Writing on a Budget: a Nation in its Infancy

By Lisbeth Coiman

My mother used to warn about the perils of a leap year. “Este año es bisiesto. Cualquier cosa puede pasar,” her voice dropped to a lower tone for added drama.

Maybe because of that warning, I have taken this stoically, promised myself not to complain about the new circumstances. I can’t stop a pandemic with whining.

I don’t want to think too much about the future either. I can have an earthquake kit ready at my door, and practice drop-cover-hold drills twice a year, but I can’t sleep with an opened eye waiting for the next big one. Although not as frequently as earthquakes and hurricane or those darn Oklahoma tornadoes, economic recessions and pandemics come and go. There is always a chance one or several will hit us in our lifetime. This is not a why-me situation.

Nothing is secure anyway. The idea of 50 plus years marriages, 40 plus years careers under the same employer, a house where you raise your children, your grandchildren visit, and becomes an estate sale when you die belongs to another generation. That generation, by the way, created the form of life we enjoy/or not, but it’s ours now. They are most at risk of dying in this pandemic, gasping for air, alone in a hospital, and placed in a zipped back and thrown in a refrigerated truck. Whether we appreciate their patriarchy, capitalist, conservative values or not, we are inheriting the country they helped shaped. At least we owe them the right to a dignified death surrounded by beloved ones.  So I do my part, me quedo en casa, help flatten the curve, don’t infect somebody’s beloved grandma.

Many of us will have to rebuild. But if you think about this as a hurricane that hit the entire world at the same time, first you have to deal with the aftermath before you think of rebuilding. I think of Moore, OK, a town that has a talent for attracting devastating tornadoes, eight in 21 years.

We haven’t reached the aftermath yet. We are still in the eye of the storm. Social Media will let me know that NY is under control. That will be my indicator. And so far, that’s not what I am hearing. What I am hearing is this country’s inability to deal with uncertainty or to follow instructions– two basic adult skills –because we are a young nation, still in infancy, throwing tantrums to have a haircut because we want the lollipop.

Maybe some people are right. It’s easy for me to talk because I am privileged. I don’t have children to raise. So far I’ve kept my job. So far things are ok for me, and will never compared to their suffering: a single mother with a cashier job and no insurance, or a Venezuelan without electricity or water or food, in a pandemic, with a dictator. I try helping those within my reach. I feel bad, but not guilty. What they see in me today is the product of a profound transformation, of years of individual growth, battling my own demons alone. Even if they saw me at birth, they still don’t know all of my stories.

That leads me to another take away. I don’t have the right to call privilege on anyone because I don’t know their complete story arc,  the size and weight of their cross. Even that Karen in yoga pants we all love to hate is carrying a cross – a stillborn, trauma she swallows with loaded margaritas, a stage four cancer she carries with stoicism.

In the meantime, I carry on with discipline: strict exercise routine, healthy food, enough sleep, and steady work for hours without interruption, advancing the goals I set for myself. Those goals do not depend on the economy or the pandemic, but on my focus and personal energy. It is a good time to do everything you want to do or do nothing at all. Just give yourself permission to live the way you feel life at this moment.

Call me selfish, but I have enjoyed every minute of owning my time. I have even gifted the joy in my face to neighbors passing by my window. “Es un año bisiesto. Cualquier cosa puede pasar.” And I decided to take a leap.

Writer Lisbeth Coiman from the shoulders up, standing in front of a flower bush
Lisbeth Coiman is an emerging, bilingual writer wandering the immigration path from Venezuela to Canada to the US. She has performed any available job from maid to college administrator, and adult teacher. Her work has been published in Hip Mama, the Literary Kitchen, YAY LA, Nailed Magazine, Entropy, and RabidOak. She was also featured in the Listen to Your Mother Show in 2015. In her self-published memoir, I Asked the Blue Heron (Nov 2017), Coiman celebrates female friendship while exploring issues of child abuse, mental disorder, and her own journey as an immigrant. She currently lives in Los Angeles, where she teaches and dances salsa.

A WWS Publication Roundup for April

A personal note this time around: I hope this post finds you and your loved ones healthy and safe during these trying times. I’m glad to be able to share this roundup and to be part of such a supportive community. Congrats to the published writers and be well to all! Laura

From Lisa Eve Cheby‘s “Taking Stock” at Verse-Virtual:

I conduct inventory: 
Chad and Ed are sick, Priya is better, 
Doug is improved, Jon is still healthy. 
A friend’s father died, 
as did a stranger’s. 
Widows forced to grieve alone. 

