. I'm anticipating that the writing and
teaching will have to take a backseat for a little while. When I begin to
feel overwhelmed, worrying over the challenges ahead, I think of all the
amazing women I know who are successful writers and mothers. Judith Ortiz
Cofer, who was my major advisor at the University of Georgia, has beautifully
managed writing, teaching, and motherhood. I’ve got some good role models going in and a
wonderfully supportive husband. I am about to take a great leap.
I'm sure, one way or the other, I'll find my footing on the other end.
Heather Cousins holds an AB in Anthropology from Bryn Mawr
College, an MA from the Writing Seminars of Johns Hopkins University, and a PhD
in English and Creative Writing from the University of Georgia. Her first book
of poetry, Something in the Potato Room, was selected by Patricia Smith
as the winner of the 2009 Kore Press Book Award and was published in January
2010 by Kore Press. Two of her poems have recently been nominated for Pushcart
Prizes. She is a Park Postdoctoral Fellow at the University of Georgia, where
she teaches creative writing, literature, and composition. www.heathercousins.com