Susan Yount and I only know each other from online exchanges, although we easily could have met up in Chicago at different times. A couple of years ago I was looking for a place to get constructive feedback on my work and I found that place at Perspectives, an online workshop moderated by Kristin Biss. Susan was one of many helpful members I met there. At the time I hadn’t published much and couldn’t believe how giving she was. Here was a woman who'd had her poems published, had won literary contests, had studied, post graduate, in writing and who worked for The Associated Press. And she was kind enough to critique my work. For free.
She is also one of the most interesting people I’ve met online.
continued...
Susan grew up on a farm in rural Indiana. She went to the University of Indiana and later did some graduate studies at Kent State. Her work provides an open glimpse into her life. Consider this piece,
Father was a Hard Man With windows rolled all-the-way
down and his motor-oiled hands
slapped 'round the steering wheel,
he drove slow-over potholes-
His need-a-shave chin scratched my face
when I went with Father from hayfield
to hayfield following my sister
on the Massy Ferguson.
She pulled the Round Bailer-
and we dragged the Rake.
Pressed against Father's grisly body,
I was always hot & excited
to make it to the field
where I would be reunited
with my sister. Together,
we spun-'round fields tossing-up
dusty wind-rolls of orchard grass.
We always ate
our peanut butter sandwiches.
We always drank
our frozen milk-jug of water.
He always came back at dark.
When we made it home,
I always packed
my Barbie doll case.
Dreamed of crawling-out the window.
My sister and I were running
to catch a plane to Arizona.
We were climbing-up the creases
of Superstition Mountain.
We played Barbie in the Petrified Forest
where we discovered water,
dropped our cases and swam the ocean.
We spotted an island with fruit and goats
and tossed ourselves across
the ragged boughs of a Catalpa tree.
Dancing wildly-
we were free.
From Premiere Generation Ink, Volume 2 Number 2 (Summer 2001)
David Blaine: Susan, what part of Indiana were you raised in?
Susan Yount: I grew up on a small farm in southern Indiana-- about a half hour from Louisville, KY. DB: It sounds like you had to work pretty hard at a young age, would you speak about that a bit? SY: My father’s family was all farmers. So, growing up working was tradition. When I was in kindergarten and the other children were recalling their favorite TV shows, I was sulking about picking up chicken eggs. My favorite thing about the commercial chicken houses was playing with the chicken bones; they tumbled out of the incinerator; they were so white it hurt your eyes. The C-houses belonged to my grandparents and they sold them by the time I made it to grade school. Still, it was hard work, feeding a farm. Looking back, by the time I was 8 or 9-years old, I was responsible for many animals—rabbits, pigs, horses, goats, ‘free range’ chickens, cats, dogs. Am I missing some animal? It was about 2 hours of chores every evening after school. But along with all that work I had some fun too. I was in 4-H and I went camping a lot with my family and our horses. It has been a fruitful base for writing poetry; I never wanted to grow up to be a farmer. DB: Indiana U, Kent State, now working for the Associated Press in Chicago, you seem to be pretty grounded in the Mid West. Have you traveled or lived outside the Mid West? SY: I have a few stamps in my passport; I was in Panama the year the U.S. gave up the Canal; I’ve seen the Parthenon; I’ve experienced the timeliness of German trains and the crowds at October Fest; but now that you mention it, I’m sure I’ll always be a Mid West gal; I’ve never lived anywhere else. For now, I love the weather. DB: You’ve worked as an art model, waited tables at Cracker Barrel, and when you were going to Kent State you worked in the office at a grain elevator. How do those kinds of diverse experiences help you write, and do you think there is a commonality between them? SY: I’ve also worked night shift in a label printing factory, second shift in lawn mower switch factory; I’ve been a gas station clerk, a prep cook, a janitor, a secretary at a real estate office, an arts and entertainment photographer, a publications specialist, a die-hard, twice a week plasma donor and I’ve had an uncountable number of short gigs through temporary agencies. Often, I had two jobs at once! I have had some sort of paying job since I was 16. With scholarships and grants, I supported my way through college without taking loans or help from my parents. The common thread? They all paid; they all propelled me forward. Obviously, those kinds of diverse experiences give one material for writing…but help? If anything, they keep me from writing. I have spent a lot of precious writing time at the job or looking for the job and often too tired to write after returning home from the job/jobs. DB: I’d like to share another one of your poems, one of my favorites,
Sissy
holds the bloated baby goat.
Tongue licks death. He bawls
recalling neck and I cannot stop this.
Evident Baby is sick beyond kilter,
straw sticks to his teeth. Yet I
still pretend to call the vet
and help support Baby's neck.
Sissy looks at me and blue eyes
balloon behind saline. Life whiffs
in her hands while the phone rants
off hook in empty caress.
She drops to her knees opening
sticky shriveled lips. Breathes
into him as hard as she can.
His lungs explode with love
and death passes through them.
From Arsenic Lobster #6, (Spring 2004)
DB: When I read “Father was a Hard Man” and then I read “Sissy” I want to ask, where did you learn the compassion and empathy you exhibit here?
SY: Sissy bloomed from a prompt where we were to write about our first experience with death. The baby goat was the first death I could remember “experiencing.”