From “Modern Archaeology” by Lituo Huang at Mineral Lit Mag:

Modern archaeology’s been around for 100 years, give or take.
When I die, my bones might be preserved for
 
the future to find. But let’s face it, my chances
are slim: The bodies on Everest will outlast mine.

Congrats to Carla Sameth who had three poems – “​LA Stories: Urban Mountain Lion, South African Transplant,” “Bruised Arms” and “Dreaming Sobriety” published at Anti-Heroin Chic. From “LA Stories: Urban Mountain Lion, South African Transplant”:

You didn’t want to come here. Los Angeles took you. Down to the basement, near Parker
Center and the Deja Vu Strip Club, next to the new marijuana mall. Where tourists take
photos and buy souvenirs while freshly tatted dazzling dispensary girls sell them strains
with names like “Flying Monkey” and “Ganja Goddess.”

From Stephanie Abraham‘s “In the World to Change It” at the Los Angeles Review of Books:

[LINDA SARSOUR’s] new book, We Are Not Here to Be Bystanders: A Memoir of Love and Resistance, maps her journey from growing up as an outspoken oldest child of immigrants to former executive director of the Arab American Association of New York and national co-chair of the Women’s March.

From Helena Lipstadt‘s “Speaking to the Dead; my mother didn’t whistle; Not Asking” at Cathexis Northwest Press:

Let me not be thief of your story   let me paint a still life 
of names you stand over me and below me I inhale the shimmer
of your breath I will not betray your blame

From Désirée Zamorano‘s “Death in the Neighborhood” at Terrain:

As I write I am sitting in my front yard patio, a tiny courtyard well-defined by a surrounding low stucco wall. The wall reminds me that I am good at boundaries, from years of struggling with an over-identifying, tiny and close-knit family of origin, from years spent “individuating,” as a young woman, carving out my private life, my secrets. In this shaded area I can hide under the camellia trees, watch people walk their dogs, listen to the chirruping of the birds, follow a pair of hummingbirds as they build their discreet nest, be both simultaneously public and private. It’s the same patio where my reclusive friend Liv, once and only once, shared a pitcher of Manhattans with me.

Also from Désirée, “Census 2020: A Quiz,” at Lady/Liberty/Lit:

Quizzes can be a way to get to know yourself better. Please self-identify to the best of your ability.

1. During apartheid in South Africa these would be your choices. Choose the one that best describes you:

a) White
b) Black
c) Coloured
d) Indian or Asian

From Noriko Nakada‘s “California” at The Nasiona:

Every second of the drive to California for summer vacation feels heavy, weighted down just like our car, packed tight with the six of us, suitcases stretching at their zippers, and the big cooler stuffed full of snacks. Dad drives the station wagon along cool mountain passes, past Lake Shasta, and into a desert valley where the sky is clear and the hot sun pounds through the windows. There is nothing to see except hills that look like blankets thrown over sleeping giants. I watch for something to change, but nothing has looked different for hours.

Also from Noriko, “How Do We Count Our Dead?” at bitter melon:

By breaths lost
loved ones left behind
accomplishments in life
shades of acquired fame?

Congrats to Noriko whose essays, “Vegas Indulgences” and “At Home in America” were published in Lady/Liberty/Lit and in Mom Egg Review!

From “A Relative Stole the Baby Name I Wanted to Use, but in the End I Was Thankful” by Rachael Rifkin at Good Housekeeping:

When my mom died a year and a half before I got pregnant, however, the names we’d chosen no longer seemed relevant. We knew if I eventually got pregnant, we’d name our child after my mom.

From Ryane Nicole Granados‘ “Peter Harris and Adenike Harris: This Father and Daughter Confronted Pain and Healed Together” at LA Parent:

They say it never rains in Southern California, but on a recent day clouds hovered over the hotel lobby where I sat in a corner booth sipping hot chocolate and eating breakfast sandwiches with Peter Harris and Adenike Harris, the father-daughter team behind Popsn’Ade, a project they started in 2016 to help others heal through creativity and call-and-response dialogue.

