The Year in Review: 2019

The following highlights are not exhaustive.


Trans/Acker Symposium: Trans and Genderqueer Readings of Kathy Acker (November @ The New School in NY): It was McKenzie Wark’s great idea to put a bunch of trans people in room to talk about Kathy Acker all day, and it was my great pleasure to be one of them. McKenzie presented from her forthcoming book Philosophy of Spiders, which in parts employs a kind of aggregation technique on Acker’s body of work, for instance, sifting through to find and catch all the questions in her books and piling them all together. Torrey Peters’ absorbing talk on “The Cult of the Sad Literary Trans Woman” (via Leslie Jamison’s recent essay) has stayed with me as I’m thinking about my own investments in the sad literary sort-of girl; and Kay Gabriel’s talk was predictably too brilliant to pin down. I presented an essay on Acker’s sexual pessimism and an early draft of my novel that features Acker as a character. (Some of our talks will be published eventually on Public Seminar.)

Is This a Room, conceived and directed by Tina Satter (November @ Vineyard Theatre): A change of direction for Satter, Is This a Room is verbatim theatre dramatizing the transcript of the FBI’s interrogation of Reality Winner, who leaked documents about Russia’s interference in the 2016 US election. The performance was electrifying and horrifying the whole way through, in part due to Reality’s vulnerability as a young woman in thin blouse and cutoffs confronted by three armed men; in part due to the knowledge that she was arrested immediately after this surprise visit and has been in custody ever since. Is This a Room, then, documents her last moments of freedom, so many of them filled with concern for her dog and cat—neither of whom, she warns the agents, like men. Spare set, no intermission, the only breaks the quick beats of purple-lit silence to indicate redacted text; throughout, we were suspended with Reality in escalating crisis with very little relief available. Emily Davis as Reality was riveting, and the real Reality shown to be the people’s hero she is.

Last Days at Hot Slit Launch Party (March @ Participant Inc., NYC): This was among the scene-iest events I attended this year, an intergenerational who’s who of queer and feminist artists and writers, there to support the launch of the new Andrea Dworkin reader, edited by Johanna Fateman and Amy Scholder. Scene-y yet warm. Slices of the book were presented by an ensemble group (including Karen Finley, Christen Clifford, Andrea Long Chu, among others). Held at Participant Inc. on the closing day of Viva Ruiz’s Pro-Abortion Shakira, with Thank God for Abortion posters as iconic backdrop: the room held Dworkin’s complicated legacy with generosity and compassion.

Lambda Litfest (September in LA): If you know me offline you’ve already heard too much about this but ICYMI—in September I met Tegan and Sara! And talked to them on a stage, even somewhat intelligently, about their memoir HIGH SCHOOL. Here we are!

Also as part of Lambda Litfest, I read with cheeky queers Charlie Jane Anders, Ryka Aoki, Amanda-Faye Jimenez, Sam Cohen, and Rachel Levy for The Bitter Laugh. So much laughter! Not nearly enough bitterness! Still sorry for going late and eating into Foglifter’s time.

I made it to the launch of Hustling Verse: An Anthology of Sex Workers’ Poetry, too, which was a radiant delight, the room lit up and glowing. Here’s Amber Dawn from her introduction: “Poetry is to dream, desire, resist, emote, express, and create new possibilities…And what I have to say is every time a sex worker writes a poem, we transcend all the harms that have been done to our stories. Every time a sex worker writes a poem, we rise above subjugation.”



Kevin Killian, Fascination: Memoirs (Semiotext(e), late 2018): He left us a legacy of generosity and love, and a body of work defined by elegance, wit, dishiness, and depravity. Fascination collects two early memoirs and a new work centering his brief affair with experimental musician Arthur Russell. What a treat to meet a younger Kevin, living his best, occasionally alarming, gay life prior to leaving New York for San Francisco.

Saidiya Hartman, Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Social Upheaval (Norton, 2019): This book is extraordinary. Hartman recreates the lost histories of young black women in the early twentieth century as they wander within circumscribed lives while daring to want something more. Some chronicles are composites, some imagined from the details anonymous photographs, others recreated through complicated archival trails, all meticulously researched. A captivating, original work of creative urban history: “After a year spent looking at a colored girl, posed in the nude, on an old horsehair sofa, I decided to retrace her steps through the city and imagine her many lives. Following in her footsteps and in those of other black women in the city, I made my way through the Black Belts of Philadelphia and New York….I traced the errant paths and the lines of flight that in the decades from 1890 to 1935 would enclose the boundaries of the black ghetto. In the end, it became not the story of one girl, but a serial biography of a generation, a portrait of the chorus, a moving picture of the wayward.”

