Morgan Parker on Poetry, Prose, and the Power of Curiosity

After wrapping up a whirlwind book tour and closing the chapter on her latest essay collection, You Get What You Pay For, poet, essayist, and novelist Morgan Parker is taking a moment to reflect and reset. A critically acclaimed writer, Parker’s previous books include the poetry collections There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé and Magical Negro, the latter of which won the National Book Critics Circle Award. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and Cave Canem.

In this candid interview, Parker shares insights on navigating the space between creativity and capitalism, experimenting with new genres, and the delicate balance between writing and mental health. Parker offers an intimate look at her writing process, the power of empathy, and her commitment to pushing the boundaries of her craft. Having worked closely with Parker last term, her guidance helped me see new layers in my work and approach revision in a more intentional, strategic way.

Paula Williamson: How have you been spending your summer since wrapping up your book tour?

Morgan Parker: It’s been good, but weird not working on that book anymore. I blocked off the summer to clear my mind and figure out what’s next. I usually juggle multiple projects, but that book took everything I had. Finishing it, then the tour and promotion—it took a while to come down from it. It was all-consuming, so I’ve been piecing my brain back together. Starting something new is hard because you’re still stuck in the old headspace. It’s like you forget how to write anything else. So, I’ve been giving myself time, doing research, and following different threads to see what grabs my interest. This last book just took six years, and that’s just the writing part. On the day the book was published, my editor reminded me that we first met about it seven years ago, so it’s been in my head for that long. It’s hard to move on when you’ve been living in one world for so long. My first instinct is to dive right into a new project, but I’m trying to be more intentional and strategic about it, knowing it’ll consume my life for years. I want to give ideas time to develop and see which ones keep pulling at me before committing. This essay collection was so thematic—I was interpreting the world through that lens. I do the same with poems, where everything gets filtered through a specific perspective. Now, it’s about figuring out what the next lens will be. I can’t keep viewing everything through the lens of a slave ship. I remember when I finished There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé—people kept sending me articles about her. It was like, where do you stop? A book has to end at some point.

PW: Do you know what your next project is?

MP: I haven’t sold a book. I’m in that tough spot between creativity and capitalism. I could’ve just picked the idea that sounds best to my agent and editor, but I hesitate, even with money on the line. I don’t want to trap myself into writing something I’m not passionate about. So, while there’s urgency, it’s also important not to rush into the next thing. I’m trying to give myself as much time as I can to figure it out, though I feel like it’s a novel. I’m most drawn to that—especially the idea of building a world outside of myself.

The novel I’m exploring is based on my grandfather, who was a boxer in Kentucky in the ‘30s, which is a totally different direction for me—a historical novel. I’m enjoying the research, diving into that time period, and realizing how much I don’t know about the South back then.

I’ve also been trying to get back into poems, but nothing’s clicking yet. It’s all staccato. I know the feeling when I’m in the groove, but I’m just not there. I’m enjoying having a space to play with poetry again. I didn’t work on poems while writing You Get What You Pay For because it used a similar part of my brain. Now, I’m excited about creating a narrative and characters while also playing with language through poetry.

PW: One reason I wanted to interview you is because you jump between genres. When I was looking at MFA programs, a lot of writer friends told me that if I didn’t focus on one genre, people might not take my work seriously. I thought that was terrible advice, and it’s why I chose Antioch over other programs. When you were choosing programs, did you just focus on poetry? Did you feel that same stigma?

MP: Yeah, it felt very separate back then, especially when I was in college. I double-majored in anthropology and creative writing, and at Columbia, they had just started the creative writing major. You had to concentrate on either fiction or poetry, so I chose poetry. But poetry wasn’t my whole identity—I’d only recently gotten into it. When I was nine, I knew I wanted to be a writer, but for me, it was always about being a writer in general, not a specific type of writer.

The way MFA programs are set up, like med school or law school, makes sense—you pick a focus, and then you work on getting the book done. But that’s not really how writing careers work. I did the poetry manuscript and submitted it to contests, but no rule says you have to stay in one genre. It’s funny because I haven’t written a poetry book in a while, but it is always in my bio: Morgan Parker, the poet. I wonder how many non-poetry books I’ll write before they change that?

I try to follow ideas rather than swatting away good ones because I’m focused on a particular project. I like having the freedom to pivot and not feel stuck in one thing. Allowing myself that freedom has helped me be kinder to myself.

There’s something about being a poet that means something different to people, but for writers, it shouldn’t be that way. Poets make the best fiction writers because of their attention to language. If you can hone that and bring it to another genre, the work is stronger. So, for me, it’s always been about finding the right container for an idea rather than forcing it into a specific genre.

