February 2016 – Women Who Submit

February 24, 2016

How to Look at a Solar Eclipse: A Trick on Writing for Social Change

by Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo

Every Wednesday we publish writing advice for women in our “Closing the Gap” series. This week we take a slight side-step to cross-post a piece with our friends at inspiration2publication.com. Starting in March, “Claps and Cheers,” “Behind the Editor’s Desk,” and “Submissions in Review” will also become regular series.

I remember when George Zimmerman was acquitted of killing Trayvon Martin. I remember being devastated and posting the news announcement on my Facebook with the caption, “No words.” I couldn’t stop thinking about how Trayvon Martin, a 17 year old kid walking back from a convenience store with a bag of Skittles and an Arizona Ice Tea, never made it back to his father’s house, and how wrong that was. I had no words.

But then another poet commented on my post with something to the effect of, This is exactly when we need words. Write.

When writing about a societal injustice, I see two hurdles: one, finding a way to spend time with a tragedy that is hard to face long enough to write about it, and two, figuring out how to hook readers into spending time with you too.

For the first, my advice is to trick your mind.

Some tragedies are so heartbreaking that to take a long look at them hurts the soul and can even physically turn a person ill. Sometimes the only way to write about injustice is to play a trick on yourself. “Tell it slant” is how Emily Dickinson put it: “The Truth must dazzle gradually / Or every man be blind—”

When I was a kid I experienced my first solar eclipse. My father was with me, and he let me wear his giant welding mask and made me a pinhole projector out of a cardboard box. I remember standing barefoot on my front lawn, my face pointing to the sky, the heavy mask pressing down on me, preferring its tinted glass and weight to the tiny hole and shadows on cardboard. Going slant can be like finding your welding mask, or making a pinhole projector. In poetry, this can be playing with a classic form, counting syllables, using a rhyme scheme, or arranging a found poem. These tricks can free, or protect, the poet from the subject—acting more like a game than a duty—long enough to write about it. To be clear, I’m not saying to make light of something serious. If you are reading this article, and you are looking for tips on how to write for social justice, then it is clear you are a person who cares, so what I’m saying is, give yourself a break.

In August 2011, I traveled out to the Sonoran desert to volunteer as a desert aid worker with the direct humanitarian organization, No More Deaths. For nine days I camped in the desert along the Arizona-Mexico border in 100+ degree temperatures. I often worried for my safety, but I knew it was nothing compared to what the people crossing into this country were experiencing. Everyday my heart broke with what I saw and heard, and every night I cried myself to sleep. I volunteered with the intention of writing about the border, but when I got back my home, writing was the last thing I wanted to do. It took me six months to a year to finally start writing poems, and when I did, I played tricks. I wrote a villanelle, I played with repetition, and in one poem I stole lyrics from a Katy Perry song. I was in part inspired by Kate Durbin’s collection The Ravenous Audience, which is teeming with different forms. Her collection showed me what could happen with a little experimentation.

“Our Lady of the Water Gallons” is a poem I wrote about the process of leaving fresh water on migrant trails. All summer long volunteers patrol the desert borderlands looking for people in distress and placing fresh water supplies in strategic locations. Volunteers write messages in Spanish and draw images like butterflies and crosses on the water gallons to communicate to those crossing that the water is safe to drink and not a border patrol trap. I found my way into this poem by experimenting with a made up long form created by my friend and formalist poet, Scott Miller, that uses repetition similar to a crown of sonnets.

To this day, anytime I know I’m going to read this poem in public, I have to practice it several times at home so I don’t cry, but I kind of hope every once in a while someone hears it and is inspired to donate money to humanitarian border causes, or even volunteer.

For more pinhole tricks and for strategies on hooking your reader, join my workshop on Writing Poetry for Social Change with inspiration2publication on March 5, 2016 at 10am on the Antioch Campus. We will be writing poems inspired by the poetry of Martin Espada and Carolyn Forche, and taking a look at social media/poetry movements such as #blackpoetsspeakout and Poets Responding to SB1070.

Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo is the 2013 Poets & Writers California Writers Exchange poetry winner and a 2015 Barbara Deming Fund grantee. She has work published in American Poetry Review, crazyhorse, CALYX, and Acentos Review among others. A short dramatization of her poem “Our Lady of the Water Gallons,” directed by Chicano activist and Hollywood director, Jesús Salvador Treviño can be viewed at latinopia.com. She curates the quarterly reading series HITCHED and co-founded Women Who Submit. Her debut poetry collection, Built with Safe Spaces, is forthcoming from Sundress Publications.

February 16, 2016

Submit Like A Man: How Women Writers Can Become More Successful

by Kelli Russell Agodon

Reposted with permission from Ms. Agodon. This article was first published at Medium.com on May 24, 2015.

For six years, I worked as Co-Editor-in-Chief at a small literary journal in the Northwest, Crab Creek Review.

If I had to make one general statement about what I most learned at the press as an editor, the big revelation was that men and women submit their work differently.

Here is what I noticed —

If an editor of our press rejected work from a male writer, but wrote something like, “This came close. We’d like to see more of your work, please send us more poems” on the rejection note — we would usually receive another submission from the male writer within the same month and sometimes even within a few days after he received his rejection.
When we sent this same note to a woman writer, she might resubmit her work in 3–6 months, but more likely, we would not hear from her until over six months to a year later. Sometimes, she will not resubmit at all.
I don’t fully understand why this is, but as a woman writer who grew up in the age of not imposing on people or the fear of being a bother or “too pushy,” here’s my guess to why this happens —

When we send a rejection to a man and ask a man to resubmit, he thinks, “They like my work and they want more; I better get it to them soon before they don’t want it anymore.” And the submission is sent. (Right now, there’s that cliche’ line about men “wanting to spread their seed” going through my head.)

When we ask a woman to resubmit she thinks, “When would be the best time to resubmit? I don’t want to seem pushy, but I do want to get them my work. Maybe I should wait a few months so I don’t seem desperate or so I don’t irritate them by submitting so fast. Do they really want to see more work, or were they just being nice? I’m sure they want to see more work, but I should probably wait a few months, I wouldn’t want to be an imposition and it would be better manners and more respectful to wait a bit. Or should I? Yes, I’ll play it cool and wait a few months. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

And then the woman writer waits or forgets or sends out her submission a few months to a year later (The generalization of women over-thinking things is going through my head right now.)

I know some of what I write here is a big generalization — some women when asked to send more work, do so and do so quickly. But so far as being an editor (and a woman writer) this has been my overall experience — women do not resubmit as quickly (and perhaps as much) as male writers do.

I have even done this self-sabotage dance more than once myself. Once I was so happy with the handwritten rejection from the New Yorker, where Alice Quinn handwrote on my rejection a personal note,“We’d like to see more of your work,” I didn’t resubmit for years because an almost from the New Yorker was a win; it was good enough for me. And in fact, by resubmitting to the New Yorker, I might actually fail — I might get back a blank rejection as opposed to this feel-good-rejection-note I had just received. Why trade mediocrity for possible rejection? I must have been thinking. This thinking does not help any writer, as an almost is not a “win” in publication credits.

For many years, when I received a note saying, “We’d like to see more of your work. We liked what we saw, please resubmit,” my response was to wait until the next year to send again because I didn’t want to send too soon. Or many times, I just wouldn’t resubmit.

After working as an editor (and now as an editor at Two Sylvias Press), I no longer do that. Why? Because I realize how easy it is to forget a writer. Now, if someone likes my work and wants to see more (and it’s a journal I want to be published in), I send them more work within a month of receiving their note.

So Ladies, Women Writers, Sisters of Poetry and Prose —

When an editor tells you they like your work and asks you to resubmit, do so and do so soon after.

The men have it right — the editors do want to see your work and you want to submit before they forget about you and your work. You want your name to be on the tip of their tongues and not hiding in the back of their mind.

This is where many of our “have good manners and think about other’s feelings” good-girl childhoods do not serve us well.

I know when we said at Crab Creek Review that we wanted to see more of a writer’s work, we did. We weren’t just saying it to be nice. And we don’t say it to everyone. If we did, we’d be creating a lot of unneeded work for ourselves.

