"People don't have to earn their way into art by suffering." (An Interview for You)

Friends, I'm sorry for being so absent over this past month. I promise I am coming back to sharing these love letters regularly very soon—but in the mean time, I thought you might like this little feature on me by Kanksha Chawla for STYLEGUIDE. We met just before my last reading for coffee & to discuss art & technology & illness; I hope you find a little light in my thoughts. More soon. Love & a poem to you always.

Topaz was born in 1999 to a family of engineers and scientists who all believed she’d get a Harvard MBA and be the next Einstein. Now, she is a published poet, actress, entrepreneur, musician and multidisciplinary artist.

Her kindergarten teacher told her about a writing contest when she was fiive. The prompt was “I Wonder Why.” So she came home, didn’t tell anybody, used some printer paper, and over the span of three days past her bedtime, wrote “I wonder why kids have to do what their parents tell them to do.” She forged her mother’s signature and sent it in for the contest. When she won 100 bucks and the cheque came in the mail, her parents assumed she had won a science fair. 

Topaz Winters's poetry, essays and fiction at have been recognized by the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the National Young Arts Foundation. They have been read by millions around the world. She is the author of three books: Heaven or This (2016), Monsoon Dream (2016) and Poems for the Sound of the Sky Before Thunder (2017) and is the youngest Singaporean ever to be nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

I met Topaz before her poetry reading at the Mandarin Gallery and we discussed poetry and strength over a cup of coffee. When I asked her if she ever had plans for anything but writing, she laughed: “I wish I had a better answer for this but it was always writing. Some people have this beautiful story of how they came into writing. For me it was like walking into a room full of people and you see someone and you know they’re going to be the love of your life. You just know.”

Topaz started her blog when she was 13, with a limited following of about 2,000, using it as a platform to share the everyday life of the art and poetry of a 13-year-old. From ages 15 to 17, she was diagnosed in succession with depression, anxiety, hyperacusis and OCD. She started to capture her daily struggles on her blog as an attempt to use words for her own healing, when she noticed, to her surprise, that her following had increased from 2,000 to 30,000.

“I believe that having the opportunity to write about these illnesses, which at the time no one was writing about, gave me a wider platform which I had not reached previously.” 

For the first 3-4 years of writing her blog, her parents did not know she was doing it. They only started to figure out what she was doing when she started winning international awards and had to travel. “It was just something I built from scratch on my own, in my spare time, at the back of my car, in my bedroom. I'd be nowhere if it weren't for my readers who've allowed me to touch them and who continue to touch me with their amazing words,” she smiled widely. 

I asked her if she'd do anything differently. 

"I don't think my younger self would listen to me," she laughed, "I do feel that I was always wanting to move forward and yearn more, which made me sad. 2017 burned me out."

She would probably ask her younger self, if she'd listen, to slow down a little bit and be okay with where she stands.

"People would tell me that I'm just 13. I would reply I'm already 13. I know everything about life! I just need to get started!"

When Topaz posts essays and poems about her private life online, she has people dropping in both encouraging and ignorant mails. Some ask her to "think positive" while trivalizing her medical conditions. I asked Topaz about how she deals with the negativity and ignorance that she has been subjected to. She took a large sip of her coffee, placed it on the saucer and looked up at me.

“People tell me I’m crazy. It saddens me. People telling me I can't do things because I'm young saddens me. Anything along the lines of generalizing my condition to a wider group of people just makes me really sad because it incredibly marginalizes the rest of the people who are in that group."

"People with mental illnesses are the most amazing group of people in the world and I could not be prouder to represent them in this tiny way."

She continued that queer people, women and people of color are the future, so to have people callously point out this future of hersm as if there's something she should be ashamed of, is something she finds very hard to deal with. “I try to remind myself that it’s far more about them than it is about me. Many people have told me I cannot do this [write and live freely]. I'm still doing it. I haven't failed yet. I have proved a lot of people wrong.”

She looked straight at me with her large, expressive eyes. “As long as people believe me enough to buy my books, read my blogs and come to my readings, I’m going to keep doing this.”

Apart from writing, Topaz loved to sing, play the piano and her guitar. When she hit 15, she was diagnosed with Hyperacusis, which is a condition in which the patients’ ears grow to be ridiculously sensitive. “I can hear a mosquito buzzing outside this room. It sounds like a superpower but is incredibly debilitating.”

