On Writing a Poetry Manuscript: Reenvisioning, Timing, & 30 Days | 30 Poems Q&As
As some of you know, over the past half decade I have been working on a poetry manuscript—well: three manuscripts. After I graduated from my MFA program in 2020, I realized that my thesis had three distinct threads, which I came to refer to as the Iranicana poems, the vagina poems, and the estrangement poems. In another timeline, I would have seen these interweaving threads as parts of one greater whole—but, in this timeline, I still had (and have) so much more to say about each thread that they’ve sprouted sub-threads—more than what would fit into one manuscript.
Given this realization, it would have been very efficient of me to have at least been able to focus on one manuscript at a time, start to finish—but artmaking is efficient. That first summer post-MFA, I wrote several poems toward Iranicana. When I entered a new relationship that fall, my creativity mysteriously (read: not so mysteriously) dried up, so I focused on submitting my work to journals instead. (Have any of you also felt that some kinds of caregiving energy and creative energy draw from the same well?)
Fast forward to fall 2021: the relationship ended. I immediately wrote 10 poems toward Red Refrain (tentative new title for the “vagina poems”). During the aforementioned relationship I was living with chronic health conditions; a few months after the breakup, they got much, much worse. I wanted to sleep way more than I wanted to write. I spent so much of that year seeking medical answers, attempting to save money, and in general despair.
Then in late 2022, I moved to western Massachusetts after spending two writing residencies in the area and falling in love with the landscape. A friend of a friend had just bought a house and was looking to fill the two other bedrooms. We signed the lease at the Emily Dickinson House. I had some terrific spurts of writing in Western Mass—so many fragments!—but if I am honest I wasn’t in the right “season” of my life to focus my attention on a manuscript for large stretches of time. My brainspace was preoccupied, instead, with how to pay rent while experiencing debilitating period symptoms that lasted half of every month.
I knew by spring 2024 that Western Mass wasn’t going to be a long-term affair. I was grateful to Mass Health for fixing my eyeballs (which were also in need of fixing), but my eight years away from an urban artistic environment (I had spent my early twenties living in Baltimore.) affirmed for me that I wanted to live in a city again.
2025: I moved! I found two kittens, bought a SEPTA card, scavenged for furniture on Facebook marketplace, started a new part-time position at the Bartol Foundation (Teaching artist friends, check out our free programming!), opened an Etsy storefront and began vending at the local farmer’s market, found doctors who believed me when I said I am in pain, and then bled for nine months straight anyway. I wrote in fragments as much as I could, but the brain fog was intense. The exhaustion was intense. The dissociation while Israel and the U.S. bombed Iran was intense.
Now in 2026, one year post-move, the conditions for writing remain, uh, fraught: when my mind wanders, it’s not to my creative projects nearly as much as it is to the Epstein files, the massacre of Iranian civilians, the occupation of Minnesota, U.S. violence in Venezuela. I can feel my body tense up as I write this. If I am not intentional about the framing around my news intake, I find that it is always suddenly, somehow, thirty minutes later, i.e. that I’ve been dissociating.
And, on a smaller scale, my chronic health conditions remain, well, chronic: in retrospect, for example, I now recognize that this past week was PMDD and endo heavy—i.e. that’s why I couldn’t stop crying, why my fatigue was insatiable, why my tolerance for perceived rejection was shot, why I was cramping during what I thought was “mid cycle”—but the fact that I had the energy and clarity to even write a first draft of this newsletter in the days leading up to my period is a stark contrast to even last fall. (Even while the intensity of the period pain itself is probably still on par if much less frequent.)
I’m meandering.
What I came here to tell you is that I’ve molded my skin 6 times these past 6 years and this new one is itchy for ink smudges.
That even if the conditions are fraught (and when might they not be?), sometimes you just know you’re in the right season of your life to create.
That I am excited to embark on a creative journey with you.
That supporting writers in their work—whether that means beginning (or beginning again) a writing practice, seeing through a creative project, or revising tender work—is a life calling I do not take for granted.
The deadline for early bird registration for 30 Days | 30 Poems is coming up in just three weeks on March 6, so I want to share a little more about it for anyone who is wondering whether or not this program is the right fit for them.
*
Why did you decide to make this class?
Because I love writing in community. I regularly facilitate gentle writing accountability groups, and I’ve seen again and again how writing in community helps motivate artists—as well as equip them with the necessary skills—to work toward their goals.
Also: because this is a class I’d want to take as a student! In addition to supporting y’all in writing your manuscripts, my goal will be to finish a draft of my manuscript as well—which is to say I’ll be struggling with you and celebrating with you in real time.
Who is this class for?
I’m glad you asked! This class is for the global majority ready to see ourselves centered in course design.
This class is for neurospicy babes and disabled-bodied writers for whom a flexible, partially asynchronous class format is a blessing.
