Poetry — and more broadly — creative writing, has become an integral part of my identity over the past decade. The poem is the culmination of hundreds of lived nights and days, a diary, a retelling and reformulation of our collective experience out of the ordinary. My current journey in becoming an established and recognized Canadian author in the formalised canon has been both an impossibly daunting chasm, and the only light within the chasm. For ten years of writing, as an outsider artist, I initially relied solely on my intuition, allowing my emotions and personal experiences to guide my writing; however, my understanding of creative writing changed — and improved — drastically during my first two years of academic education. I am happily surprised to find the profound impact the scholastic setting and instructive pedagogy — as well as workshopping — has had on my creative and imaginative craft. I discovered a structured, rigorous approach which enhances my work and, with the guidance of my professors, allows me the capacity of developing my skills and improving my creative writing abilities.

The Convergence of Creative and Academic Writing

The history of creative writing as an academic discipline can be traced back to the late 19th century. At this point, it was largely seen as an extension of the traditional schooling system, with students being taught the basics of writing and composition in classrooms. By the early 20th century, however, the field had evolved into a more complex discipline, with courses being offered in universities and colleges around the world; however, despite this, relatively little has been written about the experiences or qualities of labour undertaken by creative academics, particularly in relation to the ‘intersection’ of creative and academic work (Strange et al.). The supposed intersection of these two modes of thinking are rife with impossibly heavy roadblocks, as evident by the tension between the academic and creative writer identity, the dichotomy of two identities as struggling and competing against each other for ‘supremacy’ (Yoo). Yet, to be an effective poet, one must look for a sense of order in one’s own chaos, to reflect and construct stories out of experiences and moments — steeped in emotion, care, and dedication. Creative writing encourages growth in critical thinking, writing and research in ways other subjects do not — allowing the academic a unique setting for experimentation and new paradigms. This, too, says nothing of the involvement of the required study of literary techniques or forms, the history of literary movements, and the critical analysis of literary texts.

The richness and depth of creative writing is, in reality, a great benefit for the academic scholar, as “academic writers need to create opportunities to refine their creative writing craft” (Yoo). When reflecting on my own thought process, the ability to understand and differentiate between my own interior landscapes, from a place of language, emotions, and imagination is conjured. The contemplative nature of my writing allows me to witness life and the lessons it brings, and to slowly turn them into lyrics, visions, and potential stories of transformative potential — and, frankly, many academics are not skilled at knowing how to use image, language, movement, in artistically refined ways; this lack of skill can impact their ability to convey the richness of knowing (Yoo).

The conversation of research is plainly evident within creative writing as well — as the writer’s creative process as follows: problem, investigation, expression, insight, announcement, reaction and refinement, and this would seem to be closely analogous to the academic research process; an approach that has led to the traditional Introduction, Methodology, Research, Discussion (IMRD) model of research Writing (Pople and Michael). In my own practice, when I am writing poetry, I am engaging in conversations of research — investigating, exploring, and uncovering the depths of my own experience, and engaging with the work of others. This conversation of research within creative writing is, perhaps, the most important element of my own academic journey. Understanding the nuances of creative writing academically — and in practice — helps me become a thoughtful and effective poet and artist. Cultivating a greater appreciation for the process of writing, the delicate balance of structure and freedom, and the need to be conscious of the implications of my work. My journey into poetry has changed significantly since my youth, and it is with great earnestness that I continue to explore and own my place within the larger body of Canadian literature. I believe that these changes have allowed me to create better and more meaningful work, and to be a part of the ongoing, essential and evolving conversation of literature in this country.

Embracing the Canadian Literary Landscape?

When it comes to my poetic influences, they are frankly not straightforwardly Canadian. My early years of writing were heavily steeped in the great American writers of the Modernist movement of poetry: The Confessionalists waxing the dysfunction of the autobiography such as Plath, Sexton, Lowell; The distilling and sifting of Imagist poets such as William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound; The anti-establishment ethos of the countercultural beat poets of the 1950s; Sappho and her love of everything that smelled like pomegranates and figs.

In the Canadian context, I find myself more recently drawn to the great poets such as Anne Carson, bpNichol, George Elliott Clarke, and Margaret Atwood. Carson’s fragmentary style, blending poetry and prose, has influenced my own approach to writing. Brand’s and Clarke’s exploration of identity and place, particularly as it pertains to Black Canadians, has resonated with me deeply. Atwood’s ability to combine social commentary with poetic lyricism is something that I strive for in my own work. In addition, I’m interested in the low-key movement of Canadian Queer Poetry, particularly Gwen Benaway and Billy-Ray Belcourt. I am also inspired by the songwriting of Leonard Cohen, Stan Rogers, and Joni Mitchell. These writers have all influenced my work, both stylistically and thematically — and have provided me with a great deal of both inspiration and guidance.

As excited as I am to insert myself into the current conversation of my nation’s poetry — archive, canon, whichever vocabulary one prefers — I, too, am deeply hesitant. The idealistic notion of pure academia, or the meritocracy of poetry, is realistically skewered by politics, bias, and a deep problematic past: How does an emerging poet insert themselves into the conversation when even in the canon’s more recent incarnations, women, Indigenous authors, writers of colour, those with disabilities, and members of the LGBTQ+ community are underrepresented? The answer is, Creative writing encourages growth in critical thinking, writing, and research in ways other subjects do not — allowing the academic a unique setting for experimentation and new paradigms. This, too, says nothing of the involvement of the required study of literary techniques or forms, the history of literary movements, and the critical analysis of literary texts.

