It’s 8:11 am and I am packing my son’s snack for half-day Kindergarten. My head is pounding from a lingering cold and dishes from last night’s impromptu dinner of chicken fajitas (half of which the dog stole off of the counter) are piled in the sink. If I don’t get them in the washer soon, I’ll have a trail of ants across my kitchen counter. Continue readingLike
It was late 2004 and I was sitting in The Tam, a dive bar on Tremont Street in Boston, talking with a group of literary friends. There may or may not have been trivia involved. The subject of our conversation was the state of publishing and what it meant for new authors; for authors of color, for authors who focused on women’s issues, for those who were women, for authors writing about the LGBTQ community. We were authors ourselves, regularly sending out manuscripts to literary journals all over the country and, just as regularly, receiving the two-sentence rejections (if we received anything at all). It seemed that print journals were publishing less, were closing down, were opting to print those authors who would draw a crowd. They weren’t interested in taking a chance on a newbie. And it seemed the same was true for the book industry, as well.
What was to befall authors like us? Continue readingLike