Rosanna Young Oh is a Korean American poet and essayist who was born in Daejeon, Korea, and grew up on Long Island. Her writing has appeared in publications such as Best New Poets, Harvard Review Online, Blackbird, The Hopkins Review, and 32 Poems, and has received honors that include scholarships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and New York State Writers Institute.
Her poetry was also the subject of a solo exhibition at the Queens Historical Society, where she was an artist-in-residence. A graduate of Yale, the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins, and the University of Wisconsin-Madison, she lives and writes in New York. The Corrected Version is her first book.
Rosanna, your journey from Daejeon, Korea, to Long Island, and then to prestigious institutions like Yale and Johns Hopkins, is quite inspiring. How do these diverse cultural and academic experiences influence your poetry, especially in your debut collection The Corrected Version?
Thank you for this question. I wrote poems about labor more intentionally for my book because I was shy to reveal anything about my background at a place like Yale. When I mustered the courage to do so at Johns Hopkins, my poems were often met with silence or unhelpful critique. I wasn’t writing particularly well, but these workshops, the MFA community, and the syllabi sometimes spoke to a belief that a poem must have certain qualities to be considered strong. That said, I encountered important teachers, poetry, and writers at both schools. To borrow a friend’s words: they taught me “how to see art.”
In writing The Corrected Version, you’ve turned everyday moments and personal experiences into poetry. Could you share your process for finding poetry in the mundane and how these moments inspired your work?
Whatever poetry I’ve found in the mundane has found me or was waiting for discovery, often accompanied by little synchronicities. I read as much as I can and as widely as I can, then wait, mostly. Sometimes as writers, our job is to just keep still and pay attention, which requires mental clarity for me. My writing process also consists of routines that support my mental health, such as exercise and eating well.
Given that the collection was a work 14 years in the making, how did you maintain momentum and inspiration over such a long period? Were there specific routines or rituals that kept you connected to your writing?
One benefit from taking writing workshops through college and my MFA program is that they force you to set a routine. No matter what, you have to write a poem, whether strong or not, each week. To stay inspired, I prioritized going to at least one museum or concert each month, and I read as much as I could. For many years, these habits sustained my writing life.
For five or six out of the fourteen years, I was not writing or thinking about poetry because I had to make a living. Those years were tough because I started over after leaving academia. It was only in 2020 when I gained some stability in my career and when I was able to work remotely that I finally had time and mental energy to write again. My mind had stored all these thoughts and observations that flowed out onto the page. To keep myself accountable, I was emailing weekly updates to a college friend. My old habits returned and carried me through to the finish line.
Do you have a particular space or environment where you find yourself most productive in writing? How important is setting to your creative process?
My environment is critical to my creative process. I need silence and a feeling of isolation–as though I were in a sort of cocoon–from the rest of my family and day for my inner world to surface. I currently write best in my bedroom which has bare walls and a desk facing the window. I find anything on walls distracting, and facing the sky lets my mind wander. I don’t think I could ever write without a window nearby.
Sometimes, when I need inspiration, I seek to defamiliarize myself from my surroundings. For example, I move to a different room. Sometimes I sit on the cold bathroom floor to reorient myself to my surroundings. In March, I’m doing my first residency at the Vermont Studio Center.
As a Korean American, how do you navigate the interplay of your cultural heritage with the universal themes you explore in your poetry?
Thank you for this question. Myth and folklore helped me navigate that interplay. I remember encountering D’Aulaires Book of Greek Myths, which broke my imagination open, and the Korean folktales that my parents would tell my brothers and me as children.
Having your poetry featured in a solo exhibition is quite unique. How was this experience, and how did it feel to see your poetry in such a visual and public space?
From the moment that the curator at the Queens Historical Society contacted me, the process was collaborative. I immediately enlisted my best friend from college, the artist Loidë Marwanga, to design the space. Watching them work and plan, then spending weekends installing the exhibition with them was just fun. I felt free. I got a little emotional as I watched my friends and family walk through the exhibition at the opening–especially my parents. I am eternally grateful for the Queens Historical Society for giving us carte blanche, and for trusting us.
If you could have a conversation with any author throughout history about their writing routine or creative process, who would that person be?
I would like to talk to Iris Chang.
Finally, for poets just starting out, especially those from diverse backgrounds, what advice would you offer based on your own journey and experiences in writing The Corrected Version?
Know that a literary life can take many different forms. Often we think that the challenges with making a book are from only the writing itself. But for many years, the main blockers for me were my anxieties about money. Poetry is an art and not a lucrative career, as poets will rightly, but glibly, tell you.
I have seen many of those same people despair over the limited number of academic jobs, the locations or demands of said jobs, and, ultimately, money, to the point that their mental health is compromised. Or if they don’t despair, they often have some financial support–through their parents or spouses–that allows them to pursue their art without the same fears of failure. Or maybe they don’t care about money to the same extent, or are fine with taking those risks. My point is that everyone’s situation is unique.
I’ve learned that I’m responsible for managing my anxieties so they don’t interfere with my writing. And for me, my marketing job gives me what I need to write freely, so that I don’t expect anything from my art except itself. To be clear, I hope to return to academia one day. But there’s something to be said about being honest about your priorities so you can build a literary life that makes sense for you.
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