From Melissa Chadburn‘s “The Forgotten Babies” at Alta:

It was the summer of dead babies. At night I sat drowning in coroners’ reports and case files. Coyotes frolicked in the wash behind my house. Dry by summer, it held remnants of snow play—bright yellow and electric-blue plastic bits of toboggans. Brittle palo verdes littered with refuse from teenage parties, things like bottle caps and empty bags of chips. The hour of molting. The wildlings came in groups of three and four—clearing the mean ash-green pincushions and devil’s fingers in gleeful jumps. They danced, silhouetted against the black. Bats twisted above.

From Ashunda Norris‘ “On Watching Surviving R. Kelly” at Trampoline Poetry:

you understand nothing if you do not
have to imagine your own abuse replay
every time another blk girl opens her mouth
upturned & over complete

Congrats to Ashunda, who had two poems “Grandma’s Hands” and “The Book of Generation(s) of the Negress,” published in La Presa Issue 9!

Congrats to Rachel Sona Reed for her review of “Sociolinguistic variation in children’s language: Acquiring community norms” at Cambridge University Press!

Congratulations to Janel Pineda who had three poems, “English” “Rain” and “In Another Life,” published in The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext published by Haymarket Books!

Check out Tanya Ko Hong‘s National Poetry Month 30 days project on Youtube!

Breathe and Push: A Meditation

By Désirée Zamorano

An image of mature trees in sunlight.

“Ask your heart, from time to time, what is most important right now, in this moment, and listen very carefully for the response.” –Jon Kabat-Zinn

When I learned that my students would not be returning from spring break, it was like a shovel to the side of my head. I was jolted; cortisol ran through my body for days and weeks, and I had a constant, throbbing headache. I was asked to move my teaching, my content, my carefully designed community-building designed activities, online. Many of us found ourselves in the awkward and terrifying position of being told to stay still, and yet be heroically productive. Like the students, all my plans were interrupted, and my writing utterly side-lined.

I wavered between being frozen with inaction and indecision or distracting myself with constant movement: more dishes to make or bake or stockpile; more articles to read; audio books; an online course; youtube exercise clips; zoom meetups. Not still, not listening, just being certain there is noise and action and activity to crowd out stillness, thoughts and doubts and, in particular, fears.

That inner editor, that tireless nag, relentless reproachful, reminded me that other people were writing their wry think pieces, their touching essays, their profound poetry. Other writers signed agents; agents made deals, sold books. My inner editor, eyed me disdainfully, as if to say, “Why not you?” 

In the meantime, I considered that “last days” have passed, without my even realizing it at the time: the last meal at a favorite restaurant, the last purchase at an independent shop, the last recognition of a student’s presence before they return to their home state or country. The last physical classroom meeting for this semester.

My husband was let go from his job; I heard from friends and students: their job losses, a ruined relationship, weddings delayed or dissolved. Financial hardships, moving away, moving back home, relatives on the frontlines.

I needed to be still, and ask my heart, and listen.

My heart said, it is okay to mourn. 

I gave my inner editor the day off, the night off, the week off, the quarantine off. Shh, I told her. There, there, there.

*

We are humans, we are elastic and we accommodate the wonderful as swiftly as we do the unpleasant. We adapt. We are now a month or so into this odd world. Or three and half years, depending on your reference point.

We are in a holding pattern, in my case with its particular comforts and concerns. My home is cozy; in order to visit my 80-year old mother I can not see my children. My daughter is a cashier at a grocery store; people I know are suffering.

In one particular highly effective habit from Steven Covey’s iconic text he gives a Venn diagram and explains, where our area of concern overlaps our area of influence, therein lies our greatest power. I have tremendous anger and anxiety for so many current political outrages and utterly avoidable tragic outcomes, but that is far, far out of my area of influence. 

What, out of so many concerns, lies within my influence? My words on the page. My interactions with and responsibilities towards my friends, family members, students, community. Where I invest my time and money. My attitude towards this situation. 

What does my heart tell me now?

Out comes the printed draft with all my annotations, it is time to continue my revisions. I bite my tongue against the harsh words I have for my husband, borne out of spending so much time together. I connect and loop in with my friends and family. Put a colorful top and a cheerful face on for the zoom classes I teach. Reach out to the struggling students. Send money to people and causes in need.

The county announces a two week extension to our physical isolation. My doctor friend assures me it will be extended again. And again. 

Disturbingly, thoughts of the future creep in. How will I survive in a summer like this without students, who give me so much meaning and purpose? Like millions of others, I wonder, will there even be a fall semester?

Stop!  I shift gears, and ask my heart, what does it want, for the future?