She had to discontinue music. In fact, she could not leave the house because the noise was too unbearable for her ears. “My sister plays the violin and I couldn't be in the same room as hers. It felt like something was yanked away from me. I use this analogy a lot: writing is something I’ve always had which I will never not have. Music was that too, up till i was 15.”

The fear of “what now” gave birth to the magazine and publishing house: Half Mystic, which Topaz created to tap into her love for music in a different way. “This is a different niche, not something you'd see in normal journals or presses. It started as a terrible website [laughs]. I coded it myself, put it on tumblr, announced it on my love letter list (Topaz sends weekly letters to her online subscribers to “ignite a renaissance of the soul”) and put out a request for writers and collaborators to join.” 

Four to five people replied saying they were interested, which increased to ten, and a year from when she first set up her website, their first issue came out. “So much of Half Mystic and so much of art itself is built on such simple things--on “do you want to create with me” and people saying yes. I’m so grateful that people have kept saying yes.” 

She added that although Half Mystic is not a replacement for being able to play the guitar or piano, it allows her to access her musical capabilities in a way she had never experienced before and it gave her the time to grow into a writer, editor and publisher--bringing together an amazing team.

Topaz will be taking a gap year after her graduation in two weeks before she heads to the Princeton University in 2019. "I want to slowly go back to playing my piano again, watch classic films, chill and build my brand."

Half Mystic and the website aren't her only creations. Just last week, Topaz shared the Love Lives Bot on her weekly love letters - "a piece of digial art built of pixels & language & data & want". 

The Love Lives Bot is half poetry & half software, built using generative grammar that spins computer code into the odd, the tragic, & the beautiful. It dances on the boundary between coding & human language.

"My mum is a scientist so she doesn't like this very much [laughs]. It has 30,000 nouns in the data base, so it's highly unlikely to tweet the same thing in any close proximity. Sometimes its voice is so distinct and unlike me, it tweets things that even I wouldn't have thought of. That's the  beauty of tech! Some are offensive but there's art in that too!"

I asked Topaz what she thought of the overlaps of technology and art, since she experiments with the former extensively. It is easy for a lot of art to get diluted in the vast Internet, even though it's fluid and more accessible to the general public.

"I believe that people who think that art can't coexist with tech or technologists have somehow made art less important. What I'm simply saying is that art has given people a platform: for young people, for women, people of color, queer people, who never would have access otherwise."

Tech provides a platform that had previously gone unrecognised. Perhaps that means the form and style of poetry is changing, but that's simply a natural evolution of where art is taking us.

"I'm really excited about the new directions art . Voices have been silenced for really long so it's about time now."

Topaz didn't start creating art in Singapore in the way many do, which is by going to open mics, poetry slams and events and readings by authors. She started solely online, through a tiny blog no one had heard of. She wasn’t from an artistic family either.

“My first chapbook came out when I was 15, and it went viral. 'Heaven or This' is about girls who love girls and this was before my family knew I had a girlfriend [laughs]. That experience of having an incredible number of readers for my first book meant that someone out there is reading and I have to deal with the consequences of it. This was as much part of being a writer as the applause and the book signings.”

‘Poems for the Sound of the Sky Before Thunder’ by Topaz, is a collection of poems of diverse style and voices, all converging to thoughts on healing and hurting. I found it interesting during my first read because it’s quite different from most Singaporean voices.

When I brought this up, she laughed and commented that she gets this reaction a lot. “It’s so hard for me to say that I’m a confessional or abstract poet, which isn’t me saying I’m a special snowflake [laughs]. My work is deeply personal and by virtue of the audience I have, it's become universal as well.” 

Her second book was about Singapore, which was when she was first discovered by her publisher. “My publisher called me and said that Cyril Wong, who I’d met twice, loves what I’ve written, and called me over to chat about my book.”

She came back from her conversation realizing that her style of poetry has been indelibly influenced by Singapore but is not 'Singaporean'. "I woulnd't say that the Singaporean literature scene needs me but it needs people who are not shaped by this local scene as much as people who have lived here their whole lives and gone through  the same cycle of open mics, slams and readings. The way Singaporeans think of Singapore is different from the way Americans think of this place. So technically, I’m existing in this in-between liminal space?”