The richness and depth of creative writing are, in reality, a great benefit for the academic scholar. Joanne Yoo even argues that “academic writers need to create opportunities to refine their creative writing craft.” When reflecting on my own thought process, the ability to understand and differentiate between my own interior landscapes, from a place of language, emotions, and imagination is conjured. The contemplative nature of my writing allows me to witness life and the lessons it brings, and to slowly turn them into lyrics, visions, and potential stories of transformative potential. And frankly, Yoo hits the nail on the head when she observes that “many academics are not skilled at ‘know[ing] how to use image, language, movement, in artistically refined ways’; this lack of skill can impact their ability to convey the richness of knowing.”

The conversation of research is plainly evident within creative writing as well. For instance, Pople and Michael describe “the writer’s creative process as follows: problem, investigation, expression, insight, announcement, reaction, and refinement.” They argue that this mirrors the academic research process, suggesting a kinship between creative exploration and academic inquiry. In my own practice, when I am writing poetry, I am engaging in conversations of research — investigating, exploring, and uncovering the depths of my own experience, and engaging with the work of others.

This conversation of research within creative writing is, perhaps, the most important element of my own academic journey. Understanding the nuances of creative writing academically — and in practice — helps me become a thoughtful and effective poet and artist. Cultivating a greater appreciation for the process of writing, the delicate balance of structure and freedom, and the need to be conscious of the implications of my work.

Going Forward into the Gaping Maw

My journey into poetry has changed significantly since my youth, and it is with great earnestness that I continue to explore and own my place within the larger body of Canadian literature. I believe that these changes have allowed me to create better and more meaningful work and to be a part of the ongoing, essential, and evolving conversation of literature in this country.

When it comes to my poetic influences, they are frankly not straightforwardly Canadian. My early years of writing were heavily steeped in the great American writers of the Modernist movement of poetry: The Confessionalists like Plath, Sexton, Lowell; Imagist poets such as William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound; the anti-establishment ethos of the countercultural beat poets of the 1950s; and not forgetting the ancient whispers of Sappho and her vivid verses.

In the Canadian context, I find myself more recently drawn to the works of poets such as Anne Carson, bpNichol, George Elliott Clarke, and Margaret Atwood. Carson’s fragmentary style, blending poetry and prose, has influenced my own approach to writing. Brand’s and Clarke’s exploration of identity and place, particularly as it pertains to Black Canadians, has resonated with me deeply. Atwood’s ability to combine social commentary with poetic lyricism is something I strive for in my own work. Additionally, the low-key movement of Canadian Queer Poetry, particularly the works of Gwen Benaway and Billy-Ray Belcourt, holds a certain allure. I am also inspired by the poignant songwriting of Leonard Cohen, Stan Rogers, and Joni Mitchell. These writers have all influenced my work, both stylistically and thematically, and have provided me with a great deal of both inspiration and guidance.

As excited as I am to insert myself into the current conversation of my nation’s poetry — archive, canon, or whichever vocabulary one prefers — I, too, am deeply hesitant. The idealistic notion of pure academia, or the meritocracy of poetry, is realistically skewered by politics, bias, and a deep problematic past. How does an emerging poet insert themselves into the conversation when, as Jim Johnstone insightfully points out in his anthology “Next Wave, The: An Anthology of 21st Century Canadian Poetry”, even in the canon’s more recent incarnations, there’s a stark underrepresentation of marginalized groups?

The answer is, perhaps, that there is no single canon, particularly with “the rise of counter-canons” to benefit the many marginalised and disenfranchised communities from our nation’s coast to shining coast. In other words, multiple conversations happening at once — perhaps harmoniously, perhaps in cacophony. Such a fumbling, brave new world begs the question of which conversation does my work and my poetry belong — or where do Heft and Pluviophile or Infinite Citizen belong? At the same time as asking these rhetorical questions, I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the irony of commentating on the hypermodern democratisation of verse in an essay on academic rigour — the exact elitism creating walled gardens of words, inhibiting the evolution of such conversations.

Stepping back, I believe there is meaningfulness in the struggle to find validity — the tension between the total freedom of creativity, and our inherent desire for measurement and precedent in theory — the heartbreak of receiving a C+ on your first love poem — the paradox independence and conformity — the impossibility of a life dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, and the understanding that the knowledge of life is infinitely unknowable. As Whitman wrote,

“Do I contradict myself? / Very well then, I contradict myself.”

We are, before anything else, storytellers — from the Upper Paleolithic period around 40,000 years ago of oral tradition to the Instapoetry of now.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race”

I am a storyteller and a poet, looking to the past and future, writing and researching, understanding and creating. Through my ongoing journey of becoming a Canadian author, the necessity of balance between creative and academic writing has been illuminated. By developing my understanding of creative writing and engaging in the scholastic setting, I have been able to cultivate a greater appreciation for the process of writing, the delicate balance between structure and freedom, and the implications of my work. I am forever inspired by the great poets of my homeland and abroad, and am humbled to explore my place in the ongoing, essential, and ever-evolving conversation of literature in Canada with trepidation. With this, I look to the future of my writing with a sense of hope and endless optimism.