My heart is very clear. It wants a tomorrow quite different from the yesterday that preceded all of this chaos. A yesterday where so many were struggling and financially subjugated.That makes me pause and reflect, now, looking to the future, what will we bring to tomorrow, to make this world anew?

Author photo of Désirée Zamorano.

Désirée Zamorano is an award-winning short story writer and the author of the critically acclaimed novel The Amado Women. A frequent contributor to the LA Review of Books, her essays and short stories can be found at Cultural Weekly, Catapult, Huizache, and Kenyon Review.  

Storytelling in Action: Personal Narrative

by Ramona Pilar

This isn’t the first time we, as a species on this globe, have experienced an illness that impacts every demographic facet of society. An illness that careens through the bullshit hierarchies and infects indiscriminately. 

This is, however, the first time a new or “novel” virus has emerged during this current era. A new virus for a viral era. And because of all the different outlets we have to communicate to, with, and at each other, there are wealth of experiences and stories being shared. News-wise, there has been some looking to past viral outbreaks – more often than not the 1918 Flu Pandemic – seeking insight or lessons on how to divine the best way out of this current crisis with some degree of sanity and sense of safety.

This led me to wonder about the literature of the time. I couldn’t recall any “Flu Lit” subgenre from around the turn of the 20th century, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. What I did find was that, while it was a major historical occurrence, the Flu didn’t quite find its way into literature in a major way.

Continue reading “Storytelling in Action: Personal Narrative”

Writing on a Budget: Meditation in Times of COVID19

By Lisbeth Coiman

All I have to offer you today are my solitary confinement meditations.

Let’s weave the collective thread of our sorrows in a cloak to protect us from all evil.

Unless you are a widowed-mother of four in a war torn country, stop calling out privilege.

Let’s inundate the web with poetry and art. No need to advance bad news. Devastation will hit us in the face when we come out of our dens.

Give generously and accept with humility.

Share wisdom, not resentment.

I rather go with a broken than with a frozen heart.

Love yourself as if you are loving the entire humanity.

With the blinds open, gift your neighbors the joy in your face. It may be the last time they amuse themselves.

Allow solitude to transform you into a wondrous human.

Resourcefulness equals acceptance equals survival.

two wash clothes hanging from a toilet paper dispenser

Think of what will carry you through this transformation but no longer be useful at the end of the crisis. It’ll be the metaphor of what you shed in this journey.

Accept the prayers offered to you. It might be all they have to give, and it might as well be your last meal.

If you might die of a suffocating disease, why are you strangling yourself? Practice breathing.

You don’t know if tomorrow you’ll be hooked to a ventilator, morphine dripping into your transition, unable to whisper, “te amo.” Call those who need to hear it now.

When deep in the trenches, even the toughest soldiers cry.


Writer Lisbeth Coiman from the shoulders up, standing in front of a flower bushLisbeth Coiman is an emerging, bilingual writer wandering the immigration path from Venezuela to Canada to the US. She has performed any available job from maid to college administrator, and adult teacher. Her work has been published in Hip Mama, the Literary Kitchen, YAY LA, Nailed Magazine, Entropy, and RabidOak. She was also featured in the Listen to Your Mother Show in 2015. In her self-published memoir, I Asked the Blue Heron (Nov 2017), Coiman celebrates female friendship while exploring issues of child abuse, mental disorder, and her own journey as an immigrant. She currently lives in Los Angeles, where she teaches and dances salsa.

A WWS Publication Roundup for March

We hope this roundup finds you and your loved ones healthy and safe! To ease the stress of these unsettling times, please enjoy this lengthy and exciting list of publications from Women Who Submit members. Congrats to all!

To begin, we’d like to invite you to check out Accolades: A Women Who Submit Anthology that includes writing from Women Who Submit members!

Congratulations to Aruni Wijesinghe, whose poem “Revlon Super Lustrous Lipstick, Crème Color #640, Blackberry: Part I and Part II,” was published in Making Up: Poems!

From Anita Gill‘s “What We Can’t Do: A Father and Daughter’s List” at Citron Review:

On that trip, I would ask you for the millionth time why you never taught me your native tongue and your answer would be the same, “What use would it have been?”

Also from Anita, “Coronavirus Forced Me Home from Spain Where I Was a Fulbright Scholar,” at the Baltimore Sun:

On March 12th, I woke up in my apartment in Spain to discover the president of the United States had announced a ban of all travel between the U.S. and Europe on account of the ever-growing cases of coronavirus patients.

