Author: Thea Pueschel

Posted on

Intersect: The Rising Classist Demands Keeping Writers from Getting Published

By Dawn Colclasure

In the world of freelance writing, opportunities abound. There are magazines, E-zines, newsletters and newspapers to submit to. In most cases, the freelance writer without a college degree, MFA or other kind of notable status has a chance of getting published without those requirements. As long as writers show they know their stuff and can produce a well-written article or essay, they have a chance of getting published.

Freelance writers specializing in a topic or field had more clout than an MFA or college degree. This provided many freelance writers with the opportunity to get published. As long as they had knowledge and high-quality writing, an article or essay had a good chance of acceptance.

That was how it worked once upon a time. Now things have changed. My attempts to get published in magazines and with brands I have researched have met a huge barrier: the fact that I don’t have an MFA or a college degree.

When the opportunity arose to become a part of a content creation agency, which is not the same as a content mill, I jumped on it. I wanted to try something new with my writing. Becoming a writer for this agency required me to have knowledge of SEO writing and using keywords. New to this kind of writing, I learned as I went, taking online courses and reading articles in order to become better at SEO writing, ‌boosting my chances of getting published.

For a while, this went beautifully. I found brands I was compatible with and stayed busy writing articles for them. That worked until it didn’t. One brand eventually changed their platform and another started ghosting me. No problem, I thought. There were tons of other brands I could pitch, simply because I have specialized in these topics.

It didn’t matter that I researched these brands and read samples of their work in order to get a feel for the type of material they wanted. Many who I pitched to never responded, which meant no.

It didn’t matter that I had clips relevant to the topic I was pitching; I was still rejected.

It didn’t matter that I have experience in chemical recovery (alcoholism) as someone who has navigated sobriety for over five years; I was still told “no.” Even when I pitched to blogs on this topic inviting readers to share their experiences, my pitches were ignored.

It also didn’t matter that I have training and experience working as an in-home caregiver, as well as providing rehabilitative care; any article or essay I pitched on that topic was rejected. And, yes, I was sure to pitch to markets accepting work from all kinds of writers.

It also doesn’t matter that I am deaf, as well as a burn survivor, writing on these topics for markets welcoming submissions and pitches from marginalized groups. The rejections still rolled in.

This happened when I pitched brands through the agency as well as when I pitched markets outside of the agency. I knew my luck with the agency would run out, so I made sure I continued my work as a freelance writer, pitching magazines, websites, blogs, and newsletters. There were acceptances here and there, but mostly rejections from the bigger paying markets that seemed to prefer a certain kind of writer–namely, ones who had more impressive publishing clips, positions with a company or a degree in the field they wrote in.

In the end, I noticed that writers who had a degree relevant to the topic they wrote in, or some kind of specialized training in a field, or even an MFA, had a better chance of getting published than I did. I saw how everyone else with those accomplishments under their belt got published in those same places I had pitched.

It’s understandable that most writing markets these days would require writers to have some kind of degree or specialized training, but how does that help those of us with financial barriers keeping us from achieving those goals and can still write well? I couldn’t finish college because the funding was no longer there. I would absolutely love to have a degree and/or an MFA, but there is currently no money to make those things happen! 

I am not the only freelance writer out there who faces the financial barrier in earning a degree. The money we earn has to go towards providing for our families, paying our bills and paying for the medications we need to keep us alive. We don’t have the funding required to get a college degree or an MFA, and, yes; we have exhausted all resources in trying to obtain that funding. With no luck. They should not hold this against us freelance writers who are only trying to earn a living with our words.

It seems that most writing markets are adopting a classist or elitist attitude when deciding what writers they choose to work with.

It used to be that anyone who built their way to success with their own resources was looked up to and admired. Anyone who gained knowledge and training outside of educational institutions, and proved they could get a job done, garnered respect and appreciation. This kind of self-sufficiency no longer means anything to the editor at a magazine or publishing company.

It seems this classist attitude is slowly creeping into the world of independent publishing, as well. Writers with bigger platforms, wider appearances at cons, and impressive publication credits are being given more attention among independent publishers. It used to be that I supported independent publishers, being an indie author myself. But now it seems that if I submit to an independent publisher and I have to compete with an author who has more recognition than I do, they get the publisher’s attention and I don’t. I’m lucky if I ever get a response to my submission at all.

Famous writers like Ray Bradbury, Mark Twain, Maya Angelou, Truman Capote and William Faulkner never had a college degree, yet their work was published, won awards and achieved literary acclaim. If only we could go back to the days when it was enough to just be published. When being an author attracted attention, brought admiration and respect from others, and signified that said author is worthy of one’s attention.

Those days are long gone. In its place are the demands for a degree, MFA, or bigger platforms. If a freelance writer or aspiring author doesn’t have those things, then the road to publication is a lot longer and harder to pursue.

Dawn Colclasure is a writer who lives in Oregon. She is a book reviewer, freelance writer and ghostwriter. She is the author of several books. Her work has appeared in magazines, newspapers, websites and anthologies. Website: https://dawnsbooks.com/ and https://www.dmcwriter.com/  Twitter: @dawnwilson325 and @dawncolclasure

Posted on

Intersect: Honing Your Craft with Online Workshops

by F. Gülşen Buecher

Online learning has exploded over the last decade, and with the Covid-19 pandemic came the widespread use of online learning platforms from Zoom to Google classroom. In 2021, as a 50th birthday gift to myself, I decided it was time to dive into poetry in whatever capacity I could. This is something I had always wanted to do, but didn’t have the time, money, or logistical ability. I earned an undergraduate degree in English, but stopped there many years ago.

By 2021, opportunities for workshops and lectures had become ubiquitous within the creative writing sphere. Higher learning in creative writing, such as certificate and MFA programs, are certainly no exception to this. The options open to me were plentiful, albeit with a little digging and research.

Participating in various forms of workshops in online spaces is a good option for a variety of reasons. For many people, the cost of a traditional MFA program is simply prohibitive with the average tuition in the tens of thousands of dollars, with fully funded programs being extremely competitive. Online learning offers the flexibility to complete a degree or a certificate from home. For those of us who work fulltime, or for someone like me who is a fulltime caregiver to family members, it is simply a logistical impossibility to enroll in a multi-year degree program.

Many traditional colleges and universities have extension schools or continuing education programs where non-matriculated students can enroll in individual online classes or a certificate program in creative writing. This is a great place to start, but traditional colleges and universities are just a small slice of what is out there. In the last few years, independent writers’ workshops, collectives, and publishers have flourished online, offering countless options to choose from.

Some MFA programs are online but require a small duration of in-person attendance called “limited residencies.” These have existed long before online learning, where students could submit work via U.S. mail, also known as “correspondence learning.” The limited residency can be as short as ten days or two weeks, just twice a year. Again, even though this is a more flexible option than a fulltime two-year degree program, it’s still a financial and logistical challenge for those of us with employment and family obligations. 

