Sarah Fawn Montgomery

Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Halfway from Home (Split/Lip Press), Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir (The Ohio State University Press), and three poetry chapbooks. She is an Assistant Professor at Bridgewater State University.

Twitter: @SF_Montgomery

Favorite non-reading activity?

Spending time outside. Walking in the forest, looking at mushrooms and moss. Standing by a still lake watching the world reflected in reverse. Looking for the shapes of animals in the clouds. Searching for bats to appear at dusk or fireflies shining in the dark like stars. We spend so much time inside or in transit or doom scrolling lately, but whenever I get outdoors the worries of the world subside and I find greater clarity, purpose, and appreciation.

Have you ever experienced Imposter Syndrome?

Of course! I don’t think it ever fully goes away. When I began sending pieces out for publication, I thought I’d feel more established after I had a few accepted. When I sent out my first book manuscript, I thought publishing it might make me feel more rooted in the literary world. But I’ve published many pieces and several books, and that feeling still shows up from time to time.

What’s been helpful for me is to reframe this feeling in order to utilize the energy towards reading, writing, and submitting. The only way to stop feeling like an imposter is to actively engage with the literary world, so these acts prevent me from wasting time feeling like I don’t belong. They also remind me that by simply reading or jotting down a few lines I am part of the literary landscape. Whenever I begin a new project—a poem or a book manuscript—I remind myself that while I actually am an imposter there, it won’t always be this way. Writing requires time and risk and failure, so it would be strange if I had total confidence when I’m new to a project. Our confidence grows as we devote ourselves to our craft, and so reminding myself that being an imposter is exactly how I should feel when I’m trying something new also alleviates the pressure so I can focus on what matters again.

Do you collect anything? If so, what, why, and for how long?

Rocks! I’ve collected rocks since I was a little girl, and I’m still fascinated with geology. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a crystal or polished artifact, though those are certainly beautiful. I think the best collecting comes from noticing what is naturally occurring. A river rock worn smooth by the current, a mossy boulder along a forest path, a pebble on a mostly sand beach. Most gravel pathways and planters are full of white quartz if you stop to look long enough for the spaces that sparkle. And even a plain stone will reveal its secrets if you get it wet. I’m always finding rocks to put in my pocket or give to a friend. Sometimes I curate an interesting collection and just leave it where I found it so someone else might discover it too. I’ve always liked collecting rocks because they are formed from pressure and stress but they are strong and beautiful. They will also outlast us, even with years of erosion, and I like this reminder to escape the ego and to be humble.

If you could create a museum exhibition, what would be the theme?

Nostalgia. I’m fascinated by the wonder and hope we have as children and the ways these vanish as we begin to experience the world. As the nation and natural worlds continue to change drastically in our lifetimes, many of us look back to the past with nostalgia. We search through our memories—essentially tiny museums we curate—looking for versions of ourselves and the world that are soothing. That’s what I write about in my latest essay collection, Halfway from Home. In these essays I explore climate change and contemporary nostalgia, searching for how to build a home when human connection is disappearing, and how to live meaningfully when our sense of self is uncertain in a fractured world.

What do you worry about?

The destruction of the natural world. Already in my lifetime I’ve seen the loss of so many ecosystems and the extinction of so many species. When I talk to elders, they speak of a radically different environment than the one I grew up in and the one that exists today, and there is so much more upheaval and damage to come. The collective grief we feel is a direct result of witnessing so much violence and injustice to the earth.

But though what is happening to the natural world is my greatest source of worry, nature is also my greatest source of joy. When I feel despair about what we have done, I head outside. Trees that have been cut down or damaged in storms still produce new growth. Flowers find ways to grow along rocky outcroppings. Mushrooms spring from what has died. There is great resourcefulness and renewal in nature, if only we are willing to learn.