An Interview with Christy Tending: “I keep thinking about violence.”
An interview with Christy Tending
Hi, Christy. It’s so good to do this interview with you after seeing your writing develop over time. Can you share with us what the kernel of your new book was—what was the very first image, memory, or even sentence or phrase that came to you when you began?
The first image that came to me, that I felt like I needed to write down, was the scene of making a can of oil explode in the Canadian wilderness. The very first sentence I wrote for the book was, “I keep thinking about violence.”
Those two pieces were the jumping off point for so much within the book. I was writing about a particularly radicalizing summer in my early 20’s, and began to explore all the ways that my life since had been shaped by it—and how I had ended up there in the first place. As an activist and as a Buddhist, I have had a lot of internal conversations over the years about violence and how we navigate a world that feels so rife with it.
From that first image and then the first line (both of which made it into the book), I was able to start looking at a lot of the big events in my life and unpacking all the ways that violence intersects with not just activism and the natural world, but daily life.
The first image that came to me, that I felt like I needed to write down, was the scene of making a can of oil explode in the Canadian wilderness. The very first sentence I wrote for the book was, “I keep thinking about violence.”
The book is an essay collection, and the structure of the essays varies greatly. How do you approach structure when you’re writing about different things? How might an essay specifically about activism, for example, require its own structure?
The subject matter comes first, and then the structure follows. Often, my task is to make really unusual experiences legible. Playing with structure can help with that.
An essay about activism requires a lot of care. There are so many considerations. First and foremost, I’m thinking about protecting the privacy and safety of my comrades. There are also legal consequences that I have to take into account. I’m also very aware of the privilege I have, so I’m always trying to de-center myself and to intentionally center the issues or the people who are most directly affected. And finally, I never want to sensationalize my activism.
Privacy is important to me, which might seem odd for a memoirist and essayist. The respect for privacy—especially for those who haven’t opted into being memoir subjects—often dictates the structure of the pieces I’m writing. So I often have to choose a different kind of structure for those essays that lets me blur people or events for privacy. I love a good borrowed form—lists, how-to instructions, recipes—and how they allow me to talk about things through a particular lens or point of view that pays respect to all of those factors.
When I write about parenting, I’m often diving into and exploring imaginary worlds alongside consensus reality. It’s a lot like how conversations go that happen with my child in real life, and so it makes sense that writing about parenting has a magical slant to it. I’m always thinking about how to write what is present, while respecting my son’s autonomy and consent.
There is a great deal of strength in the book, but there is also trauma. What did you do to protect yourself, if anything, when writing about traumatic incidents? Do you have suggestions for our readers about how to write about trauma without retraumatizing yourself?
My overall approach for traumatic events has been to wait a very long time. For what’s in the book, I had a lot of distance from much of what’s in here that I would consider to be really traumatic. With time, I was able to approach a lot of these incidents with a lot of compassion for myself as someone who was doing their best.
I approach writing about traumatic incidents in much the same way I would approach a wounded animal. I go very slowly, and write from quite a distance to begin. I never force anything. I wait for it to approach me and to let me know what it needs. Often, this means asking a lot of questions that I can later fill in. But even when it comes to writing my own experience, I try to let the piece approach me rather than dictating what the end product will be.
My overall approach for traumatic events has been to wait a very long time. For what’s in the book, I had a lot of distance from much of what’s in here that I would consider to be really traumatic. With time, I was able to approach a lot of these incidents with a lot of compassion for myself as someone who was doing their best.
Writing about traumatic incidents before they’re ready for me isn’t going to yield the result I’m looking for. It will be really painful, and the writing is often stilted and clinical. When I’ve given things the time they need, I’m able to go back to those incidents to visit them without having to live there, and without needing that clinical lens to protect myself in the same way.
Writing intimately about trauma is never easy, so I always try to build in time for lots of self-care around that writing: food, walks, cat snuggles, and hot baths. And that way, I’m less likely to carry around the experience when I’m done writing.