The types of online workshops vary in format. Let’s explore the “non-live” option first: asynchronous. Asynchronous classes don’t meet live on camera, instead interaction is limited to discussions organized in a forum style. The syllabus will update with new material on fixed dates. In other words, you don’t workshop each other’s pieces in real time. To be honest, you’ll need to be highly self-disciplined with your time to get the most out of asynchronous workshops. While a convenient option, the downside is that discussion can become anemic depending on how interactive the cohort is. The structure of the workshop is critical here. The syllabus should include mandatory participation, but this isn’t always the case. If you’re looking for lots of peer feedback and lively discussion, or if you’re looking to feel the excitement of reading your work aloud, an asynchronous workshop might not be the best option.

In that vein, it’s important to fully commit whenever you sign up for an online workshop, regardless of type. Even if it’s only for an hour. Even if it’s a free event. Be as collaborative as possible and participate to the best of your ability. As with any creative endeavor, you can only improve with collaboration and learning through critique. The journey is an evolution, and to make progress, one must share one’s work but also fully listen to and examine the work of your cohort. Think of your writing as a sculpture and with each pass through workshop, your fellow participants have all helped in their way to smooth the rough edges of your work. It’s in that spirit that we fully lean into the close reading of our peers’ writing.

It can be difficult to decide on which workshops to participate in. My best advice is to do your due diligence to find out how the workshop is structured. Learn as much as possible ahead of time. Get to know who is facilitating and research their writing background. If they’re published, consider buying their book or borrowing it from a library. Reach out to them by email if you have questions. 

Let’s not forget that one of the purposes of workshops is to learn and grow through constructive critique. If at any point the critique process doesn’t stay focused or if it’s not being facilitated in a constructive way, it’s best to re-examine if that workshop is a right fit for you. I was enrolled in a multi-week workshop where the instructor would ask “what would you revise?” with no specific direction or structure. I received some of the worst, most unhelpful critique in this workshop because there were no guidelines given from the instructor. An open-ended “what did you dislike?” does not generate conversation tailored toward that piece of writing. If you find yourself in a workshop like this, do not hesitate to drop out. One of the most important things in writing is to protect your process. Anything that becomes a barrier to your creativity needs to be dealt with in a way that protects your peace of mind.

Of course, the more worthwhile and generative relationships you build in a workshop don’t have to end once it’s over. Keep in touch with your writing peers through email or social media. It’s never a bad idea to offer to swap your work outside of workshop to keep that collaborative energy flowing. You don’t need a set place or a deadline to do any of that, just a bit of extra effort and an openness to fully engage with other people’s writing.

Aside from craft workshops, it’s important to seek opportunities to do close readings of prominent authors. Be on the lookout for the plethora of lecture series available. I completed a multi-week series on W.S. Merwin through the Community of Writers collective, hosted by Victoria Chang and Matthew Zapruder. The course also included an optional break-out into small cohorts. It was a great chance to delve into poetry that is dense and not as easy to access without the benefit of some deep academic analysis and facilitated discussion.

Looking for a quick and easy drop-in class? Search Eventbrite for online creative writing events. Many of them are free and you can register the same day. I’ve had the luck to discover many generative events for poetry using this free event search tool. You don’t have to commit a lot of money or time to get your writing life going and fully energized. Another great free option is using Meetup to search for online group writing sessions. These sessions can include prompts and sharing work, but they don’t always. The atmosphere and structure is usually casual.

Finally, always be mindful of proper online etiquette. Be a good student by following some commonsense guidelines. Get acquainted with whatever platform is being used for live meetings, be it Zoom, Google, etc. Use the app before ever entering a live session. Get fully familiarized with its features, including using the chat and reaction functions. Test your audio and visual setup’s and make sure they’re working properly. While in a live classroom, please stay muted if you are not speaking. Lastly, direct technical issues to the chat. Don’t distract the instructor unless it’s clear they cannot see your chat. In a workshop that’s only 60 minutes long, one distraction can take up precious time.

Stay curious, and stay creative, friends!

F. Gülşen Buecher is an emerging poet who lives in Santa Cruz, California with her husband, kids, and pets. She has participated in online poetry workshops facilitated all over the U.S. as well as the U.K. and Germany, including a UCLA workshop taught by WWS founder, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo.

Posted on

Intersect: Winter of 88’, The Enchanted Loom, and Wildfire & The Shoe: Three New Plays from Playwrights Canada Press

Reviewed by Amanda L. Andrei

Translated play scripts live in the intersection of world literature and performance, where a published text can be enjoyed by a solo reader, used as a resource in a classroom, and performed by a theater company. These plays are also unique among translated literature, as the translators are not merely bringing forth an author’s voice, but translating each character’s voice and considering how the subsequent text can come to life on the page as well as the bodies of the actors and audience in a live performance.

These three new exciting releases from Playwrights Canada Press showcase the diversity of new plays and playwrights in Canada, offering more insight into diasporas and communities within North America. Each book offers English-speaking readers a chance to visit various cultures, witnessing and connecting with deep and complex histories, conflicts, and generations. 

Winter of 88

WINTER OF 88

Originally written in Farsi and first directed by the playwright in 1997, Winter of 88 by Mohammad Yaghoubi (co-translated by him and Nazanin Malekan into English) is an auto-fictional drama weaving together a night in an apartment in Tehran towards the end of the Iran-Iraq War (1980-88) with meta-theatrical conversations between the playwright and his wife sharing their memories of the war. In the apartment narrative, 27-year-old Nahid unpacks boxes with her mother and teenage brother in their new home. What might seem like typical family drama (especially with the family’s squabbling over rooms and why Nahid’s husband left her) turns into anything but, as Nahid’s brother runs out of the apartment and Iraqi missiles plummet into the city. Most intriguing in this narrative is the meta-theatricality that intrudes upon the apartment narrative: characters speaking their thoughts, rewinds in time, and a particularly humorous moment of prop switching a flask of alcohol. These moments give us insight not only into the playwright’s creative process, but how an artist processes memory and history. These elements create a connective tissue with the other major arc of the story—that of the voiceovers of a playwright (based on Yaghoubi) discussing with his wife the events of the eight-year-long Iran-Iraq war, which often leads to ruptures between storylines:

Sound of explosion.

NASRIN: Yaa khodaa! Please protect us.

WOMAN’S VOICE: They attacked only two or three times the first day.

MAN’S VOICE: I know.

WOMAN’S VOICE: Why have you written “sound of explosion” many times then?

MAN’S VOICE: Reality is not important to me. 

WOMAN’S VOICE: I think it would be better if you write it based on reality. 

MAN’S VOICE: Thank you for your dramaturgy. 