So let’s say it together — If an editor says they want to see more of your work, they want to see more of your work — they are not just saying it to be nice.

And if you get this note on your rejection slip, send them more work and within the next two months of receiving the note. No later. I mean it. You have permission to respond quickly and professionally. And no one thinks anything bad of you. Promise.

You are not being pushy or rude, you are taking care of your writing life.

And to the Gentlemen who are reading —

Men, Good Chaps, Brothers of Poetry & Prose —

Keep doing what you’re doing. But fewer poems about killing frogs when you were a boy. And less epic work, we like your one-to-two page poems best.

P.S. And to anyone who got to this article because they googled “submit like a man” — you are probably very disappointed right now. . .

Kelli Russell Agodon (@kelliagodon) is a poet, writer, editor, book designer, & cofounder of Two Sylvias Press living in the Seattle area.

She was the Winner of Foreword Magazine’s Book of the Year Prize in Poetry as well as a two-time Finalist for the Washington State Book Awards. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, New England Review, and O, The Oprah Magazine.

She is currently working on her fourth collection of poems and finishing a memoir.

February 10, 2016

The Art of Submitting to Writing Contests

by Tammy Delatorre

It was the first writing contest I had placed in. I was in the seventh grade. Our English teacher had forced us to write haikus and entered them—with a brief mention of this in class—into a statewide contest. On a field trip, we would find out the winners.

Cut to: We’re crowding into an auditorium, the good meal of a tuna sandwich and milk swimming in my belly. I was looking forward to a fun bus ride home, when a woman on stage announced I had won honorable mention for my haiku. Having heard my name, I looked around. People were waving me onstage. In a daze, I went up and accepted my ribbon.

For the most part, every writing contest I’ve placed in thereafter goes pretty much the same way. Bleary-eyed incredibility. I won. Are you sure?

Over the years, I have learned many lessons about entering writing contests, and chief among them is 1) you don’t have to believe you have the best submission out there to win. I know this from entering more than 100 contests and having placed more than 10 times, which brings me to another lesson: 1b) people who win contests typically submit a lot.

The next contest of note: I was a sophomore in college. There was a call to write an essay or poem about friendship. I was a poor student and needed the money. I had a best friend at the time (although I eventually lost her). She was my inspiration to write an embarrassingly bad poem that won $500. This brings me to another very important lesson: 2) the subject material should be extraordinarily important to the writer. I loved that best friend. I might have even been in love with her, the emotions so stirring it brought others to see the value in my piece.

One contest was local, sponsored by the Ventura County Writers Club. My short story placed third, won $120, and ran in the Ventura County Star. A writer I admired (Thaddeus Rutkowski) saw my story and asked to run it in the literary magazine, Many Mountains Moving, for which he served as editor. The lesson here: 3) size doesn’t matter; all types of contests can help in the advancement of a writing career. It was the first time I was called to read as a recognized author, not just part of a workshop or requirement for my MFA.

In another competition, River Styx Schlafly Beer Micro-Brew Micro-Fiction Contest, my piece, “Gifts from My Mother,” won a case of beer along with $1500. The story was less than 300 words. I’d been writing a lot of flash fiction and thinking, why am I wasting my time writing these short pieces? This brought me to another lesson, a variation on the size-doesn’t-matter theme: 4) short pieces have immense value. My roommate at the time loved beer; he drank the alcoholic portion of my winnings. I was happy to share.

I found out River Styx was hosting a reading in St. Louis, Missouri. I excitedly offered the editor to fly out from LA to participate. He said, but you’ll spend half your winnings to just come out here. I let him talk me out of it. In truth, I really wanted to go and had always regretted not doing it, so… 6) if you’re fortunate enough to win a contest, always find a way to perform a reading of your winning work—to honor the work, to celebrate your success, to tell the universe, Thank you! Thank you so much!

At that point in my writing, a friend of mine mentioned she’d met a great teacher who taught personal essay. I had no desire to write personal essay, but a couple other lessons that have helped in my overall development as a writer and eventually led to other contest successes were… 7) always be on the lookout for a good writing mentor, and 8) try not to limit the kind of writing you say you’re going to do, are willing to do, or are good or not good at… Try all kinds of writing. One type informs the other.

