Macro Minds, Micro Talks with Mandira: Writer and Artist Koss
Interview by Mandira Pattnaik
Koss is a queer writer and artist. They got an MFA from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago while working there as a janitor. Find their art and writing in places like Diode, Five Points, and Michigan Quarterly. Buy their hybrid chap, Dancing Backwards Towards Pluperfect, a Lambda Finalist, at Diode Editions.
Thank you, Koss, for your time. Congratulations, though a tad late, on Dancing Backwards Towards Pluperfect having been shortlisted for a Lammy Award 2025 in the Lesbian Poetry category. Tell us about your first thoughts on receiving the news, and what do you think was the single biggest factor in the work that propelled it to the shortlisting stage.
Mandira, thank you so much for this thoughtful interview. Regarding Lambda, I was surprised, of course, and elated. The Lambda awards came about because of queers being ignored by Lit proper, and winners and finalists have included people like Adrienne Rich, Donika Kelly, Audre Lorde, Dorothy Allison, and many other great writers. As a queer and as one who often writes from a working-class perspective, I’ve received a lot of hard knocks from the lit world. I find it to be a very tough space—especially the poetry world. Therefore, making this list assuaged some of the pain of it. There were a lot of contenders in this category, or at least a number of great lesbian books released that year—and it felt like a huge honor, also because it was selected by peers. I don’t think a lot of straight people get the importance of Lambda because, well, Pushcart… and because it isn’t theirs. While it didn’t gain me entry into any of the poetry cliques of which I don’t really want to be a member, it did give me an important nod to what and how I am writing, and I was happy my words spoke to someone. I can’t really say what the biggest factor is without knowing the identities of the judges, but I’m guessing that queer work about grief and abuse somehow resonated with them. And perhaps, doing it with dark humor.
I'm fascinated by artists who straddle writing and art effortlessly. Even your writing is not limited to one category, as your poems, fiction and nonfiction find publication with equal ease. What is your secret as such a versatile talent? What did you begin with--was it writing first or art?
Well, thank you for the compliment, Mandira. I certainly drew pictures before I learned to write, but I felt undecided in college. I wrote fiction as a teenager. I took lots of lit and writing courses in college and it was in an interdisciplinary graduate program that I started writing poetry. In graduate school, we got to make our own program to a large extent, and I met Maxine Chernoff (took a course) who got me excited about flash fiction and poetry. But I was also doing comic strips, stuffed animal sculpture, painting and photography. It was a great experience. I think it’s just my nature to be exploratory, and I find visual art to be a more intuitive kind of creating that, for me, can more readily tap into emotional and spiritual reservoirs in a way that language can’t, perhaps because of the altered states of consciousness we can achieve in the making and experiencing. I often think the most remarkable thing about language is how it continually fails (in daily communications and in more formal ones), but I never think this about art because art is met with different expectations; it also tends to be less prescriptive than language, especially written language.
Your Midway Journal's 1000 Below contest 3rd placed winner hermit crab piece "How to Avoid or Survive a Crocodile Attack" ends on a chilling note: "And lastly, always carry a small sharpened stick in your pocket and go for the eyes." Please tell us more about this excellent piece, from inception and idea to its theme and structure.
I’m so glad you read and mentioned this piece, as it’s one of my favorites. Firstly, I have worked as a copywriter and have written and read a lot of shallow, bulleted “how-to” blog posts that are brief and intended (like flash) to appeal to modern attention spans. Mostly what I find on the internet is brief writing with very little content—"how to perform brain surgery in 10 easy steps,” “how to manage narcissistic bosses in five,” etc. I think this “professional” writing is partly what fueled my love for list poems, but when used for poetry, I like to do something subversive with them.
I spent part of my childhood in Florida, and there were warnings about alligators. I don’t think I ever actually saw a real one, but I had a concept of one, so the sight of small lizards would send me screaming for my life. I really thought they were alligators. I had the right idea. I’ve always been horrified by the idea that humans can be food.