Winter of 88 clearly shows Yaghoubi not only wrestling with war, history, and survival, but with his relationships as an artist in the shaping of these forces’ emotional impacts on society and individuals and as a spouse dealing with personal memories beyond his own. The afterwords (both in Farsi and English), placed in the middle of the book between the original and translation, offer the reader an experience that a theatergoer might rarely  have, that of reading lines cut from the original script and reflecting on the author’s process on creating the story. 

The Enchanted Loom

THE ENCHANTED LOOM

Suvendrini Lena’s The Enchanted Loom, originally written in English and translated into Tamil by Dushy Gnanapragasam, juxtaposes medical realism and liminal dream space in a family drama centered on  Thangan: a Tamil father, husband, and former journalist suffering from brain damage and epileptic seizures due to military torture during the Sri Lankan civil war. Living now as a refugee with his wife, son, and daughter in Canada, Thangan struggles with reconciling memories of his lost son (presumably fighting in the war), connecting intimately with his wife, and maintaining dignity over his deteriorating body. Originating from the playwright’s scientific research as part of her neurology residency at the University of Toronto, the play is an ambitious portrait of the fragility of the brain and mind, intergenerational trauma due to war and displacement, and the disconnect between doctor and patient language registers and communication. 

At times, the play feels that it could use centering or sharpening its language and themes. For instance, the medical language, while fascinating, has the potential  to weigh down an audience and can lose the feeling of high stakes, though on the page it comes across more quickly than it might in real-time. In another example, a poignant connection around nations as home is apt for debate and decision-making, such as when one doctor characterizes Thangan as “A man without a country. A man with a wound for a home.” An intriguing, debating sentiment, which would benefit from the characters delving into and problematizing the complications around characterizing a country as a home, how a refugee country compares to a war-torn country of origin, and if nations even make suitable homes. And if a wound causes a dream that causes a hallucination that causes a reconciliation, can that be a type of home? While the scope of the play is epic, the characters tend to approach massive topics and then move on, leaving an audience wanting more from this otherwise complex, passionate family. 

The Tamil translation runs alongside the English beautifully, giving readers from the Tamil community an opportunity to compare Lena’s original on the left page and Gnanapragasam’s version on the right page. For the non-Tamil reader, it creates a fascinating rhythm–for example, when one English scene ends, the Tamil scene continues on the righthand pages, and the pages create a reverent silence and allow the Tamil words to take up space. The book also contains an informative introduction on the theatre of genocide, written by Sharryn Aiken and R. Cheran, and additional notes on neuroanatomy, memory, and epilepsy from the playwright, making this an excellent text for readers interested in intersections of drama, narrative medicine, social justice, and diaspora. 

Wildfire & The Shoe - Two Plays

WILDFIRE  & THE SHOE

Written by David Paquet and translated from French to English by Leanna Brodie, Wildfire & The Shoe are two sharply hilarious absurdist plays dealing with cyclical family sins and caretaking for complicated relatives. Wildfire introduces us to three triplet sisters in seemingly heart-warming domestic tasks—coaxing a baby to talk, calling each other on the phone, rescuing burnt cookies—but who speak so acerbically and with a veneer of madness, that the play instantly thrusts us into a strange, off-kilter world of a family with an enigmatic fate. 

Likewise, The Shoe also begins with an ordinary situation, a mother bringing her child to the dentist, but the child’s ensuing tantrum is described by both the mother and the stage directions as choreography: “the Hissy Deluxe,” “The Epileptic King Kong,” and the “Electric Chair Boogie.” It gets weirder. The receptionist coos over an unidentified pet’s ugliness while offering the mother and child a Coke and martini as the dentist arrives to the appointment “partially mummified.” These stage images are striking and strange, the bantering language adding a layer of bizarre humor to otherwise unhinged characters. 

Brodie’s translation deftly transmits Paquet’s darkly ludicrous voice while maintaining his poetic speech and intense characters. From the last act of Wildfire, a character describes a dangerous erotic encounter amidst a tour-de-force monologue, as this excerpt shows: 

I consume you consume me we consummate. 

Spit each other out. 

So alive slaves to saliva.

I feel you and you feel I. 

We feel, we grasp, we clasp, we write.

We go down deep.

In an interview with Brodie, she mentions that this entire monologue, the climax of the play, represented a turn in language,  from focusing on character to extremely compressed poetry. As a translator, she reflects on the process: “It’s about finding the character’s language, the French language, but also David’s language. No other writer would have written it in that same way, and I want to accurately represent it – and not just accurately, but also passionately and beautifully.” As the seemingly ordinary characters from both of these plays cope with their strange worlds in visceral, fervent ways, the English text emphatically carries their emotional force and poetic sonority. 

Amanda L. Andrei is a playwright, literary translator, and theater critic residing in LA by way of Virginia/Washington DC. She writes epic, irreverent plays that center the concealed, wounded places of history from the perspectives of diasporic Filipina women, and she co-translates from Romanian into English with her father. www.amandalandrei.com

Posted on

Intersect: Rabbit Holes

by Rosalinda Alcala

Returning to writing seemed an insurmountable task, even with my abundant energy and my supportive husband. My twitch to write began somewhere between my children’s childhood and adolescence. Writing became my obsession in spare moments between the bedtime stories and the adolescent struggle for independence. Online spaces fit my busy lifestyle by providing rabbit holes of information and a burrow of my own.

 I loved spending time with my children. Meanwhile balancing laundry, meals, and homework created a fog. In a parallel universe, I was devoted to creating and executing lessons for students. I was giving of myself. My time. My heart. In time, my soul craved a creative outlet. An expression in art. 

In the classroom, writing was a trouble spot for my then sixth graders. So, I began searching for lessons outside our curriculum. My keystrokes for writing lessons opened a world of rabbit holes. An endless freefall. One article led to another. Then triplicate. Down I spiraled. 

 The free fall increased with each click. I grabbed and pulled at roots during my downward spiral until I landed firmly in the Writer’s Digest world. Like any good rabbit, all twitching aside, I was careful to examine my surroundings. Carrot seeds in the form of books dotted my underground burrow with promises: how to write a better novel, character development, and setting.

In the Writer’s Digest burrow, I took my first online writing class. One on character development. The instructor’s comments were so gentle, yet filled with savvy writerly advice. She provided beginning seeds of character, novel growth, and development. My high school newspaper writing days were decades in the past and I was now writing fiction–she fit my needs.  

The experience provided me with so much confidence that I began writing the next great novel. One hundred pages later, I discovered information on common beginner mistakes. I made every-one. 

I scratched out a new journey. Yet comparable to visiting a former neighborhood, I would return to the Writer’s Digest burrow for an occasional class or webinar.  

Soon, I pulled back the spiny roots for a better view of the other tunnels and burrows. I considered an MFA, but some universities prohibited employment while enrolled in their program. Local commuter schools offered MFA programs without employment requirements. When I considered my predawn wake up, my children’s activities, my husband’s work schedule and our cooking–the thought of driving even fifteen minutes tired me. In the end, I couldn’t justify the cost or time. I tunneled through the universities, clicking and scratching. 