To find an identity to anchor to in this space of transition and ambiguity must be extremely overwhelming. I asked Topaz about how she manages her readers' artistic expectations from her, with her own.

"That is something my therapist knows I think about a lot. [laughs]"

"One of the perils for writing really personally and openly about my life and illnesses online, is that many people believe they know me when they really don't."

"I get dozens of new love-letter subscribers each time a more personal column is released. It's great business-wise but people tend to assume that we are friends in a capacity that I have not really consented to."

A sweet spot exists where there's a balance between keeping you healthy and not walking around thinking "oh my God everyone here knows who I am". That's something a lot of artists grapple with.

Topaz is only doing this professionally for 5 years: "I do deserve a life beyond what I share with my readers. So a lot of what my healing process right now is allowing myself space to become a person, while also writing in a way that does not endanger me." 

As much as art is art, it's business too and much of what she creates is done with understanding that it needs to have a semblance of fitting into the storyline of a book. She wouldn't write something solely for the sake of her readers either, because that would take away all authenticity out of it.

"Every book that I write captures my mindset in that time and space; it is not something I need to force myself for. If I do have to force myself, I know it's not the right book. "

Selling a book is not commodifying art, it is merely an extension of sharing with her readers how she's been feeling over the past few months. I found this outlook on the combination of business and art very fresh and pure. 

For someone who has written three books at 18, sends out her weekly newsletters, manages a magazine and updates all sorts of essays and articles on her website while studying at high school, Topaz's creative process and daily motivation is something I was stoked to get insight into for myself, and for our readers.

She told me that she needs to write regularly or else she starts to feel sick and trapped. It doesn't have to be great poems, even a scrappy journal entry works. "If my therapist asks how I am feeling, and I tell her I feel terrible, she asks me if I've written lately," she laughed.

I find it beautiful that she has something she can call her own; something to pull her out of her rut and pull others out of theirs. Perhaps this motivation is as artistic as any.

"Most of the times I just sit down thinking I'm gonna write a poem and I write. I try to write two poems a week and edit one. Someitmes its more spontaneous and that's when things are more interesting. But if I waited for inspiration to strike, I'd write one book every ten years."

There are no set rules to finding your voice and making it heard, because each voice is distinct and strong in itself. To generalise a success mantra is to reduce this diversity to nothing and prevent people from treading their own paths.

"What doesn't matter is how you start, it just matters you start. When I was 13, I thought I'd publish a book before I turn 18. I didn't know how it was going to happen, but I was convinced it would. Aside from choosing to write, which was the surest thing ever, everything from then on has been trial and error."

"I often wonder if I would I be the artist I am today if it were not for my illnesses. The answer is no, but that is also not a bad thing. People don't have to earn their way into art by suffering."

The notion of a tortured artist has often troubled me. I asked Topaz what she thinks of it.

"I believe that it is, if you will excuse my language, absolute bullshit! It is like the tech versus art myth. There is no versus! We do not have to be tortured to be able to create."

Topaz shared with me a line from a poem by a friend of hers. She has been happiest ever since she moved to a new place, but has reduced writing considerably: "I'd rather be a happy person than a good writer."

Truth is, you don't have to choose. The notion that it's either the art or the mental health is extremely disruptive. "You cannot call a huge group of people, that's incredibly nuanced or incredibly different, tortured! That label is very devolving and reducing of an incredibly vibrant and loud group of people. It implies that people need to earn their art and that suffering is their way to earn it, which is wrong."

Topaz said that if she could not be a happy person and a good writer, she'd be a happy person. But it would be extremely ridiculous to believe that that you have to choose.

"Just as much incredible art can be found in healing and getting to a better place." 

It is crucial for art and artists to honor the full spectrum of human emotion and experience. We can't possibly exist in a place where torture is the only flag to ourselves and our art.

On this note, we left the cafe we had been sitting at for about an hour and started to walk towards the Mandarin Gallery, chatting about spoken word and rhythm along the way. Her reading was part of a series organized by the Poetry Festival. Topaz Winters is strength personified, an example of how we do not have to be victims of our circumstance, but can tame our challenges with what we are best at.

