Sarah Yanni: You are a poet, but also write fiction and non-fiction. And I’m thinking about the theme of home and how complicated that can be to articulate or understand, especially for the diasporic/migrant subject. I’m wondering how you see poetry, specifically as a medium to understand such a complex notion. Do you find that certain characteristics of poetry make it easier (and/or harder) to move through these themes? Is there anything that determines whether you feel more called to explore an idea through poetry versus fiction versus creative nonfiction?
Ber Anena: Such a great question! My writing life has become such a huge negotiation. Writing both prose and poetry means constantly trying to figure out which form and genre will fit the subject I’m interested in at any given time. Poetry, owing to its precision and pressure on language, demands the most work – mentally – from me. This gets further complicated because of my position as an African living in and writing from the diaspora. The old-age question, what is home? is always ringing in my head. There’s no straight or single answer but poetry demands some level of sureness; and even when I write about the multi-faceted idea of home, the poetic language has to have a clarity and depth that render some satisfaction in meaning. I enjoy thinking about home and exploring its many facets. Once this mentally laborious process is complete, the poem usually forms quickly. Writing fiction and nonfiction on the other hand is like an exhale – an exhale that, for poetry, only happens once the poem is written. I have also learned to become comfortable writing about the same issue in multiple genres. Whichever gets the most satisfying rendering gets sent out into the world, and in a few lucky cases, both pieces will turn out successfully.
On the subject of home and writing as a diasporan: You are a Mexican-Egyptian living in the United States. Do you ever feel like one aspect of your background or identity demands more centrality in your writing? For instance, the fact that I’m Acholi, Ugandan, and African matter to me more now that I’m in the US. But I also want to belong here, to feel at home. Do you experience this push and pull? How do you navigate it in your poetry?
Sarah: Well, I’m so interested in how you write about the precision and pressure of poetry. In many ways, I tend to think of poetry as more liberatory – with prose, I feel this sense that I have to give all the details in some sort of cohesive narrative order, but with poetry, I can disclose or withdraw or play or half-tell or meander, and it’s less jarring. But it’s true, with that dilution of language also comes a reliance on precision; each word must have a purpose.
As for your question, I feel I almost write about each of my “halves” separately. Spanish was my first language, and I spent all my childhood summers in Mexico, so my Mexican heritage feels, in ways, more present. I have more tangible memories of place, food, people, etc. But being Egyptian, and in general, Arab-American is also an incredibly impactful experience, especially growing up in post-9/11 America, and then of course, with the genocide we’ve seen unfolding in Palestine and Lebanon, places where I have many family friends. So, I think when I first started writing poetry, I used to write about my identity through these very specific scenes – Sundays at my father’s Arab church, or an August morning at my abuela’s breakfast table. But I think in the past few years, I’ve written less “about” my identity and more about larger questions concerning themes like legibility, history, gender, queerness, memory, and myth and my identity is simply informing that work, and the way the language unfolds, if that makes sense.
With that, I’m curious, what’s been your journey in terms of subject matter? Are there certain tropes or themes you used to gravitate toward which you do not now? Do you feel a pressure to write “about” identity? Is it possible for the diasporan subject to craft language that does not reflect their geographic condition?
Anena: Right. Many poets I know start from a place of the self, the personal, and move on to larger issues beyond their immediate experiences. And this is not to say the personal is divorced from social or political issues; I think so much that is happening in the world today is so inescapable (the news, social media, etc.,) that it’s inevitable to want to write towards and about matters larger than our personal lives.
When I started writing poetry, it was mostly about my childhood experience growing up in northern Uganda during a two-decade war. I needed to have some conversations with myself about why the Lord’s Resistance Army and Yoweri Museveni’s government were fighting. I couldn’t have that conversation with the adults or my siblings. Culture and a war situation don’t encourage such difficult conversations and questions, so the page became my refuge.
By the time my debut poetry collection came out in 2015, I was writing about politics – which I was beginning to understand underpinned the violent childhood of my homeland. I also wrote quite a bit about gender and domestic violence. One effect of the war in northern Uganda was a reversal in gender norms, which meant women became “heads of homes” and providers either because they lost their husbands to the war or the men were trapped in alcoholism. For young girls, many took the mantle of raising younger siblings after losing their parents to the war. Now, all this comes with a lot of violence, physical and psychological. On the other hand, the government was also increasingly developing laws to control how and what women could wear. All these became themes in my poetry.