Soon I found the perfect burrow, UCLA Extension. The program offers online writing certificates taught by published instructors. My classes taught conflict, novel elements, structure, and provided workshops. Graduating from the certificate program was bittersweet because I had left built in friendships and critique partners. Once again, I was on my own and I missed the comradery and comments from classmates about something writing related. 

 I worked on my novel or wrote short stories in bursts. My work remained on my desktop for months. Occasionally, I returned to the stories between life. One day during my time exploring new rabbit holes, I discovered Women Who Submit. I became a member while the pandemic still loomed and met with the Long Beach chapter virtually. Conversations entailed literary magazines, novel releases, and readings. The ladies in my chapter also suggested specific literary magazines for my stories. Upon further digging, I realized some of my amazing UCLA instructors inhabited this burrow. I had found my people. 

As the world reopened from the Pandemic, I kept my predawn rising ritual to write before my students stumbled into my classroom. Weekends were filled with our children’s sports and my own workouts. At times, I would pop into Zoom meetings with Women Who Submit in my workout gear with my nose twitching, ready to visit and write. In this burrow, I have harvested the carrots of publication and workshop acceptance. Once again, despite my full life, a virtual burrow allowed me to find a writing community and flourish. 

Rosalinda lives with her husband and two teenagers. A family of cottontails live in a burrow among the backyard flowers. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t pose for a photo. Rosalinda’s home is located where suburbia kisses the chaparral trails.

Posted on

Intersect: Drapo Vodou Art of Myrlande Constant – Traditional African Religion Meets the Colonizers

by Ashton Cynthia Clarke

As an Afro-Caribbean myself (first generation raised in the USA of Jamaican immigrant parents), I have some second-hand knowledge of the creolization of traditional African religions with the Christianity of colonizers. The slaves of British-held Jamaica embraced obeah; Santería practice flourished in the Spanish colonies; and French-held Haiti birthed Vodou (voodoo). 

My mother was brought up Protestant and covered me in the Episcopal church from infant baptism until I left for college. Nevertheless, I would lay wide-eyed in bed after Mommy’s stories of naughty or even malevolent duppies (spirits) who blocked her path on the dark roads of northern Jamaica when she was a teen.

So, I was excited yet anxious to view “Myrlande Constant: The Work of Radiance” at The Fowler Museum at UCLA. What I did not expect was the overwhelming sense of belonging and possession I felt, surrounded by the luminous work of this artist whose Haitian ancestry is cousin to mine. 

Myrlande Constant was born in 1968 in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. She is married and the mother of four; a photograph in the vestibule of the exhibit depicts two of her children intently engaged in bead work in Constant’s studio. She acknowledges her own mother as her primary artistic and spiritual influence. Constant learned the craft from her mother, who worked in a Port-au-Prince factory making beaded wedding dresses.

Drapo Vodou or “Voodoo Flag” are traditionally the work of practicing Vodou priests and their followers. They are displayed in Vodou sanctuaries and carried at ceremonies. While this is the art form that spawned Constant’s career, she introduced techniques such as stretching the fabric taut on a frame, employing a “tanbou stitch” (drum stitch), and substituting beads for the traditionally used sequins. These innovations have allowed for greater detail, enhanced color, perspective, and dimension in Constant’s pieces.

* * *

The wide-open doors at the entrance of the J. Paul Getty Trust Gallery served to frame the single rectangular piece that dominated a wall at the far end of the room. At that distance, I could only make out some splashes of color and the light that seemed to emanate from within the soul of the artwork itself. Counting steps as I went (6, 7, 8, 9 . . .), I felt pulled along—gently, but still pulled—towards the light which became more concentrated, absorbing and reflecting colors as I walked. I imagined this being as moving and tranquil as that “bright light” reported by people who had near-death experiences. Silly, huh? 

As the drapo Vodou loomed larger and more defined (still counting 18, 19, 20, 21), I began to discern multiple figures. Thirty-four steps and I was close enough to identify the stitches and individual beads that created swaths of color and three-dimensionality on this flag, which was about five feet wide. The name of the piece: “Union des Esprits Sirenes,” a dark-skinned queen holding court amid spirits, sea creatures, musical instruments, and an inviting feast. 

* * *

Before Constant began her artistic career, men had dominated the commercial flag-making field. She was the first female textile artist to open a workshop and the first to gain international recognition for her work.

Her beaded works are much heavier and larger than traditional sequined banners and they are often collected solely as art pieces. Still, the pieces depict the classic subjects of Vodou flags: Bondye (Creator/God), the lwa or loa (ancestral spirit), and vévé (symbol or image of the lwa). Vodouists believe that over a thousand lwa exist; one-fourth of them are named. 

Each lwa has its own personality and is associated with specific colors, objects, food, chants, and drumbeats. It is believed that the interaction of lwa and vévés must be thoroughly and carefully considered by the artist. The religion and its rules must be observed as they can directly impact reality. Constant received advanced education in this area from her father, a Vodoun priest. 

In “Milocan Tous les Saints Tous les Morts,” lwa fly overhead, involved in the day-to-day lives of the people. A Vodou flag, depicted front and center, features a prominent display of a vévé at the top of the flag.

Many of the lwa are equated with specific Roman Catholic saints based on similar characteristics or symbols. Similarly, a Jamaican obeahman or obeahwoman may summon spirits likened to the prophet Jeremiah or the apostle Peter. Hence, the fusion of these diverse religious beliefs; i.e., syncretism and/or creolization.

Vodouists were involved in the Haitian Revolution of 1791 to 1801, which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and transformed the French-held island into the republic of Haiti. In later years, from 1835 to 1987, the Haitian government banned Vodou under laws that prohibited ritualistic practices (“Haitian Vodou,” Wikipedia). 

Obeah became a crime for the first time because of a 1760 Jamaican law intended to prevent rebellions by slaves. The law was the Jamaican planters’ response to the biggest slave rebellion that took place in the eighteenth-century British Caribbean, which came to be known as Tacky’s Rebellion (Obeahhistories.org).

Vodou, like obeah, is practiced for healing, protection, and in some cases, to do harm. Unlike Jamaica, Haiti as a country seems to find no conflict between the Catholic faith and Vodou practice. In the video presentation accompanying the exhibit, Constant does state that she personally is no longer a working practitioner of Vodou, although she still holds the beliefs.

To this day, Jamaicans have an uneasy relationship with their spiritual folk practice. The 1898 Obeah Act outlawing the practice is still on the books, although rarely enforced ( (Obeahhistories.org). In this beautiful work, “Negre Danbala Wedo,” a healer administers a ceremony of curing and spiritual nourishment. I was transfixed. I remembered my mother.

