Why Write About the Hardest Things

Woman dressed in a black, lace dress bends over the side of a bridge, facing a small, tree-lined canyon

by Antonia Crane

My mom’s aggressive cancer returned the same week I got into an MFA program for writing— a terrible idea considering the recession of 2008. Mom insisted I “Get that degree!” so I enrolled even though I had no way to pay for it. I’d lost my personal assistant job, and my sugar-daddy-once-removed, a stout, Mexican man who was missing part of his thumb, suddenly disappeared for good.

A few weeks into grad school, I drove up the California coast to Humboldt where redwoods cast long shadows and the icy ocean raged silently while I euthanized my mother. I immediately plunged back into sex work. There’s no pamphlet on how to keep showing up for class when your favorite person dies. It’s like waking up without arms or feet. I floated in the fog of her absence and I wrote about her frail limbs and her moans of pain when I took her off the morphine for a few hours those final days. I wrote about her peeing the bed. Spilling milk on the floor. Choking on water. I wrote about her writing her own obituary and her cobalt blue vases filled with her orange azaleas. I wrote about meeting men in motels off the 405 to jack them off—how I was usually one hand job away from being homeless. I wrote about my mom’s feeding tube and her pastel fuzzy socks I slid off her feet before they took her body away. In my mind and on the page, my mom’s dying body merged with mine going through the motions of sex work. I couldn’t separate the two because they were braided in my mind. I kept Cheryl Strayed’s essay “The Love of My Life” (The Sun, # 321) close at hand because it gave me permission to write about my specific raging body grief and how I hurled my pussy at the world and dared it to keep me safe. Continue reading “Why Write About the Hardest Things”

A WWS PUBLICATION ROUND UP FOR APRIL

A laptop computer with an article titled "Submissions Made Simple" on the screen and a stack of literary journals sits on top of the laptop base, titles facing out

April showers bring May flowers…and Women Who Submit publications! Congratulations to all the women who had work published this month.

From “Cliff Side” by Arielle Silver at Jet Fuel Review:

Echoed against the cliff walls of the ragged coastline, the bark of two elephant seals. Aaark, one calls, then moans like the creak of old redwood. Even through closed lids: the periwinkle grey of dawn. I open my eyes at the fifth cheer-up-up from a nameless bird in dialogue with its mate. A moment later, my husband opens his.

From Antonia Crane‘s “Three Financial Dominatrixes on How Their Clients Get Off From Simply Handing Over Cash” at MEL Magazine:

“…a man has to have a lot of power to squander it away on the findom playground: an appendage of BDSM that caters to educated, successful guys who yearn to be coerced into parting with their cash by a draconian mean-girl they will likely never have sex with or even meet in person. It’s an emotionally complicated erotic transaction with real financial consequences — a guilt hangover in the form of blood-curdling debt.”

From Muriel Leung‘s “This Is to Live Several Lives” at Nat. Brut:

Once, when I was very, very young
I studied the curious
lives of bees –

Congratulations to Muriel who was also accepted to the VONA/Voices Workshop! Continue reading “A WWS PUBLICATION ROUND UP FOR APRIL”

Claps and Cheers: A WWS Publication Round Up

Over the last month, WWS members have been getting work published and some have won awards. Here is a brief look at a few recent publications.11209699_1030527333634119_5403440345070340561_n

From Antonia Crane’s essay, “In rape culture, there’s no such thing as a safe word” published this month in Quartz:

“But as someone who has spent her entire adult life working in the sex industry, I can attest to the fact that women in this business face inherent, unique physical risks. I’ve been bitten, drugged, smacked and ripped off. Years ago, a large man tried to block me from leaving a private room in a nude strip club in San Francisco. When I yelled for help, the person who came running was a stripper named Cinnamon. She yanked him by his shirt from behind. I ran.”

From The Sundress Blog, “THE WARDROBE’S BEST DRESSED: LAUREN EGGERT-CROWE’S THE EXHIBIT:

“When she cranes her neck up at the sky, at night, she shivers. This may be because she is trying to find Scorpio. She is more afraid of falling up endlessly than gravity. The night is colder than it should be. She wonders if one of the spheres has a hole. A leak that hisses the light out like a deflated tire.”

From Ashaki M. Jackson’s poem, “Fulcrum: The Support About Which A Lever Turns; The Part Of An Animal That Serves As A Hinge Or Support,” published in Cura Magazine:

“You consider lynching mechanics and question which was raised first – the rope or the neck. You think of the ease with which dancers lift each other’s bodies at particular curves and imagine a neck hoist bringing a faceless audience to its feet. You ask who is in this audience. You are in the audience.”

From an interview with Karineh Mahdessian and Sophia Rivera, founders of Las Lunas Locas womyn’s writing circle, published last week at La Bloga:

“So, are Las Lunas Locas really locas? How did your nombre lunático come about?

We knew we wanted to name ourselves that which spoke to us, the moon is the most feminine of it all. And womyn often tend to be thought of as “crazy” and “emotional.” In this capacity, we wanted to celebrate all things that are often misjudged and ridiculed. The naming of Las Lunas Locas allows for embracing all that is wonderful and challenging about being a womyn in a patriarchal and misogynistic society.”

From Tisha Reichle’s YA fiction piece, “I want to be a Cowgirl,” published in the latest issue of Lunch Ticket:

“Mom watches from her bedroom window; I can feel her. Not ready to be wrong about my hunger, I stand on the bales of hay stacked behind the heeling dummy. It was painted brown a long time ago and Dad actually put a frayed rope tail so it looks like the skeleton of a steer’s butt. Its rusty pole legs dangle lifeless until I kick them; their squeaky rhythm breaks the morning’s silence. Mom closes the curtain. She hates when I practice roping and defy her orders.”

From Tiana Thomas’ essay, “High Hopes For Thanksgiving (And What It’s Like To Grow Up On A Pot Farm)” published last month at Role Reboot:

“Mom is sitting at the kitchen table with several bags of weed in front of her. She has taken off her jeans, and has a glossy look of heat shining off her face, as she rolls another joint. I head out the back door to the wooden water tank at the rear of the house. It’s hot and I’m thirsty. The tank sits in the shade surrounded by Ti leaves and banana trees, its sides covered in thick green-black moss and a thin layer of moisture. The rainwater that fills the tank is sweet. I slurp it straight from the spout, letting the run-off splash on my muddy toes.”

Lastly, congratulations to Melissa Chadburn and Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo who share the honor of being awarded grants for nonfiction from Money for Women/Barbara Deming Memorial Fund.

On Melissa’s project:

“This essay collection includes the title essay, a previously published piece about my experience in foster care. The other essays capture the myriad of effects of poverty—or the converse: the effects of affluence and power. I think this is the one element that binds all of my work together—I talk about class and race but what I really am speaking of are the effects of power on the human condition.”

Pssst! Fiction writers, The Barbara Deming Fund is now taking applications for fiction projects. It awards “small artist support grants ($500-$1500) to individual feminist women in the arts.” Submissions close December 31st.