Since moving to the United States, I have been writing more about identity, reproductive health, racism, and memory. I don’t feel pressure to write about identity. In fact, I want to get to a place where I don’t have to – at least not in the sense of the need to belong and not being othered. As you suggest, it’s difficult for me to write now without place or geography featuring in my work, however inexplicit it may be sometimes.
Away from the subjects we write about, I’m curious about your writing ritual if you have one. Do you have a schedule or does writing happen more organically/spontaneously for you?
Sarah: There’s something so poignant about the page being the space where these enormous conflicts can be explored, processed, and interrogated in a way not even possible with the people closest to you. I’m grateful that you named that.
In terms of rituals, I am afraid my writing life is perhaps the most unstructured aspect of my life. I am a deeply routine-oriented person, but I write in sporadic bursts. At the risk of sounding overly esoteric, it feels like the language arrives when it is supposed to. For me, it comes with a sudden sense of urgency – an idea comes and I need to put it down, there’s no consistency to it. When I was in the confines of an MFA program, I was generating with much more structure. I wrote every day no matter what. And that had its place too – of course, I had the pressure of needing to turn in a book-length thesis. But now that I’m working a regular 9-5 job that has nothing to do with poetry, I write when that pull arrives. This is not without effort, though. Being receptive to that pull requires one to be emotionally open and in touch with one’s intuition. The habit I am incredibly structured about is reading. I read every morning, without fail, for at least half an hour. It’s my coffee activity. And I read before bed almost every night, too. Continuously ingesting a wide variety of literature is a crucial component of my writing practice. It keeps my mind in a constant flow of critical thinking, words floating in and out. I’m always taking tons of notes on passages I find either resonant or that simply strike me with their musicality. I’m always collecting.
What about you? What does your writing ritual or lack thereof look like?
I’m also learning to accept moments where I can’t or don’t want to write, to define writing more broadly to include the thinking that happens before I pick up a pen, the reading I do to get inspiration, and the living I do, from which I base my work.
– Ber Anena
Anena: I so admire your morning reading routine. That’s something I want to start doing, instead of reaching for the phone to check social media or play word games as soon as I wake up. In the past months, I have gotten into audiobooks and it’s amazing how much I’ve “read.” I find it convenient when I’m taking the long drive to school to teach or working out. But I still love my physical books. No debate about that.
Like you, I write better with structure as well as deadlines and inspiration from reading other writers. In 2023, I started something called a poem-a-day challenge, and every single day I write a poem. It doesn’t matter whether I’m happy with it or not, and more than half the time they’re not any good or complete, but the routine of producing work every day has made writing much more habitual, like brushing my teeth. Doing this has taught me to listen more keenly, observe more, and comb my memory for what could be a poem for that day. I also read a poem or two every day to get inspiration to jot the first line.
My professor, Kwame Dawes, was gracious enough the past year to let me send him each poem I wrote. He doesn’t have to give me feedback (but he sometimes does), and knowing I have someone I’m accountable to, pushes me to write. I will be taking a break from the poem-a-day challenge by the end of the year though. After two years, I need to step back and let what I’ve written simmer, then I’ll do some rewriting and editing.
I have not written a lot of prose in the past five months. The focus has been on revising my upcoming memoir and writing papers for my PhD exams. I’m also not taking classes anymore, which has made me lose that structure you talk about. But I do have two friends I meet with over Zoom each week for our “writing hour.” We started this during Covid and it stuck. This writing support system has been very helpful in keeping me motivated, accountable, but also just to vent about this crazy writing life and the world in general.
I’m also learning to accept moments where I can’t or don’t want to write, to define writing more broadly to include the thinking that happens before I pick up a pen, the reading I do to get inspiration, and the living I do, from which I base my work. I’m aware of the danger of a capitalist system and how it plagues us with guilt for not always being on the move, for not always being at work, for not appearing to have things happening for us – the accolades and updates about our every achievement. It’s exhausting. So, on days when I don’t feel like writing or working, I’ll lounge about and let the world continue running from outside my window.