* * *

One sunny afternoon, my Protestant mother rode the subway to Brooklyn to secretly consult a Jamaican obeahwoman. I say “secretly” because I can only imagine the conflicting feelings she had as a church-going believer in Christ. But Mommy was desperate. She had been suffering for years with debilitating headaches. Not migraines, the medical doctors said; but none offered a definitive diagnosis or solution.  

Like most obeah “readers,” the woman in Brooklyn was a skilled herbalist, known for healing physical, spiritual, and mental disorders, and for protecting against malevolent spiritual forces. The obeahwoman said there was evil directed against my mother and her sister, from their childhoods up to the present. An evil that was meant for their demise. An evil now coming from a specific individual.

Following the consultation, Mommy and my aunt steered clear of that “specific individual.” Mommy’s headaches eventually vanished.

I had moved from New York City to Los Angeles ten years earlier. Mommy never confided in me about her trips to Brooklyn. My cousin shared this truth with me years later, after my mother passed away. It saddens me that perhaps Mommy felt her only daughter was too educated, even too disdainful of her culture to be open to offerings other than “Western” medicine and religion. I like to think I would have embraced her and understood.

* * *

In her Artist’s Statement, posted in the outer area of the exhibit, Constant writes: “An ancestral heritage is an important and weighty obligation. You cannot treat your ancestors and their culture lightly. . . . I don’t always know where my inspiration comes from, but it comes naturally. . . . There are things we cannot know. You must think and reflect to understand. These are the things I feel as a woman and as an artist.”

As always, different people will each have a different take-away from a piece of art. The shimmering, vibrant color of Myrlande Constant’s drapo Vodou, the painstaking detail, the investment of time for each piece (up to six months!)—those have universal appeal. Peculiar to me are recalling my mother’s pain, feeling ripped from my past by the crime of slavery, but somehow being soothed by an unexpected attachment to the Haitian lwa in Constant’s work. I believe you’ll enjoy something peculiar to you in “Myrlande Constant: The Work of Radiance.”

“Myrlande Constant: The Work of Radiance” will be on exhibit at The Fowler Museum at UCLA through July 16, 2023. Constant is the first Haitian woman to have a solo museum show in the U.S.

Biographical information on Constant and the drapo-making process gleaned from her website and Indigo Arts. 

Ashton Cynthia Clarke is an African American/Afro-Caribbean, Los Angeles-based storyteller and writer of creative non-fiction. She has work published or forthcoming in The Storytelling Bistro, Olney Magazine, and Inlandia. Ashton has performed her true, personal stories on stages throughout the L.A. area and New York City, as well as virtually. She thanks Lisbeth Coiman for introducing her to Women Who Submit.

Instagram: @ashton.c.clarke

Posted on

Intersect: Building on the Legacy of Black Writers in Europe and The Sisterhood

by  Joy Notoma

After I attended a virtual event hosted by Barnard College called Creation Is Everything You Do: Shange, The Sisterhood & Black Collectivity about the history of The Sisterhood, a community of Black women writers who met in the 70s founded by Alice Walker and June Jordan in New York City, Denmark-based Women Who Submit chapter member, Jeannetta Craigwell-Graham, who also attended, texted me: “We need that here. The sisterhood.” From there, we began imagining a workshop and retreat for other Black women writers who live in Europe. 

In the photo of members of The Sisterhood that circulates around the internet, they are gathered in front of a photo of Bessie Smith, a spot they chose for the photo because they wanted to honor her unapologetic creative spirit. According to scholar Courtney Thorsson, The Sisterhood was a place for Black women writers to reject the notion that there could only be one successful Black woman writer per generation. They recognized the need to support and uplift one another rather than falling into the traps of competitiveness and division. They met monthly, collected dues, and kept minutes. Further, they were more interested in creating a platform where they celebrated each other’s work than they were with trying to be accepted by white readers — they were each other’s most valuable audience. They edited and published one another and taught each other’s work in their courses. They also provided emotional and psychological  support when  members faced public backlash, like when Ntozake Shange’s chorepoem, “for colored girls who have considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf” was derided by audiences  who weren’t ready to see Black women’s vulnerability and power performed so unapologetically on Broadway.   

Black women writers in Europe live at an important intersection. Writing takes immense courage. No one should do it alone and living abroad sometimes means you have little to no community. When expats gather, it’s usually under the umbrella of meet ups that include transplants from numerous backgrounds, where the focus isn’t on the shared connections of  Black women who happen to be scattered among the crowd. While some luxury writing retreats for Black women exist, there are no workshop spaces specifically for Black women writers who live in Europe, as far as I can tell. With this undertaking, Jeannetta and I hope to offer a long weekend where writers can focus on their craft, have their pieces workshopped, and enjoy time together, strengthening the community, at an affordable cost. 

When I started the Europe chapter of Women Who Submit, I had a similar notion of a community of women writers coming together to support each other’s writing journeys. Even though I avoid assuming that I’ll make friends with other people who live abroad just on the basis of the shared experience of living in a foreign country (even if they are writers), I was inspired enough by the mission of Women Who Submit to believe that gathering writers from across Europe and the UK to start a virtual chapter of Women Who Submit would be an endeavour which aligned with my ideals. Now that I am nearly two years into leading the first international chapter of Women Who Submit with members in Romania, Germany, Portugal, The UK, The Netherlands, Denmark, France, Spain, and Austria, I can confidently say that supporting other women writers who have made lives in foreign lands and who understand the complicated emotional tangle of making a home and creating art far away from the familiar was indeed a good idea. The members were already accomplished and on their way to meeting their writing goals, but our Women Who Submit chapter provides encouragement to continue meeting those goals, and a container of accountability, a place where we can ask questions, celebrate acceptances and rejections, articulate our monthly goals, all of which helps the writing process in innumerable ways. I hope The Black Women Writers in Europe workshop-retreat will be similarly valuable. It’s a space we desperately need. 

Another reason that I’m passionate about gathering women writers who live abroad is because, as a Black American woman writer living in Europe, I am treading on the history of African Americans making waves in the literary landscape in this part of the world. James Baldwin lived and died in St. Paul-de-Vences, a small town which is just five hours from where I live in France. Audre Lorde first came to Germany in 1984 as a visiting scholar at the Free University of Berlin. She regularly visited Germany until 1992 and mentored Black women feminist writers in Berlin, which inspired the creation of ADEFRA in 1986 (which stands for Afro-German Women in German), a grassroots activist group of black feminist writers and artists that was the first of its kind and still exists today. There was also Jessie Fauset, novelist and co-editor with WEB DuBois of The Crisis, who was also the first editor to publish Langston Hughes. Fauset traveled in France and Algeria, taught French, and wrote fiction that interrogated colorism among African Americans. Richard Wright also spent significant time in Paris. These are only some of the most recognizable names. Besides writers, Black painters like Beauford Delaney and entertainers like Josephine Baker and Eartha Kitt made impressions on the cultural landscape of Europe which still exists today. Even for Black artists who never actually lived in Europe, the influence of their work and of Black American culture in the European consciousness is undeniable. It is impossible for me to not sense that history as I live and write here. I believe that the creative process is a spiritual communion with ancestors and all of the writer’s notions of the Divine. My ancestors include members of my family and artists whose work guides my life (spiritual ancestors), like Toni Morrison, Octavia Butler, Lucille Clifton, Audre Lorde, June Jordan, and Ntozake Shange, most of whom were members of The Sisterhood. I look at this undertaking as an honoring of the legacy of African American artists in Europe and the  legacy of our literary foremothers who gathered together in the name of art and sisterhood. Learn more about our upcoming inaugural gathering here.