This is your first published book, and I’m thrilled for you! Tell us about what it was like to find out you were getting a YES from the editor and/or press. How did you celebrate, if you did?
Getting my yes from the press was so thrilling. There may or may not have been jumping up and down and yelling. I’m pretty sure I went out to lunch with my husband that day to celebrate.
And then, of course, I picked up my son from school, did the laundry, and made dinner.
My daily life is very normal and grounding!
Are there any books or writers you specifically looked to as inspiration for this book? And are there any books or writers you’re particularly excited about now?
Any time I’m writing a book, I’ve usually got a stack of poetry books and nature guides next to me as references, since those are two of the modes of writing that inform a lot of my work.
For this one, I took a lot of guidance from Melissa Febos’s Body Work, one of my favorite craft books; Claire Wahmanholm’s Meltwater: poems, which is all about climate change and parenting; and Aisha Sabatini Sloan’s Borealis, which is a remarkable study on place and belonging.
For my next project, I’m reading a lot about mycelial networks. I’m also really excited for Miranda July’s new book.
What are you working on now? What’s next for you?
I’ve got a completed manuscript—a collection of braided essays on climate activism and healing, among other things—that’s currently looking for a home. So I’m trying to figure out where she’s going to live.
I’m just now dipping into the next project after that, but I’m still in the process of letting a few things marinate. It’s a project that connects grief, place, memory, and climate. Which is intentionally vague, and honestly describes so much of my work! I’m still in the process of trying to figure out the structure for that one and may need to write into it for a while so that I can get a firmer grip on it.
I came to the Academy really wanting to hone my skills and to learn from luminaries in their field. I wanted to think deeply about the mechanics of my writing, on a craft level, and also to start thinking of myself as a professional within the writing world. Not just to write in a vacuum, but in conversation with others, and in a way where others might also read my work.
And my expectations were wildly exceeded.
What did you hope for when you came to The Unexpected Shape Writing Academy? What was your experience like? How did it help you to achieve your writing goals?
I came to the Academy really wanting to hone my skills and to learn from luminaries in their field. I wanted to think deeply about the mechanics of my writing, on a craft level, and also to start thinking of myself as a professional within the writing world. Not just to write in a vacuum, but in conversation with others, and in a way where others might also read my work.
And my expectations were wildly exceeded. Not only did I gain so many real, tangible skills I’ll use again and again (Index cards! Research! A book proposal!), but what I really got from the Academy was an ability to take myself and my writing seriously—to see myself as someone whose story was worth sharing. The book I’ve written wouldn’t exist without my learning to see myself in that way.
What would you say to people on the fence about joining the Academy—not because of financial issues or crisis, but because they aren’t sure if they’re “right” for the program?
I would tell you to prepare yourself for how far this work can take your writing. For those of us writing nonfiction, we often think we need more expertise to get started, and in my experience, it’s the opposite. Frequently people have all the expertise they need to write the book, but they need the permission to start and the structure to see it through. The Academy will help you not only get the manuscript written, but show you how to get your book into the world. ❤️
Christy Tending talks in the above interview about the impact The Unexpected Shape Writing Academy had on her writing—and I do want to let you all know that membership to the Academy is 35% off until my birthday, June 8!
Pay $97/month (usually $147/month) for eight modules of education about personal nonfiction, a tight-knit community, lessons turned into a private podcast, and 12 guest lectures by some of today’s most luminous writers; end your membership anytime when you’re ready: click here to register.
In my interview with Christy, she discusses the importance of taking great care when writing about activism. What is something in your life that you’ve recently taken great care with? Why? Have you always done so, or did you have to learn to? What does “taking care” look like to you?
Even in fear, I know myself and my writing (an interview with me at The Editing Spectrum)
Accepting kindness, accepting tenderness, accepting love: a conversation with Brandon Taylor
