Episode 485: Tensions and Textures with Poet Patrycja Humienik – Home of The Creative Nonfiction Podcast

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“God, I feel like I’m still enduring that, like it’s this sort of ongoing thing where I’m not sure I ever if I’ll ever get to a place where I feel like my work and ambitions for the work and daydreams about writing and art-making ever meet my taste.” — Patrycja Humienik, author of We Contain Landscapes: Poems

Been real lazy lately, but, hey, I’m not known for a great work ethic, it’s the Creative nonfiction Podcast, the show where I talk to primarily writers about the art and craft of telling true stories.

For Ep. 485 — man, getting close to five hundy — is Puh-treets-ya Home-U-neek (Hooked on Phonics worked for me! That’s a 1980s deep cut.), she’s a poet and her debut collection is We Contain Landscapes and it is published by Tin House. Patrycja is the daughter of Polish immigrants and is a writer, editor, and teaching artist. You can follow her on the gram @jej_sen.

So Patrycja and I had nice little jam sesh about:

Trusting the path
The Magic of Revision
Weekly Writing Rituals with her Work Wife
Tension and Textures
And writing without the pressure of publication

Some really rich stuff. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker (that rag), Gulf Coast, Poetry Society of America and many others. She works between borders: of disciplines, language, body, art activism, conflict/transformation. She’s a true artist, man. You can learn more about her at www.patrycjasara.com or just keep listening.

Patrycja’s Rec

Taking care in your meal prep and cooking

Parting Shot: Getting Rid of All the Fucks

OK, so I was driving around Eugene, cruising the Ave as we used to say in southeastern Mass, and I was thinking how life is all about running out of fucks to give as fast as possible. We’re born with all the fucks we’re going to give in a lifetime. We pick up some along the way, but by and large, we’re given all the fucks and the most enlightened find a way to be rid of them fast.

It takes a long time…you start hearing people in their 50s really lean into it, saying, “I’m outta fucks to give.” It’s liberating, right? Some people don’t lose them and it’s kinda sad. Like, someone I know who is pushing 70 is still really concerned about being skinny and it’s like, why waste the headspace? Who really cares? I have my body image issues and the like (more on that when I run Mallory Tarpley’s pod), but you start to think like, “Why am I letting ______ take up space in my brain?”

There are certain things in my writing life and podcasting life that still raise my hackles, but I’m getting better at it. It really bothered me when certain people failed to step up and help me with book promotion. People I’ve helped, people I’ve platformed, and then to be ignored when I could use the help deeply upset me. I don’t do this podcast for favors or transactions, but sometimes it’s nice to scratch each other’s back.

Books sales … like we just crossed 3,000. Now, a few weeks ago in the newsletter I expressed mild disappointment in the sales numbers, but as long as I’m allowed to keep going and maybe secure another book contract so that I might be able to pay for our health insurance thus liberating my lady wife from a job that’s killing her, that’s the win for me. Can I keep the flywheel spinning? I’m trying. The baby proposal was sent off two weeks ago. And I haven’t rested on my laurels. Just like I thought, my agent hasn’t gotten back to me yet so I’m still building out the phone book, doing the research, sourcing up.

All in all, I’m starting to reach the bottom of all my fucks. I think there’s only a few remaining and I’m trying to poke holes in the bottom of that tank so they can fully drain out. If I can be void of fucks by the end of 2025, just think of how light that’ll feel.

This isn’t to say DON’T CARE. It’s kinda the opposite, I want to care more about what matters: being kind, platforming a diverse swath of voices on the podcast, getting more headliners on the pod, which brings in more attention to the entire festival. I want my worries to matter. I want to be of service. I want to be a force for good. I know I can be a drag at times, a bit of miserable, seemingly ungrateful pill. I realize my complaining is annoying. I mean, it annoys me, but I’m not going to hide or tamp down how I feel. That’s not being honest and that’s putting a false veneer of performative bullshit that’s in service of nobody. We all feel like shit most if not all of the time. No sense in hiding that. That’s part of being a writer. That’s table stakes. So long as the angst starts stemming from a dry well of fucks given, not of fucks to give.