As a Victory

It’s been one week since I attended the Women’s March in Buffalo, NY, and I’m excited to share that experience here. Before I talk about the actual day of the march, I did just want to travel back in time a few weeks to the moment I heard about this event. 

On September 14th, my sister sent the link for the Women’s March, and I knew we absolutely needed to attend. However, when looking closer at the details, we did notice it was within the same time frame as my cousin’s wedding. 

Despite the challenge of this busy day and the realization that yes, everything does always fall on the same day, we decided we would go to the event first and then make our way to the wedding reception after. At this point, we did have all the logistical details worked out, but we knew we would have ample days to come up with a game plan. 

Per the information I had already read, it looked like there were open spots for speakers at this event. As someone incredibly passionate about women’s rights and someone in the unique position of a new collective all to do with womanhood, I knew it was important for me to volunteer. I registered for the event and emailed the organizer to let her know I wanted to speak. At this time, I considered reading a poem, thinking about the words I’d already written and the ones I could write. 

After sending that email, I also realized that I wanted to create some merch inspired by the event. I had already launched a few pieces inspired by The Elpis Pages. I went to work that night creating a few designs. 

The days started to pass. I ordered my t-shirt, which I discussed in my Editor Diaries. It has a quote by the incomparable RBG on the front and Bans Off Our Bodies on the back. A few of the other designs incorporated this same slogan, some with the Elpis logo and one specifically inspired by The Handmaid’s Tale, which simply reads “OfHerself.” These are still available for purchase. 

I also looked back through previously written poetry in the hopes I could find something to read at the event. On September 20, 2020, I wrote a poem entitled “All the Things You Could Miss At the End of This.” Today the poem is still unfinished and unpublished, but I have high hopes for its future. I wrote this poem two days after Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s passing. It was something that sat in my mind until I put the words on the page. And it was inspired by a Twitter thread in which the line “May her memory be a revolution” was broken down and the Jewish traditions explored. I was fascinated and proud as a woman for the legacy Ruth was leaving behind, but also sad and scared for a world without her in it. 

That poem also goes on to explore a few key women in my life. But it all came back to Ruth. I still love these stanzas: 

You don’t know how to write this part. But you bellow the words of a prayer typed out to be mindful of character counts: May her memory be a revolution. The leaving remains in everything. Every fact. This season must go. She is gone. 

And you cling to someone else’s poiesis in regards to the pain of seeing empty places at the dinner table. They expound on Jewish traditions you commit to the page because you fear those, too, will disappear. She was held on earth until the end of this year because she was needed. It is how they speak of her passing on a holy day, effusing the sacred with beauty about the revolutionary ramification of womanhood, of truth. Of Her. 

But this poem didn’t feel quite right. I penned other bits and lines. I wrote:

When I was young, I was scared of being soft. And I said, yes, he’s nice though I was scared. And later, I couldn’t walk to the car and my hair was long and I thought that was the problem.

This all came from one of my most terrifying memories. In which I was harassed by a male employee and then questioned by the owner. He asked to see if I’d been flirting with said employee and thus “asking for” that kind of unwanted attention. My hair was long then and I was nice, maybe too nice. I also wrote:

I liked the weird women in Macbeth. I knew them for who they were: poets with guts filled with feelings. They might’ve clasped car keys in fingers as a talisman. And I hold my palms to the women before: Circe, Hecate, Elpis.

Another line played over and over in my mind:

And I cried to my mother, telling her I didn’t ask for this. And she explained I was born to hold a universe, but of which she was unclear.

There were so many things to write or reread that had to do with womanhood, but they didn’t feel like enough. 

I moved on to other preparations for the event. I designed two posters to be printed. One for myself and one for my sister. I also created postcards with information about The Elpis Pages to be handed out prior to our march to city hall. I got a little crafty with the posters, mounting them on foam board and adding a handle. 

And then on Tuesday September 28th, just a few days before the march, I couldn’t keep the line: “half of a whole is still less than” from echoing in my head. This is not uncommon, as I am the type that hears all thoughts as narration and usually with lines of dialogue or poetry, they won’t cease until they’ve been written. What can I say? My writerly brain is persistent. 