When I was taking a memoir writing workshop with Granta, I was digging into some really traumatic material, and for me, writing something instructional, how one might avoid a catastrophe, however absurd a premise it might be in this instance, seemed like a good Segway into writing about difficult material, but also a sort of writing away from the trauma. I find the concept of writing into and writing away from to be interesting.
During this period, I saw an article about a crocodile attack, and did some research about what the difference is between crocodiles and alligators as I always confuse them, and they coexist in Florida which is unusual. Crocs are usually saltwater creatures, and alligators like freshwater. I also like to waste time researching silly things. In my research, I came upon a “What to do if you are attacked by x animal” article. Somehow this information, my childhood in Florida, victimization, and my experience doing shitty internet copywriting converged and this piece happened. Also, I found it somewhat amusing, which was even more distancing the way only humor can be. I know a few readers thought it was funny; others, not. There are a couple of counterpart pieces, including “Family” in Diode, and a list poem that hasn’t been published.
Often, distance is required for good writing, but I think writing into trauma and writing away from it are both valid approaches. And sometimes raw writing penned when the experience is fresh is really powerful. I don’t buy that you must wait for grief and trauma to marinate for ten years to do good work. Everyone is different, and some of my best pieces were written only weeks or months after the event. Distance can, for certain, be as simple as time passing, but one can conduct their own modulating in whatever manner works.
What motifs, mediums and themes are you most likely to use for your artworks?
I work across mediums and do painting, drawing, woodturning, sculpture and mixed media. It’s all a journey for me. I think the absurdity of the human condition, alienation, and gender issues have been recurring themes my whole adult life, but I also return to painting abstraction, asemic art, and the landscape as a mystical/spiritual practice. And this latter part is also where I think non-language expressions are better mediums/disciplines. Talking about light, for example, is never going to resonate the same way as a Turner painting, and I think sound also speaks more closely to the soul than any words ever could. I think that loss, also, is a recurring theme in most of my work, both visual and writing. There are “freeze frames,” yet we can never actually recapture, rewrite, or change things. They are mirage. What is coming, every trauma, every joy, every sorrow, every mundane event, is continually slipping away into its goneness. And in the goneness lies a residual grief.
In your acrylic paintings on panel (such as the MQR Mixtape Afterimage series), you use figures on an existential stage to capture blankscapes, passing time, or a reference to things that once were. How did those come about?
These particular images were a response to one of many senseless wars and the utter desolation I felt, but also the eerie distancing from it caused by the media. The irony of serving destruction to us in the form of a box, computer, cell phone, or TV, and the helplessness felt in that close proximity will never cease to undo me. These are strange times to be a human. There is a counterpart prose poem in my book, “TV,” I wrote when I started this painting series that speaks to this strangeness in a parallel, but distinct way.
Do you think the scope of experimental poetry is expanding more than ever? Which direction do you see it taking?
I think there is some really exciting poetry being written right now as people challenge tradition, but there are still academic and classical gatekeepers with stakes in all of it. I think Gen Z intellectuals are all about change, and I have a sort of hope in the future with them, not just in regards to poetry or literature, but politically. I have hope they are a way back to humanity too. For the near future, I wish I could predict where things are going. In recent years, political and slam poetry gave the genre a different status in many cultures, and now, here in the U.S., we are facing multi-level censorship and fascism which is also changing the way writers express themselves. There are so many unknowns and these are such scary, oppressive times.
What is your advice for emerging writers and artists?
Thanks so much for this invitation. I think I’ll address it in a free-flow, list format. A lot of my advice applies to both writers and artists, and when it comes to IP rights, there are shared concerns including with editing and changing artwork. Don’t be afraid to insist on a contract, one that is negotiable, and if you are an artist or a publisher, you really need to educate yourself on image rights. And I hope, if you are reading this as an editor or submitter, you can cross reference the points and warnings I issue. They are all based on lived experience, both in the lit world, the gallery scene, and in my work/$ world. Many rights can and should stay with the creator, and even a work-for-hire doesn’t necessarily mean the hiring party owns all the rights.