So I took the class. That personal essay mentor, Taffy Brodesser-Akner, told me a lot of things. Chief among them: 9) professional writers get paid to write, and in a side comment when reviewing one of my essays: 10) I think you’ve had an interesting life. For me, that was probably the most earth-shattering lesson of all. I didn’t know that people might find my life interesting. At the time, my life—full of family secrets—was something to hide, not publish.

I went home and searched my journals and notebooks. I’d been writing about my life all my life, so why not try to write something remarkably personal? I wrote “Out of the Swollen Sea,” which went on to be selected by author Cheryl Strayed as the winner of the 2015 Payton Prize and published on therumpus.net.

But when I first finished that essay, Taffy’s important words rang in my ears (see #9). If my mentor had inspired me to write a piece so personal, how could I let her down and submit it to venues that would pay me nil, nada, zilch? So I thought, how could I get paid for this piece? What did I think this piece was worth?

Those questions led me to a submission strategy and an experiment of sorts. If you’d like to learn about it, come to the February Submission Party hosted by Women Who Submit, Saturday, February 13 at the Libros Schmibros: Lending Library & Bookshop (1711 Mariachi Plaza de los Angele, Los Angeles, California 90033). I will be leading a discussion on successful strategies for submitting to writing contests and share my “Anatomy of a Submission.”

Tammy Delatorre is a writer living in Los Angeles. In previous lives, she’s worked for a Nobel-prize-winning biochemist; helped to build and race a solar car that won the World Solar Challenge in Australia; and danced the hula despite being teased of stiff hips. Her essay, “Out of the Swollen Sea,” was selected by Cheryl Strayed as the winner of the 2015 Payton Prize, and her most recent essay, “Diving Lessons,” won the 2015 Slippery Elm Prose Contest. More of her stories and essays can be found on her website: www.tammydelatorre.com.

February 3, 2016

Reconciling the Tug of War Between Teaching and Writing

by Ryane Nicole Granados

I published my first story when I was 8 years old. This is the same age as my strong-willed son, who proudly refers to himself as a mathematician. Although he is indeed proficient in math, I’m convinced he mostly does this as a way to stick it to the establishment, also known as his parents, and in particular his English professor mom. This is undoubtedly the consequence of being interested in so many things that he bounces from task to task, finding the fine art of reading and writing to be a time-consuming, slow-paced plod. I, on the other, spent my childhood reading books, writing stories, and staring at strangers as I turned their innocuous interactions into potential Nancy Drew meets Dynasty scandals. I could spend hours hidden under a blanket fort with my nose in a book or a worn-down pencil in hand. While some kids collected trading cards, I collected composition journals. At 8 years old I was certain I was just an odd child who loved dissecting sentences and independent reading time in school. It was my grandmother who thankfully explained to me that I wasn’t odd; rather, I was a writer. Later I learned I was, indeed, an odd person, but that has actually aided my writing even more.

To punctuate my newfound identity my grandmother convinced an editor of a community newspaper to feature my debut story “How the Pig Got Its Snort.” It was a medical drama set on a farm where the pigs began to snort due to untreated colds. From that moment on I was a writer, and all roads were supposed to lead to a slew of best-selling novels, a beachside writing villa and a floor-to-ceiling personal library, transforming my blanket fort into the fortress of my dreams.

As life would have it, the novels are still being written and are yet to be published. My personal library is wedged between my husband’s desk and my toddler’s trampoline. And if I squint just right, on a rare day with no L.A. fog, I can make out something that looks like the beach, which is fine by me because I have little time for villa living with the lecturing and grading load of my full-time job teaching English.

My grandmother’s prophetic claims didn’t say anything about being a professor. George Bernard Shaw, on the other hand, did assert, “those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.” It is in this paradox that I have to reconcile: How can I be both a teacher and a writer, and how can I do them both well?

