Congratulations to miranda for having their following poem chosen for publication on Blank Canvas Post. The poem that follows is a truly wonderful exploration of chronic fatigue, and the feeling of being trapped within oneself. Please read the follow conversation between us at Blank Canvas Post and miranda to understand more about the writer and the context for this brilliant poem.
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Writer Spotlight: Miranda Huttley
Originally from Brisbane, Australia, now currently based in Sydney, miranda has been writing since childhood. “It was always just a thing in the background”, says miranda, “ until I took a writing class at uni a few years back, it really made me feel like it was something I could be doing, and I've been writing ever since”.
What was it that made you start writing?
I found myself searching for something, a connection or a feeling and I found it when I’m writing.
What experiences have you had that have shaped the writer you are today?
I had a pretty unconventional childhood and I think it made me open to a world that exists outside of normal.
What genres are you writing at the moment? What genres do you enjoy writing?
I don’t really know how I would classify my work in terms of genre, but I tend to find myself exploring the quiet moments of life, the things that are unspoken. I’d really love to try a gothic lens in the future, incorporating a more supernatural tilt to the experiences I am exploring.
What inspires you to write? Where do you take your inspiration from?
I’m super inspired by cinema and music, and I love being outside, feeling a part of the natural world, I also take a lot of inspiration from other writers. The artists of work that has really impacted me, are people like Sylvia Plath and Sally Rooney, David Lynch and Sofia Coppola, Julia Jacklin and Dolly Parton. But my family and friends are always the people in my heart when I’m writing.
What does your writing process look like (e.g., environment, tools, setting)?
I was a strict pen and paper girl for the longest time, and I still love it but I get quite a bit of wrist pain, so I do a lot of writing on my macbook. I write a lot in the living room at the coffee table, sitting on the floor, or on my bed with a fold out desk, but I love going to my local library. I always have my notebook with me so I end up writing in cafes pretty often too.
What do you envisage when you are writing something new? Are you writing with the intention of sharing your work, or are you simply writing to write, for example?
Because I’m an actor I think the audience is always on my mind. When I start writing I normally have an idea of what I’m going to try and say, the heart of the thing and I follow that. I’m always trying to get to the truth of something, the feeling or experience, because I know that if it’s honest it will mean something to someone, and I’m always writing to that potential someone. I feel the work isn’t complete until someone has seen it, even if it’s just my housemate, my creative process ends when my work becomes something new, the thing the reader experiences.
Why do you think community is important for writers and creative people?
I think community is important for everybody but creatives even collaborative creatives spend a lot of time working alone, we do vulnerable work and it can’t be really challenging work. I know I often feel like I’m creating in a void, and I’m lucky enough to have couple of voices in my life championing me and encouraging me to keep going. Those voices are so important to me, and I love being able to be that voice in other people’s lives.
Where do you currently share your work?
My current writing project is published here on Substack, I write a daily-ish diary, auto fiction inspired by my life where I experiment with form and tone and challenge my perfectionism.
Why did you submit your work to Blank Canvas Post? What drew you to our publication?
I’ve never submitted my work before and when I came across the Blank Canvas Post I thought this would be the best place to start, I really loved the idea of being a apart of a community of writers, so I hit send.
About the Poem: An Exanimate Assembly
Regarding An Exanimate Assembly, what inspired you to write this piece?
Being stuck at home because of my heat intolerance, sitting around with sweaty limbs and stagnant thoughts.
What is the context for this piece? What is the main feeling or message behind it?
This piece came out as a expression of the experience I was having at the time, I experience fatigue and I really struggle in hot weather to move, even just around the house, I was feeling frustrated at not only being stuck in the house but also at feeling stuck in my mind, I was having trouble reading or focusing on anything really so I said to myself if I can’t focus on anything else, why not try and write about this.
What was the process of writing this piece like for you? What did this process look like?
The piece started as a bunch of images, moments, feelings, sensations, I like to get everything out and then I simmer things down until I’m left with a concentrate, the thing it is. All my work is in pursuit of the feeling of rightness, when everything feels like it’s in place, clicking together, or just leading back to the thing at the middle maybe called the truth. It’s not about correctness but about the truth, the realisation of the thing you are trying to make. I would describe it more like tweaking the settings on a camera to capture the moment, choosing the right film, rather than trying to control or contort the moment itself. I feel like maybe that is a bit vague but I guess what I mean is that the project defined the process.
Why did you choose to submit this piece specifically to Blank Canvas Post?
I’m not sure, I guess it was a feeling, this is the one I should share.
So, without further ado, here is An Exanimate Assembly, a poem written by miranda.
An Exanimate Assembly, by Miranda Huttley
I I’m sinking, I'm being swallowed up: Dissolving; Leaking out my ears, mind mush Cerebrum pink. Too much lead in the paint. Eyes heavy: not going in one direction or the other; Ever growing in their weight. The top of my crown seems to be vacant, The tenant has left, they’re gone As if no one remembered to lock up, Or bothered returning to work the next day. I’m calling it sick: An empty skull in the palm of a madman. Hands and feet forget themselves First numbness, then a full sensation Promptly followed by a rush, a brief moment Emptiness before the onslaught of pins. Shooting pain from the inside out; Sparklers going off inside the house, Hope they don’t catch anything. Glands they say, The marbles under my skin Get lost in the pattern of the carpet, I too get lost there Amongst the laurels and ornamental features, My crimson spills Are at home. My corporeal self gravitationally attached. I find it difficult To separate skin from the fibrous scalp. Someone stands at the head, At attention: I can’t seem to stand. II I lay In my bed On the couch on the floor. I sit in the red chair III The widow lurks behind the pillow, under the cushion she is ready to bite. Her chelicerae evict me from the couch, not quite big enough for two: a love seat. Embedded in the pile corn husk strands trap bunnies in their nests. Clump and catch, I’m in the middle. I lay within their territory. Among the tumbleweeds and their dead. There is a collection of small black flies in the corner of the ceiling, falling into my cup. I find them drowning in my tea. IV A bright light white pours out from behind the blind If it’s not shut it slams against the frame, bangs against the sill, Hit the glass, they want to break the lens. The channel is lined with pelt. With grey fluff. Carcasses of flies, legs of Germans, cells of us accumulate like an exanimate assembly. The window is stiff. It coughs to close. V Remedy out of reach. A rag drenched in vinegar and clove. Grey green mottle grows on the stolid sash. My eyes leak, clear fluid lachrymation Wet crow’s feet; clawing at the aspect. I close my eyes. I want to sleep; lashes kissing cheeks. But skin sticks, to itself, to the hair, to the vinyl chair; I’m stuck. Sweat pools between my thighs, Behind my knees. Dehydrating membrane. Beads of salt find their way down my back, Rolling from the nape, off and down. VI The cat longs for the pious tongue The dry fur unclean The cat longs to be wet
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“An empty skull in the palm of a madman” what a line. what a read.
love when my friends are my favourite writers. this is so beautifully visceral