One Before The First - An Interview
Astra Pigott, editor and good friend of Kerry Burton-Galley, caught up with her (virtually, over hot chocolate) to talk about The One Before the First — how it began as one enormous, chaotic Word document, the ten years it took to shape, and why sharing a poem sometimes feels like handing someone your browser history.
What made you start writing The One Before the First — was there a single moment that triggered it?
I don’t think there was a single moment, no. I’ve always jotted down conversations, thoughts, and feelings. I like preserving life that way. But because love—and real, not-just-through-the-telly attraction—was all new to me at the time, I found myself scribbling everything down. Not with the aim of turning it into a book, just as a way to preserve the memory. OBTF began life as one massive, chaotic Word document of unfiltered thought-dumping.
The title is haunting. Who is “the one before the first” to you?
Thanks. Erm… I guess I think most people have that first encounter with love that changes them—maybe it doesn’t lead anywhere, but it definitely cracks you open. That’s who he was for me. It’s that strange space before your “first proper” relationship. Love and lust. Often unreciprocated. Often formative.
You describe the book as a poetic autopsy. What do you think died?
Ha! Love died! No, really—writing this book, and it took a decade, felt like carving myself open again and again to pull out everything that was killing me. I’m not going to lie—I was suicidal for years from this experience. Writing it was cold, brutal, morbid and… kind of icky. So “autopsy” felt about right.
There’s a lot of emotional exposure in these poems — how did it feel putting it all out there?
Uncomfortable, in a word. Writers are weird—most are so private and introverted, yet we feel compelled to spill our guts in public. It’s completely illogical.
Did writing this collection heal anything for you — or just name the pain?
I think it gave me closure. The healing came before. Nigel did that.
You’ve spoken about being home-educated before. Do you think that impacts how you write?
Oh, it gave me a bit of a chip on my shoulder, honestly. I’m glad I wasn’t moulded like other kids—very glad—but I still have this lurking sense that I’m not “good enough.”
A lot of your poems feel like confessions. Do you feel relief or regret sharing them?
Relief when I finish the poem. Regret when someone I know reads it and then looks at me like they’ve seen my internet search history.
Some pieces are heartbreaking, others darkly funny — is that intentional?
Not really. I didn’t go in with a checklist. It’s just what came out. But I suppose when you live through something painful for long enough, you eventually start laughing at it.
Which poets or writers do you love?
I quite like Kristina Mahr. My mum also got me one of Donna Ashworth’s books the year before she died and I really wish I’d told her how much that had meant to me, actually. But for me the best writers will always be musicians like Nick Cave, or Till Lindemann—who is actually a poet, himself. I like that both go well beyond the “do not cross” lines and stick two fingers up to anyone telling them they can’t.
If someone asked what your poetry is for, what would you say?
Relief. Catharsis. A way of bringing people together through shared pain or recognition. Making people feel less alone. Which again is weird, given so many decent writers are misanthropic to hell.
Do you ever worry the people you write about will read it?
Yep. And God help me if they do.
How do you know when a poem is finished? Or do you just give up and print it?
You know it’s done when you’ve combed through it fifty times for word choice and punctuation issues and start seriously considering throwing your laptop out the window.
What’s the most personal poem in the book — and did it almost get cut?
Research. And yes. I have a small circle of lovely friends who are so keen to support my work, and unfortunately, that means they also have to read about younger me researching blow-jobs. Not ideal. But it was essential to the moment I was trying to capture, so it stayed. I didn’t need friends, anyway.
You’re also a children’s book author — how do you hold those two worlds at once?
I’m Meredith Brooks here—I’m a lot of things. Sometimes I get frustrated that there aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything that’s whirring around in my head, but then I remember I’m lucky to live a life where I get to do even one thing I like doing. So I try to hold that gratitude, even when I’m knackered from the brain-burn.
What advice would you give to someone who feels too damaged to write?
If you think you’re too damaged, you’re probably the one who most needs to write, and the most likely to do it well. In time. Maybe don’t publish straight away—your first few years of work will likely be rubbish—but keep going. Writing is processing. It’s not about being polished, it’s about finding your own voice.
If readers only remember one line from the book, what do you hope it is?
Really? You expect me to remember lines from my own poems?
How does it feel knowing strangers will carry your pain in their hands?
Honestly? About four people will buy the book—two of them know me and already know my woes—so I don’t feel a lot!