Joy Notoma’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Epiphany, The Woodward Review, Longreads, and Ploughshares. She is a fellow of Roots.Wounds.Words  and Kimbilio, and an alum of Tin House and Hurston/Wright. She hosts Emerging Writers Community Podcast, a live podcast focused on the work of BIPOC emerging writers. She is writing a novel.

Posted on

Intersect: Even the Gods are Bastards: A Review of Yvette Lisa Ndlovu’s Drinking from Graveyard Wells

 by Erica Frederick 

Originally published March 10, 2023 in Salt Hill Journal

University Press of Kentucky New Poetry & Prose Series

Yvette Lisa Ndlovu’s debut short story collection, Drinking from Graveyard Wells, glimpses into the lives of African women, be they goddesses or ghosts, broke college student or town gossip. This is a collection of blood-boiling big ideas, asking: what if life and death are simply unfair? What if the white boy gets to become a millionaire by building a rideshare app based on Zimbabwean customs? What if the patriarchy persists, even in the afterlife? Ndlovu, a real-life sarungano, writes to make us rage right alongside the women in these stories while still insisting that the lessons we learn from storytelling are remedies, but not in the way we might expect. 

A real triumph and delight of Drinking from Graveyard Wells lies in its fearless condemnation of the powers that be—even the gods themselves. “When Death Comes to Find You” envisions a capitalist hellscape: a world where debt in life transcends to debt in death and diamond miners must participate in an immortal toil. The story asserts that “even the afterlife is made for the rich.” In “The Soul Would Have No Rainbow,” a granddaughter receives a letter from her late grandmother revealing that “in the heavens all the gods were arrogant bastards.” Ndlovu forces us to reckon with the possibility of cosmic inequity, that omnipotent power still corrupts.

Despite the seemingly hopeless conception of an unjust afterlife, Ndlovu does seem to offer up the antidote. “The Carnivore’s Lollipop” introduces us to ngano, fables and fairytales from the Shona tradition that, in this collection, often work as warnings of divine justice.

Ngano about reparations are interspersed throughout this story as the narrator is duped into a multi-level marketing scheme, buying and breeding boxes of ants to sell back to a drug company. When the company gets dissolved by the CEO, we realize what reparations look like when people who are in possession of ants (raised on a carnivore diet) decide to show up to the protest. So often, marginalized people are asked to turn the other cheek in the face of injustice. But, in these stories, Ndlovu offers an alternate solution: revenge. In “Red Cloth, White Giraffe,” a woman must remain on earth until her former husband pays off the rest of her bride price to the men in her family. The threat on the other side of this is that the woman might become a ngozi, an avenging spirit, capable of levying a visceral justice.

In “Plumtree: True Stories,” we receive a series of vignettes, many of which introduce new iterations of ngano and Black spirituality. The title reads as a radical act, casting Black spirit as true, as fact, and as essential, placing Ndlovu firmly in the midst of Black writers like Akwaeke Emezi and others whose work gives credence to the divine.

Drinking from Graveyard Wells explores what it means to grapple with those in power by allowing us to imagine the gods as absolute bastards. The collection insists, too, that storytelling and oral histories serve as reminders that justice isn’t freely given, it’s taken. Kicking and screaming, Ndlovu’s debut collection demands to be seen.

Erica Frederick is a queer, Haitian American writer and MFA candidate in fiction at Syracuse University. She currently serves as the fiction coordinator for The Best of the Net Anthology. Her work has appeared in Split Lip Magazine and was selected for Best Microfiction 2023. You can find her work at ericafrederick.com.

Posted on

Intersect: How the Crestline Blizzard Taught Me Forgiveness

by Gina Duran

“For me, forgiveness and compassion are always linked: how do we hold people accountable for wrongdoing and yet at the same time remain in touch with their humanity enough to believe in their capacity to be transformed?” –bell hooks

I found myself sinking heart deep in spongy popping popcorn ball snow flaking hail. I had already dug my car out the day before giving me a false sense of security and freedom. But in just 1.5 hours the sudden downfall of the blizzard completely smothered my story of escape, like whiteout. 

Gina Duran digging out her vehicle – photo by Gina Duran

I came to the conclusion that moving to the mountains would help mend the folds and tears of my fragile onion skinned heart of the past 10 years, and that writing environmental poetry would help me do it. I wanted to let go of unrequited love and putting my hands in soil helped, being amongst the trees brought the blizzard inside me to a sullen whisper, and the acappella of birds delivered a soulful melody. I had finally found home. 

The only other time I felt like home was in my presence was when I swore I felt true love for the first time. I called this woman Mon Cœur. I know this time it’s that I finally feel connected to the earth. Trees and plants release volatile gasses and phytoncides to prevent rot, which are beneficial to humans. Just looking at trees helps calm the nervous system. In a May 16, 2016, article of Psychology Today, Richard E. Cytowic M.D. explained, “New studies suggest that viewing even an image of a tree or a forest canopy bolsters the parasympathetic division of the central nervous system that naturally induces calm.”

The fact that I ended up owning 300 plus potted plants was because of the theory that soil contains fungi, which helps decrease depression when released into the air when dug up. So, rest assured you could find me barefoot in the rain making mud pies next to my serrano and habanero plants. (Hey, a good mud tea party with a canine companion can do wonders.) So, when the blizzard first rushed through our small San Bernardino mountain town, I wasn’t devastated or smacked with fear. I decided I would cool my sympathetic nervous system in the snow, easing my anxious nerves. Living on my own was rather soothing—until I was trapped inside. The plan was to hike, take photos of the garbage left by callous tourists, and take notes—not write about a natural disaster. But global warming had its own plans. 

The week before, I was diving backwards into four feet of snow, making a snow angel in front of my downstairs neighbor’s door. “You are definitely a California girl,” she laughed , directing her comment towards my pink shorts and wet hair. Yes, I am. Typical warm blooded Southern California Latine, diving into the snow like a 10-year-old girl in my shorts. As if I had never seen snow. 

