WWS Publication Roundup for July

This is my first post as the new publication roundups editor. Thank you, Laura Warrell, for being such a fantastic editor for the past four and a half years.

For many of us, it’s been difficult to stay focused on writing during the ongoing crises that define our everyday lives. Time and again, Women Who Submit has been a touchstone, a reminder that creativity matters; that our words make a difference in the world.

To witness WWS members continue to submit their work and publish far and wide is an inspiration. So let’s join in celebrating this month’s literary successes of our community members!


Congratulations to Donna Spruijt-Metz, whose poem “Pebbles Along the Labyrinth- Psalm 31” was published by The Cortland Review, along with an audio recording.

Listening for mercy – 
           I place                           pebbles

along the labyrinth  –  smooth

           in YOUR hand

against
           the cutting nets
                                   of trust

Congratulations to Amy Shimshon-Santo, whose chapbook of erasure poems, Endless Bowls of Sky, was published this month by Placeholder’s Press’s Flashbulb!

Check out Li Yun Alvarado’s poem “To the White Parenting ‘Expert'” published by La Parent as part of “LA Parents Weigh in on Racism:”

My naivete: the
presumption
that your concern

for designing presence
& peace included

peace for black babies.

For Tammy Delatorre, her essay “I Want to Fuck Your Poem” appeared in the Los Angeles Review.

Everything you said about poetry, I wanted to get naked with. You quoted the immortals: W.H. Auden saying we’re making a “verbal object,” Carl Sandburg claiming a poem was “an echo asking a shadow to dance,” and Howard Nemerov stating that poetry was “a means of seeing invisible things and saying unspeakable things about them.”

Check out Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo’s essay “Forget About the Rap Star and Choose Me,” out now in PANK.

At 32 I fell for a man I met through OK Cupid. Still a couple of years before the dating app deluge, I joined the site determined to end my history with short-lived, non-boyfriends.

Congrats to Tanya Ko Hong, whose poems “Journey (여행)” and “What I Really Want (내가 간절히 원하는 것은)” were published this month in The Global Korean Literature Magazine (Anthology 3).

Congratulations Arielle Silver, whose musical album and companion book, both titled “A Thousand Tiny Torches,” were released this month.

From Colette Sartor, the interview “Excerpt & Q&A: ONCE REMOVED by Colette Sartor” was published by Angels Flight literary west.

Now, more than a century later, I find myself amidst a deadly pandemic, worried about keeping my family safe while staying afloat financially. I dread that we will wind up where my grandmother’s family did: ravaged by loss, fighting to rebuild in the outbreak’s aftermath.

Also from Colette, the interview “Cultural Attunement and ‘Otherness’: A Conversation with Aimee Liu” appeared in The Rumpus.

Liu’s novel succeeds not just as fine-tuned historical fiction but also as an insightful portrait of individuals determined to understand and embrace the humanity of all. The book is set within the context of the British colonial system’s arrogant dehumanization of anyone perceived as “other.”

Congrats to Soleil David, whose poem “Xyliphius sofiae” appeared in Coal Hill Review.

I, a human being with eyes that swim
in aqueous humor, hold a hand out

in absolute darkness and cannot see it.

From Désirée Zamorano, her short story “Norma” was published by PANK.

She could not stop being his mother; he made his own decisions. That was how it should be. What she needed to do was sip and enjoy the wine, his presence, their shared meal. She did not need the addition of the locura in her mind. Calmate, she told herself. To be a parent was to have expectations. To be an adult was to release them.

Congratulations to Laura Warrell, who published her essay “Writing While Black” in the Los Angeles Review of Books.

To write as a Black person in America is to sustain a barrage of gut punches from a community and industry that don’t do a great job transcending the larger inequities of the culture surrounding them. Writing is difficult and publishing hellish, but the path for Black writers is laden with unique indignities.

Congratulations Lisbeth Coiman on publishing her poem “A Rosary for Venezuela” in La Bloga.

I am a radical atheist relearning to pray.
Kneeling to conjure devotion, I hold my motherland between the palms of my hands, to protect her against all evils. My words, the beads of the rosary slipping through my fingers.

Also from Lisbeth, the poem “Allyship,” published by Cultural Weekly.

Identify the hair root-cause of self-hatred
Mother washing my hair with chamomile tea
To make it blonde
But she only made me a “bachaca”
“Yellow”
All throughout my childhood
I never understood why
A woman who despised Black people
Married the son of a Black woman

Congratulations to Melissa Chadburn, who published “The Archive” in The Paris Review Daily.

