Seventh Wave: What is a question you’re asking yourself these days, and/or, what’s a question you are or your work is asking of your reader?

Liana: In what ways do we limit ourselves creatively by adhering to traditional modes of writing? How are we stopping ourselves from growing when we value publishing as the end-all-be-all? For a very long time, my ultimate goal was to publish a capital-B Book. I thought it would prove to myself I was a “good” writer, that I had the discipline to finish a long project. Now I’ve shifted focus; I’d still like to write a book one day, but I don’t view it as the end goal. More importantly, how do I feel about it? Can I be proud of the work? Is it helping me and the people around me grow? Am I putting something meaningful into the world?

Form is everything to me (“the medium is the message,” à la Marshall McLuhan.) Sometimes I think I prioritize it too much, but if the form isn’t good, I can’t write the content. Maybe this is the “poetic” part of my writing that tends to live between prose and poetry. In observing my process over the past few months, I’ve found that simply moving to a different program—from a Word document to Canva—can spark a lot for me creatively. The word document felt too restrictive, and once I was able to add images and arrange things without spatial restriction in Canva, new possibilities emerged. I’ve also been getting into book arts, so the value of material and labor of bookmaking is very precious to me. It challenges me to think about the book not just as a vessel for content, but as an art piece in itself. In the age of mass publishing and capitalism and excess, I want to slow down and appreciate the labor of making a beautiful book. Writing is so much more than the words—I think of the graphic designers, typesetters, letterpress printers, editors, and papermakers. 

TSW: What’s a mantra, motto, or piece of advice that you have in mind these days when you are writing or creating? And/or tell about a writing routine or ritual that keeps you beginning.

Liana: First, process over product. Over the past few years I’ve been trying to deprogram myself from the toxic things I’ve learned in college and the publishing industry. You don’t have to write every day. Writing isn’t about publishing or selling something. Winning awards and grants doesn’t correlate to the quality of someone’s work. Writing is an artistic practice, and it should be sustainable, joyful, and meaningful (Ariana Brown’s writing philosophy.) Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me if the writing doesn’t feel easy, but writing is actually very hard, and the hard things are worth doing, even if no one ever sees it.

Second, be honest with yourself. I recently experienced this strange anxiety about my writing—I wasn’t writing a lot, so I thought I’d “run out” of ideas for nonfiction and poetry. I considered writing fiction to feel inspired again. I was talking to my friend Urvi about this, who is an incredible writer, and she asked: why do you want to write fiction when your nonfiction and poetry is good? I think I said I wasn’t feeling inspired by my work anymore. I wasn’t being completely honest with myself in that moment, because what I really wanted was to do what everyone else was doing—sell a fiction book. I thought I was less of a legitimate writer for not writing fiction, but I knew deep down that I didn’t feel called to it at all. So now I’ve just doubled down on what I feel moved to do, which is creative nonfiction and poetry. And experimenting with form. I’m also interacting more with the archives as I explore curatorial work. Maybe I’ll feel drawn to fiction in the future.

Third, it’s okay to make mistakes. I’m a perfectionist, as capitalism intended, so this was a hard thing for me to learn (and I’m still learning). Celine Sciamma, director of Portrait of a Lady on Fire and a big inspiration for me, acknowledged in an interview that her past projects were collaborating with patriarchy instead of resisting it. She used to think of herself as a reformist, not a revolutionary. Her political growth is what allowed Portrait to become a truly feminist film. I believe transformation isn’t possible without acknowledging our mistakes, because that’s how we change. Art can’t be separated from the artist, it’s a reflection of who we are—our desires, anxieties, dreams. What I write and stand by today could change tomorrow. I look back at my past work and cringe, but I also admire my own conviction. I would not be here without trying new things, failing, and believing in myself. 

TSW: What’s a question you wish someone would ask you?

Liana: What is your creative process? I personally love hearing artists talk about their process because it feels like you’re getting a behind-the-scenes look at how things are made. I’m a big fan of The Creative Independent because they interview artists about process and their relationship to labor. In my process, I get inspired by the archives—objects, events, people, documents. I start making connections around themes I see in my own life, or things I’ve observed about the world. Then I start “collecting” things into documents—images, sentences, quotes. Usually, after that, something starts to take shape. I think of it like a raccoon scavenging for food, or a curator putting together an exhibit. My process (and my metaphor for it) is still a work in progress. I’m working on a zine about it now for some upcoming tabling festivals, so hopefully I’ll have more clarity about it soon.

Whenever I read fiction, a genre that is so elusive to me, I ask myself: how did they do it? Art can seem very mysterious and inaccessible sometimes, especially in the fine art world, but at the end of the day it’s also work anyone is capable of doing. I’m learning to carry the imaginative and practical sides of writing. Yes I’ll get inspired and type something fully-formed in my notes app at 4am, but also, how do I make writing a consistent practice even when it feels bad? I’m at the stage in my life where a lot of things are shifting for me with new jobs and career interests. I’ve noticed I spend way too much time applying to things like residencies and mentorships. Yes these are potentially beneficial opportunities for my art, but in the thick of it I forget about my own writing. How can I bring the same disciplined energy I dedicate for applications towards writing and creating? That’s what I’m struggling with currently.

