Virtual Book Tour: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) by Donovan Hufnagle

 

Author Interview

Do you ever wish you were someone else? Who?

At this stage of my life, I am happy with who I am and how I came to be, which is really what my current book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them) is about. As a child, we all desire to be something great, at least, I did. We also, I think, try to imagine what it would be like to put on another pair of shoes. We aspire to be astronauts, doctors, lawyers, firemen, policemen, writers, and so on. For me, I wanted to be a rockstar. Shout out to James Hetfield of the band Metallica. I have this great Halloween picture of me dressed up as Hetfield singing one of his songs into a hairbrush microphone with two of my close friends cheering me on in the background. Even as a young adult, I still imagined being someone else, at least, for one Halloween night. And maybe, just maybe, I have become that figurative rockstar, a rockstar to those that love me.

What did you do on your last birthday?

Geez, how can remember something that happened so long ago? I’m kidding of course, but I’m reaching or have reached that point in life that birthdays are not as important as they used to be. No more piñatas or ice cream bashes. I went out to dinner with my wife and children, my in-laws, a few of my wife’s Tias and Tios, and a couple of my close friends. We celebrated through food and drink.

What part of the writing process do you dread?

I don’t dread any part of the writing process per se; however, I find that some aspects of writing can be challenging when forced. For example, I have tried to write daily, a little bit or a lot a bit every day but that has been challenging. My fingers seem to rebel against this forceful action. I’ve tried, inspired by other writers’ habits, famous and not so famous, but I just can’t seem to sit and type or scratch down words ever day. However, a while back, I remember a writer (I can’t remember who right now) saying that most of their writing happens in their head. Bam! It hit me. I do the same thing. I write in my car, in my office, in bed, in my dreams, in the shower, walking, sitting, eating...I’m writing all the time.

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? If so, what do you do about it?

This relates to the previous question, I think. Every writer at some level suffers from the inability to rustle in ideas and spit the words out, but as I previously stated, I am writing all the time in my head. If I am not conjuring up new ideas, I tend to repeat the old ones until something attaches itself to the old to make new. In other words, I repeat stuff, in my car for example, over and over in my head until the next word or idea comes along and extends that thought.

I also try not to wait for inspiration to hit me. I love it when I have a bolt of lightning strike, but I tend to use history and research as a method to compensate for the lack of inspiration. I go out and find my inspiration rather than sit in a cold dank waiting room, holding number 81 in my hand when the current number is only 3.

Tell us about your latest release.

If I had to describe the poetry in my current book These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), I would say they explore identity. Not only do these poems hold glimpses of some of my own personal experiences and observations such as the poem “First Loves,” a longer narrative poem that peers into my childhood, into my neighborhood friends, the book also follows my journey as a poet, highlighting my growth as a writer by demonstrating the different styles I have come to love—from blues poems to longer personal narratives, from villanelles that use the words from the Works Progress Administration (WPA) to experimental forms like the poem “Jenga,” that is a text-message-conversation between my wife and I. I write poetry inspired by reality, pop culture, music, television, movies, politics, and so much more, and docupoetry that includes those realities. All these poems, whether they tap into controversial topics such as the poem “Sussudio Saves, The Day After, #6,” which introduces the divides of politics through the first five songs that played in my truck after January 6th or poems that reflect on family such as the poem “Refurbished,” which focuses on my wife’s tio and an armchair, tell something about self.

Echoing Chuck Palahniuk’s statement. “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known,” this collection explores identity. These poems drift down rivers of old, using histories private and public and visit people that I love and loathe. Through heroes and villains, music and cartoons, literature and comics, science and wonder, and shadow and light, each poem canals the various channels of self and invention. As in the poem, “Credentials,” “I am a collage of memories and unicorn stickers…[by] those that have witnessed and been witnessed.”

Amazon

Excerpt

Refurbished

Susan taught me that poetic energy lies

between the lines, white noise scratching

and clawing between images, ideas,

things…

And like a poem,

the chair was molded by my Tio’s hands,

an antique wooden upholstered desk chair.

My Tio moved from Durango, Mexico

to Forth Worth in 1955.

He became a mason and wood worker.

He bricked the stockyards

He built the signs

He died in 2005.

Now,

matted. Worn. Faded floral design. Wood

scarred like healing flesh.

The arms torn, ratted by the heft of his arms

and the stress of the days. The foam peeks

out.

The brass upholstery tacks rusted. I count

1000 of the. With each,

I mallet a fork-tongue driver under its head.

A tap, tap, tapping until it sinks beneath the tack,

until the tack springs from its place.

I couldn’t help but think of a woodpecker.

A tap, tap, tapping into Post Oak,

a rhythm…each scrap of wood falling to the ground

until a home is formed.

Until each piece of wood like the tacks removed

shelter something new.

I remove the staples, the foam, the fabric,

the upholstery straps

until it’s bones.

I sand and stain

until its bones shine.

I layer and wrap its bones with upholstery straps,

foam, fabric, staples and tacks.

New tacks, Brass medallions

adorning the whole, but holding it

all together—

its bones

its memories,

its energy.

Donovan Hufnagle is a husband, a father of three, and a professor of English and Humanities. He moved from Southern California to Prescott, Arizona to Fort Worth, Texas. He has five poetry collections: These Are Not My Words (I Just Wrote Them), Raw Flesh Flash: The Incomplete, Unfinished Documenting Of, The Sunshine Special, Shoebox, and 30 Days of 19. Other recent writings have appeared in Tempered Runes Press, Solum Literary Press, Poetry Box, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, Subprimal Poetry Art, Americana Popular Culture Magazine, Shufpoetry, Kitty Litter Press, Carbon Culture, Amarillo Bay, Borderlands, Tattoo Highway, The New York Quarterly, Rougarou, and others.

Website: http://www.donovanhufnagle.com

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/donovanhufnagle

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/dhufnaglepoetry

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