Stephen van Dyck, People I’ve Met from the Internet (Ricochet, 2019): This engrossing, often very funny postconceptual memoir is just what it sounds like: a long list plus annotations in the form of notes on each person, the annotations accumulating to form a personal narrative through brief encounters. Van Dyck meets people from, Craigslist, MySpace, etc., often to hook up (in a variety of forms including “massaged my butt, slept over” and “sat on his very hairy lap”), sometimes to buy or sell furniture, occasionally to go river tubing or talk all night about the universe. In archiving these forms of queer cruising, initiated online but also strongly localized (set predominantly in Albuquerque and Los Angeles), van Dyck’s memoir offers something of an update to Delany’s Times Square Red, Times Square Blue though without much in the way of theory/analysis. It’s a document of experience from 1998 to 2009, covering the author’s first queer encounters, his mother’s death, and his coming into an identity as gay and as a writer amid a range of fleeting and not-so-fleeting intimacies made possible by digital spaces.

Lauren Levin, Justice Piece // Transmission (Timeless, Infinite Light, 2018): In this diptych Levin wrangles with race and racism, gender, queerness, desire, touch, accountability, and motherhood from the vantage point of not-so-straight white Jewishness, and it is a feat. Sprawling, peripatetic, slipping in and out of lineation, these dispatches from the daily trash fire that is Trump’s America are no less urgent for their braced lucidity. Hard to excerpt in a way that accurately reflects the book’s breadth and its intimate and unflinching consciousness but I’ll try: “The constant cleaning needed to hide the facts of domestic work, / its endless return and its decay. What you are supposed to do is erasure // This reminds me of justice. I don’t know how to explain why. / But it’s like the refusal to hide that justice is made of rotting parts” (40).

Trisha Low, Socialist Realism (Coffee House Press, 2019): 
A solid work of autotheory from one of my very favorites. From my review in Bookforum: “Where The Compleat Purge relished in performing the delicious narcissism of the morbidly melodramatic teen girl, Low’s new book Socialist Realism is decidedly Adult. More restrained, less indulgent, and properly, legibly, nonfiction, Socialist Realism is a mostly earnest, always engrossing long essay that charts a personal quest for utopia in the form of some kind of home. If this second book is not, frankly, as fun as her first, its pleasures are of an altogether different sort. Low has traded in the no-futurism of her suicidal phantasies in favor of dreams of revolution. A quixotic, improbably sentimental work, Socialist Realism longs for a better world while celebrating the minor joys of this one. This Low is not threatening to bequeath us her Franz Ferdinand CDs; she’s committed to life, for now, and to building a something else, a something more—what might be called home.”

T. Fleischmann, Time is the Thing a Body Moves Through (Coffee House Press, 2019): Also (with Low’s Socialist Realism, above) part of Coffee House Press’s new series of booklength essays. Per its title, it’s no surprise that this book offers an embodied movement through time—and yet it defies narrative fixity. Fleischmann brings to it a great deal of respect for experience, change, motion, difference, space—and love, via complex intimacies that bloom and retreat and defy categorization. Super T4T and politicized as a given, while resisting inscription in queer/trans identity politics—the author draws on the work of Félix González-Torres to offer a politics of the embodied self in relation to others. This book-length essay integrates within it an essay in desiring verse (dropped into the book throughout in sections), and a fascinating essay-talk on the Publick Universal Friend (dropped into the middle in full). I loved this.

Sofia Samatar, Tender (Small Beer Press, 2017): Is this really my first fiction entry? I did read a lot of fiction this year, mostly short fiction when working on new stories, and Samatar’s Tender is a treasure trove and a guidebook for innovative speculative fiction. This assembly of Samatar’s short works, most SFF, many formalist and intratextual, each one stretching what a story can do, is so instructive and—honestly, inspiring—I’ve been reading it deliberately slowly over many months, to as fully as possible take on its lessons and light. Favorites: “How to Get Back to the Forest”; “Meet Me In Iram”; “An Account of the Land of Witches”; “Honey Bear.”

Karen Tongson, Why Karen Carpenter Matters (UT Press, 2019): A stellar work of cultural criticism blended with sparks of memoir. From my review in 4Columns: “Since her tragic death, at age thirty-two, in 1983 from complications related to anorexia, Carpenter has been the subject of three documentaries and a cult film (Todd Haynes’s early, brilliant Superstar), at least two biographies, innumerable newspaper and magazine features. (And these are the Karen-specific artifacts, discounting the vast archive of material on the Carpenters, the band she formed with her brother Richard in 1969.) If the subject of Tongson’s idiosyncratic and very fun book is not that Karen Carpenter matters—a given of the title—but why, it’s also where, how, and above all to whom. Karen has lived on, Tongson argues, through an unlikely diaspora encompassing Filipinos and Filipino Americans, people of color, immigrants, queer and gender-nonconforming people, pretty much “everyone other than the white Nixon-era suburbanites she and her music are said to have represented.” ”

Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House (Graywolf, 2019): As excellent as we’ve come to expect from Machado. From my review in 4Columns: “In her new book, and first memoir, Carmen Maria Machado blasts her own experience with an abusive intimate partner into a sparking arc of story bits. Cycling through a staggering array of modes and strategies, In the Dream House wheels in and out of fabulist, formalist, and realist registers, cultural analysis and polemic to produce a fresh and unflinching interrogation of abuse in queer relationships. The structure holding it all together is a house: the titular Dream House, its chambers built of the stuff not of dreams so much as story. The Dream House corresponds to her then-girlfriend’s Indiana home, where many of the memoir’s scenes of abuse take place. But the Dream House is also a device, the central design of the book, which is constructed of as many narrative chambers as Machado can conceive.”

Calvin Gimpelevich, Invasions (Instar, 2018): A solid collection of stories centering trans and queer characters representing a range of genders and orientations, some poly content, great class analysis throughout. Not as speculative as I anticipated having read (and loved) “Rent, Don’t Sell” in Meanwhile, Elsewhere—that one’s a terrific story exploring disability, transness, body swapping, sex work, and more—but there’s a lot of realism (in the key of urban queer) here too. Sturdy, crisp writing. “Wolves,” from the pov of a caterer sent to staff a wedding in a remote place during a blizzard, is particularly gripping, had me shivering on a 92-degree day. I’ll be excited to read what Gimpelevich puts out next.

Samuel Ace/ Linda Smukler, Meet Me There: Normal Sex and Home in Three Days. Don’t Wash.: These poems took my breath away. The intensity of their desire (esp. in Home in three days. Don’t wash.) is hot hot hot and often quite brutal. This new joint edition includes a moving introduction—letters between Sam and his former incarnation as Linda—and a range of short essays at the back by peers and descendants from Eileen Myles and Pamela Sneed to Cameron Awkward-Rich and Andrea Lawlor. Eileen: “It seems like the great contribution of trans identity to this moment in time is the practical buttressing of the notion of self as multiple. I knew Linda and I knew the work of Linda Smukler and I know Sam Ace and know his work. I’ve met them all at junctures great and small and the support and inspiration I’ve gleaned from any of them is abiding.”

Larissa Lai, The Tiger Flu (Arsenal Pulp, 2018): Another wild vision from Larissa Lai. Queer feminist biopunk ft. mewling catcoats, battlepikes with meaty sucking tubes, an all-female colony of cloned and cloning sisters who reproduce through parthenogenesis, satellite mainframes named Chang and Eng that function like sun and moon. The level of invention is supreme and never flattens out. I loved being immersed in this world.

Cynthia Barounis, Vulnerable Constitutions: Queerness, Disability, and the Remaking of American Manhood (Temple UP, 2019): Cynthia is one of my oldest and best friends, and I’ve had the privilege of watching this book take shape over the years. An important contribution to queer, disability, and masculinity studies—it makes key connections across these fields—Vulnerable Constitutions offers illuminating feminist/queer/crip analysis of such writers as Jack London, James Baldwin, Samuel Delany, Paul Preciado, and more routed through Barounis’ concept of “anti-prophylactic citizenship,” used to describe counternarratives of masculinity that highlight vulnerability and risk. The conclusion tackles the trigger warnings debate (citing, among other things, the online roundtable I put together among queer writers several years ago), rethinking it from a queer vs. disability studies perspective. Elegant, illuminating, incisive, and broadly applicable in this moment of white heteromasculine hysteria. (Here’s Cynthia on toxic masculinity in the age of Trump.)

Junji Ito, Uzumaki: Spiral into Horror (2000): I knew I was late to Junji Ito but I didn’t realize how late until I typed ‘2000’ just now. To anyone for whom Uzumaki is not old news, you’re in for a skin-crawling good time. This series imagines a town cursed by a…shape: A spiral shape. I know. The concept is bonkers and yet, holds up via Ito’s cohesive vision—spirals, spirals everywhere—and boldly unnerving art.

Hal Schrieve, Out of Salem (Triangle Square, 2019): Very smart, heartwarming tale of a nonbinary fourteen-year-old dealing with the deaths of their family members and their startling new status as undead—and their friend, a fat Muslim lesbian werewolf—and many other kinds of magical beings but to reveal would be to spoil. I appreciated how the oppression of magic in this world has allegorical parallels to the oppression of queerness while not being a 1:1 correspondence: because queerness and transness also exist in this world, as do homo- and transphobia, along with other forms of structural oppression that shape these characters’ lives. In other words, it’s not the fantasy bubble of Harry Potter, but rather an alternate history that actually wrangles with real-world social crises. I also dug the many gruesomely comical details of Z’s new zombie embodiment and subjectivity: their eye popping out, for example, among other things. Fun read with excellent politics.