"Film teaches me what it means to know & not know all at once." (An Interview For You)

I'm so pleased to be featured today on the blog of one of my favourite literary journals, L'Éphémère Review. Here, editor-in-chief Kanika Lawton & myself chat about my first short film, SUPERNOVAin all its wonder & terror, in its loneliness & loveliness, its solitude & strength. Don't miss Kanika's review of the film, also on the L'Éphémère blog, right here. Honoured to have this space to share the soft bright things I am spinning.

Dear Topaz, we are so happy to feature you again at L'Éphémère Review, and are honoured that you have chosen to judge for us for our Inaugural Writing Awards.

It’s a joy to be here. Thank you so much for having me.

Tell us a little bit about your foray into film. What are some of the difficulties of translating written work into a visual medium? What are the advantages and disadvantages of using film as a creative outlet?

I find that when I write, there can often be an expectation of instant gratification; I spend an hour writing a poem and during that time the poem is all that exists and then it is finished, for better or worse. This film, though, had so many moving parts that the sort of laser-bright focus—and subsequent quick finish—that I’m used to was all but nonexistent. We spent a week from start to finish creating it, and during that time we were, at any given moment, writing the script and recording the monologue and filming various scenes and revising parts that felt out of place and editing the clips we had and re-filming past scenes and rerecording parts of the monologue that didn’t convey the emotion strongly enough, repeat ad infinitum. If anything, translating my work into film taught me how to slow, to still, to wait. The importance of patience in the process.

SUPERNOVA explores themes of loneliness, empty space, and self-discovery through the use of inner monologue. What was it like to write on such themes, and why did you decide to employ monologue versus, for example, dialogue between two or more characters?

SUPERNOVA put into words many of the thoughts I’ve had about being a highly anxious introvert—yet also, one who loves people, if only in the right doses. That paradox has always been fascinating to me, one that I’ve been pondering for as long as I can remember, and so it seemed only natural to have the ideas present be conveyed through the use of a sort of stream-of-consciousness interior monologue. I’m only lucky that my lovely director, Ishan Modi, saw the vision of this soft and sky-tinged film as clearly as I did and was willing to work with me to make it a reality.

The colour blue is interspersed throughout SUPERNOVA in the cinematography, lightning, and themes. What significance does blue hold in SUPERNOVA, and what importance does colour hold in your work overall?

I honestly adore this question—it’s one I’ve never received before, but the colour blue holds so much significance to me and this film that I didn’t realise until now how much I’d been dying to address it. I have a condition called synaesthesia, which essentially means I see sound and hear colour (among other modes of sensory confusion), so colour is incredibly important in my work. I find that each of the projects I create or have a hand in creating is imbued with a specific colour in my mind.

So when we were working on SUPERNOVA, I remember discussing with Ishan what loneliness means to both of us, and over & over again the colour blue surfaced in my mind. The script of the film, the settings, the costumes, everything we worked on sang something quiet and blue and tender. It was only natural to work that into the film in a very visual way, which Ishan did so much more beautifully than I ever could have imagined.

How did SUPERNOVA come about, from conception, to execution, to final product? What was the inspiration behind the script, and how has this filmic journey impacted your other creative endeavours?

SUPERNOVA was a very interesting project, because it was the first time I’d ever written or acted for film. Generally I publish my work online or in print, and I’d only had experience with performing in open mic settings before SUPERNOVA. This film creatively challenged me on many levels, but I think especially in the medium; it was odd for me to hand over so much of the control to Ishan, and I know he was many times frustrated with my lack of experience in front of the camera, just as I was frustrated with his lack of knowledge on the intricacies of the script! Even so, this creation has had an indelible impact on my writing and the way I collaborate with other artists. Since bringing it to life, I think even more in terms of the rhythm and music of my words; I visualise the way they sing and flow across the page, the colours they reflect, the names they create for themselves. Just as much, though, I’m learning that this work has to go in the hands of my collaborators, that we must hold it up together. It’s a fine intertwinement of silence and sound, and one I’m still trying to understand how to balance.

Softness, or softness with teeth, threads its way through much of your work and your advocacy for independent artists, especially artists of colour. Why is softness so important to you, and how can we employ it in our own work and lives?

