"Writing has taken on new urgency for me because living has felt urgent."
poet Erin Hoover on creative rest, being less precious about her writing conditions, and refusing to give up on attending readings and events after having a child
Hello there! This is a good creatures interview, a series that explores the intersection of caregiving and creative practice. I’m so excited to showcase people doing lots of kinds of caregiving—people caring for kids or pets or other family members and/or caring for space through gardening or community work or activism—and lots of kinds of creative work.
If you know (or are!) a good creature whose work we should feature, send me an email—you can just reply to this newsletter.
And if you’re reading this note, but you’re not subscribed to this (free!) newsletter, you can fix that by entering your email address right here!
Today’s interview is with Erin Hoover, whose new book, No Spare People, is out now. I met Erin this past fall when she invited me and two other Black Lawrence poets, Claudia Cortese and Raena Shirali, to join her for a reading at Tattooed Mom in Philadelphia. I read this description of her book and was immediately sold:
From poems about finding autonomy as a queer, unpartnered parent by choice in the South to those chronicling a generation's economic instability, Hoover rejects so-called "acceptable losses" stemming from inequalities of gender, race, and class. The book asks, what happens to the woman no longer willing to live a lie?
It was such a great, warm reading—the kind of event that reminds you why poetry matters and how sharing our work can bring people together. I started reading No Spare People on the train home and emailed Erin basically immediately to invite her to be part of this series.
Below, we talk about how becoming a parent made Erin’s writing feel more urgent and helped her worry less about writing conditions and less-than-perfect first drafts.
Who do you care for?
I care for my daughter, who’s six years old. Less directly, but by being present in the lives of others, I care for friends, family, students, other writers.
What kind of creative work do you do?
I write poetry, but I also do a lot of editing work—I teach poetry and literary editing. I curate and host a monthly in-person poetry series, and I interview other poets for the Southern Review of Books.
What are some ways care-giving fosters creativity and vice versa?
Caregiving, as well as being cared for, are modes of relation to other people. In many ways, I think it has made my art more whole—not just adding to my subject matter, but there are different stakes to my poetry now that I have a child, and I also feel connected to people through the other modes I mentioned, teaching and organizing. Writing has taken on new urgency for me because living has felt urgent.
Speaking about my relationship to my daughter, which is a very deep kind of caring, I’m proud to be making creative work and to model that for her. I have found a way to make my labor the activity I’m best at doing. I’m also documenting our lives together. Although I have loving parents who saved mementos, because of trauma, parts of my young life are lost to me.
I’m also less precious about what comes out of me, in that I no longer throw away the imperfect line or clunky concept—I try to find the value in whatever I’ve written and make something of it later on.
What’s an adjustment you’ve had to make to your creative process, and an adjustment you refuse to make?
I used to believe that I needed to write when I had a creative spark, but I no longer think so. I’ve become good at storing ideas for later. I’m also less precious about what comes out of me, in that I no longer throw away the imperfect line or clunky concept—I try to find the value in whatever I’ve written and make something of it later on.
When we consider refusals, we’re often talking about what we won’t give up. I have refused to give up doing events and meeting other poets. Often, I bring my daughter to events. This started when she was 18 months old and I took her on tour with me. Someone took a photo of her standing next to me while I was reading at this bookstore in Gainesville, Florida, and when another poet friend, Erin Belieu, saw the photo, she said, “It’s a big deal, what’s you’re doing, taking her with you.” I hadn’t really thought about it like that, I mean, I brought her to the event because I had to, but I got what Erin was saying: I hadn’t put my life in silos. My daughter has been at nearly every instance of the monthly poetry series that I put on, so she’s surrounded by poets. When we have a visiting writer at my university, she attends, and often she meets the writer. She’s been in a lot of green rooms.
When I bring up this story, I’m not trying to say that I have it all or I’m trying to do it all. It’s more like I’ve found ways to negotiate myself into the life of a poet that work for me.
Is there something specific you do to jumpstart creativity?
I think letting your mind rest is important. When I’m able to rest, I regain the attention necessary to be curious about the world. I “rest” by going for a walk or reading magazines or clicking around on YouTube (on YouTube, I like videos about the exploration of abandoned spaces or the history of stuff like malls or consumer goods).
What’s your creative philosophy and how has it expanded with the addition of caregiving?
When I mention urgency above, you could say I feel like becoming a caregiver has given me access not only to thoughts or feelings about the act of care, but it was also like I gained a vantage on how little care is valued in our culture. It was like I was a woman approaching middle age just realizing how the world worked for the first time. The scales fell from my eyes or whatever (omg, did I just quote the Bible?!!!)
Upon embarking on a life of care, I could see how the system of the world operated, and how that system (mis)understood me. So, that became my new subject, in part—it’s one subject in No Spare People.
Erin Hoover was born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. She is the author of two poetry collections: Barnburner (Elixir, 2018), which won the Antivenom Poetry Award and a Florida Book Award, and No Spare People (Black Lawrence, 2023). Her poems have appeared in The Best American Poetry and in journals such as Cincinnati Review, Poetry Northwest, Shenandoah, and The Sun. Hoover lives in Tennessee and teaches creative writing at Tennessee Tech University. She curates and hosts a poetry reading series, Sawmill Poetry, and produces the “Not Abandon, but Abide” monthly interview series for the Southern Review of Books. You can find her on Instagram at @theerinhoover, Twitter at @erinhoover, and Bluesky @erinhoover.bsky. Visit her website at erinhooverpoet.com.
If you’re near Nashville, you can catch Erin at two upcoming events at The Porch:
Apr. 13: Writing About Motherhood: A Poetry Workshop, 1:30-3:30 p.m. Class description & register
May 11: Birthing the Book with NO SPARE PEOPLE Author Erin Hoover, 11:00 a.m.-12:30 p.m.
Write More, Be Less Careful is a newsletter about why writing is hard & how to do it anyway. You can find my books here and read other recent writing here. If you’d like occasional dog photos, glimpses of my walks around town, and writing process snapshots, find me on instagram.
If Write More has helped you in your creative life, I’d love it if you would share it with a friend.
I really enjoyed this interview and could relate so much to the idea of rest , pure rest or a walk in nature, being the way to ignite our creative juices!
So fantastic, thank you!! 🙏🏻