From Kate Maruyama‘s “Not Yet” at Barren Magazine:

This was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention when his arm went around my throat. I tried a back kick, an elbow to the ribs, I tried to turn to face him. But I couldn’t move. I visualized a knee strike to his head—but apparently all of those years watching my boy do karate and jujitsu didn’t pay off, because I blacked out.

Congratulations to Bonnie S. Kaplan who had a piece published in Closet Cases – Queers On What We Wear edited by Megan Volpert!

Congrats to Tanya Ko Hong who had three poems published in Cultural Weekly. From “Yang Kong Ju”:

Koreans called her
Yang kalbo
Yankee’s whore

Korean men say
No thanks—
even though it’s free

Check out this interview of Tanya and this book in which Tanya’s work is featured!

From “Parenting Through An Apocalypse” by Liz Harmer at The Walrus:

The day we got the keys to our new house in California, the so-called Holy Fire was blazing a few kilometres away. The sky rusted a kind of brownish orange, and on the piled boxes and half-dismantled furniture on the patio of our newly purchased home, ashes collected lightly, like dry snow. I had not been sleeping well and did not appreciate this omen.

Congrats to Helena Lipstadt who had her poem, “First Light June,” published in Undeniable: Alternating Current Press!

From Lituo Huang‘s “My Beautiful Sister” at VIDA:

My beautiful sister is eating a slice of watermelon. It tastes so good she shows me the whites of her eyes.

My slice is old. All the cells have gone dark.

My slice is old, I say.

Also from Lituo, “DO NOT CONTACT YOUR EX DURING THE PANDEMIC,” at Bitter Melon:

Do not call and ask him to hold your hand at the end of the world.
Do not email him to get your things back.
Do not drive by his house, slash his tires, slash your wrists.
Do not confess.

Also from Lituo, “My Small Press Writing Day,” at my (small press) writing day:

My writing day begins at 4:00 a.m., or sometimes 5:00 a.m., or 6:00 a.m., or 7:00 a.m., or 8:00 a.m., when I wake up with anxiety. The first writing I do is in a notebook where I write down when I went to bed. When I woke up. If and when I fell back asleep and woke up again. How tired I am.

From Angela M. Sanchez‘s “Bucking the Danger of a Single Story with the Power of a Multitude – A Review of Tales from La Vida: a Latinx Comics Anthology,” at solrad:

A single story, fortunately, is not what readers get in Tales from La Vida: A Latinx Comics Anthology. Edited by Dr. Frederick Luis Aldama, Distinguished Professor at The Ohio State University, Tales from La Vida offers a panorama of Latinx narratives, featuring seventy unique vignettes and over eighty contributors. With eye-catching artwork, some pieces harken to fotonovelas (Leighanna Hidalgo, Fernando Balderas Rodriguez) while others, like Zeke Peña’s fleshy heart pulsing with nopales, are stand-alone striking. 

Congratulations to Li Yun Alvarado whose poem, “Hechizo Para Congelar,” was published in Accolades: A Women Who Submit Anthology!

Breathe and Push: from the safety of home

by Noriko Nakada

I had something else in mind for today’s column and had found someone write it. She wrote a beautiful and important essay on allyship, but that was done over a month ago, and so much has changed since then. So like so much right now, that essay will sit and wait.

We occupy this strange place right now. The world as we knew it sits just outside our view, and we can’t see out on the other side yet, can’t quite make out the horizon. We are stuck here with our thoughts, our words, our works-in-progress, ourselves.

If there was ever a time to remind ourselves to breathe, it is now. I find myself forgetting as I scroll through the news or zone out watching anything-but-the-news.

via GIPHY

Breathe.

Or read a poem.

WWS member Lisbeth Coiman is sharing a poem a day, and Xochitl Julisa Bermejo shared Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” yesterday.

Or listen to music.

Xochitl shared “You’re the Best Around” from The Karate Kid the other day.

Or write a poem. pusheen typing

There are still many ways to connect.

Whatever you’re doing, hang in there. Maybe submit something, or maybe just breathe.

headshot of racially ambiguous writer Noriko NakadaNoriko Nakada writes, blogs, tweets, parents, and teaches middle school in Los Angeles. Publications include: Through Eyes Like Mine (2010), Overdue Apologies (2012), and I Tried (2019). Excerpts, essays, and poetry have appeared in Catapult, Meridian, Kartika, Hippocampus, Compose, Linden Avenue and elsewhere.

