Poet & professor Dan DeVaughn joined the faculty at CSUP this fall. DeVaughn is the author of The Passion (Omnidawn, 2028), and he received an MFA from the University of Oregon and PhD from the University of North Texas. He will be reading as part of the Southern Colorado Reading Series on Thursday, October 12 at 1:00 pm in the LINCx on the library's second floor. 

One of our creative writing teaching assistants, senior Sam Atencio, recently had the chance to talk to Dr. DeVaughn about his work. 

SA: Are there any themes that you feel span across your body of work, or that you feel the most excited or interested in examining through your writing?

DD: I grew up in the church, so my perennial themes are the same as a lot of other poets working today, and I suppose American writers going back to Dickinson, Whitman, Thoreau—God, faith, the soul, and the ways that language and nature inform, even construct, these really big, seemingly all-pervading ideas. More specifically, it’s fascinating to me how non-human organisms—deer, for example, or trees—often overlap in our cultural consciousness with the supernatural and ideas of the holy. Non-human or “sub-human” creatures become equated with transcendent, “higher” ideas or realities. There’s something in that that has to do with emergence, I think, how form and deep, human meaning can emerge from simple matter—for example, a song from a piece of resonating wood, the call of a bird, a flower, even human speech. I’m not walking around constantly thinking about these ideas, but the more I write, the stranger, even miraculous, language and the sounds of speech seem sometimes. But certainly poetry for me is a way to satisfy a certain need I have for holistic, radical meaning. Oddly enough, that tends to come from what is stubbornly material—nature—probably because it is non-human and beneath, or outside of, culture.

SA: How does the world around you influence your work, and if so, in what ways?

DD: The people (and animals) around me, and who I grew up with, influence what I write more than anything else. I read the news, of course, and see the way the world is tending—what a mess it seems—and politics, the environment, history, and other ethical considerations are certainly forefront in my mind most days. Whenever I consciously try to write, let’s say, “topical” poems, though, I tend to get in trouble. What I mean is they’re usually not as successful as the poems that simply come from personal experience, a feeling I’m having, a forgotten memory that occurred to me while cooking, or whatever happened as I was walking my dog yesterday. So, I end up writing about the deer we see trying to cross the road, the wild turkey he likes to chase, the creek by our house, that kind of thing. Probably because these places are sources of solace and calm, I find it easier to write about them, to sort of free associate into them, through memory and imagination. Oftentimes in those associations, I end up thinking about childhood, family, loves ones, those human bonds that have actually sustained me throughout my life, even if I like to imagine, selfishly, that I need is trees and a good trail with a nice view at the end of it.

Also! The writers I read, and friends of mine who are writers affect my own work tremendously. Poetry is having kind of a moment right now, which is wonderful, so it’s in the air and in the media I consume. This influences my own perspectives and style in ways I probably don’t even consciously realize.

SA: When you're working on a piece, how do you balance your personal experience with making sure the work is also relatable for readers?

DD: In the beginning stages of a new piece, a first draft, I try to think as little as possible, or not at all, about the reader, my imagined audience. I believe that the best writing comes from feeling something, then attempting to communicate that feeling, ideally as it’s happening, but at least your clearest recollection of it. Even that attempt to remember the feeling, on the page, can be fascinating in itself, and a lot of great poems are just that, a la Wordsworth’s emotion recollected in tranquility, using the page as a place to reconstruct a felt experience, even to make it into an altogether new one. Once you’ve got that first draft down, though, and assuming that it didn’t come out fully formed and “perfect,” it’s all a matter of time. By that, I mean you have to allow yourself time and space to leave that page, to forget the written thing, then come back to it later and gauge the quality of what is there with all of the feeling, intuition, and critical faculties you can muster. You become your own best audience in this sense, but it’s not a quick process by any means. Writing something new should be as low-stakes as possible—a kind of play, a game, an experiment or exploration. Revision is high stakes, but it need not be rushed. The gift you should give yourself, and the writing, is time.

SA: How do you work best? What aspects of your writing process do you feel are most important?

