Friday Five: Q&A with multi-genre writer Allison Field Bell

I first discovered Allison Field Bell‘s writing via the literary magazine Fractured Lit, which published her stunning flash fiction piece “Vermillion Cliffs” last March. I started following her on Twitter (X) and soon was astounded by how frequently she would post about new pieces being accepted — not only short stories and flash fiction, but creative nonfiction and poetry as well. (This X/Twitter thread of a few of her favorites from 2024 should give you some idea of her range and diverse styles.) I consider her a writer’s writer and highly recommend her work.

Later this year, a chapbook of her creative nonfiction, Edge of the Sea, will be published by CutBank Books, and her poetry chapbook, Without Woman or Body, will be published by Finishing Line Press. Her current projects-in-progress include a book of short fiction, a collection of flash nonfiction, and a full-length collection of poetry. She is also finishing up her first novel, wrapping up a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and English Literature at the University of Utah, and offering editorial services to aid other writers.

In today’s Friday Five, Allison shares her thoughts on multi-genre writing, her writing routine, and some excellent advice for the rest of us.

1. You have written, and successfully published in, myriad genres: short stories, flash fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. What do you consider your default or go-to writing genre, and why? (Or if you consider “multi-genre” your default/go-to, please share why.)

Great question! Honestly, I have always thought of myself as primarily a fiction writer, but I think that may be changing a bit. I’ve been writing so much creative nonfiction lately that perhaps I would now call myself primarily a prose writer. I guess this is because I have always been obsessed with narrative. With stories. As a child, my mother told me stories about my grandmother who died before I was born. She was, by all accounts, an incredible adventuress. She raised seven children and camped across the country on multiple occasions. She was a naval officer in WWII. She was passionate and educated and full of life. I wanted so badly to have known her, but I could only know her through story. So, I grew up with a kind of thirst for oral storytelling, and that quickly translated to writing, though I didn’t admit it for years.

I am far too intimidated to consider myself a poet, though as you mention, I do write and publish some poetry. I was recently invited to judge a poetry contest for a newer journal — MoonLit Getaway — an honor I didn’t quite feel worthy of. But I do love writing and reading poetry, and actually, poetry was the first genre I wrote seriously and with a routine, and my first literary journal publication was a poem.

2. How do you manage to be so prolific? What does your writing routine look like?

I’ve never thought of myself as prolific. I’m actually a very slow writer. My not-yet-published story collection, for example, took me the last ten years to write. And I started writing my novel seven years ago. Some things just take time: time writing the work and time away from it. Though, I would say that I am very committed to a consistent writing routine and a willingness to shift between projects. I try to write every morning, though I go through phases where I am less successful with that. But I’m not a big sleeper I guess, so I get up before sunrise and usually writing is the first thing I do. I love those quiet morning hours, and my brain feels the sharpest then. As for projects, trying to force work on a project when I’m not inspired makes me want to avoid writing at all. However, if I have multiple projects I can dip into on different days, then I’m still writing every day.

In terms of writing shorter prose pieces — flash fiction and CNF, newer genres for me — I’ve found the SmokeLong Workshop model incredibly helpful. Most of my recent flash pieces, in fact, originated in a SmokeLong Workshop. It’s such a great community and such a valuable accountability system. And before that, I had a deal with a writer friend that we had to send each other a certain amount of work (pages or whole flash pieces) each week, and if we didn’t, we had to pay some money into a pot that went towards a writing retreat or a dinner together. Kind of a win-win really, but I find that some kind of accountability is very helpful for me.

3. Where do your ideas for stories, poems, essays, etc., come from?

I can answer this question in a variety of ways. The first most basic answer is that my ideas come from my experiences. This is true regardless of genre. Virginia Woolf writes, “Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.” This resonates so much with my approach to fiction. Even if I end up with a narrator who is not at all me and a scenario that is not at all true to my experiences, there is always a kernel of life there, something that sparked the story, or elements that I’ve blurred from life to fiction. Generally, my fiction emerges from some experience that feels a certain way—Pam Houston calls these glimmers, and I love that. When something glimmers at me, I file it away in my mind, let it warp and age. Or perhaps I perseverate on it. Obsess over it until I can translate it to the page.

When it comes to nonfiction, ideas emerge from form I think. This makes prompts really helpful. It’s not quite like filling a container with substance though, it’s more like: a prompt or a structure can trigger a memory, can unlock something that has been floating around in my head for months, years, decades. Then, often, it’s a question of colliding memories together. Of seeing how an experience that seems disparate from another experience actually helps crystalize both experiences on the page. For instance, I wrote a short essay recently about an experience I had as a child, getting lost in an apple orchard (“Orchard,” published by Bending Genres). I had been trying to write about this for years, but it just wasn’t clicking. So, I collided that experience with later experiences my friend and I both had pertaining to self-harm and for him, a suicide attempt. Suddenly the essay came into focus. It became about the vulnerabilities of bodies, I think.