I believe that, in times when it would be so much easier to forget all ways of softness, it’s the only thing that keeps us strong. The only truth I know how to fathom exists in that softness—not as weakness, but as power, as defiance, as the first notes in our battle anthems and the fires that keep us warm. Softness exists in so many shades for me, but mostly, it means being kind to the broken parts of ourselves. Making space for the stories of those who are less privileged than we are. Crying hard and fighting harder. Opening to the ache. Remembering how many debts we owe and retaining that gratitude always, always. Keeping our eyes on the horizon even when the smoke threatens to overtake everything in sight.

How has film impacted your life, both as viewer and filmmaker?

Film teaches me what it means to trust (in the process, in myself, in my co-creators, in the gorgeous and impossible belief that somehow all of it will turn out okay and we will create something beautiful out of the mess). It teaches me what it means to listen and to watch and to laugh and to yearn and to mourn and to stretch. Whether I’m viewing or making, film teaches me what it means to know and not know all at once. That’s a feeling I don’t get enough of, and one I never want to stop chasing.

Thank you very much for spending time with us today, Topaz. We wish you all the love, light, and warmth in the world.

Thank you infinitely, dear friend. I hope your day is gentler than rain.




p.s. please do share with me in the comments… what did you think of SUPERNOVA? p.s.s. it was just a kiss & six impossible things reader survey & love letters for more

"It was just a kiss." (An Interview for You)

Friends, I'm sharing something a bit different with you today... an interview I did with the endlessly kind & wonderful humans over at Thread (an intersectional feminist arts collective) a few months ago. Thoughts on creative perfectionism, the intersection of the personal & political, my favourite self care techniques, & many other lovely things right here. Enjoy. xx

Firstly, when you set out as a writer, speaker, editor, and even now, what has been your goal/mission/core desire in regards to your work (i.e. your short film, TEDx talk, poetry, starting/directing Half Mystic)?

I’m here to spread my truth in every way I’m able—truth in sadness, in hope, in creation, in loneliness, in wonder, in moving through the world as a creature full & flawed & aching & growing with presence & absence alike.

How has running numerous projects influenced your work? What have you learned from experiences like Half Mystic and SUPERNOVA?

I joke that I cannot stand to work on any project for more than a few months before I become bored & flit off to the next thing—but, really, it’s not an inaccurate statement. I am constantly contemplating what to do next, preferably something completely new & unlike anything I’ve made before; it’s the part of me at work that is a builder, that is dissatisfied with life unless she is creating something out of nothing. I have learned so much from all of the incredible opportunities I’ve been afforded, but I think perhaps the most important thing is how to let go of my natural perfectionistic tendencies (which are, unfortunately, only exacerbated by my obsessive-compulsive disorder). The universe does not care whether I keep creating, whether there are two misspelled words in my book, whether I bungled a line when I performed my latest poem. The world would keep spinning if I shut down Half Mystic tomorrow & never picked up a pen again. I think there is something beautiful in that: if I am to gift the things I care about to the people who matter, there is no one to grant me permission, no one to blame if I’m held back by my perfectionism. We need more soft bright people creating soft bright things. I am trying not to let typos prevent me from being one of them.

There is a lot to be intimidated by when starting out, do you have any advice for young writers who are just starting?

Just start. Don’t worry about “branding” or “selling yourself”, don’t worry about your work’s “aesthetic” or what is “popular” these days, don’t worry about the “crowded market”, don’t worry about how your style doesn’t match up to your tastes quite yet (because—spoiler alert—it never will), don’t worry about the thousand what ifs clawing up your throat & making a hometown out of your mouth. Just start. Write the poem. Launch the blog. Publish the book. Reach out to the author you admire. I promise you the rest will fall into place. It’s cliché, perhaps, but no less true: the most frequent word we use when listing our regrets is not.

Poets often start at their identities and write from their experiences, how have the intersecting identities you hold salient influenced your writing?

I am proudly a queer, neurodivergent woman of colour, & my work is nowhere & nothing without those identities. Even when I am not writing explicitly about identity, it is part of me that constantly leaks through, informing every poem I write, every interaction I have, every moment I experience. Often I think about whether the person I was before I fully began to embrace those identities would look at who I am today & feel proud. I think about whether she would be grateful to have a mentor or a role model or a friend doing the work that I’m doing. I think about whether reading my poems would make her feel empowered, or even just slightly less confused. That is answer is never fully yes, but the closer it is, the closer I am to who I’m trying to be.