One quiet spring morning, as a plague engulfs America, I awake, brew coffee, and shuffle to my computer. Outside my windows, a cordillera of snow-thatched roofs. I feel rooted, glooming in grief and rage. The need to stay in place. In the place of our wreckage. In other homes, I imagine children in nightshirts, and daddy flipping pancakes, and some things still good. Meanwhile, the world continues to break in the ways that it has always been broken.

Breathe and Push: A Meditation on Time

By Noriko Nakada

Time works in such interesting ways, especially right now.

In early March, when I could see the shut down coming, I imagined staying at home for weeks at a time. Trusting our fridge and pantry would hold, I hoarded books. I’d have time to read! I’d read all the books! I bought more so I wouldn’t run out. So far this quarantine has lasted twelve books.  

On March 8, 2020, I ran the LA marathon’s 26.2 miles in under five hours. I thought I’d keep running during the safer at home order. What a great way to recover and stay in shape. So far, I’ve run 75 total miles in quarantine.

Time is funny during a pandemic. When school was in session for my students, my children, and for me, I woke up early, got in hours and hours of teaching, and planning, and grading. We were so busy, but it felt like wheels spinning in a cage. School has been out for six weeks. The wheels are still spinning.

The Deschutes river rushes past lava rock and pine.
Water and time flow along the Deschutes River in Central Oregon.

There is time to write this summer. Time to submit work, revise, query, edit. Two hours each morning: Women Who Submit Writing Alone Together for 120 minutes. Sometimes those minutes are enough. Sometimes the minutes stretch into 180 or 240. Suddenly, there aren’t enough minutes to do it all.

If you record a reading and it’s less than a minute, it might be too short. If you record a reading of an essay and it’s longer than a minute, it might be too long. Everyone wants recorded readings. Time them carefully.

The pendulum of time swings back and forth. One day, I do absolutely nothing. The day stretches. The kids turn rotten and the avocados become overripe. I fill the day with nothing and nothing and more nothing. I read the news and fill with anxiety. I do nothing. The next day I’m up early: exercise, make breakfast, start bread, drink coffee, write, revise, help kids with their work, edit, read, fold dough, make lunch, check the news, make donations, answers emails, play with kids, bake cupcakes with the kids, pull weeds, write a letter, make dinner, bake bread, go for a walk, wipe down the counters again, write, check the news, read, sleep. And then the pendulum swings back and again and again and again and again.

In Ruth Ozeki’s novel A Tale for the Time Being, she writes of the now: “But in the time it takes to say now, now is already over. It’s already then.” How quickly the now becomes then. As we swim in this river of days, they flow past us and disappear. We float on these moments, however we measure them: in minutes or hours, in pages or poems. The days rush into weeks and weeks into months. July is almost over and August will arrive. 2020 is already half over. It’s taken about three minutes to read this. Thanks for sharing your time.

Now, what do we do next?

headshot of racially ambiguous writer Noriko Nakada

Noriko Nakada writes, parents, and teaches eighth grade English at Emerson Middle School in Los Angeles. She is the author of the Through Eyes Like Mine memoir series. Excerpts, essays, and poetry have been published in Kartika, Catapult, Meridian, Compose, and Hippocampus. She is spending her time in quarantine perfecting sourdough, biscuits, and pie crust. She has two kids so she answers approximately three thousand questions a day. 

STORYTELLING IN ACTION – Egg, Larva, Pupa, Imago

WHEW. It’s crazy times out there, amirite? 

Just when we were thinking it couldn’t be any worse (partisan here: remember the GW Bush years?) society, the economy, the planets, Nature, LIFE serve as reminders that, as Event Horizon, one of THE classic 90s horror films states, “Hell is only a word; The reality is much, much worse.” (If you enjoy a bit of rotfl gore, click through here for the clip. If not, definitely stay away!)

I’m being a bit glib, as I don’t really believe in Hell as such, and therefore have no post-mortem fear of it. But that aside, the hits just keep on coming.

Example: when I was dreaming about my future in an upstairs classroom of a building constructed in 1928 in pre-summer Pomona during the 1990s, it did not include a debilitating sciatica issue. Nor did I envision a future earning money via food and grocery delivery while I was racking up loans for grad school 10+ years ago. But here (the royal) We are. 