DD: My ideal writing environment is not quite cut off from the world, but it’s close. There’s a place I like to go in North Georgia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, and when I’m working there, the solitude is visceral. You’d have to walk for quite some time to encounter anybody. I know I’m really alone, and I find that when I know that, and when I also stow away the computer and phone, I can write in the way I want to, which is actually a lot of sitting in silence, “doing nothing.” I guess it’s pretty cliché, but when I’m there, I sit in front of a big window on the other side of which are a couple of rhododendron trees, and beyond those, pine trees, and I try to write, long-hand, as much as I possibly can, with little to no regard for my inner critic or second thoughts. When I’m not writing, I stare out the window. Someties it’s beautiful; sometimes it’s very boring, but the boredom is necessary to reach that open, receptive, truly relaxed psychological (and physical) state that leads to having good ideas and thinking clearly.

So, I suppose I’d say that real solitude, with no distraction—space in which to be “bored”—is the most important part of my writing process. Other than that, mindfulness meditation is incredibly important for me. It’s a kind of reset button for my brain and nervous system. Without it, I don’t know if I’d be a writer at all. Probably I would, but the process would be far more laborious and agonized.

SA: What advice would you have for burgeoning writers?

DD: Read, and read what you actually enjoy reading. Read the books that make you feel something and that speak to you on an existential level. It’s good to read as a writer, to learn technical proficiency, what good writing looks and sounds like, and what is en vogue currently. But it’s crucial to build one’s personal canon, and those are the books that speak to you on a human, personal level, like a letter you’ve received from a faraway country. These are the books that, when you read them, you feel as if you’re being let in on a secret, being instructred on how to live, what it feels like to be alive, and how to give back to others who are also alive. This connects to what I said earlier about my upbringing in the church. I think I first went to literature for the same reasons I would read the Bible, or go to church services, or pray. I wanted truth, guidance, to learn how to live, and to come into contact with something truly durable and most alive. That, or simply a voice, to feel connected to a presence. So, my advice is to find the books that feed those needs in you, and if there’s something you want from the world, or want to see in the world, but you can’t find it, then write that thing into the world, or at least your desire for it.

CSUP is proud to host The Howl, a monthly open mic night, led by senior Marika Guthrie.The next installment of The Howl will be on November 20 from 6:00 pm - 8:00 pm in the LINCx on the library's second floor. This event is free and open to the public, and refreshments will be served. 

Haley Newman, our creative writing teaching assistant, had the chance to talk to Marika about The Howl, and their conversation is below.

HN: How did you come up with the idea for The Howl?

MG: I’m a very grateful recipient of The Reisher Scholarship given through The Denver Foundation. As part of my scholarship, I am participating in the Community Impact Certificate Program. This program encourages scholars to give back to their communities through projects that have a lasting positive effect on their communities. While CSU-Pueblo has a robust writing program, there was no venue for writers to share their work with each other outside the classroom. Open Mics have always drawn me because they bring writers and artists and their work into the community. CSU-Pueblo did not currently have an active or ongoing open mic venue and after attending a SoCo author reading the idea struck me that this was the perfect way to give back to my program, my department, my school, and the greater Pueblo community.

HN: What would you say are some benefits of reading your work in public like this?

MG: There are so many incredible benefits to reading your work aloud, not just to an audience, but as a practice. I always encourage writers to read their work aloud as they write. It makes a big impact on the quality of their work. Poetry especially is meant to be read aloud, but all forms of writing take on a certain life, energy, and movement when shared out loud. Reading in a welcoming environment, such as The Howl or the Id (at the Ethos in downtown Pueblo), builds confidence in your work, your voice, and your person. It also builds connections with artists and those that enjoy the arts. I think this is particularly important during times of national unrest, such as we are experiencing now, to know that you are part of a community that values the humanities.

HN: What kind of people would you encourage to come read at The Howl?

MG: I encourage everyone to come read! If you are new to reading at venues the Howl offers a safe inclusive place to find your voice. If you are an old hat to sharing your work you can expand your audience base and meet other artists. We also encourage non-writers to share! We would love to host musicians, visual artists, and those that don’t consider themselves artists. If you have something that fills your cup that you just need to share, such as a piece of writing from another author, an art piece, etc, please come! Just remember that whatever you want to perform must fit into a 5 minute window.

