I’m Kate Lebo. I write essays, poems, and cookbooks. My nonfiction often braids memoir with archival research and fieldwork.

I grew up in Vancouver, Washington and have lived all over the state, including in Seattle, Olympia, and Bellingham. For the past decade I’ve lived in Spokane with my husband, the writer Sam Ligon. We run a reading series called Pie & Whiskey.

The DIY art scenes of Washington, particularly the one I participated in while getting my undergraduate degree at WWU in Bellingham, still influence me today. I’ll always believe there’s value in figuring out how to make something yourself, that you don’t have to ask permission to be an artist, and that you can make whatever you want however you want to—meaning art, but also meaning a life in art. If you wish something existed in your community—an event or venue or magazine some other social aspect of being creative—you can make it up and make it happen.

If I had to come up with a reason, I could say that I use the immediacy of the senses to ground my nonfiction within an active present. I like the energy of that kind of language, I guess. When there’s too much summary with little physical sense of a body and mind in space trying to work something out, I get bored. My favorite nonfiction makes me feel like I’ve been invited to accompany someone as they probe and circle a subject that resists investigation. I love the intimacy and immediacy and risk of that act.

I probably turn to physical experience within my own work because it grounds my thinking and interrupts the impulse to explain. Physical experience is messier. It doesn’t unfold as the mind expects or wants. By entwining a physical encounter with story and thought, I can create a scene that conflicts with itself.

For example, in the piece I submitted for this grant, I describe the process of relearning the piano and all the memories and emotions—conscious and not—that accompany that attempt. Meanwhile, the keyboard beneath my fingers hasn’t been played or cleaned in a long time, and it’s gritty with dust. Which feels gross! The grit interrupts the ways I thought I’d be moved or changed by the attempt to play music. The grit also puts me in company with other people who’ve played this instrument. My step kids wrote the names of the notes on each key, for example. Where we’ve practiced piano, the pencil and grit are wearing away. Meanwhile, notes at the edge of the piano’s range are still grimy.

I’m not going to say that clearing the dust off the piano by playing it is a symbol, because ick, how heavy-handed. Instead, I try to think of physical details like this as offerings. They present themselves if we’re paying attention, and they can contain and convey things that we can’t say in more direct language.

I’ve doubled down on assuming readers are smart and that I can trust them to wrestle with complexity, even if that means my work will be misinterpreted.

I love learning new things. Can it be that simple?

The thrill and risk of being an amateur feel exciting and protective to me. Taking the stance of the amateur helps me stay open-minded. It also helps me sidestep impostor syndrome.

Every time an artist from Eastern or Central Washington wins a large Artist Trust award like this fellowship, I send up a special cheer. It shows our artistic communities that it’s worth our while to ask for support.

To maintain my commitment to writing and balance my family’s needs, I seek steady part-time paid work. That’s harder to find than you’d think! In practice, what this means is a lot of short-term contracts. Gigs always end; sometimes they end abruptly. Since having a child in 2020, this instability and has periodically forced me to make a choice between taking care of my family and writing.

This fellowship provided me with financial support that spared me from having to continue to make that impossible choice. Family and art aren’t mutually exclusive. I believe that. I must believe that. I’m so grateful for the peace of mind and space to create that this award gave me. All year I’ve been able to work on my next book.

I appreciate how in recent years you changed the way you form grant panels. Before, it was difficult for people not based in King County to participate despite Artist Trust’s efforts to recruit judges from across the state. Now panels can meet over Zoom, and participating as a panelist doesn’t require so many resources. You’ve probably made other efforts behind the scenes that I don’t know about. What I do know: As I’ve watched your panels become more geographically diverse, I’ve seen Artist Trust awards going to more people across the state. It’s so exciting to learn about these artists and to see resources flowing to them! It gives me a better sense of the many different creative minds in our region and all the cool things that become possible with a little help from Artist Trust.