But today I got news that our only grocery store, Goodwin’s roof caved in. Just after our only hardware store’s roof caved in. The women in the parking lot next to ours were now waiting anxiously for a snowplow. (I wanted to escape with them.) They were digging and planning. They said I could join them, pets, and all. Then they told me that one of the houses caught fire. The fire department thought it might be electrical. Apparently, a tree took out several peoples’ electricity too. The women were rushing. They didn’t even know if the highway was open yet. 

Grocery store parking lot – photo by Gina Duran

No grocery store, no food, no hardware store, no shovels, closed roads, caved in roofs, fires, electrical outages…all signs of a state of emergency. Chances of death increased greatly.

Suddenly, hail began to smother the black asphalt. Clinging to my black hair like sticky styrofoam balls. I needed to grab food. I kept losing cell reception, but I looked and saw my phone was working, so I called to send my love to my friends and my son. In that moment, I didn’t know if I would ever get off the mountain. My plan was to have food and a shovel and connect with the community to devise a plan for escape. My parents would say something about “piss poor planning” and the importance of having multiple plans, but as I walked to the store I had to relieve myself of my doubts and fears so they wouldn’t muddle my plans for survival. I told the one I used to call Mon Cœur that in case I died…she interrupted me. You’re not going to die. She didn’t want to hear how proud I was of her or that she was a good friend… She wasn’t ready for that call. I could hear it in the silence—between her words. Like the trees, she says a lot without words. I told her I would do whatever I needed to do to survive now. I told her all I needed was my shovel. I told her I would not ride with the women . Though they would most likely make it down the mountain without me, they seemed unsure about my animals and asked if they would pee in the car. I wouldn’t leave without my fur babies. I also didn’t know how long they planned on waiting in the blizzard for the road to open. 

When I returned home, my car was almost completely inundated by 6-foot walls of snow. I called my son as I ran up the mounds and began stomping and compressing the snow to make a platform to reach my snow-covered roof. I began crying and telling him how proud he made me and to never give up. I wanted him to know I would never give up. I sliced snow from the roof of my car with my arm. He told me I was going to be okay, and I didn’t need to tell him these things because the storm would be over soon. I told him I loved him and that I knew it wasn’t over for me, but it was still important to let him know, because life is uncertain. Then we hung up. I wasn’t going to let me or my car get swallowed up.

I fell chest deep into the snow and I became enraged. “F this.” I growled. If I fell in deeper the snow would devour me, so I started slamming my arms down to compact the snow and pulled myself up. Then I began stomping my feet, creating a platform from the inside of the mound. I dragged my body out and pushed snow from the hood of my car into the holes—compacting it like it was the enemy. 

I began punching and cursing at the snow. I couldn’t help but envision Lieutenant Dan, in Forrest Gump, raging against the storm. For once I stopped caring if anyone was watching. 

When will my storm ever clear? I thought. I wanted to shred the snow with my bare hands. I cried and flailed my arms, thinking of everything that I had to release in my life. Suddenly, the roof was cleared, so I slid down the heap of snow and ran hip deep to the shovel resting against the building. I didn’t know if I would ever run out of rage. Rage for the way I am treated as a queer person. Rage for the way I was treated for being an Indigenous Latine. Rage for being gossiped about. Rage for being abused. Rage for being homeless. Rage for finally finding a home but meeting the wrath of God on the side of a mountain. 

I dug myself out of my snow rift of sorrow. The hail turned into snowflakes. I puffed like a bull and trudged my way back upstairs. I would change my wet clothes, eat, and come back to shovel more later. And when I did, the snow stopped. I looked up directly at the sun and saw its rays beaming brightly on my car—bouncing off snow—burning my face. The storm was calm now. 

I managed to move snow that gathered around my car and freed the street under my tires in 80 minutes. Tomorrow will be easier, I said to myself. And it was. People in the complex came out and started to help clear icicles and the trash can, while I cleared space for a walkway and an escape. 

The National Guard flew overhead but never stopped to aid people in Crestline. That was infuriating. I found out later that they gave aid to Mammoth. It turns out everyone was feeling the complexity of emotions I had been. Afterwards, I dug a path for some of the elders in the community, while my neighbor watched, smoked a cigarette, and flirted with me. I was not interested. Anger from his laziness fueled me more. My parents would have told me to rest later because you must always give 110 percent. Then I would snapback, that is 100 percent. I told myself that anger wasn’t for my neighbor; it was for the extra 10 percent I could never give. My mother taught me to never depend on a man, so I was prepared to dig on my own. I looked at him and said It’s okay, I’m fine on my own. I went numb and dug. One of the women paid me in gratitude, so I no longer cared about the guy. Meanwhile, Goodwin’s did a food drop off to feed the community—including those who could traverse the snow from neighboring cities. People stood in a long line of the Goodwin’s parking lot—with the collapsed roof dancing in the store windows as a backdrop. I decided to wait till Friday for my food pickup.   

That Saturday a plow came through and my friends in the neighborhood and I dug through the berm with determination as a team—stabbing through the ice sealed road with our shovels—we freed our cars. Then I grabbed all of my animals like I was escaping a fire and I freed them and myself from the mountain. 

I didn’t die on the mountain, I freed myself. I freed myself of the rage and insecurities of what people thought of me. I forgave my parents for pushing me to survive. Instead, I’m grateful for the knowledge they passed onto me. 

As I drove down the mountain, I saw the gleam of the glowing sun reflecting along the melting ice of black road and flickering amongst the green sprigs of foliage shading the face of the mountain, and I was grateful for its sublime poetry.  

Gina Duran founded IE Hope Collective, which provides workshops for marginalized youth. She was Editor of Boundless 2022: VIPF, and hosts The Collective on KQBH. Her book “…and so, the Wind was Born,” with FlowerSong Press is a part of the Her Story Mixed Tape collection, at the Autry Museum. 

Posted on

Intersect: Creating a Marketing Plan in Three Easy Steps for the Beginner Writer

By Cecilia Caballero

Dear Beginner Writer,

It’s never too early to think about creating a marketing plan, but how to begin? Although learning about marketing can initially feel overwhelming, this blog will empower you to set your literary career up for success by creating a simple marketing plan in three easy steps using no and low-cost strategies and tools. In light of the historical and ongoing racial and gender disparities in publishing, it is more important than ever to create your own system of success.

  1. Identify your writer goals and values.

What are your short and long-term writer goals? Which genre(s) do you write? Which literary venues do you want to publish your work in? Are you planning on writing a book or multiple books? Do you want to self-publish or go with an indie or traditional press? What are your dream fellowships, grants, and residencies? Also, consider how your values (such as community-building, social justice, feminism, anti-racism, etc) inform your writer goals.

Identifying your writer goals and values is an empowering process because you will gain clarity on how YOU define success for yourself versus basing your worth as a writer solely on external forms of validation. And, knowing your writer goals and values will also determine your specific marketing strategy.

