Q&A with Michael Wilson

Where are you from and where did you grow up?

I’m originally from South Bend, Indiana—a smallish city in the northern reaches of the state, what you could consider the Great Lakes region.

What sparked you to become a writer? How did your literary journey begin?

It might sound cliché, but it really has been something I’ve always done. Stories have been my passion for such a long time it’s hard to place exactly when or what triggered it, but I think my love for poetry specifically came from a fifth grade reading assignment: as students we were tasked with memorizing certain poems and reciting them to the class. I was given a section of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” which was filled with a diction and vocabulary I hardly understood. After days of forced proximity to this poem, I began paying attention to the footnotes (I think this was also the first time I realized what footnotes were) and the pieces started coming together. It went from “what the hell is this guy on about” to a dawning realization that this man was trying to forget someone, trying to nurse his grief, only to be disrupted by some bewitched bird. I think that’s the moment I realized that poetry has an incredible capacity for both music and narrative, rather than just sounding vaguely pleasurable when certain words rhyme.

What are some books or authors that have significantly influenced your work?

 Poe, as mentioned, was an early influence, but I didn’t really discover more modern poetry until college when I started reading Ross Gay, Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Anne Carson, Edward Hirsch…that’s when things really started to open up for me. Ross Gay was actually teaching at Indiana University at the time, where I went to school, and his collection Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude felt like it was on the tip of everyone’s tongues. That was probably my most influential book, one that taught me about address and voice and how to balance tone within a poem while still allowing it to feel light, breathless, almost easy.

How do you keep yourself motivated and inspired as a literary professional?

I think we are simultaneously living in one of the best times for literature and one of the worst times. I say this because there are so many incredible new voices that would maybe never have been published a decade or a few decades ago, releasing these incredible stories and collections that seem to become instant classics. At the same time, the literary arts are being constantly imperiled by the rise of generative AI and techno-fascism, the realities of the attention economy, the fact that so many people just hate (or never learned how to love) reading. So it’s inspiring to see writers push against this and continue to advocate for art, for taking our time, for grappling with uncomfortable or contradictory truths…and whenever I write, I’m writing towards that ethos. We call poetry “the long conversation” for a reason: it happens in concert with all those that came before you and all that will come after. I am tapping into a state of joy and resistance every time I write, and—though it is a solitary activity—I never feel truly alone.

What is your philosophy towards teaching literature or writing?

In Billy Collins’ 1998 poem “Introduction to Poetry,” he says:

“I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.”

This is what I aim towards when teaching literature. I think much work has been done with critical dialogue and critical reading, with looking at a piece as asking, “but what does it really mean?” But I also think this can do such harm to a poem, a story, a work of art—we need to move our way through these pieces feelingly, and only then can we begin to put together some of the meanings the author may have tucked away for us to find. This is also why I think many, many Americans grew up hating poetry: they were taught to read a poem as if unlocking a 4-dimensional puzzle box. We rush to meaning, rather than thinking alongside the poem, letting it rest in the canal of our ears and listening to its soft murmurations. Reading, and writing, is epistemological; it informs our thinking. If we end class by saying, “and this whole poem was just a metaphor for the speaker’s grief over his dead mother,” then we really haven’t accomplished anything epistemological, have we? Aside from, maybe, teaching students that all poems are just tricks dressed up in enjambment and unusual syntax.

How do you describe your teaching style?

Dynamic. I will always let my students know exactly what I have planned for the day, and will always let them know that we will certainly deviate from that plan as much as necessary. I have great fun lecturing—I’m a somewhat gifted speaker, or so others have told me—but that doesn’t do us any good when discussing art, in my opinion. I try to take a guided approach when teaching, providing helpful context and key words when necessary but ultimately aiming for a student-centered learning experience. It goes back to the idea of epistemology, where I don’t necessarily want students to come away with a specific nugget of knowledge—T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” is an intertextual poem, sonnets have 14 lines, etc.—but I want them to come away with tools that aid in their thinking, so that when they do encounter a sonnet or intertextual poem they can go, “okay, I know how to enter into conversation with this poem. I know how to listen to what it’s saying and ask the right questions, and maybe I’ll get some answers…or maybe not, and that’s okay too.”

What do you believe is the key to fostering a creative and inclusive classroom environment?

Safety and belonging. If students feel safe, if they feel like they belong to the conversation, they will feel emboldened to speak, even if that speaking seems trite, uninformed, controversial. I want my students to be unafraid to share their ideas, and in order to get to that point I try very hard to set a learning community standard within our classroom, one that all students can help draft and agree upon. Only by feeling safe and included can we create a literary community, and only through literary communities can art continue to flourish.

Upcoming classes you might enjoy

Nap-a-thon

Nap-a-thon: a fundraiser for people who are tired. Which, statistically, is everyone.

Nap Ambassador sign ups close Sept 30.
Napping and fundraising happens Oct 1-31.

Learn more! Nap-a-thon

Writer’s Life Lunch

Come share a meal with other writers and talk shop—craft, process, money, motivation, publishing, rejection, weird writing habits, and whatever’s currently living rent-free in your brain.

Friday, Sept 18 | Noon–1:30 pm
Ages 18+

Learn more! Writer’s Life Lunch