David Duchovny Opens Up About His First Poetry Book and Whether ‘X-Files’ Will Get Another Reboot (EXCLUSIVE)

When you hear the names Fox Mulder or Hank Moody, one man comes to mind—David Duchovny. From the conspiracy-chasing FBI agent in The X-Files to the flawed, brilliant novelist in Californication, Duchovny has played unforgettable characters across decades of television and film.

But he’s much more than an actor. The Princeton-and Yale-educated star is a New York Times best-selling author with six books, including his latest novel Kepler, which takes him on tour this fall. He also hosts the podcast Fail Better, stars in the upcoming Amazon Prime thriller Malice, and is releasing his first poetry collection, About Time: Poems, on sale now.

At 65, Duchovny is busier than ever—and perhaps more creatively open than he’s ever been. In this exclusive Woman’s World Q&A, he talks about poetry, music, self-doubt and why The X-Files will always endure.

Woman’s World: You’ve described poetry in About Time as “nothing happening.” Was writing this book cathartic, or simply a way of putting thoughts into words?

David Duchovny: I’ve been writing poems my whole life, and over the last 10 years I’ve been writing fiction and lyrics too. For me, it’s an obsession with words—trying to get at a state of mind or a particular feeling. Poems aren’t usually narrative, so they allow me to explore emotional or spiritual spaces that you can’t always get into with fiction. You can try, but people only have so much patience for interior exploration in a novel. Poetry lets me capture those states of feeling that exist for me in a different way.

WW: Your poem “Dead Seven” looks at your relationship with your father. Was it written out of missing him, or was it more about what you feel he didn’t give you?

DD: Definitely both. It’s that oscillation in the father-child relationship—sometimes the child is the dependent, sometimes the parent, sometimes it switches. Not literally in my case, but in the psychic sense. I didn’t care for him at the end of his life, but in my mind I try to understand who he was. That’s very hard for a child to do with a parent, because you’ve got all these memories—things you did together, things he did do—and then the longing for things he didn’t do. Death feels like an end, but relationships don’t actually end in death. To some people that might sound morbid or dark, but I don’t feel that way. I see it almost as a celebration. Because he continues to be my father, and I continue to be his son.

WW: The book feels like it offers a very intimate look at you. Are you comfortable sharing that side of yourself?

DD: It’s not really about opening up a personal diary. It’s not like I’m saying, “Here’s this person, here’s that situation.” I’m not a Taylor Swift writer. I’m not putting out puzzles for people to figure out. These poems have to stand or fall on their own, without any reference to my biography. I know people are curious and want to connect a poem to my life, and I get that, but that’s not the game for me. The game is: Does the poem mean something to you? Not what it means to me.

WW: Was there a passage in the book that was more difficult for you to write?

DD: I don’t think of it in terms of difficulty. The challenge is always unpacking feelings that seem to resist words, feelings that want embodiment in a poem rather than in conversation or fiction. A poem is like a snapshot of the soul at a particular moment in time. That’s what I’m trying to capture and understand.

WW: In “How Does It Go,” the opening lines about “the ghost of us” reminded me of Wuthering Heights. Was that intentional?

DD: Totally. I saw that movie when I was very young, before I could understand all of it, but that line—when she’s dying and asks him to haunt her—stayed with me. The fact that they go off together at the end and are happy, that always struck me.

WW: “Another Brick” is about your dog, and it really touched me. Was it written out of mourning his loss?

DD: It was. His name was Brick—I’ll give that away. He was a rescue, probably three or four when I got him, and he died around 12 or 13. Toward the end he had doggie dementia, and his last couple of years were tough, but he was a good guy. Somebody once said dogs are here to teach us how to die, because we almost always outlive them. That thought stayed with me.

WW: You act, direct, write, play music, host a podcast. Do all these outlets fulfill you creatively?

DD: I think so. I seem to be reaching for different ways to have the conversation—different ways of digging stuff up. I’m still in love with acting, directing, writing. Those are my passions. I love music too, but I started late. I can write songs, but I’ll never play the way I’d like to. Still, I’m excited to be creative in whatever space is available to me. If there’s no acting role I love, I’ve got other ways to create. So yes, it’s satisfying to have multiple outlets.

WW: I once read you said, “I’m frightened by the possibilities of my own lack of talent.” Do you still question yourself, even with all your awards and success?

DD: Sure. Always. But it’s kind of a stupid thing to say—I mean I’m stupid for saying it, not you for asking. Because everybody feels that way. Even the people we look at as infinitely talented question themselves. And I think it’s healthy. That’s why we keep going, why we keep trying. Every project is a new ball game. The last thing you did doesn’t matter—it doesn’t guarantee anything about the next one. If you go in thinking, “I’ve got this, I’m great, this is going to be easy,” that feels like a terrible place to be spiritually.

WW: You’ve said acting is about connection. How do you hope your poetry connects with readers?

DD: In the same way music does. If somebody reads a poem or listens to a song and feels a connection, that’s priceless. It’s not an ego thing. I don’t need to be told. The work isn’t there to give me therapy or to expose secrets. It’s there to resonate in you, the reader. I don’t see these as puzzles to solve. They’re spaces to be in, spaces that feel familiar and vital. And that’s the connection—recognizing we’ve all been in those places.

WW: What does music give you that your other creative work doesn’t?

DD: Like acting, it’s collaborative. I write and play with my band. Writing a book is just me alone, which is fine, but I love creating with other people. And there’s nothing like live music. A show happens once—it’s immediate, it’s gone, and that makes it precious. It’s like theater in that sense.

WW: Who were your musical influences?

DD: I’ve had musical loves, for sure. I’m not a great player—I started too late for that—but growing up I listened to and loved the Beatles, the Stones, Zeppelin, Sly and the Family Stone, Al Green. All kinds of music. Those sounds are in my heart.

WW: You’ve said a poem might be “that glorious feeling of ‘Maybe this time, I’ll get it right.’” Do you feel you’ve gotten it right?

DD: I think I have moments. But like live music, those moments pass. You get it right for that instant, and then it’s gone. That’s the joy and the frustration. You’ve got to come back the next day and try again. You’re never done.

WW: The last page of About Time twists the old saying. Instead of “One door closes, another opens,” you write, “One door opens; another door closes.” Why the switch?

DD: (Laughs) To me it’s like a zen problem. Doors keep opening and closing—it’s constant. When I recorded the audiobook, I asked if they could overlap my voice so I’d be saying “opens” and “closes” at the same time. I don’t know if that made it in, but I hope so.

WW: Next month, your series Malice premieres on Amazon. What can you tell us?

DD: It’s a psychological thriller we shot in London and Greece. It’s also a romance, and I really enjoyed working with Jack Whitehall and Carice van Houten. I’m just an actor in this one, not writing or directing, and it was a great experience.

WW: And the inevitable question—could there be more X-Files?

DD: I never know. I didn’t know the last time until right before it happened. But I always say, it’s a perfect show and it could go on forever. Whether it’s with us or with other people, it can continue.

WW: The connection with X-Files fans seems lasting and powerful.

DD: For sure. People tell me they’re watching it again with their kids, and I love that. Generations are still discovering it. Certain things about the show age, of course, but something at its core doesn’t. Because it’s really about what we don’t know—and what we don’t know never goes away.

WW: With the title of your book, finish this sentence: It’s about time…

DD: It’s about time. Depending on how you say it, it could be, “It’s about time you wrote poetry,” or, “It’s about time, that book of poetry.” I like the ambiguity.