call me ken.

When a professor at a liberal arts college that proudly promotes their open-mindedness tells their female writing students that they should have three names to publish under – one for their primary genre, one for materials written outside of that genre, and one male pseudonym – there is something rotten in Denmark. Then we learn that the professor in question is a woman and our eyebrows rise to our hairlines.

Or do they?

I would like to imagine that this professor advised her students of this with a disclaimer stating her disagreement with the prejudice this advice implies is alive and well in the publishing industry and/or the reading public. This advice, while not direct evidence of discrepancies in the treatment of men and women in the industry, is absolutely indicative of it; and, most likely, the professor was only attempting to inform and so forewarn her female students.

Thems the breaks?


The women’s literary organization VIDA, as mentioned in the earlier post announcing the opening of Fuck Yeah Lady Writers, has found yet 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. I have been involved of late in numerous conversations regarding these discrepancies with both writers and avid readers, the result of which is a series of impromptu interviews. This greenhorn research has failed to answer many of my questions and instead only raised others.  


This is a problem that belongs primarily to the people, not to the publishers. The publishers are looking to sell what the people will buy. Of course, as a couple undergrad business/marketing classes taught me, demand for a product can be manipulated to a degree by the seller.


Born and raised in the South, I was taught that gentlemen hold doors for me, carry my bags and invite me to order before them in restaurants. My brother and I were told this was a form of respect, one for me to not only accept but to expect in polite society. My brother was taught that did he fail to perform these duties, he was not a gentleman. I cannot say I disagree with this. Surely such tasks were being performed by men for women for centuries, long before Women's Lib. Of course, back then women were often expected to defer to men in intellectual matters and were denied many of what are now considered basic human rights and legal protections. History has cast its shadow over us and where does a modern, free thinking woman know where to draw the line? Know how? 


The line cannot possibly be drawn before the expectation to promote yourself as a man in order to be published. Can it? I have personally been advised by at least three people in the publishing industry to use the initial of my given name, to write under K. Bishop Sullivan or K. Sullivan Lingle rather than Kathleen. That is, I was told, unless I intend to write "chick lit" or "young adult".


The worst part is that I have done exactly this. I have accepted this. I have expected this. Yet this, while perhaps not outright prejudice, is certainly not respect. Therefore ought I regret it? Should I change that practice going forward? Would you as a reader be less inclined to buy a science fiction novel by a Kathleen Sullivan than you would by a Ken Sullivan? Would you be more inclined to buy a romance novel or a Young Adult novel by a Kathleen over a Ken? What about the blessedly androgynous "K"? 


Studies show that you would be. Publishers believe you are. 


Is it true? I honestly want to know. 


A male associate of mine told me that while he possesses no conscious bias in this regard, he refuses to read more Anne Rice after having read one of her books. He enjoys her genre. He appreciates her writing style. He likes her stories. So why does he refuse to read her books? He said it was because, as a heterosexual man, he is distinctly uncomfortable reading intense, sexual content when he knows the author is a woman. 


That is an answer, an honest answer that I can respect even if I do not completely understand it. I want more answers. I want to know why and I really want to know what can be done about it.


I am proud to be a female writer. I don't know how to let you call me Ken. 

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.