I’d also never conceived that I might *really* enjoy hiking or have an inclination to keep plants alive. Which I do, and have. 

Hiking was a thing that people with money or dads who lived at home did so I knew it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t until I was fired unceremoniously from a job I didn’t love last year that I discovered all the trails – specifically trails I *haven’t* seen posted on social media – near me. It was the first time I was able to “Yes, And…” being fired. I’d never been super active in my life because I hate competition and I don’t believe in “no pain, no gain.” The two are not correlative by any means. But once I’d been convinced that hiking was just walking in the woods and that I wouldn’t need to scale a mountain, I decided to try it out. 

And it was the beginning of me. The beginning of a new era/phase/stage of development. I’d reached middle age and had been so focused on how far I hadn’t gotten and on the idea that what I *had* learned hadn’t done much for me. Hiking was much more of a mental and spiritual journey than it was a physical one, and it was a huge physical journey. I have been in therapy for most of my life and there were things in hiking I learned about myself that I don’t know I could have learned through talk therapy alone. The skills I learned negotiating my way across a tiny stream that my friend jumped across all gazelle-like were the skills I used to negotiate my way to the bathroom when my sciatica pain was so bad I could barely move. 

Last year, I lost a job, then I lost mobility. I didn’t feel like I should have lost either. “I have a Master’s Degree – why don’t I have a job? Why can’t I keep a job?” And “I’m only 43, I should be able to move. I shouldn’t be in this much pain!” It really was a crazy amount of pain. Consistent pain for eight months which kept me literally grounded. 

The week after I was set free from that job, I started taking a medicinal plant workshop. I may not have been the best student, but showing up was what I could manage at the time. And I’m so grateful for the opportunity to learn those things while I was learning to hike. It was a hard shift away from the “outside” world with which I’ve had such a complicated relationship for as along as I’ve been in therapy/have been told I needed it. 

I learned to make some preventative medicines for allergies, an amazing salve for muscle and nerve pain, and what it means to *really* pay attention. It turns out that the huge tree outside my bedroom window that I’ve been staring at for 11.5 years is a Eucalyptus tree. Eucalyptus, among its many amazing uses, is great for respiratory issues. 

I have asthma, which is a chronic inflammatory issue based in the lungs. Some suggested causes are allergens and stress. I learned in my herbal medicine class that addiction and asthma are afflictions related to loneliness/abandonment. I also learned that the left lung is smaller than the right, as it has to share space with our heart. Sometimes when the heart is sick, it affects the lungs. I also learned that the lungs are the place in the body where we most hold onto grief. 

The U.S. culture is not one that honors grief much less death as a part of life. It has dissociated itself from these basic life facts in an effort to delude itself into thinking it is godhead. But It. Is. Not. Some needed to be reminded; some have never forgotten. With all that is going on in this country, in this state, in this city, in this house, in this body, paying attention to the stage of development and nurturing it is key. We are not godhead; we are Life and Death and everything in between.

Why I Will No Longer Advise Poets Against Publishing on Social Media

Because Elijah McClain was just going home.

Because Breonna Taylor was home.

Because Dominique Rem’mie Fells deserved everything she hoped for.

Because George Floyd called for his mama.

Because news reports call Andrés Guardado a man, but he was barely on his way to becoming one.

Because over 130,000 people have died of Covid in the US, and people still call it just the flu.

Because Carlos Gregorio Hernandez Vasquez died of the flu on a cold cement floor with no family to comfort him.

Because Toyin Salau needed refuge.

Because Vanessa Guillen needed help.

Because Óscar Alberto Martínez Ramírez and his daughter, Angie Valeria needed a chance.

Because Sandra Bland didn’t kill herself.

Because Tȟuŋkášila Šákpe was stolen from the Lakota.

Because Standing Rock protects the water.

Because Flint still doesn’t have clean water.

Because all people have to do is wear masks and wash their hands.

Because for some words can’t ever be clean enough for their standards.

Because Elijah McClain said, That’s my house. I was just going home.

Writing on a Budget: Immigrants, Community, and Allyship

By Lisbeth Coiman

Like a long distance runner, I travel solo at a fast pace, between villages, delivering my message:

Latinx immigrants are here to stay. We are an increasingly large group of people in all shades of brown, with complex identities product of the ethnic amalgamation that the process of colonization brought upon us.

Shelf with books by Black writers
What does your bookshelf tell about you?
Continue reading “Writing on a Budget: Immigrants, Community, and Allyship”