On that note, how do you balance work and relaxation? What makes you really happy or fulfilled outside of your writing? I know the world we’re in sometimes demands we do double shifts to survive but I’m curious about what your ideal world would look like as a writer.
Sarah: Oh, I’m so inspired by that. The poem-a-day as well as the writing hour – what generous, special forms of accountability and community. I need to find someone to do that with in 2025!
I think a lot of my balance and grounding comes from my physical space. I’m very lucky that I live alone in an old Spanish-style rent controlled apartment, and tending to my home fills me with immense joy. I love to cook and work on home decor projects. I meditate on my big carpet every morning. I recently decorated my apartment for the holidays, and even though it’s just me, I had a perfect Friday evening making paper garlands, lighting candles, and baking. I do also love to host, so I often have people over for dinner. I think cooking is an extension of my creative practice but also a form of therapy and also my love language. (If you know anything about astrology, I’m a taurus rising, and I think the impulse towards nesting and homemaking is a direct reflection of that.) Especially living in a metropolitan city like Los Angeles, and working a regular 9-5 non-profit job, tending to my space and prioritizing self-care is my ideal way of balancing the cognitive load of writing and work life. In a way, the physical aspect of it gets me out of my head, too, which is so restorative.
I’m curious about your relationship to “the academy,” being in a PhD program, and balancing that with creative work. How has your academic work fed into your creative projects? Now that you’re nearing the end (I’m assuming, because you aren’t taking classes), what’s your relationship to research? Do you see yourself immediately pursuing a professorship?
Anena: How wonderful! You’re doing all the fun stuff! I can feel the homeliness and see the vibrancy of your apartment just from the description.
The academy! Ah, where do I start? I love to teach. I get euphoric standing in front of a class, sharing what I know and learning from my students. I’m planning to teach after my Ph.D. The thought of it is both exciting and scary. My fear of teaching is usually about workload. I would love to continue writing and publishing my work, and I’m hoping I’ll find a teaching position that accords me that space and support to write, read, and attend literary events. My second fear is the commercialization of education and the growing sanctions on learning. The banning of books and critical subjects, the cutting of funding to certain departments, and the elimination of courses altogether. It’s worrying. I also can’t escape the fact that I’m black and female. Research is clear about how unfriendly the academy is to people like us.
But I’m hopeful. I know many women of color and people from marginalized groups who are thriving in their teaching and writing careers. My love for teaching gives me hope, but writing will always be my first love. I wouldn’t know how to live without being able to write. In an alternate universe, I would do nothing but write if I had a stack of generational wealth and was a hugely successful writer (already). When people ask what I do, I say I’m a writer but there’re unsaid and, and, and, after that. The bills have to be paid.
I’m grateful that teaching creative writing comes with some advantages for my writing routine. Reading students’ work, assigning texts, and teaching prose and poetry are constant inspirations that keep me grounded in my trade.
On alternate universes, I’m curious about what your ideal writing life would look like. Also, what’s your relationship to publishing? I feel like the two are kind of linked.
Sarah: The phrasing of “I’m a writer” followed by all the “and, and, and” is such a central experience for me and my peers. It’s like we can’t escape this pressure to clarify or bolster or to anticipate the looming question of how we make money. It’s nice that your current situation is one that includes teaching – that constant exchange, the unique way of thinking and communicating that is offered by a classroom space, by minds deeply in the flow of development and curiosity. I used to teach at CalArts, and I miss it.
That being said, my answer to your question about an ideal writing life is kind of devoid of a relationship to publishing. If we are really daring to dream here, I think my true desire would be: me in a cabin, in a beautiful forest, near a pond, with limited hours of internet access, and a computer to type on. Surrounded by books. A cozy fireplace. Birdsong and wind. Paintings on the wall. I really derive so much from nature, but also from art, and solitude. I think if I somehow was actually able to purchase a home in the forest (and not have to sustain myself or pay mortgages, etc.) I’d be writing a million poems. There would be no capitalist chatter in my head or circumstantial obstacles.
