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.
The WWS members included in this post published their work in amazing places during the month of May 2023. I’ve included an excerpt from published pieces (if available) or a blurb (if available) if the publication is a book, along with a link (if available) to where the pieces can be purchased and/or read in their entirety.
Please join me in celebrating our members who published in May 2023!
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 counting18, 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.
The WWS members included in this post published their work in amazing places during the month of April 2023. I’ve included an excerpt from published pieces (if available) or a blurb (if available) if the publication is a book, along with a link (if available) to where the pieces can be purchased and/or read in their entirety.
Please join me in celebrating our members who published in April 2023!
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.
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.
“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.
The end of a wet and wild March is upon us, which means it’s time to celebrate the hardworking Women Who Submit members who have published their work.
The WWS members included in this post published their work during the month of March. I’ve included an excerpt from published pieces (if available) or a blurb (if available) if the publication is a book, along with a link (if available) to where the pieces can be purchased and/or read in their entirety.
Please join me in celebrating our members who published in March!
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.
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.
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.
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.
It’s been three years since I attended my first AWP in Portland where I had the most incredible experience due to following Women Who Submit member, Bonnie Kaplan’s suggestion, “It all happens at the off-site events.” I took my new friend’s advice and attended every evening reading that resonated, starting in a cool, dark bar where I did my first open mic and drank a Moscow Mule mocktail named after Stalin; plus, I met new writer friends.
Then, I jumped in with Cave Canum, VONA, and attended the Freya Project reading in a high-ceilinged concrete-filled jewelry gallery where I spotted T. Kira Madden and thought she was someone I knew from Oakland. Yeah, I did that, but I got to meet, hug, and listen to Madden read from Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Daughters. I was embraced as a new Women Who Submit member when nervously showing up to their social hour where I ate cheese and mingled with writers whose work speaks to me. I mapped out discussions and panels and got teary-eyed when Maxine Hong Kingston took the main stage.
It was tough when I canceled San Antonio, went virtual for Kansas City, and skipped Philadelphia. This break has provided nonprofit AWP time to sort out how to host a conference, historically built on networking and personal connections, where literally thousands attend, and attempt to recreate a reasonably safe pre-pandemic experience. This year, AWP is hybrid, meaning one may attend in person or virtually. Since my writing partner and I are hosting a panel, we’re attending with precautions including masking (see recent AWP communication regarding health precautions).
How to choose? What to do? Noriko Nakada, WWS Leadership, suggests avoiding FOMO and narrowing in on personal experiences, “I attend only panels and lectures that feed me and my writing.” Kate Maruyama, WWS Board Member notes, “Whoever you are with at AWP is correct. Once you hit panels and readings you want to go to, the rest of your time is to go where the day takes you.” I echo both women’s advice, and add Yelping favorite restaurants ahead of time because it can be difficult to settle on sustenance when the feet are hollering from being on a concrete floor all day.
From WWS Director, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, “If you’re like me and get nervous about being around a bunch of new people or saying something dumb in front of literati, I suggest using your hours at the convention to support the people you already know. I did this at AWP Portland, and it made a world of difference. I was at events with people I genuinely enjoy and admire.” Xochitl wrote about her experience on the Women Who Submit blog, Transforming AWP Through Our Collective Power.
How to organize your schedule: Like most nonprofits, AWP has a small, core staff, but they try to make technology user-friendly. Here’s how I do it. First, I downloaded the conference program on my laptop, and carefully reviewed and selected events by marking them before saving them on my AWP account. Then, I downloaded the app on my smartphone and did the same. I give this process a 3.5 in functionality, because the app and computer are unable to sync, which means I had to choose all the workshops again on the app, schedule, and set reminder alarms. On the floor, I find the app intuitive, and easily accessible, as I can toggle between the entire conference schedule and what I’ve pre-set for myself.
Where is the Conference? I suggest checking out the Seattle Convention Center layout prior to arrival, understanding the parking and public transport systems, as this makes for more time enjoying the conference and saves feet (aww, packing compression socks), and identifying specific locations where one can get away from the hustle and noise. For more, visit, https://seattleconventioncenter.com.
If one does not need elevators, please use stairs and escalators, so attendees using mobility scooters, or wheelchairs, or who have other mobility challenges can easily navigate and get to events on time.
Is the book fair a thing? Yes, the book fair is huge, loud (earplugs are helpful), and feels like a trade show floor filled with Red Bull on steroids. Noriko pre-plans and sets goals, “I limit my time walking around the book fair to visiting and meeting in person presses who published my work or tabling for presses/organizations where I want to connect. I still spend more time than I want there, but when presses show me who they are (not friendly to women/BIPOC), this is confirmed in that book room!” Alyss Dixon, Women Who Submit co-founder/advisor, suggests buying indie press books early because they sell out fast. Alyss also suggests doing one final book fair lap on the last day, “Bring a piece of luggage with wheels so you can scoop all the freebies and books.” AWP board member, Rachelle Yousuf did this in Portland, and she scored big time.
Got questions? Phoning AWP is tough closer to the conference launch, so email, call, and wait 24-48 hours for a response before communicating again. They’re literally drowning in emails and voice mail; plus, at some point, they’re traveling and on location.
Trained people, including locals hired for the conference, are stationed as guides. If arriving on Wednesday, a big tip is to pick up registration at the SCC from 12 noon until 7 pm. Thursday and Friday will look like the opening day of Harry’s House on La Cienega without sunshine and good vibes.
Self-care? A resounding YES! AWP offers quiet places (Wellness Rooms for private quiet time; keys available at AWP help desk) and the (Emily) Dickinson Quiet Space (8 am-5 pm each day) to give over-stimulated brains and souls a break. Morning offerings include AWP’s 9 am writers’ yoga sessions, and the Sober AWP, 12-step meeting, (7:30-8:45 am each day). There are also nursing mothers’ rooms (8 am-5 pm each day). All details are provided in AWP’s full schedule, which is now living on my phone.
Alyss reminds attendees to pack high-protein snacks (bars and nuts are perfect), hydrate, stay hydrated, and hydrate some more. This is especially critical during the day when traversing literally miles and finishing off the evening with libations.
Bring a reusable water bottle, because the SCC has filling stations throughout. Tip: Avoid buying anything, including coffee, inside the SCC to save money and time. Lines get really long, but if the caffeine or munchy cravings are a must, and one is stuck in a snaky line, make a friend. We’re all there to talk words, books, and writing.
I end with long-timer Kate’s sage advice, “if you’re a seasoned pro, find the newer, overwhelmed writer and introduce them to a few folks, take them to tables to meet people, give them a head start on the networking.” This, my writerly friends, is what Women Who Submit are all about!
Following are past WWS blog posts related to attending AWP:
Sakae Manning’s (they/them) fiction lives in The Tahoma Literary Review (Pushcart nod), Carve Magazine, Dryland Lit, and Blood Orange Review. As writer-in-residence at The Annenberg Community Beach House, Manning produced programs amplifying BIWOC writers. They are on the leadership team for Women Who Submit, an alum of the AWP Writer-to-Writer Program, and an Anaphora Arts fellow.