I didn’t think this line could be the opening, so I back tracked, thinking about how much I always struggled with math back in school, specifically fractions. And from there, my speech spilled out in a torrent. I knew its title, “Sometimes All We Have is Hope,” since I’d been using that as the tagline for The Elpis Pages. It is something that continues to carry me through and remind me why this project is so important. 

I finished my speech and sent it to my friends. I practiced reading it and recorded it over a voice memo. Even on the day of the event, I took the printed version of my speech to the backyard to practice reading over noise pollution, projecting like I’d learned to do back in my theater kid days. 

I was ready to read, but needed to get ready for the day. I put on my RBG shirt, left to get my hair done for the wedding later, and focused on the excited energy I had for the march. My sister arrived, we grabbed our signs, and our dad dropped us off at Prospect Park, which was the location we would be meeting before beginning the march at 2PM. 

When we arrived, there were so many women and men already gathering. Many were in purple shirts, as this year’s colors were purple and cream. We snapped some photos early on and I handed out my postcards for The Elpis Pages. Everyone was so kind as I did so and there was a palpable energy surrounding the park as we read each other’s signs and shirts. 

I must say, I’d planned to take more photos and videos, but I was drawn into the moment and am mostly left with memories now. A few favorite posters included: Ruth Sent Us, Without Hermione, Harry would’ve died in Book One, We Are Not Ovary-Acting, etc. Everyone had taken the time and effort to create messages filled with rage, confusion, and alas, hope. And before long, we were marching through the streets of Buffalo on our way to City Hall. 

We chanted: "Bans Off Our Bodies, Who’s Streets, Our Streets, Hell No Roe Won’t Go, and my favorite: Who Sent Us? Ruth Sent Us. Each step during this walk made me feel empowered and heard, poster raised high above my head. There were people there who’d marched before and others new to the experience like myself. But all came together to speak on behalf of the importance of women’s rights. 

Once we arrived at City Hall, my sister and I moved closer to the front, as I knew I would be speaking, though I wasn’t sure when. Unfortunately, we had to leave by 3:30 to ensure we could make it to the wedding reception, but we had the chance to listen to wonderful and inspiring and important words spoken from different women.

And then it was my turn to speak. 

I folded the speech in half to keep it from blowing free from my grip. Downtown Buffalo is notoriously windy. I took a deep breath and began. I supposed what I wasn’t expecting were the cheers from the crowd. But I took that in stride, even managing the loud traffic that occurred during my reading. 

With this speech, I felt every word in my bones. 

I will also be including my speech in full with my Letter From the Editor in The Elpis Pages once it’s published this December. 

And just like that, it was time to leave. To prepare for a different kind of celebration. But I held the memories with me through the lengthy car ride, trying to  share as much about the experience with friends and family at the wedding as I could. By this time, my mom had already shared my video, and it was heartwarming to hear those reactions from some of those I love most. 

As I continue to champion women and their rights, putting together this collective to support the Planned Parenthood Action Fund, offering a safe haven and platform for self-identifying women to share their words on womanhood, I will not forget this day and everything it gave me and our nation. 

Just three days after a historic gathering in over 650 cities nationwide, U.S. Judge Pitman issued a stay of SB8, declaring that the Court “will not sanction one more day of this offensive deprivation of such an important right…” In this I find the reminder that each step, no matter how small, must be taken as a victory. I’m reminded that we all have the power to speak up and offer our voices to the collective we in this nation and say we do not accept this. We deserve better. However, there is so much more work to be done, and I’m ready to continue to add my voice and my words to this fight for women’s rights. 

I would like to thank everyone who showed up throughout the nation to march for women. I’d like to thank our organizers and give a specific shoutout to Anya Kester and Glenn Murray for sharing many of these photos from the day.

Don’t forget to like and subscribe. And remember, no matter where the day takes you, dream big!