I’d ask, “Is this an essay or a poem?” It let me write without worrying about the form. Some things even started as essays and turned into poems. I try to follow ideas rather than swatting away good ones because I’m focused on a particular project. I like having the freedom to pivot and not feel stuck in one thing. Allowing myself that freedom has helped me be kinder to myself. I’m usually pretty hard on myself during the writing process, so even small kindnesses—like telling myself, “Just keep writing, even if it’s not a poem”—makes a difference. It’s about tending to the idea and focusing on making the best piece of art.

When I was working on Magical Negro, I was also writing my young adult novel and individual essays, all at the same time. It was a lot, but it was helpful to free myself up. Sometimes, letting your mind wander is exactly what needs to happen.

PW: You double majored in creative writing and anthropology?

MP: Yes, for me, it felt like the most natural thing—it’s for curious people. I remember people thinking it was strange, but I’d walk into the Columbia building with that big picture of Zora Neale Hurston, who was both an author and an anthropologist, who went there, so it shouldn’t be too hard to understand. It worked out for her.

Zora’s someone I think about a lot because there’s a lineage of us who are interested in learning about people—how they are, why they are, and how different communities live. That curiosity is so connected to the writing process and to building worlds.

PW: Is there any other genre that you’re interested in?

MP: I’ve never really written a play—well, except once. I wrote this play in elementary school. That’s what I did at recess when I didn’t have many friends—I directed whatever friends I did have and made them rehearse. The play was about the American Girl dolls waking up in modern times. I was Addy, of course, and we had girls from Victorian and colonial times, all waking up in the present. That was the last time I wrote a play. I’d be interested in trying again.

Lately, as I come up with novel ideas, I’m thinking about narrative more broadly—like, would this work as a play or something more cinematic? I’m letting myself consider different final versions to see what makes the story most exciting. I want to stay in that exploratory space for as long as possible, letting the characters and world tell me what they want to be. When I start a book project, I like to begin with just a bit of an idea and figure it out as I go. At some point, I’ll reassess and ask, is this a novel? Is it something else? Are these the right characters and setting? It’s a lot of start, stop, assess, and start again.

Career-wise, you can either stay in your lane or push yourself in new directions. I’m more inclined to say, “We tried this—let’s try something else.” It’s all about experimentation for me, partly because I get bored and want to challenge myself.

With Who Put This Song On, I knew it was going to be a young adult novel, so I had to think about the YA market and its expectations. But with this project, I feel like I have more freedom to experiment. The big question for me now is tone. Who Put This Song On was based on my life—I had my diaries, notes, photos, and even my high school best friend to help me piece it all together. The soundtrack was already there. But with new projects, I’m asking, how far can I push myself and stretch outside of what I’ve done before?

Career-wise, you can either stay in your lane or push yourself in new directions. I’m more inclined to say, “We tried this—let’s try something else.” It’s all about experimentation for me, partly because I get bored and want to challenge myself. I have built my career on feel and instinct, which has made it exciting. I never had a map or game plan, so it’s still a challenge to see what I can do with this gift. And that’s really important to me.

PW: Last term, when we worked together, you talked about how important it is for the title to do some of the work in your poems. I’ve read your work before, but recently revisiting it, I really get what you meant. Did you develop that approach on your own, or did a mentor or teacher help shape it?

MP: A bit of both. I’ve always been drawn to clarity and love a grabby title that pulls the reader in. We’ve talked a lot about specificity—sometimes, all the reader needs is the scene to enter the poem. I had a workshop leader who showed me how a title could provide information that didn’t fit into the poem. They once cut a line from my poem and said, “That’s the title.” So now I think about the title during editing—it’s all fair game. How does the title play off the poem and vice versa? I’ve also always loved long titles, and my mentors and professors have really encouraged that.

PW: What about You Get What You Paid For. Where did that title come from?

MP: I had a few ideas floating around for the book title. One was Cheaper Than Therapy, which ended up as an essay title. I wanted something that touched on economics but also felt like a phrase you hear all the time. You Get What You Pay For felt right—something people say without thinking about it. I wanted it to allude to slavery without making that the direct focus. I was reading Jay-Z’s book while writing the “Big Pimpin’” essay, and he had a line that said, “If the price is life, you better get what you pay for.” I thought, that’s it. I liked that it tied into Jay-Z’s voice, his connection to capitalism, and “Big Pimpin’.” It also made me think about the phrase in the context of slavery. My editors even asked if I wanted to write an essay about the title, but it’s all there. It’s subtle but direct: you bought these humans, and now you’re complaining? You get what you pay for. It also speaks to how we don’t invest in mental health care or education, and you get what you pay for in those areas, too. I wanted the title to have a bit of a dark, tongue-in-cheek feel.

PW: Are all of your books available on audio?

MP: Magical Negro and There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyoncé are on Audible. Recording audiobooks is so weird. Reading the poems was easier because I’ve read them so many times, but even then, live performances are better. There’s just a different energy. With the essays, I was nervous because I hadn’t performed them before. It was intense, but I got through it pretty quickly—just a day and a half in the studio. They asked if I wanted an actor to read it, but I thought I should do it myself. I did read for an anthology once, and they said I could either read my essay or have an actor do it. Afterward, I saw that Samuel L. Jackson was reading the piece after mine! I thought maybe I should’ve let someone else read this, but it all worked out.

