A continuation from “A Visit from Jay Deshpande”, July 16, 2022. My course professor kindly forwarded on my questions to Jay, who has answered in new spheres of insight.

Q: If I wanted to be a poet, are there any specific steps you’d recommend I take now in high school? In college? After college? Would you suggest having a fallback plan, since writing doesn’t always seem like a very pragmatic career choice?

The best thing for becoming a writer is and remains to read as deeply and broadly as possible; read things that seem unrelated, just following your curiosity wherever it goes. You never know what’s going to feed your poems. But if you’re reading consistently and writing as much as you can (without too much concern about whether it’s good or not), this will all sharpen your instincts and your tastes. 

The question of career is actually a different one. Writers support themselves through all kinds of careers. Some writers make their living by writing: publishing novels, or working as journalists, or being technical writers specializing in one field or another. Many other options. Lots of other writers support themselves by teaching, whether it’s teaching creative writing or academic writing or something else. But I also know writers who are doctors, lawyers, professional poker players, falconers, publishers, advertising execs, you name it. The real crux is about finding a way to build a life that makes room for your creativity; and then to reinvent that life over and over again. But sadly, writing in itself is not a pragmatic career choice… people usually have to find another means of financial support.

Q: Do you think that poets have some obligation to depict relevant political or social issues in their writing? In these cases, do you think that writing becomes more of an act of public service than personal exploration?

This is such a good q and there are lots of different opinions on it. If you want to get more of a sense for how different writers approach the question of politics and ethical responsibility—and very different views on it—I might suggest reading interviews with/essays by Ilya Kaminsky, Wallace Stevens, Ross Gay, Aracelis Girmay, Solmaz Sharif, Adrienne Rich, sam sax, Monica Sok, Eavan Boland, Muriel Rukeyser. A million others, but these poets all have interesting perspectives on the question.

Q: How long does it usually take you to finish a poem, from when you first think of an idea to when you publish it?

There’s no clear rule or answer for how long a poem takes, for me and for most poets I know. Some poems have come off in 20 drafts; some happened basically whole and required very little editing. But it’s also hard to know if a poem is properly “done”; it never really tells you that. Sometimes it’s just about realizing that I can’t do any more with this poem now, or that my friends/colleagues who have read it feel satisfied with it, or that I’m just sick of it. Paul Valery: “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” (!)

Q: Are there any books or authors you enjoyed reading when you were younger? Any you’ve read recently?

When I started out, I loved TS Eliot and Billy Collins—two very different voices, but ones who I adored and who brought me to the page. I also drew great inspiration (and continue to) from Rainer Maria Rilke, Wallace Stevens, Denis Johnson, Linda Gregg, Jack Gilbert, Seamus Heaney, Mei-mei Berssenbrugge, and John Ashbery. The list could go on forever! But when you find people you’re drawn to, read up on them and see who their comrades/contemporaries are, or who they published alongside. It can help expand your sense of a kind of network of poetic influences. 

Q: Do you believe there are ways to improve creativity? 

Improving creativity: this is an amazing question. I certainly think creativity is plastic: it’s not that some people have it and some people don’t (unless you’re using a very narrow definition of creativity, or referring to individuals with severe cognitive impairment). I do think that creativity is kind of like a muscle. And that’s why so much of becoming a poet, or strengthening your capacities as an artist, is less about improving and perfecting your poems and more about learning how to be a good companion to your own instincts, impulses, curiosities, passions, fears, etc. It’s learning to live alongside the part of yourself that gets super inspired all of a sudden, the “omg this is the best idea anyone’s ever had” feeling; and also the part of yourself that is a hypercritical editor, the “all your ideas are shit and shouldn’t be shared with the world” feeling. The fact is that we have to move through so many different self states within a life, within a mind. 

But here’s the thing, Sarah. Creativity is also inherent to our being in the world, as humans. It’s connected to making sense, making meaning of all that’s around us. It’s in how we use language, how we love, how we fear, all of it. And at its root, creativity is about play: play in the mind, play with others, playing make-believe and let’s-pretend. One very key element of honing and honoring one’s creativity is to make room for the inner child, and to return as regularly as possible to the parts of yourself that had wild and fun ideas and acted on them, without self-consciousness or pragmatism or any self-negating impulse. Play is, I think, the real reason we make art. So if you honor your capacity to play—even if it’s not making a poem—you’re doing a service to the creative impulse, in yourself and in the universe, in the muse, whatever you might call it.

I hope this helps. I’m wishing you all good things.

Best,

Jay