Wobbling With The World: An Interview with Chen Chen
I usually say writer or teacher, and then they ask me what I teach, and I say writing. And then they say: what kind of writing do you teach? And then I say poetry.
I usually say writer or teacher, and then they ask me what I teach, and I say writing. And then they say: what kind of writing do you teach? And then I say poetry.
I think about infrastructure in terms of systems. I like to think of the types of spaces and publics that I’ve occupied at various points in my life: as a queer person of color, as a queer Latinx, queer Chicana, queer Latino/a child of immigrants, and all the ways that (these spaces and publics) facilitate cross-class, cross-group contact.
actually came to write for middle grades by accident. When I first started working on See You in the Cosmos, I just had this idea for a story about a boy and his dog trying to launch his iPod into space. I wasn’t necessarily thinking about the age of my audience; I was just trying to tell a good story.
Thank you for the compliment. I needed to tell the story of this marriage—to show what covert abuse really looks like—in painstaking detail. People love to say that Marriage takes work. All over the world, domestic abuse victims are thinking, Wow, I guess this is the work that everyone’s talking about.
I’ve always gravitated to poetry. I remember writing in high school for the literary journal. Then, in college, I started taking creative writing courses, specifically poetry ones and even changed my major to English from Anthropology—primarily because I had taken an Intro to Poetry writing course and loved it.
I realized I had to do this for better or worse.
I started writing Double Down South based on a memory of a woman who came into a pool hall I hung out in, in Nashville, when I was 13 or 14. The people who ran the place were all called Nick—nasty guys who said things 14-year-olds shouldn’t hear and didn’t understand but knew were inappropriate.
There was nothing about my upbringing, on the surface, that would have prepared me for the life I was going to lead—one that now seems fated because of the way I went after my interests, which were not the interests of the people around me. I read constantly. I checked out recordings of Broadway musicals. I was interested in performance.
One of the signature pieces of mine at 826LA is to integrate mindfulness into our pedagogy, because the world has been traumatized over the last five years, particularly. You don’t have to look far to see what we’ve been through as a country, with COVID-19, with the racial reckoning, a failed coup, and everything else. People are traumatized.
It’s good for me, in my own brain and life, to talk about these issues. It brings up a sort of mindfulness for me in terms of my own emotional storm. It’s good that it feels like a broader issue around the way that the world cares for mothers, and around depression, and not just about me, because mom rage doesn’t feel like such a constant anymore in my life.
The origins come from the life I was living and writing about while I attended Louisiana State University for Creative Writing. I wrote a story about a man wandering around Baton Rouge, where the novel is set. My professor, James Wilcox, liked the story and suggested I continue it. I went to law school instead.
What I hoped to do with Neruda on the Park was to think about displacement, not just through gentrification, but also– through the lens of womanhood, right? To think about how we as women are sometimes displaced from ourselves. My family and I immigrated from the Dominican Republic to New York City when I was ten. We were separated from my father, and my mother worked 24 hours a day.
Making a living as a writer is not easy, but it’s possible. Workshop can be challenging. To learn about writing, you have to open yourself up to so much vulnerability. Not only with what you’re writing, but simply being a writer at your desk who wants to have people take your things seriously. The thing I don’t want anyone to feel, after interacting with me, is discouraged.
That realization that over the course of my conscious, known life, I had spent less than 24 hours with my mother, did not occur to me until very late in the writing and editing process. That realization changed the writing of the book, it changed the arc of the book, it made the book what it is. Which is wild, because it’s a very simple thing: how much time have I actually spent with her?
Community has always been important to me, both personally and professionally. I think that’s a value I picked up from my parents, with a healthy boost from my own extroverted tendencies. I also spent my early career as a magazine editor, which is an extremely collaborative job. So all of these things naturally affect my writing practice now that I am self-employed.