With that in mind, my relationship to publishing is complicated. I used to send everything out for publication all the time, without really researching the publisher or spending extended, intentional time with a piece of writing. I just wanted my name out there. For better or worse, this strategy got me some exposure, but now a lot of half-formed poems are on the internet, owned by miscellaneous magazines I have no relationship to. For the past few years, I have been much more selective with publishing, and I do have a sense of trust in the process – if it’s a match, it’ll happen, if not, that’s okay. I submit a lot less, I take my time a lot more, and although my goal is ultimately to publish full-length books, I have a sense of trust in that timing, as well. I just try to keep writing without getting in my head about not having a big book deal yet. I’m building and building.
I’m thinking maybe we’re nearing a natural end to this (sweet!) conversation, so perhaps I’ll turn the final question to you. Tell me your dream writing and publishing life. And (in your opinion, as we’re thinking about new year’s resolutions and such) are there small ways in which we can get closer to these dreams in 2025?
Anena: Your ideal writing life is exactly what I dream of. I love nature and solitude (I’m tempted to think this may be a poet’s thing). Just reading you describe the woods and fireplace and cabin and all the glories of nature, minus the hot breath of capitalism down our necks, sent a breeze of calm all over me.
I’m totally with you on publishing. I’ve not sent out work much at all, but mostly because of school and being consumed by the revisions for my memoir. But hearing you talk about selective submission made me stop to think. The pressure to have poems in journals, to have full-length collections, is real. Our “success” and creative “greatness” are measured by how much of us is out there, and failing to measure up can lead to so much anxiety, burnout, and just a minus on our esteem. I’ll be reminding myself of your practice of selective publishing, and to acknowledge that “building and building” is as valuable too, if not more.
The new year is really here, isn’t it? I’ll be taking a break from writing my poem-a-day challenge for sure. It’s gone on for two years straight and it would be good for them to marinade. I recently got into audiobooks and I’m planning to take that into the new year. With my PhD coming to an end, I’m hoping to finally get out of the broke grad student life and make some money that can take me to the woods. Before we return to regular programming, do you mind sharing a book that you read recently and loved, poetry or prose? Mine is Educated, a memoir by Tara Westover, and Migrations, a novel by Charlotte McConaghy.
This has been such an enriching chat. I hope our paths continue to cross, whether virtually or in person someday, and of course through each other’s work. Your poetry is so rich and resonant and I’m honored to have discovered it.
Sarah: I’m so glad to hear you’ve found resonance with my replies – I have with yours as well.
I loved Educated by Tara Westover. I listened to the audiobook a while back and I still think about it often. My recent love is Bitter Water Opera by Nicolette Polek, which felt like consuming a delicate painting. The prose was so beautiful, flowery, feminine, and ethereal.
Best of luck on letting the poems marinade – this stage, although hard to quantify, can be the patient winter that leads to a fruitful spring.
Ber Anena is an Acholi writer from northern Uganda. Her poetry and prose have been published in The Atlantic, Transition Magazine, adda, Black Warrior Review, Off Assignment, The Caine Prize, and New Daughters of Africa anthologies. Anena was the 2018 joint winner of the Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa for her poetry collection, A Nation in Labour. She won the 2024 Vreeland Prize for Fiction and received recognition for the 2023 Marie Sando Prize for the Short Story and the 2024 Plentitudes Prize in Fiction. Anena attended the MFA Writing program at Columbia University in New York and is pursuing a Ph.D. in English (Creative Writing) at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Her debut memoir, THE LIES WE TELL FOR AMERICA is forthcoming from Flatiron Books in Fall 2026.
Sarah Yanni is a Mexican-Egyptian poet in Los Angeles. She is the author of two chapbooks: Hard Crush (Wonder Press, 2024) and ternura / tenderness (Bottlecap Press, 2019). Her writing appears or is forthcoming in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Mizna, SPECTRA Poets, Pleiades, Wildness Journal, and Blush Lit, among others. She was a Finalist for BOMB Magazine’s Poetry Prize, Kelsey Street Press’ QTBIPOC Book Contest, the Andres Montoya Letras Latinas Poetry Prize, the Hayden’s Ferry Review Inaugural Poetry Prize, the Outpost Fellowship, and Poetry Online’s Launch Prize. She serves as Reviews Editor at Full Stop and holds an MFA from CalArts.