Seventh Wave: Tell us about your work or what you’re writing these days. What or who are you writing for?

Amandalynne: This wasn’t exactly a stated goal of mine, but lately I find that I spend a lot of time writing about violence. I write about language loss, language theft, and the violence of borders, and I write about the physical and emotional harm that people direct at themselves and others. I suspect this is because care and preservation are hard-fought priorities of mine, so I am obsessed by their opposites (neglect and destruction). But don’t worry, I also love to laugh and have fun! 

TSW: What’s a mantra, motto, or piece of advice that you have in mind these days when you are writing or creating? 

Amandalynne: I am not always writing to be read, but when I am, I keep the following in mind: No one is going to wrench your manuscript out of your hands before you want them to (I believe I first heard this in a class taught by Melissa Febos). Just write the crummy first draft as if nobody’s looking (because they aren’t), and then, figure out which of your friends have good taste and show it to them. 

I believe very strongly in showing people my work before I feel “ready” to do so, because with something as delicate and humiliating as my own work, I will probably never feel “ready” to share it. I’m OK with embarrassing myself if it means getting useful feedback and/or entertaining somebody.

TSW: What motivates you to keep beginning?

Amandalynne: All of my writing comes from a curiosity that borders on obsession and a compulsion to document everything. Also, to quote a character from Mean Girls, I just have a lot of feelings. 

TSW: What’s a question that another resident asked during our time together, and how would you answer it? 

Amandalynne: Camille Iman asked, “Do you strive towards publishing your work?” My answer is not really! Or at least, not yet. I am at a point where I am generating a lot of writing — I have a project in Evernote that is approaching 60k words — and I am confident that at some point, I will refine that brain dump into something that another human being might care to look at. Ha ha. 

Seventh Wave: Tell us about your work or what you’re writing these days. What or who are you writing for?

Nyree: In Armenia, where I live, we’re grappling with the aftermath of war and ethnic cleansing, plus massive geopolitical shifts in our region. It’s an uncertain and existentially troubling time. I try to make sense of it all by listening to and telling stories. I’m working on a podcast, a poetry collection and on building a community of storytellers.

Country of Dust is an English-language narrative podcast about life in a changing Armenia. We tell the stories of the people who are living through this turbulent time in a way that we hope will inform and build empathy, whether or not you are familiar with our region. Our first season is available on all podcast platforms and we’re currently working on season two. 

At the same time, I’m working on a poetry collection that explores language, land, and identity – where are how they intersect, and what happens when those links are ruptured. More concretely, my work stems from my experiences in the recent war and ethnic cleansing of Artsakh, and my family’s history of resistance and displacement in Musa Dagh, in present-day southeastern Turkey. 

And finally, I co-founded the Tumanyan International Storytelling Festival, an annual gathering in the mountains of northern Armenia which aims to reconnect contemporary audiences with the tradition of storytelling and help construct new narratives. After two successful iterations of the festival, we are now exploring ways to continue supporting and expanding our community of storytellers worldwide. 

TSW: When you are working in multiple forms and genres, how do you settle on the form for each project?

Nyree: It really depends on the tone and texture of what I’m trying to communicate. In late 2020, I was trying to write a long-form article that would capture the multiple layers of uncertainty in the immediate aftermath of the war in Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh). But rather than a neat narrative, what came out was a disordered and fragmented series of images. It wasn’t intentional, but poetry presented itself as the best medium for what I needed to convey.

With Country of Dust, my co-producers and I wanted to get to the heart of the nuanced and varied experience of life in Armenia today, and it felt like it needed to be conversational, so it made sense to think of it as a series of audio documentaries.

It’s often a challenge to switch modes between projects, but at their best, they intersect in the most beautiful ways – they inform, inspire and grow from one another. I might be conducting an interview for the podcast, and the person will say something that will be the first line of a poem.

TSW: What is a question you’re asking yourself these days, and, what’s a question you are or your work is asking of your reader?

Nyree: I think for the most part, the questions I’m asking myself are the same ones I’m asking of my reader. In my poetry, especially, I’m asking: “What does it mean to belong to a place?” and “What do we hold onto when the earth shifts beneath our feet?” 

I’m also curious about how people behave in urgent situations. What compels us to act? What can poetry (and art, in general) do? 

TSW: What’s a mantra, motto, or piece of advice that you have in mind these days when you are writing or creating?

Nyree: It’s not a mantra or a motto, but I’m learning how to strike the right balance between listening when inspiration strikes, and committing to a regular writing practice. When an idea or a phrase keeps me up at night, I grab hold and run with it. But I also don’t rely solely on these revelatory moments. When I’m able to commit time and space every day to my creative practice, I see how it blooms. 

Depending on what else is going on in my life and other projects, how much time I can dedicate to writing shifts from season to season. But the more disciplined I am in sticking to my designated writing time,  the more seemingly random moments of inspiration float my way.