Growing up, I was alone a lot; I was a latch key kid. I got off the school bus to an empty house. I did my chores and still no one was usually home. I was responsible for all those animals and no one was there in case something went wrong. In all honesty, I had a fairly unhappy childhood (esp. when someone WAS home) but I loved the animals I took care of and I related to them. Looking back now, I probably felt like an animal myself and I’m sure there were many other reasons I had such a reaction to the baby goat (I feared being blamed for the goat’s death and the repercussions). The true story is— that I was all alone trying to save that goat. The adult figure in the poem is my imagined ‘adult self.’ That goat could have been me and I was scared to let it die. AND, for some reason, it seems the experience impacted my life. I even have a short story coming out in the premiere issue of Barn Owl Review that is framed by the “baby goat.” That story (while still fictional) is true glimpse into my life.
DB: Your BA from Indiana was in Journalism with a specialization in photography and a concentration in creative writing. What did you think you wanted to do once you finished school?
SY: Get a job, pay off my credit cards, buy a car, support myself, pretty much all the normal stuff. And that is exactly what I did. I worked as a publications specialist designing real estate ads/books in Bloomington. I love publications. I also worked as arts and entertainment photographer for the Bloomington Independent. I loved that job too! I went to many IU opera dress rehearsals and IU plays to take photos. But I’m still not finished with school. I’m going back (after sitting out a couple semesters to have a baby and build a house) to Columbia College in Chicago this coming semester to start finishing my MFA in poetry *smiles*
DB: And how has the reality measured up to the hopes and expectations?
SY: I guess I didn’t really have high hopes or expectations out of my reach. I feel like I’ve got the best out of my B.A. I’m still working toward a higher degree in writing.
DB: Tell me how you wound up doing graduate studies in creative writing at Kent State.
SY: I left my job at BBOR Publications and moved to Kent, Ohio with my (soon to be) husband one week before the 9/11 attack on the world trade center. It just so happened that that event had a significant impact on jobs in Ohio. In fact, the whole time we lived there, they had the highest unemployment rate in the country. I was super depressed about not having a full time job and I went on interviews and worked for a temporary service for an entire year before I finally got married. My husband was working for Kent State at the time so I took advantage of the opportunity and enrolled in classes. I knew we would move again so I just registered as a guest graduate. I plan to finish my MFA at Columbia College here in Chicago…while I enjoy the adventures of being a new mom, edit the Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal and continue to work at the AP. I'm in Chicago…still farming my future *smiles*
DB: As a writer, what opportunities do you see becoming available to you once you complete your MFA? Are these personal goals or is this to advance your writing career?
SY: I hope I get a chance to make the things I’m already involved in better. I hope to be able to find grittier, meaner, tougher poets for the Arsenic Lobster; I hope to be able to leave more constructive feedback on other’s work; I hope (GOD I hope) that I write better poetry. And, I find it easier to write when I’m in an environment with other writers. Writing and editing and publishing my own zine have always been personal goals.
DB: Could you ever see a place down the road where you would support yourself through creative writing?
SY: *LOL* Ummmm, no. Maybe there is some *slight* chance that after finishing my MFA, I publish a Pulitzer prize winning book, hook up with the right people and teach writing workshops all while being supported by my millionaire husband. Note that I am not holding my breath. And besides, who cares how I support myself as long as I can keep writing.
DB: Could you ever imagine yourself becoming a household name, at least in the right households, like say, Louise Gluck or Sharon Olds? Or maybe Carolyn Forche or Diane DiPrima?
SY: *ROTFL* No. I ummmm... no. Do I think I’ll ever become as famous as U.S. poet laureate, Louise Elisabeth Glück? I don’t really have that kind of breeding.
DB: What do you think defines an outside writer?
SY: I think it is someone who needs to write because they are tortured if they do not; one who needs to read or they will die. I started writing because I had had an unhappy childhood. Poetry saved me or, I saved myself through poetry. I was 13 and I’ll never forget reading Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, Annabelle Lee. I was most struck by the lines, And this maiden she lived with no other thought / Than to love and be loved by me. I think all I ever wanted was to feel love and for the first time I had—poetry. I often wonder how different my life would have been if I had read Linda McCarriston’s, Eva Mary, in grade school (it wasn’t published yet)—perhaps I would have been emboldened to speak out sooner. I think an outside writer is writing something so raw and so important that will save lives. Edgar Allen Poe saved mine—Linda McCarriston became my angel.
DB: Let’s share a last poem. What would you like to show us?
SY: Almost Dark.
Almost Dark
I hear his truck throw gravel
so I go hide in the woods.
He looks for me, thinking I am
somewhere between the rabbit cages
and the goat pen but I am not.
I watch him from the creek.
He doesn't think to look there
and yells my name-
as if I would come.
Maple leaves gargle his throat-call
and I squat thinking of ways
to kill him. He hasn't quit looking
for me yet and scans the tree line.
I bet he is angry now,
his face turning beer-cooler red.
He knows I'm hiding.
I see him walk back to his truck
and grab another Miller High Life.
I go deeper into the woods
and pick-up that heavy shovel I left
when I buried the litter of Flemish Giants
the dogs ate on. He'll stumble
through here soon enough
and I'll be waiting.
DB: Thanks, Susan.
Susan Yount lives in Pilsen, Chicago and works as an administrative assistant at The Associated Press. She is presently the Senior Editor at The Arsenic Lobster poetry journal.
Last update : 15-11-2007 05:00
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