In an often-winding road to an answer, I have adopted four rules in my attempts to create some symmetry in the insanity of juggling teaching and writing:

Rule #1: Recognize and Accept There is No Such Thing as Balance
Maybe you are a morning person and dawn is the best time for your creative juices to flow. That’s great, except for that one semester where you end up teaching an 8 a.m. class and have to brave traffic and your son’s third-grade drop off all before teaching English 110. It is in this space where you must adapt and embrace the fact that your commitment to writing means nurturing that relationship in a more flexible fashion. In my case, my writing process most resembles one of those cartoon bombs from the 19th century. I have a slow-burning match cord filled with ideas that I tuck away during various times of the day. On my work commute, while waiting at my son’s drum practice, or even in my dreams, the fuse continues to burn. Eventually, it reaches the gunpowder and explodes. It’s at this time that I write feverishly. Oftentimes I’m inspired in the early morning, but I’ve learned that if that time slot isn’t available I must strive to write in whatever interval I can unearth. Same thing goes for marathon grading and there are definite weeks where one priority takes slight precedent over the other. Unlike the Shaw reference, one adage I can uphold is “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Following those off weeks, namely finals week, where my writing takes a major back seat, when I do return to the page I often produce some of my better work. Without guilt or shame, I sit down. I greet my characters. I start again.

Rule #2: When Your Students Write You Should Write
During my first few years teaching, every spare moment of the class was spent doing something I thought was professorial. If the students were working on an activity I was going over my lecture notes. If they were taking a quiz, I was calculating grades. In retrospect, I imagine I felt those actions meant I was being a noble member of academia, but in hindsight I’ve come to realize I was engaging in a missed opportunity for experiential exchange. Now when I give my students a journal prompt I write a response as well. When they are tackling a free write, I’m circled up with them, letting my own pen wander across the page. Sometimes I share my musings, and at other times, the simple act of modeling the work of writing benefits my students and my own craft. An entire chapter of my current novel-in-progress was inspired by a free write created in my developmental English class. I will forever be grateful to the purity of that place comprised of students with raw talent and blossoming potential.

Rule #3: Ask for Help, which is Synonymous with Asking for Respect
Being a writer who teaches or a teacher who writes means I have to train those around me to respect my time, and I have to learn to ask for help when the craziness of the world comes careening down upon me.

I capitalize on my first day of class by expanding my typical day-one activities into a lengthier discussion of a writer’s life. We talk about commitment, the drafting process, overcoming writer’s block. And, we talk about respect. Respect means showing up to my office hours during our agreed upon meeting time. Respect means understanding that I have a self-imposed 24-hour window to respond to all emails and while I may reply sooner, email is not a direct pipeline to my editorial services. Respect also means I am not a personal editor. I am a professor purposed to teach, trained to comment and periodically inspired to remind students that spell check is their friend. Respect essentially means requiring students to respect my time because, after all, that time could be spent writing, raising my own little humans or squinting my eyes just right to catch a better glimpse of the beach. I repay that respect by honoring their time and by returning essays that are generous in feedback and thoughtful in delivery. I also show my respect by acknowledging the reality that writing is just as much a process for my students as it is for me; therefore, a piece of writing is sometimes deserving of a second and third, and dare I admit, fourth chance to get it just right.

With regards to my family and friends, I’ve had to compel them to consider my teaching career in no way means I’ve given up writing for a “real job.” Likewise my writing career doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy teaching (which in many ways and for many reasons, I do). Despite some social skepticism, I truly consider myself both a writer and a teacher. Maybe it’s the super powered XX chromosomes of our womanhood that allows for women to multi-task in a variety of ways. Maybe it’s a knack born out of necessity and passed down throughout history. All I know is that on any given day, I can be more than one thing. Teaching my family to embrace this truth is both a matter of respect and a springboard for reminding them that they should invest in my dreams just as much as I invest in theirs. As a result, when I have a deadline for a piece, or a breakthrough in a problematic area of my plot, or a stack of essays collated into a replica of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I ask for help. I invite my family into my two-pronged profession, sometimes for artistic feedback, sometimes for babysitting and sometimes for cheerleading. I pride myself on being the loudest voice at my son’s soccer game, so why shouldn’t I garner a cheering squad too?