Some of these suggestions are directed at marginalized people, as I am one, and navigating these spaces is different for us. And, disclaimer, this is only my opinion after sending out thousands of submissions and making a lot of mistakes. You need to follow your own instincts about publishers, your work, and how you do lit, but I hope you find something helpful here.
1) A popular blog post suggests sending out 100 submissions per year. While I hear many editors, mostly academic types, complain and shame about spray-and-pray subbing, if you are queer, BIPOC, working-class, or otherwise marginalized, I recommend at least 300. Their magazines can still be “special” and in demand regardless of how many subs you do. You likely will have to work harder for the same results as someone who is privileged. If you are rich, hire someone. I am not rich, and for myself or people who are poor or work 40 hours, this may not be feasible, but if you intend to send to certain venues, you need to bump it up. When I was publishing a lot, I was sending out 300 or more a year. I had a one-in, one-out rule. Also, I didn’t have a life. Note the above-mentioned editors who complain are not the same ones who publish my work. I am not in their club. For some folks, or at least for me, “spray and pray” is a daily part of existence. The world is not my oyster, and I find the lit world also, especially poetry, to be very colored by classism, the ism no one here talks about.
2) It is fine to take breaks, even long ones. You need to fill your cup. And putting your joy (if your joy is the thrill of publishing) in someone else’s hands can sometimes be really disappointing and unfulfilling. This is not to say I’m not grateful, I am very grateful to everyone who has published me, but it is only one facet of life and, really, writing and making art are mostly a reflection, albeit an essential one, on experience and life, not a living.
3) Get clear on your priorities. Writing is not publishing. If you want to publish, write like them; if you want to be a writer, write from your hara. Find your voice, and hopefully, someone(s) will appreciate it. You will likely have to do some work to find your audience also…
4) Not everything in lit is what it seems. Example: “send more” can mean other things including, “give us money.” When I came back to publishing around 2019 or so, I had some grief poems “noticed” by a hugely popular university journal. Of course, I wanted to think my writing was great. But later I found out they sent those to everyone. And, honestly, some of the writing I sent them was shit sent out too soon. Sometimes “send more” does mean “send more,” sometimes it’s meaningless.
5) Sit on it before submitting. But if you do something foolish, forgive yourself.
6) If you care about anthology and award nominations, research the press you are subbing to and see if they have a statement about who they send nominations to. Some are sporadic or don’t submit to any, and you might want to send your best work to journals who do nominate (if you care about those things). Of course, also, pay attention to who they nominate, especially if you are from a historically marginalized group.
7) If a publisher is inclusive, they might have a diverse staff, they might say things on their Submittable submissions page. But this is another instance where not everything is what it seems. The real proof of diversity is in the pudding. Read what they publish. For some publishers, being inclusive and having appreciation for diverse voices comes naturally. I saw a post that denied the existence of virtue signaling in lit a few years back, but it, for sure, is a thing, and I’m wiser than I was eight years ago. I’ve found that the more inclusive publishers often aren’t saying a lot about it. They just do it. If you want to know what an inclusive press looks like, check out Diode’s author list. It looks very different from most.
8) Also, note that publishing marginalized people is not quite the same as publishing marginalized content, and I invite a pondering of this.
9) Writers, editors, and artists are just people, and one shouldn’t assume they are humanists or have similar values. Some of them are really liberal, and some of them are right-wing Trumpsters. The latter likely aren’t parading around about it online, so if you want to publish with presses with similar values, you might want to do some vetting. I’ve been really surprised a few times.
10) Find safe friends to share/critique your work if you need feedback. But also, be mindful of who you share your work with. When you see someone publish the clever bits you labored over in a workshop, you’ll understand. Yes, this has happened to me—and more than once, unfortunately. An artist/professor once said to me, don’t share your ideas. And this proved over and over to be true (yes, for art too).
