“The act of writing has become inescapable, which, in many ways, is comforting.”

The editors of Eucalyptus Lit recently had the privilege and opportunity to speak with Mingyu Brian Chan, [xxxxxx]. His work “Of Los Angeles, 1992” features in Issue 6,  Juvenescence.

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This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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How did you start writing?

I surprisingly, and quite vividly, remember when I first fell in love with literature! I was at my grandparents’ house (likely around second to third grade), and I found a pretty beat-up copy of Warrior Cats: Bluestar’s Prophecy. I remember being utterly invested in the novel’s pages for hours on my grandparents’ couch, then taking the book home. From there, I collected sets of Warrior Cats books, and plunged down the rabbit hole of fantasy series (Warriors, Percy Jackson, The Unwanteds, Wings of Fire, etc.), which naturally became my gateway into writing. 

Though I don’t read as much fantasy today as poetry and literary fiction, the genre still holds an incredibly special place in my heart. While writing answers for this interview, I scoured various online pages of these fantasy series to ensure I was correctly recalling the titles. Just seeing the book covers again made me feel so, so deeply nostalgic.

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How do you find your inspiration? What is your creative process? 

Currently, I’d say that much of my writing is a result of challenging myself. With a bunch of free time and much less concern over high school “achievement,” my own work often surrounds whatever random idea pops into my head. I’ll tell myself, hey, that tree looks ashamed, let me write a confessional about it, or sonnets are cool, why don’t I write one, or maybe I’ll take a class on space in college, I’ll write a poem about space for now. Overall, writing poetry feels like an incredibly natural process now, and it makes me quite happy. 

Of course, this means I’m also okay with writing shitty poems, which also means my creative process changes often. I love jotting a few good lines down and building a poem around those. Sometimes, when I get stuck on a specific word that doesn’t sound powerful enough or fitting enough, I’ll take a break from writing and read instead. Maybe I’ll open up some ghazals online, or crack open Diane Seuss’s frank: sonnets. Either way, whether by clearing my mind for new thoughts or reading it straight from another poem, I’ll find a word that strikes me as novel. A bit of mental and physical relaxation goes a long way in the artistic process. 

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Do you have a favorite author or work? 

Too many! I’ll just list a few collections I absolutely adore:

Good Monster - Diannely Antigua, Arrow - Sumita Chakraborty, Good Boys - Megan Fernandes, Afterfeast - Lisa Hiton, The City in Which I Love You - Li-Young Lee, frank: sonnets - Diane Seuss, and many, many more!

Also, since I strongly believe the writing of music falls under “authorship,” Lauryn Hill is, in my opinion, the greatest lyricist of all time. Each of her verses in Fugees’ The Score deserves to be studied.

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What are some of your interests besides writing? How do you address them, if at all, in your work? 

Recently, I’ve realized that writing has become much more than a hobby or academic endeavor for me. Even as I pursue other personal interests, such as law, physics, biology, and music, I find that I’ll eventually start writing about these subjects in my free time. I’ve written drafts about dinosaurs, calculus, black holes, galaxies, and so many more random objects. The act of writing has become inescapable, which, in many ways, is comforting. I’m not worried about losing that inherent passion, even as I may stray away from focusing on writing in college.

Otherwise, in my free time, I’m almost always listening to music or watching shows/movies. This summer, I’ve been especially into Reverend Kristin Michael Hayter (a.k.a. Lingua Ignota), Mid-Air Thief, billy woods, and Shibusashirazu Orchestra. I’ve also been reminiscing about my Beyoncé concert from May, as I always am! This past month, re-bingewatching Cowboy Bebop has kept me in awe: it has literally the greatest soundtrack, the most insane world-building, and the coolest protagonist of any show ever. It's the kind of series you can never skip the intro of.

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What about “Of Los Angeles, 1992”? Could you tell us about your inspiration or thought process behind the piece? 

In “Of Los Angeles, 1992,” I wanted to write about the shockwave of conflict. How could I imagine the broader impacts of the L.A. riots, an event largely centered around racial tensions, on the broader Asian American diaspora? 

I wrote this poem with the intention of it almost “orbiting” something much larger, and yet, within the actual work, undefined. “Of Los Angeles, 1992,” ironically, is not about the L.A. riots, but rather what went on in the world outside. The family captured in this work, like any other family, struggles, suffers, holds out for hope. 

I wanted to leave nearly all of the details in this poem ambiguous. Where has the mother gone, and will she return? How many events in the poem are actually tied to the L.A. riots in the first place? In art and in life, ambiguity is the symptom of innocence. Ultimately, with “Of Los Angeles, 1992,” I sought to depict not only how the effects of racial conflict manifest across a nation, but also how readers choose to interpret these effects.