HN: What tips or advice would you give to people nervous about sharing their work with others?

MG: It can be terrifying to get up in front of an audience to read, especially if the work is your own. The fear of rejection or humiliation is real, but the reality is that writers and artists are an empathic bunch who want to see you succeed. Sometimes it helps to put your name toward the end of the list of readers so you can watch and listen to others present their work. I find waiting always gets me excited to share my own writing. Once you are up there it can feel like you are alone but remember that you are in a room full of friends and contemporaries who are rooting for you. Take a big breath before you begin. Often writers will crack a joke to ease their own tension. There is no wrong way to go about this. Read SLOWLY if you can. Everyone wants to hear what you wrote. Remember that your voice is IMPORTANT and worthy of sharing. Then come back to the next open mic and read again. Practice doesn’t really make perfect, but it does help tame the nerves.

HN: Bonus question: What’s the proper etiquette when someone finishes a reading: finger snaps or traditional applause? Those of us less familiar with public readings would love to know the etiquette!

MG: Proper response etiquette depends on the event. For an open mic like The Howl, clap when a reader is called to the mic, finger snap during the reading if you hear something that resonates with you, then when the reader is finished and returning to their seat you can clap, whistle, holler, stomp your feet or whatever way you feel best shows your appreciation! For events where there is a featured reader, such as the wonderful SoCo readings sponsored by CSU-Pueblo, clap when the reader takes the podium, snap when you hear things that move you and between pieces, then clap when the reader ends their reading. The big thing to remember is that encouragement is balm to the writer's soul so give it freely.

Cathrina Jakeman, an English major at CSUP, has just published her first chapbook entitled Why I Bite with Bottlecap Press, which is "a visceral, fragmented exploration of girlhood, illness, and rage." The book can be ordered directly from Bottlecap Press here, and what follows is an excerpt from a piece entitled "Jaws Comes For Us All Eventually":

Nine — in the shower, water sliding down my skin, kissing my eyelashes — washing out

my mouth. My hand hesitantly travels to the center of my chest, towards my heart. Three      

fingers extended, clockwise motion, light pressure. Finding nothing, I sink to my knees and,  

leaning over, cup my small breasts in my palms. I hold them, feel the weight of them, and  

squeeze.

Creative Writing Teaching Assistant Haley Newman had the chance to interview Jakeman about her work, the publishing process, and how she submits pieces for publication. Their fascinating conversation is below. 

HN: What stages did your new chapbook, Why I Bite, go through before arriving at the finished product?

CJ: There’s a lot to think about and unpack with this question, but I think it all started last semester when I went to Mona Susan Power’s reading for her newest book, Council of Dolls. In her Q&A, she said she knows a line, a paragraph — a book — is done when it feels true. That really got me thinking about authorial intention and vulnerability, especially since I was writing mostly poetry and nonfiction at the time. Why I Bite went through a lot of transformation before it felt like the truth, and I think that search for truth was the biggest driver of the chapbook’s evolution from nothing into a published entity.

In the beginning, the pieces were mostly fragmented experiments with tone, form, and style. I originally imagined them going to separate journals and magazines, but over time, I realized I was circling the same themes — girlhood, illness, inherited trauma, the body as an archive of memory — and that together they could articulate my ideas better. That’s something I’m always asking myself as a writer: not just is this good? but is this effective?

One thing that helped me move from fragments to a manuscript was making a visual chapbook for myself. I designed mock-ups in Canva, printed out the pieces, cut them apart, and rearranged them until the order made sense. Sometimes I even added images from my childhood scrapbooks to test how the themes could be visually delineated. That process —  cutting my own work apart (we always hear the term, kill your babies, and in this stage I truly understood that. I mean, I was literally taking a blade to my own work to make it the best it could be), moving sections, and seeing it as its own object —  is what helped me see what belonged and what didn’t; two or three pieces didn’t make it into the book for this reason. Some pieces, like Jaws Comes For Us All Eventually and Blood Slug, went through twenty drafts before I felt they had that truthful bite I was looking for.

And, most importantly, I wasn’t doing this alone. My creative nonfiction professor, Dr. Tomie Bitton, helped me talk through these big ideas and guided me toward the strongest representation of them. By the time the manuscript reached Bottlecap, it had shed its moles and warts and become something alive.

