Okie Craft: An Interview with Kashona Notah
The Okie Craft Series focuses on the Oklahoma writing life. We interview writers across the state about their writing practice and about what it means to be part of the Oklahoma literary community.
We asked writer and Tulsa Artist Fellow Kashona Notah about his writing life. Here’s what he said.
What/who are your biggest influences, literary or otherwise?
If I’m thinking about fiction and crafting stories in ways that have a life of their own, Leslie Marmon Silko is certainly at the top. She writes narratives that exist in ways that I didn’t even know was possible before reading them. I’m not sure perfection should ever be the goal, but Ceremony is as close to a perfect book as one can get. Alongside Silko’s work, N. Scott Momaday, Louise Erdrich, Edward P. Jones, Jesmyn Ward, and Adam Johnson have also been hugely influential. And then writers like Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Mark Twain, Herman Melville, Mary Shelley, Cervantes, Tobias Wolff, and John Steinbeck have all changed the way I’ve thought about storytelling in one way or the other over the years. Oh, and I can’t leave out Joy Harjo. There is nobody quite like her. She’s been hugely influential.
What (if any) are a writer’s responsibilities to the place(s) and people(s) they come from?
Personally, I feel that writers should at least try to feel uninhibited when they set out to write first drafts. They should try to have fun writing, but also a reason for doing what they are doing. I would say it’s important to have both. Often, if the writer has fun at the outset, the reader will also have fun reading later down the line. I’m not someone who really thinks that an initial creative spark can be found in revision. I believe the spark, or heart of the story, can be polished and rewritten if it’s there from the start. So, for me, that initial impulse to write something should probably be as free as possible from self-censorship.
But I’m also a Native writer who deeply understands the importance of community and accurate representation, something that is not always the case with non-Native writers more broadly. I suppose I mostly shy away from contemporary fiction that tells the story for or about a people. It’s one thing to be asked by a community, or be in active and ongoing dialogue, which I think is totally okay and should be encouraged, but it’s a whole other thing to write from your desk for years and publish something without ever having had any real interaction with the people you are representing on the page. With literary fiction, and Native characters in particular, it happens far too often and can be really damaging. As N. Scott Momaday said throughout his life, “words have power,” and I believe it is always good to remember that.
I read in a Tulsa Artist Fellowship press release that you are working on a novel Indian Towns which examines “four U.S. cities with significant Native populations, including Tulsa, as hubs of indigenous life and resilience." Would you tell us a bit about this project?
Indian Towns is connected to my short story cycle Rendezvous, something that I have been working on for many years. A lot of early versions of stories in Rendezvous made up my thesis in the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan. Characters in Rendezvous recur in Indian Towns and are influenced by family and community stories that I hold very close to my heart. For example, my dad married a Muscogee woman, had a family, and lived in Oklahoma many years before meeting my mom and raising my siblings and me in San Bernardino, California. Through fiction, which I see as an artform that is kind of built to highlight universal truths, I work hard to create stories like that, stories that show the beautiful complexities of modern Native families, while also not taking themselves too seriously. Humor has always been big for me too.
My short story collection is rooted mostly around San Bernardino, but Indian Towns examines the lives of four characters who also have deep connections to Anchorage, Albuquerque, and Tulsa, respectively. All four cities are intertribal, with Native land bases (either reservations or tribally controlled), and those land bases and local tribal institutions are part of the fabric that defines their existence. I would say the latter three cities are also places that most Indigenous people probably see as destinations or hubs of Native survivance, arts, culture, and joy, regardless of some of the harsher histories and realities they also have. I suppose that in essence, both projects contend with history and the contemporary in ways I never really saw represented growing up, and that is ultimately what I’m after when I write.
What are you reading now?
Two books. I’m re-reading What We Talk About When We Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami and Whiskey Tender by Deborah Taffa. I’ve always been a distance runner, have been competitive in the past, but in the last several years I have not run as much as I would have hoped to. My friend, the artist and ultra-marathoner Yatika Fields, recently inspired me to run more again at an arts residency he helped organize at the Blue Mountain Center in Upstate New York. Murakami does a wonderful job connecting his writing practice to the sport. It’s been a great thing to read in the new year as I try to fulfill some resolutions around all that. And then Taffa has been a favorite writer of mine for a long time. I actually taught her essays in creative writing courses before the book came out, so getting to spend extended time with her words has been inspirational. She is a master of her craft, and her life story resonates with me in countless ways.