Only Time Will Tell

One week ago, I was watching the episode of Parks and Recreation where Andy and April drive to the Grand Canyon, and "All Will Be Well," by The Gabe Dixon Band plays on the radio. As I sat constructing a chapter by chapter breakdown of editorial notes, I knew that everything I needed to accomplish would happen, that eventually, all would be well.

And what was I trying to accomplish?

Well, rewind back to the day before.

I sat beside by brother as we binge-watched Riverdale, and my phone buzzed with a new email, and I ignored it for a few minutes as that current episode wrapped up. And then I saw the sender of the email, and my heart beat a bit faster. I looked at the agent's name, and braced myself for the rejection.

Upon opening the email, I discovered it wasn't a rejection, but rather a request to send my full manuscript for consideration! Maybe most people would've screamed something profane, or exclaimed their exhilaration, but in that moment, I couldn't say anything. The tears filled my eyes, but I didn't actually cry. I was too stunned. My brother asked me what was wrong, and I passed him my phone, and though he doesn't quite understand the query process, he said "Congratulations."

Now the first thing I did was reread the email, just to make sure it was real. I needed the verification that after reading only the first five pages of my manuscript, plus my query letter, that this agent really wanted to move forward and read the rest of my novel. The words were still there, and I knew I needed to call my mom and my best friend, but neither answered. I left one rather shaky voicemail, and sent a few texts with the same request to "please please please call me." They both thought something horrific had happened. They both called back. They both were just as ecstatic. And I reminded them both that this could still mean rejection, because it might. But in that moment, I knew it was still a huge step toward publication. 

That day the best friend and I talked for two and a half hours, and he mentioned his amazement at how grounded I stayed through it all; knowing the chance of rejection was still viable. And since receiving the exciting email, I have gotten a rejection from another agent, sent without personalization, but kind all the same. The first thing that came to mind after this long-winded phone call was my dissatisfaction with the overall end of the book, because I wasn't sure how it would lead into the second book within this duology. And just as the excitement dissipated, the stress took hold in its familiar place. 

My anxiety appeared based on the fact that I have a penchant for perfection. It is, I believe, my biggest flaw. I feared the fact that my book still wasn't perfect, and knew I needed to make adjustments, even minor, before sending this off to the agent. In the meantime, I let all the other important people in my life know what was happening, and they offered congratulations, and I existed in a kind of haze the rest of that first day. 

By Friday, I'd made it to the end of the book. I had a shower epiphany. I knew what final bit had to be added to the finale. I didn't change the last line, because that was what I wanted from the start. But I found a small way into what comes next for my story in BOOK TWO, and it felt right. I wrote the words. I texted the best friend about the ending. He read. I wrote. The day went on. 

At 4 PM I started reading my novel through from the beginning. I luxuriated in the fact that I'd finally killed the darling paragraph that opens the novel, in exchange for something that reads much more clean and offers higher stakes for the story. I read each chapter out loud to try and catch as many typos as possible. And somehow, even after the hundreds of times I've read through this manuscript, there were still stupid errors. (I'm still wondering if I will ever get credit on Goodreads for the many times I've read through my own book). I read straight through until 2:30 AM when my voice started to crack, and the view of my computer screen blurred through the veil of exhaustion. I slept four hours. I woke, and finished the read through. I compiled the manuscript from Scrivener into a word doc, and began the arduous process of formatting for submission with the updated word count, title, page numbers, etc., and ensured each chapter started on its own page. I finished the last of this from the back seat of my sister's car as we drove toward our hometown for the morning. As we made it back to the place I grew up, the place my story was born, I realized there wasn't anything left to do but send this back to the agent. 

And I did. 

Now it's been a few days since submitting, and all that's left to do is wait.

I hate waiting. But like that song reminds: All will be well. You can ask me how, but only time will tell.

Only time can tell what will happen with this agent and the future of my book. 

Now a week later, I can't say I've learned how to combat my perfectionism, but I can say I let go of the idea that my work is perfect in time to send this whole manuscript. Sometimes all we can do is let things go without knowing what will come back. I'm not sure if this will bring me an offer of representation, or a rejection. But I do know this is one step closer to my dream, and maybe, all really will be well. Until then...