This class is for anyone seeking support in cultivating a sustainable writing practice that honors the body before production.
This class is for cross genre writers, multidisciplinary artists—anyone who sees their writing as engaging with poetry.
This class is both for writers nearing completion of a creative project and for writers at the early stages of dreaming one up.
This class is NOT a good fit for writers who thrive on rigid shame-based deadlines, peer competition, or the spirit of the Iowa workshop model.
What if I’m not confident I’ll be able to commit to writing a poem every single day?
With a community container, you might surprise yourself with what you can accomplish in a month!—but as a trauma-informed educator living with chronic illness, I understand the importance of centering the body’s needs. We will reassess our intentions at several points throughout the month to make sure we are being self-compassionate and to interrogate internalized capitalistic ideas of what success looks like.
And, to be clear, while the intent behind this challenge is to inspire daily creativity, every single one of us will have a slightly different goal coming to this class—and that is a very good thing.
My goal, for example, will definitely not be to leave the month with 30 polished poems. My goal will be to attempt 30 poems—whether that means writing a new sentence, revising a poem I started a year ago, or spitting up some word soup.
Maybe your goal will be more ambitious or more open.
What I hope all our goals will have in common is a curiosity about process and the desire to celebrate not only when we create but also when we choose rest.
What will classes be like?
Our first two meetings will take place in March before the 30-day challenge begins so that we can begin to build community, resource map, and make lifestyle adjustments that cultivate creativity.
During the month of April, sessions will largely focus on writing time, troubleshooting obstacles through guided journaling and small group discussion, as well as celebrating wins.
We will discuss strategies for listening to our bodies when we experience writer’s block and share balms that have eased the experience for us. We will also discuss the revision and publication process (although a desire to publish is not a requirement of anyone participating in the course) as well as strategies for reading in front of audiences (with an opportunity—not an expectation—to do so in our May celebratory reading).
What are you like as a teacher?
I come to my teaching practice with personal experience that artmaking (and sharing) not only can improve our quality of life but also can save our lives. I stand behind ancestral wisdom and contemporary research that art can serve as a vehicle for our healing, community building, spiritual growth, and resistance against the powers that be.
And, as a queer biracial Iranian American woman living with disabilities, I feel acutely aware that teaching is a political act; my work as a teaching artist comes from a drive to disrupt capitalism and fascism through work that emphasizes process over product, healing, critical thinking skills, and community care.
While no educator can honestly guarantee a “safe spaces,” we all can cultivate conditions necessary for a “brave space” to form. That is, we can help cultivate conditions necessary to build rapport and trust, and we can offer models of repair when harm occurs.
What will support look like between classes?
Between sessions, I will offer writers a daily poem from a contemporary literary magazine and an optional prompt. My poem choices will prioritizes not only historically-resilient writers but also varied styles, historical moments, subjects, and genres. Literary magazines may include Seventh Wave, The Margins, and Mizna, among many others that writers may wish to submit their work to after the challenge ends. I am very, very open to including your favorite journals and poems as well!
Writers will also have the opportunity to upload their daily drafts to a Google folder to share with their peers and, while critique is not a formal component of this workshop, writers are encouraged to forge connections with other participants who may be eager to form a critique circle.
Ultimately, what this looks like will be something we develop together. Would a group chat be helpful? Let’s do it! Are we wanting to body double throughout the week? Let’s dream up what that might look like.
What information do you need from me before class starts?
Before our first meeting, I will send out a questionnaire to get a sense of everyone’s access needs, interests, anxieties, and concerns. And I welcome you to begin a conversation with me either over Zoom or email about these topics as well!
What happens after the class ends?
A week after our class class, we will have an opt-in celebratory reading over Zoom on Saturday, May 2, with a guest poet (to be announced).
Writers will also have the opportunity to sign up for up to 3 discounted writing coaching sessions after the course ends to discuss anything from manuscript revision to publication.
What do you mean when you say that there are partial scholarships available in addition to the sliding scale?
I mean that I have degrees and expertise only because I learned from programs and people willing to give me a chance via scholarships and sliding scales, so I commit to offering the same as I am able.
I mean that, if this class speaks to you but you cannot afford the lower end of the sliding scale, I hope you’ll reach out to me anyway. There is no application to fill out or forms to “prove” your need. Let’s just chat. Maybe we could work out partial monetary payment and partial payment through bartering. Maybe what you need is a more generous payment timeline. Yes, money allows me to pay my bills, but it is not the only currency of value.
What if I can’t make the days/times?
If this is the case, another option to explore might be writing coaching. Please let me know if you’d like to be put on a list of people I can reach out to if I am able to offer this class again in the future. Also please let me know if you might be interested in a fully asynchronous version of this course—this is something I’m curious about exploring the future as well.
What if I have another question?