Would you mind telling us a bit about your writing practice? Do you have a favorite time or place to write?
As far as practice, I try to write and/or journal every day, even if it’s just getting a few words down, revising a story, or putting ideas somewhere where I can return to them. I’m not a writer who does well if I let too much time go by without being creative. Over the years, I’ve also learned that if I’m ever stuck on something, I go to music, the road, or working on classic cars to break through the wall a bit. My dad was a mechanic and welder, so perhaps cars remind me of him, and he was a huge part of who I am as an artist. Running also helps.
As far as time and place, because I’m lucky enough to be in an arts fellowship right now, I mostly write from my studio in the Tulsa Artist Fellowship building downtown. I like to wake up early and get there as soon as possible. In general, I find that if the day drags on too long, it becomes harder to be creative. I also have dedicated space at home and sometimes I write there. It really depends on what (ideas) I need to get down before they dissipate with daily life and chores.
In your personal essay “Night Sky” you write, among other things, about Lucy, the satellite sent to orbit earth in 2017. On Lucy is a plaque with a quote from Joy Harjo. You wrote: “Harjo’s chosen poem does more than break down barriers for all Native people. It puts a Native writer’s voice out beyond the stratosphere, perhaps a mark of just how far we have come.” You also discussed the struggle of Native writers to find “a seat at the table” in literature. What does it mean for you to join in the chorus of Native voices (like Harjo) in literature and to “take control” of the narrative? What are your hopes for the future of Native literature?
Thank you for this question, and for taking the time to read “Night Sky.” You are very kind to say that. I think I am always cognizant of the fact that I am standing on the shoulders of those who really paved the way– folks like Harjo, Silko, and Momaday. Because my dad was born in 1940, I think I feel closer to an older generation than most who are my age. What my dad faced was very different than what Native people from my generation face, although I’m certainly not diminishing how hard things can be for us too. But without the generation who first broke through in the publishing world, their fierce advocacy and commitment to future generations, we wouldn’t be seeing the beautiful Native resurgence of story that we are today. I think Native people are now in a place where it is accepted that we are able to tell our own stories– we don’t need the anthropologist to do it, we don’t need the really cool progressive wordsmith to do it– we can do it ourselves, and there is even an outside recognition that we probably could have done it better ourselves all along.
There may still be powers that try to control our narrative, but at least the term “Native writer” is no longer an anomaly. Depending on the circle, a Native writer can almost be the expectation when talking about Indigenous stories. Joining the chorus of Native voices right now is not something I take lightly. I just hope that my work can honor those who fought so hard for people like me to have the freedom to become a writer and have a voice in the first place. My hope is that Native literature continues to thrive in the future, that there continues to be meaningful dialogue with non-Native communities, and that there continues to be support for our stories. I’m really excited about the sheer diversity of our nations finally being represented on the page, or on the screen, and I hope to continue to support that in all the ways I can. As many Native voices out there as possible, from as many experiences as possible, is what I think the future should be all about. I hope Native stories continue to defy expectations and further illuminate that there is not one “right” way to tell a Native story or experience, but many, and they are all valid. I guess my hope is that Native people from my nephew’s generation (he is almost four), can take the ball even further down the court, go into overtime, and win by dunking that shit every time.
How has your time as a Tulsa Artist Fellow changed the way you work, and what first drew you to the fellowship program?
Now that I’m in my third year, I’ve found a way to approach my writing that probably wouldn’t have happened without the time and resources. It seems that before, I was always navigating a job, finances, school, or familial responsibilities, and that meant that perhaps I wasn’t thinking as deeply about what I was doing creatively. It just wasn’t possible. It was almost like my creativity before was more about survival. I needed to be creative to be happy, and to help manage the stresses of my life. But now, perhaps I feel more valued as a writer. Without some of the same life pressures, I have really driven my practice to its next level.