PW: It was nice to have that familiarity listening to it. You didn’t need Samuel L. Jackson. The collection is heavy. On the book tour, when you were reading it so often, how did you keep yourself from feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the subject?

MP: It was hard, but I felt really supported on this tour. The people I was in conversation with, and the audience, were thoughtful and came prepared for the subject matter. I didn’t feel on display—it felt more communal, like we were all there to experience something together, not just to watch me. That made it easier to navigate. I also had to be conscious of creating moments of lightness. I couldn’t fully dive into the deep parts of the conversation for my own sustainability, but I also had to stay engaged with the audience. Traveling can make you feel invisible, and I complained a lot on tour, but it was also the best part of the process. Writing a book like this is isolating, so being in community was refreshing. It’s tough, but being seen and connecting with others made it more bearable. Engaging with people about these heavy topics gave me a sense of grounding and affirmation.

PW: You often write about mental health in your work. How do you take care of your well-being while digging into such personal and challenging topics? Has your relationship with mental health evolved through your writing? Do you find that writing helps you process your experiences, or do you feel compelled to address these themes for other reasons?

MP: I think writing helps me. There’s this back-and-forth between writing and therapy for me—they play off each other. Things I discuss in therapy often show up in my poems, and sometimes I’ll write something that I take to therapy later. It’s like I need to work through things in both spaces to fully understand them. Sometimes, the writing reveals what I need to talk about in therapy, and sometimes, therapy points me toward what I need to write about.

I talk a lot about the creative process in therapy because my creativity is such a big part of my mental health journey. It’s something I think about when it comes to things like medication and sustainability—how my creative life interacts with my mental health.

I talk a lot about the creative process in therapy because my creativity is such a big part of my mental health journey. It’s something I think about when it comes to things like medication and sustainability—how my creative life interacts with my mental health. They go hand in hand, especially in terms of articulation. Both writing and therapy help me name things I didn’t realize were there, bringing clarity to my thoughts and emotions. If I’m not in touch with my emotions or able to articulate them, I feel scattered. So, both writing and therapy help ground me. If I don’t have one, I get a little stuck.

There’s also this balance—they kind of feed into each other. One loosens the jar, and the other opens it. Writing often gives me the courage to face things in therapy and vice versa. And it’s a way to check in with myself. Sometimes, I’ll read something I’ve written and think, “Oh, I’m not okay.” That’s when I know I need an appointment. Writing is always going to be part of my life, and so is my mental health. So the question is, how can I make them work together instead of against me?

I talk about all this with my psychiatrist, too. There’s a balance between protecting that vulnerable, emotional part of myself while still allowing access to those messy feelings. Self-protection doesn’t mean shutting down or avoiding emotions—it’s about knowing how to deal with them when they come up, whether it’s in writing or life. And that’s where therapy helps process everything that surfaces during the creative process.

PW: I appreciated how, in your essays, you discussed therapists who weren’t necessarily bad but just weren’t the right fit. It’s not something we hear often, but it’s a real struggle—especially if you need to find someone using insurance. Therapy isn’t the kind of relationship where you can just settle for whoever’s available. You also addressed the practical side of things, like the cost and how hard it can be to find help when you’re in the thick of it.

MP: That’s the thing. It’s so hard even when you’re doing it, you know what I mean? But so many people don’t even want to go to therapy, and of course, they’re not going to go when it’s so hard to find someone. And then it’s expensive. There are so many little pieces of it that are frustrating.

PW: They make it so hard you’re like, forget it.

MP: And that’s not okay. We all know the broad strokes, but I wanted to break down the tiny, annoying things. These are all things that people who have been in therapy for a long time know but other people aren’t thinking about that. It’s so hard to find good mental health care, you know, and we shame people who don’t have access to mental health care.

PW: What are you reading for fun?

MP: Well, for research, I’m reading Joe Lewis’s biography. I also just read Sam Sacks’ novel, You’re Dead, because we did an event together—it was great. As for what I’m watching, it’s mostly garbage because it’s summer. I just started MasterChef Junior, and those kids are incredible. Earlier this summer, I was reading a lot of Terrance Hayes’ poems, along with more biographies, and I’ve got a stack of books on jazz, including interviews with musicians.

PW: Finally, what do you hope readers take away from your work?

MP: Empathy, empathy, empathy, and freedom. Freedom in terms of craft—allowing writers to use language in a way that feels authentic to them. Curious empathy for others, I think we need to foster more curiosity about each other because that’s what leads to empathy. That’s where I see a big societal flaw—we’re so dismissive of each other that there’s no room for empathy even to enter, seeing each other as threats instead of allies.  I hope my work encourages readers to see the world differently than they did before.