I love writing about animals and nature. I write about animals as well in my short fiction, and it just occurred to me that Dolores is an octopus. Octopuses change color. I love octopuses and am fascinated by them. That was where I went initially with that image. Then I started thinking about who it was that was telling us this, who it is that’s observing this. Why is she interested in this?
I think that’s kind of the point of an MFA. There are obviously a lot of reasons for an MFA, but one thing it affords you is this community of writers to say, “Oh my god, I love your work. Can I talk to you about this? Can we talk and trade work?” All that is invaluable. I didn’t realize how much of writing is being with other writers and reading each other’s work and talking about each other’s work.
I birthed twins this year. That’s how it has been with three of my poetry collections, each written alongside a novel. They weren’t published together, but Jubilee and Landscape with Headless Mama are twins, Trinity Sight and Rosa’s Einstein are twins, and Belly to the Brutal and River Woman, River Demon are twins. In both the poetry collection and in the novel, I am healing bloodlines of mother-daughter.
I was nineteen, the same age as Mary Shelley when she initially wrote Frankenstein. I was a sophomore in college, and I read Frankenstein in a Romantic Lit course. I was drawn to it on three levels. As a biracial Asian person, I was really taken with the Creature’s story, as are many people of color, because the Creature is clearly defined as Other.
I feel like I took a relatively non-traditional path to where I’m at right now. I think it involved a little bit of ignorance early on in my writing career. When I say that, I mean, I never planned on being a writer in the traditional sense of like, “I want to get a book published.” I wanted friends, I wanted to engage with people, and I wanted community.
It was a combination of literary and non-literary influences. I work for Environmental Defense Fund. I have done a lot of work around what it means to engage both with colleagues at the organization and with communities who are experiencing the impacts of the Anthropocene immediately and directly. That’s really shifted how I think about my work as a writer.
One of the things I deliberately left out when I wrote about the island in the book was its size, because in real life it’s like three by two miles. It’s not very big. I wanted to be able to not pin myself down to a specific size because I plan to set more work there.
A lot of these poems were written when I wasn’t well. Poetry came to me later in life. I was really in a weird mental state and one thing that’s common among people on the schizo spectrum is this interest in mysticism and Eastern philosophies, although it’s not always the case.
Lovato: I had several original titles, one of which was Digging for Salvation. Another one was Américan with an accent on the E because I stopped calling myself American long ago. As you read my book, you’ll discover I saw some horrific things done with the support of America…
I hadn’t read many memoirs before I started to write my own. When my agent Barbara Berson said, “You’ve got a nonfiction book here.” It was scary for me to say, “This is not a fictionalized world.” I hadn’t gone out of my way to read anything in preparation for writing it.
Because of the fact that I did my MFA in fiction, I actually hadn’t read that many memoirs. But then I started as a staff writer for Buzzfeed News in the fall of 2015, and one of the first pieces that I wrote for them was a genre review of trans women’s memoirs. That was when I became interested.
Wilkinson: A lot of it was intuitive at first. A lot of it was writing and trauma, writing about difficult subjects. It feels possible to do that by writing in fragments, to take bits and pieces and then try to assemble them into some sort of holistic body after the fact, as opposed to just telling a nice, unified narrative.
I knew I wanted to write about the Korean War, which is why I started in 1951, but I was mostly interested in the aftermath. When we think about how we learned about war in our history textbooks, it’s always delineated as a discrete period of time. The Korean War lasted from 1950 to 1953, but the effects on the people took time to manifest, especially when we’re thinking about intergenerational trauma. . .
My novel is about an eighteen-year-old girl, or woman depending on your nomenclature, who, in a summer, has two emotionally complicated sexual relationships with men she hasn’t known very long. I wanted to write an adventure story like the adventures young men get to have all the time. . .
I don’t prefer one over the other. They are quite different in the fact that they allow for different types of information to be imagined and communicated. They are the same in the sense that both of them have a wide variety of modes attached to them. You don’t write just one poem. You can learn to write an elegy, an ode, a sonnet. . .
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