Storytelling in Action: Quarantine Edition

In light of the current state of affairs surrounding the COVID-19 virus, I’ve opted to switch out my original idea for this month’s post for my personal take on self-isolation, self-quarantine, and social distancing during this pandemic. As someone who has been practicing all three for a while (for various reasons not to do with communicable diseases), I’m experiencing this shift in social consciousness along with everyone else, and have observations – not necessarily solutions – that I hope can be helpful. Because one of -if not the – biggest reason I’ve been drawn to writing/storytelling since I was old enough to read, was to add another (my) perspective to a larger conversation.

* * *

I saw the pictures before I experienced it myself – first in Twitter and Instagram feeds, then from a friend of mine who lives in the town just north of me. I’m single, without children or a partner, and have been dealing with a spinal disc protrusion / sciatica issues for the past six months, so I’ve not been able to be in a rush to get anything from anywhere.

Photo credit: Nadia Tedmori
Photo credit: Nadia Tedmori
Continue reading “Storytelling in Action: Quarantine Edition”

A WWS Publication Roundup for February

Happy Leap Year and congratulations to all the Women Who Submit who were published in February!

From Jenise Miller‘s “How Compton’s Communicative Arts Academy Rebuilt the City for Artists and Community Life” at KCET:

Before NWA, there was the CAA. Decades before young rap artists blasted a tough city image onto the world stage, a group of artists in Compton established the Communicative Arts Academy (CAA), a vital arts program in the era of the Black Arts Movement in Southern California in the 1960s and 70s. During the height of their operation from 1969 to 1975, the CAA invigorated Compton with art inspired by life and possibility in California’s first majority black city.

Congratulations to T.M. Semrad who had 2 pieces published at Nightingale & Sparrow – “A Wedding” and “Toward the Unfinished.” From “A Wedding:”

The groom sketches a self-portrait. He begins with the feet. They are practically shod. His feet ache. The shoes are black lace-ups with rubber soles. They are planted wide. He erases and begins again. He starts with the feet. He wears socks: nubby, cream, and thick. His feet get cold walking across the bare floor. He erases and begins again. He starts with the feet. They are bare, wide, the toes short. The big toes curl slightly up. He erases. He brushes the pale pink crumbs and pencil dust from the page, now smudged gray.

Check out T.M.‘s poem, “Virtual Realized,” published at Pomme!

Congratulations to Angelina Sáenz who had 2 poems published at Acentos Review – “Humidity” and “Estoy Sola.” From “Humidity:”

Humidity transports me

                  to musty brick homes along dusty roads
                  moist sunrise rooster calls
                  ragged dogs roaming on roofs

                  to Tepic, Nayarit

Neighbors in my Tia’s living room tiendita call

                  ¡Quiero! 

Also check out Angelina‘s, “I Come From a Place Where All We Knew Was to Be Ghetto Fabulous and Together,” at every other!

Have a listen to Lituo Huang‘s “Something to Remember” at Manawaker!

Congratulations to Donna Spruijt-Metz whose “Devil’s Fair,” a translation of Lucas Hirsch from the Dutch, was published at Copper Nickel!

Congratulations to Helena Lipstadt who had 3 poems published in February – “From Kalisz, Air, Earth” in The Midwest Quarterly, and “Doina in the Studyhouse” and “It Could Happen” in the Blue Mountain Review!

Congratulations to S. Pearl Sharp, who had a poem featured in the City of Los Angeles’ 2020 African Heritage Month Calendar and Cultural Guide!

Breathe and Push: Pushing Publishing at the AWP Book Fair: A Choose Your Own Adventure!

By Noriko Nakada

I’m heading to AWP again this year. Last year was my first because I had the chance to table for Jack Jones Literary Arts. I also listened in on panels, heard from writers I respect and admire, and tackled that book fair.

a table filling with books by Women Who Submit members and a WWS tote bag with the WWS logo displayed prominently.

The book fair is so overwhelming. All of those presses and programs and tables and books and writers. You could run into Jericho Brown wearing a flower crown, or Terese Marie Mailhot signing her memoir, or Wendy Ortiz browsing. In that overwhelm that is the AWP Book Fair, I was star-struck, and buying too many books, and stuck in my head as I wandered the aisles. I saw presses I’d sent work to who had passed. There were presses I’d never heard of. There were presses who’d published me. What did I have to say at these tables where my words were or were not welcome?