11) Vet the workshops you are attending for other reasons also. Marginalized people need to feel safe and welcome, but there are other issues to consider. A great book on lit workshops is Craft in the Real World: Rethinking Fiction Writing and Workshopping by Matthew Salesses. It will make you re-examine the spaces you have been in with a critical eye. I highly recommend it.
12) Don’t compromise your writing (or your art). Don’t make edits you don’t want to make. You’ll just feel bad later. This goes along with retaining creative rights.
13) It’s okay to be an artist who insists on getting paid. I did creative work for a journal who paid editors—everyone except me. It didn’t feel good. That bad feeling lingers. Flattery, also, is not food on your table, and lots of people would gladly pay you in flattery while they take their European vacations.
14) If a publisher offers to publish your book, then wants to make you an editor or otherwise wants to use your labor, this is likely a red flag. Insist on good boundaries with publishers. If an editor wants to publish your book and hits on you, run. There are a lot of good people in Indie Lit, but there are also some alligators. Alligators should stay in the swamp.
15) Don’t feed the alligators.
16) Try to connect with a supportive community whether it’s on social (which has become increasingly tough) or in a private group. Being a writer is a tough road to walk alone.
17) If writing about trauma or grief, get clear on what you want from publishing it or if you need to. If it’s validation, that might not be something you can count on. The writing ultimately has to be for you, and publishing, in my opinion, needs to be a really separate process.
18) Protect your grief and trauma writing. It’s important and it's yours.
19) Those large-staff journals with 100 readers are generally much harder to get published in, as are journals with boards. I don’t send to many of those; I never make consensus, and also, in my opinion, those consensus scenarios don’t necessarily lead to choosing the best writing. Sometimes things just get reduced to the lowest common denominator. I’ve had way more success with well managed small-staff ‘zines where my work gets seen by an editor, not screened out by what they call their “readers” in their labor hierarchies, which for me, feels anonymous, if not a bit depersonalizing. I also tend to avoid journals based on them not giving their “readers” proper editor titles.
20) If you are rejected, it doesn’t automatically mean the work should be revised. Some of my best work was rejected 60 times. The best work is always harder to publish. Sometimes it might mean your work isn’t there yet, however. In the end, it’s all very subjective, and there will always be someone who loves a piece and someone who hates it. The extremeness of opinion can be confusing and disheartening, but it is one of the things we have to learn to cope with in this scene.
21) Ignore those cliques. Those people are just really insecure, and mostly the memberships aren’t going to help you on your journey.
22) A clique isn’t a community.
23) Avoid journals that resemble cults, unless, of course, you like cults, in which case, give it your all. If it gets too bad, maybe someone can access a time machine and fetch one of those 80s rescue/deprogramming teams in the white van to save you.
24) Celebrate your successes and surround yourself with people who are genuinely happy for you. Also, celebrate the successes of your friends. Being overly competitive can break a spirit, yours and someone else’s, and I can’t imagine it helps anyone write.
25) Many editors like to be addressed by name in correspondence.
26) It’s okay to give up on some presses, galleries, or other venues if you don’t find their repeated rejections to be a welcome challenge. Fall in and out of love with journals, people, and presses. It’s part of the journey. And it’s important to make space in your field for things that feel good and supportive.
27) Find the lovely, generous people. They are out there. But when not lovely, clear your field and don’t get bogged down by people or dynamics that make you unhappy or don’t feel supportive. Muse must be free.
28) Show gratitude when someone takes the time and makes space for you and your work. More, importantly, feel it, and that is, of course, your soul work, but running presses is a lot of labor and time, and it is a gift to have someone hold space for you whether by reading or by publishing your work. Everyone likes to be appreciated.
29) Publishing is great, but remember you’re a writer because you write—not because someone has published you.
Thanks so much Mandira and Trampset for this opportunity. I so admire the journal and am happy you have taken the time to do this, for your thoughtfulness, and for holding space for me and for the writers you publish.
