Oct 21st, 2025
We spoke with author, Cetywa Powell, about her travel/photography/memoir book, Meanwhile, here in Austin, an intimate look at the city of Austin.
In your book, Austin feels less like a setting and more like a living character. How did you approach writing about a city in such a personal, almost intimate way?
As a photographer, you tend to notice a lot of details. Whether it’s the way the light hits a building or the way a leaf is attached to a tree. Large or small, your eyes are drawn to everything. And after taking a photo, I wanted to describe either why I took it or what I was feeling at that moment.
Some features of Austin snuck up on me, though, and I only noticed them later, like all the new buildings popping up in downtown Austin. It was when I looked back at my downtown reflection photos that I realized just how much the city was changing and expanding.
Organizing the book around seasons gives it a natural rhythm. Why did you choose that structure?
I chose the structure because Austin’s seasons feel so extreme. The summers are intensely hot, and as the summer shifts to fall, the weather literally flip-flops. Then, we’ll get hit by a sudden loss of electricity and extremely cold weather in the winter (well, cold to me). And, in the spring, there’s surprising lushness everywhere. So, the changing seasons were very noticeable. It wasn’t like L.A., where you didn’t even notice when spring moved into summer. For the most part, the seasons seem to dominate what I do and how I feel. It was only natural, then, to describe my relationship with Austin through its seasons.
The passages about pandemic-era Austin are haunting and tender. Did revisiting those memories while writing change your perspective on that time?
Yes, I think I was more judgmental about how people reacted to the pandemic and all the details of it — masks, Covid shots — while I was living through it. Three years later, when I started writing about that period, I softened my judgment and realized that people often made decisions they believed were right in that moment. I’m not sure if one city is wrong or right on how they handled the pandemic. Or if one person is right and another wrong. It was a confusing time, and we didn’t have any answers. I have learned not to judge. There are people who ran out to get a Covid shot, and there are people who refused to. I know and respect both.
Your prose often lingers on sensory details, like the scent of rain, the hum of cicadas, the hush of empty streets. How do you cultivate that kind of attention in your daily life, and how does it shape your writing process?
I think most people are aware of these details. They just don’t write them down. But when I do write, I start with the sensory details around me and then incorporate larger themes. It adds to the world I’m creating, in my opinion, to write like that.
A thread in the book is the tension between what endures and what disappears, whether it’s buildings, neighborhoods, or traditions. How do you personally reconcile with the pace of change in Austin?
Just 10 years ago, I used to be opposed to too many changes in my life. I was a little rigid on how I approached life. It was coming to Austin, though, that made me reconcile the fact that embracing change or embracing an “unknown tomorrow” can be a more interesting way to live. What endures and what disappears doesn’t matter much anymore. What matters is that I notice it and appreciate both “what was” and “what’s to come.”
The mosaic-like, vignette structure mirrors how memory works. Did the book evolve this way naturally, or did you experiment with more traditional narrative forms before settling on this style?
I didn’t give too much thought to traditional narrative forms because I felt this book wasn’t a story. It was living through the city’s seasons and trying to explain my experiences to a reader. The structure evolved from simply walking through the city with my camera, reflecting on what I saw, and noting down what was interesting or different. It’s more like a fusion of a written and visual diary.
You explore home not just as a physical space, but as shared experiences and rituals. How has your definition of “home” shifted over time, especially in a rapidly changing city?
Home isn’t a place for me. It’s where the people I love are. At this moment, home is wherever my immediate family is. But that will change, only because the two won’t always be in the same place. My son will head off to university, and my sense of home will naturally shift.
At its heart, the book feels like an invitation to slow down and pay attention. What do you hope readers carry into their own lives after spending time with your words?
Notice everything around you. There’s so much beauty in your neighborhood or backyard, or even the people you spend time with every day. You don’t have to travel far to to be inspired.
Buy the book at Amazon.