Poetry too is a bit different. I think my poems emerge from an image that I get stuck on, and then keep writing about obsessively sometimes. One poem I wrote — “coalesce” published by RHINO Poetry — started with this image I had of seeing dew clinging to tips of grass in Santa Cruz when I was eighteen. I remember it being so remarkable, so perfectly balanced there on the tip of the stalk. The poem itself transformed into a poem about an eating disorder, but that’s where it began: that single image.

Overall, the thing that moves me forward in any piece of writing though, is voice and language. I have never been an outliner or a plot-driven writer. I write one word at a time, focusing on the lyrical potential of a sentence and how that aligns with a character’s voice.

4. How do you balance your editorial roles at The Rumpus and Waxwing Magazine with your writing career?

I think for me, literary citizenship has always been an integral part of my writing career and process. When I was an undergraduate at Prescott College, I worked as an editorial assistant for a journal called Alligator Juniper, alongside my beloved mentor Melanie Bishop. Mel taught me how to be a good literary citizen, how to value every submission I read, how to value literary journals in general. She also taught me how to read closely and with care and generosity while simultaneously trusting my intuitive sense of a work. These things have shaped me as an editor, a reader, and a writer. I love finding new writers and new pieces in the slush pile. It feels important to me to be able to help other writers’ words and stories reach as many readers as possible. I don’t feel like there is a limited pool of success that only some of us have access to; rather, I find it fulfilling to rejoice in the successes of the writers around me. Their successes feel like my successes also. And I find editorial work inspiring — the determination of writers to get published, their self-conviction in their art, their commitment to craft. Finally, I am most taken with the actual line-by-line editing process — the way writing continuously surprises me by being not only a solitary activity but also a collective effort. All of this inspires me in my writing and in my submitting. 

5. Finally, what advice do you have for writers who are just getting started?

I have 10 pieces of advice for new writers:

1. Don’t do it if you don’t love it. Writing is hard, but it should also be fun. I know too many people who push themselves to write when they don’t really want to. I don’t understand this. Just do something else. Learn to rock climb. Take a pottery class. Anything.

2. Don’t worry about publishing right away. Give it a good five to ten years before you focus your energy on submitting your work. The important part is in the writing. Let yourself write and write and write.

3. Let yourself learn. Writing is like anything else; it takes time and effort and trial and error. You have to write a lot of shitty work in order to write anything good. And that’s okay.

4. Eventually — I don’t know when exactly — trust your gut. Try anything and save all your drafts, but remember that ultimately they’re your words on the page.

5. Read and read and read. Read widely and read ferociously. Read the books you want to write and then write the books you never imagined you could write.

6. Read everything you write aloud. A lot. Sentences matter. Developing your ear matters.

7. Think about writing more generously. It is not just ass-in-the-chair, writing is also a long walk in the park. It’s also a good meal with good friends. The moments we’re not actually writing are sometimes the most important writing moments.

8. Embrace vulnerability. Art is vulnerable, and I believe this is why it’s powerful. There’s strength in allowing yourself to be imperfect and messy and human.

9. Share your drafts with writers and non-writers. Some of my best feedback has come from readers who don’t consider themselves writers at all.

10. Develop art as a habit in a way that works for you. Perhaps, that means the lack of routine. Perhaps, that means you write sporadically—all at once or not at all. For me, my habit looks like writing first thing in the morning, when the light is still below the horizon and the coffee is hot and fresh and filling the house.

Bonus question: How has your formal education (the MFA and Ph.D.) helped you in your writing career?

My academic journey has been long and varied. I was not destined to become a writer. I don’t believe in that at all. I could have easily become a marine biologist. In fact, that’s what I spent my whole childhood wanting to be. It wasn’t until my undergraduate years that I found myself drawn to writing. I remember my mentor, K.L. Cook, telling me the first time we met that I would major in Creative Writing and go on to complete an MFA. I laughed at him. I didn’t think I would even finish college, let alone pursue graduate school. Now, here I am almost finished with my Ph.D.

For me, it was necessary to have a structure to work within and then move beyond. I am eternally grateful to all the academic mentors who have encouraged me throughout the years. I would not be the writer I am today without them. I would not be a writer at all. I don’t think academia is right for everyone, but it was helpful for me. I maybe just got lucky with my professors and the programs I stumbled into. I learned so much, and currently, I am learning more and more to trust my own instinct. To do that thing I mentioned above: to trust my gut. I also learned that I could juggle a lot and still write. This last piece is the most important thing I’ve learned in academia and something someone once told me is the goal of graduate school: to learn to be a practicing artist in the world. I think everyone needs to learn that, but we all have different ways of getting there, which is really quite lovely when you think about it.