  1. Create SMART marketing goals and track your progress.

    SMART goals are specific, measurable, achievable, relevant, and time bound. If this is your first time creating SMART marketing goals, I recommend setting very small goals. In fact, the smaller, the better!

An example of a SMART marketing goal can be posting about your writing twice per week on social media. Additional examples of SMART marketing goals can include creating or updating your author website by a certain deadline or aiming to do writer podcasts/interviews once per month.

Tracking your progress also helps you to determine whether or not you are achieving your goals. And if you find that you’re not meeting your goals, there is no need to shame or criticize yourself. Instead, you can give yourself credit for learning a new skill. ANd then, whenever you are ready, you can take action by modifying your SMART goals. For example, instead of posting about your writing twice per week, perhaps posting once a week works better for you.

  1. Start an author newsletter.

    I encourage every writer to start an author newsletter. Although social media can be a wonderful tool to build relationships in the literary community, we do not own our social media accounts. This means that social media accounts can suddenly be deactivated without notice.

Alternatively, an author newsletter gives you 100% ownership of your email list and it is the most direct way to communicate with your supporters outside of social media. There are both free and paid newsletter providers to choose from, such as Mailchimp, Substack, ConvertKit, and more. And, with consistent action over time, more and more folks will naturally join your newsletter.

Beginner writer, remember, it’s courageous to show yourself and your art to the world. Take risks, don’t be afraid to fail, and try again. I strongly believe that writers should be celebrated for their art, and marketing is just another tool that can help us achieve that goal. I’m rooting for you!

With love,

Cecilia

Based in LA, Cecilia Caballero, PhD, is a poet, creative nonfiction writer, teaching artist, and co-editor of The Chicana Motherwork Anthology. She is an alum of Tin House, Macondo, and Roots. Wounds. Words. Cecilia is a 2023 Aspen Words Emerging Writer Fellow and she is finishing a memoir. Twitter: @la_sangre_llama.

Posted on

Intersect: Meet Me Where We Intersect

“Who’s got next?” Noriko Nakada asked in her last post as the blog managing editor. The week after I read it, I ran into her at a party. With a glimmer in her eye, she asked me, “You thinking about applying?”

“Kind of,” I said with my shoulders up to my ears telegraphing doubt.

” You should.”

I have written several times for the WWS blog series. Each experience was gentle, kind, and nurturing. The idea of holding space for other writers’ work, accepting submissions, soliciting voices I admire, and running a series close to my heart were too tempting to forgo.

So I applied. And…

I got next, but to be honest, I am more of an artist than a jock, but I will gladly take the court from the talented and compassionate Noriko Nakada and turn it into a found object sculpture of a new series called Intersect. Let’s see where we meet.

Perhaps we have already met, online through the WWS Open Mic (I hosted from April 2020-February 2023), or other areas I stepped in to support or take part in WWS programming, or you may not know me at all. If that is the case, I’m Thea. Like many members, I was financially and emotionally impacted by the pandemic. The WWS weekly online meetings in 2020 assisted me in becoming more resilient and adventurous in writing, submitting, and putting myself out there.

WWS also provided me with community and a culture of support. Something I desperately needed when the shutdown impacted me professionally, and I had to adapt and change. The business I spent over a decade building was not sustainable. Since I joined WWS in 2019, I saw my writing practice flourish and my publication numbers increase exponentially. With my newly found confidence in writing, I applied and accepted a contract to write ESL readers (the first time I was paid for my fiction). After writing 20, I realized the company, and I were not a good fit. I then went back to technical writing to supplement my lost income from my business and, of course, continued my literary writing to feed my soul.

Thanks to the WWS community, I have been able to access resources and knowledge bases that I never knew existed. Including scholarships, financial support, and other opportunities. As someone who wrote solitary for most of their adult life, I felt blocked from many opportunities. Primarily, because of lack of access, connections, and information. I didn’t have resources for letters of recommendation for residencies or fellowships. I wasn’t familiar with how to apply for personal grants. The list goes on. In my short time with WWS I learned much, and I am excited and honored to be named the WWS Blog Managing Editor for a paying market and help provide further information, context, and experience through your words to our members and the literary community at large.

The Road to Joy and Advocacy

February 8th, 2023 I found myself in one of the many places that WWS, and the literary and arts communities intersect. Cody Sisco invited me to read in person along with WWS board member Luivette Resto, WWS members Lisbeth Coiman, Hazel Knight Wittman, Carla Sameth, Flint, Traci Kato-Kiriyama and eleven other writers and poets at the WeHo Reads: Mindful Journeys Toward Better Futures event. It was held at the West Hollywood Public Library and included a tour of a photo exhibition led by West Hollywood Arts Coordinator Mike Che. WeHo Reads is a literary series presented by the City of West Hollywood, produced by Bookswell and supported by UCLA Extension Writers’ Program with media partnerships with Bookshop.org, Book Soup and Los Angeles Review of Books. Find out more about WeHo Reads here and how it intersects to resilience, justice, legacy, motherhood and more.

Photo by Noriko Nakada

The Beginning

Women Who Submit was born through the lens of intersectionality in the literary landscape with a vision to bring parity to women and nonbinary writers in publishing who experienced rejection, limited access to opportunities, limited representation, bias, and barriers due to gender, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or disability. The goal of the organization is to submit as much as much possible as a community to gain parity and visibility. Find out more about the beginnings of WWS here.

The Intersection

Let’s sculpt something beautiful together in my year as blog managing editor. In this series, I invite you to submit work regarding where we intersect. I’m looking for articles/essays about (but I am open to other topics as well):

  • Where identity or community overlap in the literary landscape
  • The merger of creative communities
  • Barriers or removal of them regarding access and opportunity
  • Difficulties or adaptations of being a creative in the sandwich generation
  • Experiences and/or applying for residencies, retreats, grants, or scholarships
  • Rejecting the scarcity model in publishing
  • Experience in shared leadership and mentorship
  • What inclusion and accessibility look like to you
  • Resilience as a human with lived experience
  • Your role as a literary citizen or community activist and how it intersects

On top of personal essays and articles, I am also looking for book reviews of marginalized and underrepresented voices.

The Facts
I look forward to reading your words and serving as a resource to this amazing community. Intersect will publish bi-monthly on the first and third Monday of the month. Familiarize yourself with the WWS Core Values prior to submitting, only work that adheres to them will be accepted.

Thea Pueschel is a nonbinary, neurodivergent, emerging writer and artist, the managing blog editor for Women Who Submit, a facilitator for Shut Up & Write, a California Arts Council Panelist 2022, and a Dorland Arts Colony Resident. Thea’s first solo mixed media exhibition “44: not dead, just invisible” ran at The Center of Orange from September 2021-December 2021.  Thea has been published in Short Edítion, and Perhappened, among others.