I felt lost, and small, so I found my way back to the Jack Jones table again and again. I only tabled there for a few hours over the course of the conference, but it was always a magnet pulling me, and it felt like my home base within that chaos. Even when I wasn’t tabling for them, every time I found myself in that fair, I’d walk by their table, visit with the staff or an author, ask if they needed anything, and help out before making my way to a lecture or panel.

Jack Jones isn’t at AWP this year, but I want to tackle that book fair in a way that feels healthy and productive. I don’t want to feel so lost and overwhelmed. So this is my AWP Book Fair action, and I invite any Women Who Submit members who are attending to join me in putting a little activism into your book fair wanderings.

1) Approach a press with one of our Women Who Submit postcards.

2) Present the card and introduce yourself. Explain a little about Women Who Submit, an organization which, as a response to the VIDA count, empowers women and nonbinary writers to submit their work for publication.

3) Choose your own adventure:

a friendly press: Thank the presses for doing their part to bring more gender equity into the publishing world. Maybe ask how they think they will do on the 2019 count, and what they plan to do to ensure continued equity in 2020. Ask about how they think they’re doing publishing women of color.

a press that is making gains: Acknowledge that the press has improved, but isn’t yet equitable. Ask if they are doing anything to ensure more equitable gains on the 2019 count or for 2020. Ask if they know about their racial representation and how they think they are doing/can do better.

a press that isn’t friendly to women: OK, only one of these is at AWP this year, but go ahead and let them know that they aren’t very equitable in their publishing of women and ask if they’re doing anything to change this. Ask how they might improve their representation of women of color.

a press that isn’t on the VIDA count list: There are so many of these! Ask them how many women editors they have, editors of color, queer editors? Are they actively recruiting marginalized voices? What are their strategies? Do they pay? Are they interested in hearing from our members? Particularly if there are women tabling, and specifically women of color, thank them for the work they are hopefully doing to ensure more equity in publishing.

4) Ask them to look for Women Who Submit members in their slush piles, and to be on the lookout for submissions during our Annual Submission Blitz in August!

5) Record your interaction. Did they seem receptive to WWS’s mission? Any names of editors or upcoming submission deadlines you should note? Will you send them work?

Press/Table Response to WWS Mission Editor Names* Any upcoming call for submissions Will you submit?
         
         
         
         
         

Please record your activism on this google form.

https://forms.gle/MNw1syCdMGbX87z49

It’s that simple! Make the most of your AWP!

Press designations from the 2018 VIDA Count: Book Fair location or N/A (not attending)

Friendly Presses

+60% women published
McSweeney’s: T1930
The Missouri Review: N/A
Prairie Schooner: 1668-1669
The Normal School: N/A
Pleiades: T2034
The Cincinnati Review: 1533, 1534


+50% women published
Tin House: 1635
Granta: N/A
Boston Review: N/A
Ninth Letter: 1532
Jubilat: N/A
Colorado Review: 1430
Conjunctions: N/A
Virginia Quarterly: 1129
Fence: 1751
n+1: T1321
The Believer: 1643-1644
New England Review: N/A
Kenyon Review: 1655

Getting Better: (made improvements >+5% in more equitable representation, but still not to 50%)
Poetry: 1457
The New Yorker: N/A
Gettysburg Review: 1135
Southwest Review: T259
Harvard Review: T1220

Male-Dominated Presses (less than 40% women represented)
The Times Literary Supplement: N/A
The Nation: N/A
The Threepenny Review: N/A
London Review of Books: N/A
The Atlantic: N/A
The New York Review of Books: 1058

Find us for WWS cards at the ACCOLADES Release Party on Thursday, March 5th from 4pm-7pm at La Botanica or at the ACCOLADES Book Signing on Friday, March 6th from 12pm-2pm at table Nosotrxs: More Than Books, 1038.

You can also catch WWS members all over AWP. Here is our AWP San Antonio guide.

headshot of racially ambiguous writer Noriko Nakada

Noriko Nakada writes, blogs, tweets, parents, and teaches middle school in Los Angeles. Publications include: Through Eyes Like Mine (2010), Overdue Apologies (2012), and I Tried (2019). Excerpts, essays, and poetry have appeared in Catapult, Meridian, Kartika, Hippocampus, Compose, Linden Avenue and elsewhere.