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We noticed that you publish with both your Chinese and English names. What does being an Asian American writer mean to you?

I remember when I was in elementary school, desperately wanting my mom to change my legal name from Mingyu to Brian, simply because I was sick of teachers always calling for “Mingyu” on the attendance sheet, and me having to tell them the English name I went by. 

I thank every divine power ruling over my life today that I never truly asked my mom to change my name. Now, I’m much, much prouder of the name Mingyu, and publishing with my Chinese name acts not only as an homage to my heritage, but also as an intrinsic reminder to myself that I, in many ways, don’t have to seek to “prove” my identity through my work. My Asian-ness already exists on the page as 明宇, and that is enough.

Honestly, I don’t have much of a definition for the Asian American writer. To me, being an Asian American writer is simply what it is—being Asian American and being a writer. That’s why my name, to me, already serves as proof of my identity. I don’t think there’s a concrete definition to the “Asian American poem” either, and I don’t want there to be. I believe that exclusively tying our identity into a definable product is also, ultimately, rejecting the notion that our diaspora is expansive and continuously transforming.

You’re a reader for ONLY POEMS. Could you tell us a little bit more about that? How does being a reader impact your journey as a writer, if at all?

It’s incredibly humbling and inspiring at the same time! Long before I joined the readership team, I had been a huge fan of ONLY POEMS, and the publication had showcased so many writers I’m now an avid reader of. Now, many times, I’ll revisit an OP submission of a writer I love and go, “Wow! [insert poet name] uses 12 pt. Times New Roman in their manuscripts! I never would’ve guessed!” I know it sounds super weird, but it really does feel different when the unpublished work is in front of you.

I think reading for OP, and reading for publications in general, helps subvert the bias that favors writers with publication “prestige.” I believe that we, especially as teen writers, are subconsciously conditioned to associate good writers with good publication records. Some of the best poems and submissions I’ve ever read have been from writers with minimal publishing histories. Reading for publications (which, in my opinion, is often the realest glimpse into the literary world a writer can get) truly forces you to lean into the craft of a work, rather than measure quality through prior achievement.

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How do you hope to interact with writing in the future?

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My future in writing is one I’ve been thinking a lot about recently. As I move away from high school, I realize that I no longer, ever, have to worry about shaping my work around youth contests like YoungArts, Scholastic, Foyle, etc. Having this massive, literary weight lifted off of my shoulders is incredibly liberating—it’s also equally disorienting. Now that I no longer produce poetry for annual deadlines, I have to confront the process of writing for myself. Honestly, it’s ironic—and insanely annoying—that what had caused me exorbitant stress in my life was also what had ultimately grounded me.

Additionally, in college, I’ll have access to a near-infinite variety of resources: creative writing seminars, world-class authors as professors, and peers with similar goals consistently surrounding me. Of course, it’s almost shameful to complain about having “too much” privilege, but in all honesty, I sometimes fear that the world is outgrowing my own ambitions.

Recently, though, and especially this summer, I’ve been experimenting with poetry—that is, writing whatever I want to write: long poems, short poems, haiku, ghazals, abecedarians, confessionals. One specific theme I’ve been gravitating towards over the past several weeks is the explicitly political poem. I mean poems that directly detail current affairs. Although it may seem counterproductive to capture current events in poetry, a form often expected to be timeless, it is crucial to use art as documentation. It’s vital to consider what role we, as writers, can play in the 21st-century political sphere: in reporting the atrocities being committed in Gaza, the abuse of the federal government against U.S. immigrants, and an accelerating national desensitization to right-wing extremism. This is to say, the “political” poem can be both timeless and era-defining. Nina Simone’s powerful quote always lives in my mind: How can you be an artist and not reflect the times?

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What does it mean to you to be part of a generation of young poets?

It’s crazy! It’s also very, very dynamic. I feel like I’m already considered “old” in the youth poet world, as so much is often centered around high school. That aside, what I think is most beautiful about being a young writer is the naivety, the rashness of it all. I performed at a poetry reading with an incredible theater director some time ago, and he said something then that particularly stuck with me. It was something along the lines of how young poets possess a quality of innocence, or hope, that many adult poets and writers lose by naturally maturing.

On an individual scale, being a young writer means having a voice exclusive by age. On a wider scale, being part of this generation has been life-changing. I’ve met friends, mentors, and collaborators—the most brilliant and gracious people in the world. I can’t express how much growing up within this world has shaped everything about me in the best way possible. There’s so much I could say, but for now, I’ll say that I’m grateful—so, so grateful.

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Do you have any advice for young writers?

Submit your work (yes, even if it’s shitty) to The New Yorker. If you’re accepted, you’ve likely set a record. If you’re rejected, two years will probably have passed, and you’ll have become a much better writer anyway.

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