Rule #4: Make Your Own Rules
At the end of the day, when you curl into bed and try to turn down the volume of your relentless thoughts, the best advice I can give you is to make your own rules. The seedlings of my novel were crafted on hospital notepads recovered from a diaper bag years after my middle son’s surgery. My fall semester grades are typically turned in on my laptop connected to a hot spot in my husband’s truck while we travel on our annual winter trip to Yosemite. My characters and I have internal conversations in between carpools, wiping baby snot and drool and imploring my untrained dog to heel. My black-humored friends, my supportive husband, my family and even my children’s teachers know that Monday through Thursday I will be dressed in attire appropriate enough for public view. On Fridays, however, when I don’t teach, try to grade, hope to write, but sometimes end up binging on Netflix, they will likely find me in yoga pants, but not practicing yoga, or in Christmas pajamas long after the season has passed. My Friday fashion faux pas are spurred by the fact that I make my own rules, I ask for help when I need it, I write with and for my students, and I gave up on the idea of balance eight years ago when my bourgeoning mathematician was born.

Ryane Nicole Granados is a Los Angeles native and she earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. Her work has been featured in various publications including Gravel, Role Reboot, For Harriet, The Manifest-Station, Mutha Magazine, Specter Magazine, FORTH Magazine, the Good Men Project, and the Atticus Review. Ryane is best described as a wife, writer, teacher and mom who laughs loud and hard, sometimes in the most inappropriate of circumstances. As a result, she hopes her writing will inspire, challenge, amuse and motivate thinking that cultivates positive change. More of her work can be found at ryane-granados.squarespace.com or Twitter: Ryane Granados @awriterslyfe

February 1, 2016

A WWS Publication Round Up for January

Over the last month, WWS members have been getting work published and some have won awards. Here is a brief look at what has come out this month.

From Guest Post: The Art of Low Stakes Daily Writing and How It Can Transform Your Year by Li Yun Alvarado:

I’m not brilliant, or inspired, or awake enough every day to write something meaningful, and with Low Stakes Daily Writing I don’t have to be. Each day I connect with the page. Each day I promise a few moments—however brief—to my writing. To myself.

From Melissa Chadburn’s “On Kitchens of the Great Midwest: Why We Read Books” published at LA Review of Books:

Kitchens of the Great Midwest transported me to a place I longed for. A place that was warm. The protagonist Eva Thorvald had so much of what I was lacking. She was tall. So to me she had a backbone. A backbone and a discerning palate. We’re talking about a palate that lusted for heirloom tomatoes at three-and-a-half months old.

From “Melissa Chadburn interviews Carmiel Banasky” published at LA Review of Books:

This is a side people don’t get to see of women too often. Women who don’t merge or women who merge and then don’t. Women who are fickle in love.

Or women who love each other so much they think they are in love, or vice versa — who say they are in love, but it turns out to be just a beautiful, if sexless, affection. (I think we see portrayals of that dynamic between heterosexual duos on TV and whatnot, but not between female friends.)

One of my closest female friends and I certainly have had some sexual tension — but I think this is an extension or offshoot of a really lasting, big love for each other.

From “MUSLIMS DIDN’T INVENT TERRORISM” by Lisbeth Coiman published at Hip Mama:

Muslims didn’t invent terrorism
It has always existed since
Humanity created gods. No
Muslims didn’t create fear today
But we want to believe it’s true

From “HOW ON EARTH COULD YOU RAISE A KID IN LA?” by Ryane Nicole Granados published at Forth:

When they hear car speakers blasting so loud that their tiny feet and swaying car seats move in a musical jamboree, I hear a radio rewind of the Watts Prophets, West Coast Hip Hop, G-funk and that wanna-be-b-girl in me. Friday nights at the Good Life Café, schoolgirl crushes cemented by a Fatburger and a meticulously made mix-tape.

Congratulations to Tammy Delatorre for the winning Slipper Elm’s 2015 Prose Prize for her essay, “Driving Lessons,” which can be read in the latest edition out this month!

Congratulations to Siel Ju whose manuscript “Cake Time” won the Red Hen Press Fiction Manuscript Award!