And then for what drew me to the Tulsa Artist Fellowship, a friend of mine, Laurie Thomas, was an early fellow, and she was in my MFA cohort in fiction at the University of Michigan. She shared her experiences and encouraged me to apply when it made sense for my life. At the time, I had two years left in my MFA, so I told my sister, Natani Notah, to put in an application since she is a nationally recognized visual artist in her own right. Natani was accepted and I helped move her here, really falling in love with the city at that time. Natani is still here by the way, she never left. So, when things aligned, I applied and was ultimately offered a spot. It was a no brainer really. With former writing fellows like Laurie Thomas, Joy Harjo, Sterlin Harjo, Jennifer Croft, Chelsea Hicks, and Quraysh Lansana, I knew I would be part of an amazing legacy. I packed my bags and moved here from Ann Arbor, Michigan, where I was working full-time as a staff writer for LSA Magazine.
How has working in Oklahoma informed your writing?
Hugely. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but Tulsa is special. It is one of the few major cities in the nation where it is not uncommon to see and interact with other Native people on a regular basis. You don’t have to seek out other Native people here. You just see them all the time. Oklahoma really is Native America. Aside from Alaska or New Mexico, there aren’t many states like it. I have found that because I don’t really have to think about the ways that I am alone or different as a Native person, my mind is freed up to focus on my craft and practice. There is something to be said about that. For Native people, I don’t think it is talked about enough. Being around other Native people is really important, even if they are from different tribes. In Tulsa, my friends, family, and community are largely Indigenous. Hell, even my landlord is Native. It is just a great place to live as a Native artist, and I’m really grateful to be here.
Alongside your literary work you also do some songwriting. How does songwriting and music play a role in your literary process?
Music is huge for me and was all around me growing up. My family was big into powwow, and my parents absolutely loved country and blues. I recognized that the language of poetry was musical early on and started there at a pretty young age. I suppose I wrote poetry before I learned to play an instrument, and at the time, it was mainly with the intent to eventually turn the poems into songs. But as I wrote poems that became songs after I learned a few instruments, I started thinking about the narratives behind the poems and songs. For a while, I thought I would tell stories through song and even studied jazz performance at one of Berklee College of Music’s summer programs. But my love of reading and writing, short stories in particular, started to make so much sense to me that I ultimately took my practice there. Eventually, I began experimenting with turning short stories into novels too, and all these years later, here we are. It all remains interconnected for me. I’d say I strongly identify as a fiction writer now, but I have instruments in my studio and continue to play them to inform my work and kind of remind me of that artistic lineage. I have no intent to play out anymore, but I do use music as an important tool for narrative. In general, I believe art taps into something higher than ourselves, and music tends to be an immediate connection to that higher place for me. It opens doors for my fiction, and because of that, will probably always be a part of my writing practice. Right now, I can’t even really think of writing without having access to an instrument in some way. I certainly can travel and write without an instrument for a while, but when it comes to revising or rewriting what I wrote, or returning to it, at some point I need to get my hands on a guitar, banjo, or piano.
What advice do you have for young writers?
Don’t be afraid to start. If there is a story that you know you need to tell, don’t talk yourself out of it. And definitely don’t let others talk you out of it. Just get started and work out the details later. Find that creative spark and run with it. You can always revise and rewrite, but if you don’t get started, you’ll never have the beginnings or glimmers of a poem, song, story, or novel to make into something. Storytelling, in all its forms, is intrinsic to being human, and the world desperately needs the things that remind us of our common humanity right now.
Kashona Notah, an Iñupiaq tribal citizen raised within a Diné family, is a 2024-2026 Tulsa Artist Fellow. He holds an MFA in fiction from the Helen Zell Writers’ Program at the University of Michigan, and a BA in English from Stanford University. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Ploughshares, The Southern Review, Nimrod International Journal, Oklahoma Humanities, Yellow Medicine Review, and elsewhere. Among other honors, he is therecipient of the Alice Hoffman Prize for Fiction, the Hopwood Award for Fiction, the Hopwood Award for Nonfiction, and the National Native Media Award. His fiction has also been supported by Blue Mountain Center and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. Originally from San Bernardino, California, he lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
You can read Notah’s short story “Bettie Page and Jimmy Free Bird” (published in Ploughshares) here.
His essay “Night Sky” (published in Oklahoma Humanities) can be found here.
