this is not going to further my father's opinion of me.

My father, a talented writer and a journalist by trade, upon being asked what he thought of my blog said only, "You curse too much." One might think being Irish he would foster a greater appreciation for the art of invective. I guess not when it pertains to his only daughter.

Post title explained, I bring to you Fuck Yeah Lady Writers. 

It is the brain child of a good friend and fellow writer and is composed by a collection of female writers, many of whom I've had the great fortune of working with in the past.

This blog was created in response to the findings of VIDA, an organization for women in literary arts, wherein it was reported (again) that there is a sizable disparity between the number of men and women writing for major publications, and between the number of men and women being published.

In the Salon.com article “Literature’s Gender Gap”, Laura Miller writes: According to the Guardian, “four out of five men said the last novel they read was by a man, whereas women were almost as likely to have read a book by a male author as a female. When asked what novel by a woman they had read most recently, a majority of men found it hard to recall or could not answer.” When it comes to gender, women do seem to read more omnivorously than men. Publishers can assume that a book written by a man will sell to both men and women, but a book by a woman is a less reliable bet.

This is hardly an issue in the world of magazines and publishing alone. Indeed, recent studies have shown similar trends in theater and playwriting as well. In fact, according to the New York State Council on the Arts, a mere 17% of the plays produced on America’s stages are written by women. 

Why is this? Why does it seem as though the general conception is that a story about a man is universal and a story about a woman is for women? How can we examine and/or change that conception? How can we inspire more readers (and theater-goers, movie-and-tv watchers and article-readers etc.) to pick up something by a woman?

So this blog was created to celebrate the Lady Writers, to spread the word about the wonderful work being created by fearless ladies all over the world, both past and present. Hopefully this initiative, and others like it, will be so successful as to render this blog obsolete. Until then…

Fuck yeah lady writers!

the tape measure.

Most imagine their lives in linear form, years following years, birthdays celebrated in ascending numbers. They take time and unwind it. They prop it up against their experiences like a tape measure. Here, I was born. I walked one third through foot two. Next I read and on the first black truss mark I flew. But think, what if you never locked your tape measure? What if you acknowledge that you never can? Memory would walk with you, holding your hand. Déjà vu would be comprehended quick as lightning strikes. Time as philosophers have been known to suggest would coil and curve, places you have been, people you have known, dreams you have had all entangled. Is that not already true? 

The sky is so blue it breaks my soul. I have drank two cups of coffee too many, unwise when attempting to dispel nervous energy. Paper crunches in my hand, twisted, folded, and hastily smoothed out again. Hyacinth colored ink stains my hands and a poor poet steps up to the microphone to take it all away. That was where I was this afternoon. I stepped out of my car on a quick after work errand and right into a yesterday entire feet down the tape measure. Clinton Powell had talked me into performing ("Performing," he insisted, "Not just reading.") at a poetry open mic night. There I had been for years (at least three good feet), first introduced by a frighteningly talented woman who went by the name of Sista V, listening and occasionally compelled to read some scrap of an idea I'd thought grand before scurrying hastily back to what I always tried to make a corner seat. It was after my performance that night Clinton invited me to join the ranks of those who had awed me in Spitfire Poetry Group. It was then still in its infancy, but in comparison I may as well still have been in the womb. Through the course of the next years I went from an intimidated teenager to a self-possessed performer. I performed at numerous events, attended more as a member of the audience, and for a while even co-hosted a spoken word/music open mic night with a wonderful singer and songwriter named Lauren LaPointe. 

It was an hour in my life that has passed on the tape measure, but today I was back there, feeling everything all over again. I was holding a mic in the basement of a pool hall bar, swallowing so much stage fright that I all but screamed my first lines. I was bending over a table, words tripping in a rapid, inspired exchange with Clinton regarding rhythm and dust in the blood. I was hauling a speaker half as big as myself out of the trunk of a car, laughing along with my friends at the image and the irony. I was there. The taste of coffee was in my mouth and next that of craft ale. I was there with jittery fingers making meaningful looks at the clock and the sign-up sheet. Time worn wood creaked beneath stacked heeled boots and there was somebody taking over the world with a handful of words about lying down. 

The tape measure eventually snapped back into place, revealing the long yawn of inches lined up between then and me. I let it go without longing, with no feeling of regret. It was beautiful then and it is beautiful now. Time can't fade it for me because my tape measure is unlocked. As my departed friend would say (is undoubtedly still saying somewhere between five feet, eight inches and now), I took it all joy.

Space Cadets - Charlie's Diary

Space Cadets - Charlie's Diary

Yes, I know I haven't been around. Yes, I know none of you read this anymore. Yes, I know I'm talking to myself. Read it anyway.