In 2021, I was admitted to workshops and received fellowships with Tin House, Macondo, VONA, and the Authentic Voices program via the National Women’s Book Association, my poems and essays were accepted for publication in various venues, and I completed the first full draft of my creative nonfiction manuscript. I somehow did this while surviving a pandemic, working from home with no childcare, and being a single parent/teacher/everything to a fifth grader who was distance learning. And as we shift to a “new normal” this fall, I am still exhausted. There is still so much that is unsaid and unfelt. And yet, I remain hopeful that many of us will retain our virtual communities of care, including our writing communities. That is the way that I survived.
When the world panicked in March 2020, I had nowhere to go but online. I joined Women Who Submit and began attending the weekly Saturday meetings. At first, I doubted whether I truly belonged there because I had internalized the belief that I had to “prove” myself as a writer with external accomplishments, such as publications or awards. But I slowly learned to challenge my mindset. At WWS, rejection letters became “motivation letters” and we applauded each other for writing and for not writing, for trying and for not trying, for hitting “submit” or for not hitting submit. And then we did it all over again. I learned that everything matters, no matter how small, and it opened up something new in me. I had something to say. I filled multiple journals. I started scribbling poems on the backs of receipts again. I began to remember my childhood dream of being a published author. What if?
Asking “what if” led me to have a relationship with my writing, which is to say that I began to have more of a relationship with myself. The page is where I found the fullness of myself. And I claimed myself as a writer while the world was on fire. It felt both marvelous and terrifying. Did I really have the luxury or the audacity or the confidence to be a writer? Yes and yes and yes. I am a writer simply because I say I am.
And yet, no one ever does anything alone. Not even writers. Especially writers. When I drafted my first statements for fellowship applications, the words felt clunky and odd. I didn’t know what I was doing. I feared that I would never be selected for the fellowship. I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. But I asked for help anyway because support will always move us closer to our goals. And once I finally crafted one fellowship application that seemed strong, it was easier to tailor it and apply to more workshops and fellowships. At the same time, life happens, and I didn’t worry much if a deadline for a certain opportunity passed. I did what I could at the time and I am okay with it because there will always be more chances.
The first fellowship that I completed was the Authentic Voices program with the National Women’s Book Association (NWBA). Directed by the NWBA President, Natalie Obando, my cohort and I met over the course of four months with her and other guests, including a six-weel writing workshop with the wonderful writer Mireya Vela. As someone without an MFA, I am still learning about so much, and the fellowship taught me about the business of publishing, the art of writing and revising, querying, and other concrete tools that will help me as an emerging writer. It also felt almost surreal to be in a BIPOC-only space where we could understand each other without explaining or censoring ourselves or our writing. And while institutional racism and other forms of inequities remain embedded in traditional publishing, programs like Authentic Voices make me hopeful that more change is coming.
The next workshop was the Tin House summer workshop. At the final happy hour meeting, a fellow participant said that it felt like an entire semester compressed into one week, and I wholeheartedly agree. I was pleasantly surprised that most of the Tin House faculty were BIPOC and they were privileged in the programming for the talks and lectures. However, I did not anticipate how grueling the schedule would be. Each day had over 12 hours of live programming. While all the talks and lectures were recorded, I made arrangements with my job to attend Tin House and so I wanted to use all the time that I could that week. I had meetings with a literary agent and editor, both women of color, who were honest about institutional racism in the publishing industry but encouraging. For the workshop portion, I was both inspired and a bit intimidated to work with the incredible Jaquira Diaz. My cohort and I talked with her about ghosts, speculative nonfiction, and what it means to write into the complexities of our lives. More than anything, Jaquira taught me that anything is possible, including our dreams.
My final workshop was the Macondo writers workshop. While the Macondo schedule was not as time-intensive as Tin House, it also felt rigorous. I was delighted to work with Daisy Hernandez who challenged us to consider space and place in our writing. My cohort and I wrote about mothering, beds, science, childhood homes, hopefulness, and helplessness. I also read a short excerpt of a personal essay during the Macondo open mic which felt like an accomplishment to me because I have not participated in many readings. And yet, at Macondo, the new Macondistas were welcomed with open arms and I felt a sense of belonging. Of all my fellowships so far, Macondo feels the most sentimental to me because I worked with the Chicana feminist writer and Macondista, Carla Trujillo, as an undergraduate. And Macondo’s founder, Chicana writer Sandra Cisneros, was the first book that I ever read that was written by a Chicana. With Macondo, I felt more certain than ever that I am not simply a fan of writers, but I am a writer too.
Even a year ago, I never would have dreamed of having any of these experiences, but here I am. For my fellow emerging writers, don’t give up and remember these phrases.
- No means next. I learned this phrase from my friend, Yvette Martinez-Vu, who uses this phrase to help motivate her students. When I submitted to a Tin House workshop for the first time, my application was declined. But when the next round opened up, I applied again and was accepted. No means next, not never. If a venue says no, apply again or somewhere else. Don’t stop.
- Your pace is the right pace. What if you did not write today, this week, this month, this year? Or perhaps even many years? It is okay. Whether or not you put pen to paper, you are still a writer, no matter what. Release the guilt and stress. The page will always welcome you back when it’s the right time for you and only you. Your pace is yours.
- Ask for help. This one still feels difficult for me even today because asking for help can sometimes mean exposing your vulnerabilities and insecurities. And yet, building relationships with others in the writing community means that there are always friendly folks who are willing to help you with feedback, support, or advice. It is okay to ask for help. In fact, it is necessary. And then the best part is that we can pay it forward by helping the ones coming up after us.
- Don’t compare and despair. It is normal to feel jealous, doubtful, or insecure when we compare ourselves to other writers who seem to have all the dream publications, awards, fellowships, book deals, etc. Feel those feelings and then let them go. There’s more than enough for us all and what’s meant for you will not pass you up. And remember, no one else’s success will ever diminish the inherent value of your work.
- Lay a brick a day. I saw this phrase in a meme and I immediately loved it. The little things do add up. Even if you write just one sentence a day, it matters.
- The magic is in the mess. Marvel in the mess and then marvel some more because that’s where the magic happens. Stay with the discomfort and the doubts. The right words will come, I promise.
Remember, your writing is worthy. But, even more important than that, you yourself are worthy.
With love,
Cecilia Caballero
Cecilia Caballero is an Afro-Chicana single mother, poet, creative nonfiction writer, teaching artist, speaker, and educator based in Los Angeles. Cecilia is a founding member of the Chicana M(other)work collective and she is co-editor of the book The Chicana Motherwork Anthology: Porque Sin Madres No Hay Revolución (University of Arizona Press 2019). As a teaching artist, Cecilia designs and facilitates poetry workshops for BIPOC folks to cultivate more spaces of healing and social justice. She has been invited to give workshops and talks at numerous institutions and organizations such as UCLA, UC Berkeley, San Diego State University, East Los Angeles College, the University of Arizona, Parenting for Liberation, and more. Cecilia’s prose and poetry is published or forthcoming in Dryland Magazine, Star*Line Magazine, The Nasiona, Raising Mothers, The Acentos Review, Chicana/Latina Studies, Gathering: A Women Who Submit Anthology, and more. Find her on Twitter @la_sangre_llama