HN: How did you find Bottlecap Press?

CJ: I actually found Bottlecap Press through the work I’ve been doing with Vinegar Press, which is the small literary press I founded earlier this year. In that vein, I wanted Vinegar to publish experimental, hybrid, and emotionally raw writing in the form of digital chapbooks and magazines.

Part of running Vinegar means being nosey and constantly looking at what other indie presses are doing — how they curate, how they design, and how they advertise their authors. That’s how I came across Bottlecap. Their catalog immediately made me want to submit. I could see my own work living in conversation with what they were publishing, and that gave me the confidence to send Why I Bite their way.

HN: What was the submission process for your chapbook like? How long did it take to hear back from Bottlecap Press at each step of the process? Did they request further editing?

CJ: The submission process with Bottlecap Press was really smooth, which I appreciated because submitting a chapbook can feel so intimidating. I sent Why I Bite in during one of their open reading periods, and I heard back with an acceptance about three weeks later. That initial “yes”... I can't even describe how that felt (I think I reread the email ten times).

From there, the process moved quickly. Bottlecap didn't request any edits; by the time I submitted, the chapbook had already been through so many drafts and rounds of revision that it was in pretty good shape. We did some small adjustments on formatting and layout for the physical print, but for the most part they trusted my vision and let the manuscript stand as it was.

The whole thing — from acceptance to production — took a little over a month, which in the publishing world feels lightning fast. They designed a cover, had me write a blurb, and now it’s out in the world.

HN: You’ve been published several times. How much of your work do you have submitted at any given time, and how do you keep all of that information organized?

CJ: My submission process tends to come in waves. I’ll go through an intense writing period where I generate and revise a lot of work, and then I’ll send a batch out “on submission.” Usually that means around ten places at once. After that, I’m in the habit of checking Submittable and my email constantly to track responses.

To stay organized, I keep a Notion page with publishers I like, notes on whether I’ve submitted to them, and deadlines. That system helps me see patterns (which presses feel like a good fit, what kind of work goes where) and keeps the process from feeling like I'm just throwing pages into space hoping for a response.

On top of that, I’m also a staff writer for The Lycian magazine, where I publish once a month. Having that responsibility means there’s always writing, editing, and organizing going on at some point, even when I’m not in the big submission push. It gives me some form of structure and accountability (which is huge since writing is something that is so reliant on self-motivation) while also reminding me that publishing doesn’t only come with external validation. Being published and continuing to publish my work has taught me the value in working with a community; that in practicing consistency and resilience, I can get as much fulfillment from the process that I do in solely chasing acceptances. 

HN: Do you have any advice for those who might feel intimidated about the submitting process?

CJ: I’ve been rejected more than I’ve been published and at first that “no” felt soul crushing. So much to the point where I was at a standstill — not writing, not submitting, just waiting for the perfect moment when everything would be exactly right for me to write the perfect piece. I had to change this. I had to reframe.

Now, every “no” tells me something; maybe the piece needs more work, maybe it’s not the right time, or maybe it just hasn’t found its home yet. That reframing was huge for me. For example, there’s this one magazine that has monthly prompts that I submit to each month. I’ve never been accepted and I’ve been submitting to this particular magazine since 2023. That’s two years, 24 pieces, and none of them have been picked up. One of the pieces I submitted was I Ate All My Friends, which found its home in the chapbook. Simply put, because I failed there, I was able to surpass my goal of publishing in that magazine and put a whole book into the world. It just takes time and stubbornness.

HN: Bonus question: What (art/music/books/movies/tv/theater) is inspiring you right now?

CJ: I’m usually inspired by themes more than single works. Lately it’s been big ideas like inheritance, violence, surrealness, and how I can try to distill them into something intimate. Recently, I’ve been reading experimental fiction like Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch and Sayaka Murata’s short stories, thinking about Murakami’s surrealness, and turning to Fernanda Melchor and Mariana Enriquez for the way they explore Hispanic heritage and violence. After my grandmother passed, I started looking more deeply into my Mexican heritage, which has shaped the direction of my current work, a short story collection, tentatively titled Mudwives.