What have you come to realize from writing about your experiences as a queer neurodivergent poet of color?

That I am enormously disadvantaged in so, so many ways, & enormously privileged in so, so many more, & neither of these facts makes my work more or less important than anyone else’s.

Your work is an exceptional example about how the political is, in fact, deeply personal. How does your work fit into the conversation about what is going on in the world right now?

Oh, thank you so much—what a beautiful thing to say. I suppose I don’t think my work necessarily forms a particularly vital part of modern discourse so much as it reflects my own thoughts & beliefs around such discourse. I try not to get too stuck in whether my work holds significance to anyone besides myself. That is too much responsibility for me to take on; I’m not a doctor or a firefighter, just a storyteller trying my best to make sense of this tender furious world. If that resonates with others then I am deeply flattered, but nothing more. I cannot attach any sense of self-worth to my readers’ reactions, or I will drive myself insane. In these times my existence alone is an act of rebellion, & so perhaps that is why it reads as more political—but yesterday I wrote a poem about kissing a girl in a city I’m only now learning how to love, & it was not subversive or defiant or courageous. It was just a kiss. I must believe that too holds value.

While we have discussed how your work has a transcendent ability to consider big ideas, concepts and essences of being, your work also has one foot in the material world with a heavy grasp on the physical elements of space, texture, setting and that allows for a reader to be heavily immersed in the poem. What about your physical space, your presentation self, and your experience as a person in a body influence what you write about?

You are far too kind to me, oh goodness! To be honest, this is not an element of my work that I think about often—I dissociate far more often than is probably healthy (thank you, mental illness) & I write extensively about the experience of not particularly wanting to have a body. That said, now that you bring it up, I suppose much of my writing is in fact grounded in physicality, & I would attribute that to my efforts in recent months to be more mindful, more aware of my surroundings, to savour them even when I think at the moment I’d rather be anywhere else. I am trying to hold onto these days. They will be over sooner than I know.

What are the small things that show up in your writing? Why do you think they appear?

Girls as wolves. Rain. Illness. Bodies, human & water alike. The anatomy of healing. Hands. Music. Language. The moon. The juxtaposition of softness & savagery. These are all images I think about often on a daily basis, & those that symbolise far greater concepts to me than what lies on the surface. My writing is an extension of myself, & so it makes perfect sense to me that these are the ideas that represent the bulk of my poetic arsenal, so to speak. A dear friend once told me that the concepts we come back to again & again are those we haven’t explored to their fullest extent, those that require a new way of seeing that we have not stumbled upon yet. Until I find that way, I am content with delving into these themes for as long as they’ll have me.

What’s your personal poetry cannon? Who are your faves and the works you look to when you need revival or inspiration?

In no particular order: Richard Siken (especially “Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out”), Ocean Vuong (especially “Aubade With Burning City”, Tina Chang (especially “Fury”), Margaret Atwood (especially “Pig Song”), John Murillo (especially “Stolen Starlight Lounge Sutra”), Mary Oliver (especially “Wild Geese”), Robert Hass (especially “Meditation At Lagunitas”), W.S. Merwin (especially “Some Last Questions”), Simone Muench (especially “Wolf Cento”), Monica Youn (especially “Drawing for Absolute Beginners”).

Finally, we ask all of our interviewees this, what do you do for self care?

I’m learning to prioritise self care as utterly imperative for my creative process—&, more relevantly, utterly imperative to being a human in general. I have a self care mix on Spotify that I play when I am in need of a soft place to fall, & I generally tend to retreat into myself, exist in my own presence & no one else’s, as a form of self care. Other small self care elements: going for very long walks; watching mindless superhero films; hanging out with my dog; writing poetry for myself & no one else; breaking out the watercolours; savouring a single square of dark chocolate; putting on a full face of makeup only to take a few selfies, & then washing it all off; volunteering at my school’s elementary school library; listening to these sound machines or this song; staying very still & breathing in &, for once, not yearning for anything in particular.


p.s. please do share with me in the comments... what are the small things that define your art? do you believe the personal can exist without the political? what do you do for self care?

p.s.s. kiss french & mealtime & love letters for more