Rita Indiana, Tentacle (And Other Stories, 2018): Weird trippy gonzo fiction from the future featuring parallel temporalities; Yoruba spiritualism and near-future tech; ecological fatalism; fantastical full-body gender transition; an anemone-crowned god; knotty, dense prose full of seedy details and abrupt turns… and somehow all in a succinct 130 pages. A time-bending novel like nothing else.

Robert Caro, Working: Researching, Interviewing, Writing (Penguin Random House, 2019): I learned a lot from reading this short collection on writerly work by Robert Caro, biographer of Robert Moses and Lyndon B. Johnson, a scrupulous researcher with a tireless work ethic. The stories Caro tells about documenting Moses’ displacement of poor communities to build highways are maddening and captivating: “Moses would just take a site, like the area between Central Park West and Amsterdam Avenue between 97th and 100th Streets… And he simply threw the people out. That was in the Fifties. I wrote the book in the Seventies, and the people were gone. … But I found that there was in fact a written record. I kept finding references to the Women’s City Club, whose members had interviewed people as they were losing their homes. Volunteers would do interviews with the people who lived in these apartments, and they would go back to the office and type them up…Once I had these interviews, with their contemporaneous impressions, I could track down these people and go to them and say, ‘Tell me more.’”



Fightmaster Yoga Halloween Edition: COMMITMENT TO THE BIT.

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Fall 2019 News & Updates

This happened:

photo by Karen Tongson

In September I got the opportunity to interview Tegan and Sara at Lambda Litfest, on the occasion of the release of their new memoir HIGH SCHOOL. They are wonderful, as is the book! I will write more about this in the next installment of Name Dropping, my occasional TinyLetter.


My short story “Take Us to Your LDR,” a weird LDR alien sex simulation queer/trans breakup story, forthcoming in Epiphany Journal, has nominated for a Pushcart Prize — thank you, editors!


photo by Temim Fruchter

In late October I visited Brown University for their new Authors in the Archives series and read with Lauren Russell, whose forthcoming work of documentary poetry DESCENT is going to be major. I shared work from The Feels (which draws on fan fiction from An Archive of Our Own), Proxies (which draws on court documents and media reports related to the Slender Man Stabbing), and a new, in-progress long essay called The Hooded Figure, which is about finding love while digging through the archives of Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian and simultaneously studying Philip Guston’s hood paintings.


Speaking of Dodie, my 10,000 word profile of her is forthcoming in Dodie Bellamy Is On Our Mind,  to be published by Semiotext(e) in January 2020. (Save the date: NYC book launch will be February 27.) More on this book:

Dodie Bellamy (b. 1951, in North Hammond, Indiana) has lived and worked in San Francisco since 1978. A vital contributor to the Bay Area’s avant-garde literary scene, Bellamy is a novelist and poet whose work has focused on sexuality, politics, feminism, narrative experimentation, and all things queer. In her words, she champions “the vulnerable, the fractured, the disenfranchised, the fucked-up.”

Dodie Bellamy Is on Our Mind is the first major publication to address Bellamy’s prolific career as a genre-bending writer. Megan Milks made several trips to San Francisco in order to spend time with Bellamy and craft a provocative and fascinating profile of the writer. Originally delivered as a lecture at the Wattis Institute, Andrew Durbin’s text takes the form of a personal essay, expertly weaving anecdotes of his own encounters with Bellamy’s writing with insights into broader themes in her work. Academic Kaye Mitchell takes a close look at the role of shame and its relationship to femininity in particular texts by Bellamy. And Bellamy and her late husband Kevin Killian offer deeply personal, emotionally wrenching ruminations on topics from the mundane (drawing) to the profound (mortality). These texts, alongside archival photos and a complete bibliography make, this book an important compendium on Bellamy.


I’ll be giving a talk about Kathy Acker, desire, and im/maturity at the upcoming Trans/Acker symposium, organized by McKenzie Wark, at The New School, on 11/22. Also appearing: Marquis Bey, Kay Gabriel, Juliana Huxtable, Grace Lavery, Torrey Peters, K. K. Trieu, and McKenzie Wark. (Our talks will be published on Public Seminar.)


My review of Carmen Maria Machado’s In the Dream House is now out on 4Columns.


And I have some gossip. More soon in the next Name Dropping….subscribe here.

Name Dropping #3: Kicking the Baby, Unthinking Sex, I Bomb

Hi! My blogging energies seem to have transferred over to a Tinyletter I started late last year, currently called Name Dropping (subject to change). Here’s an edited version of the third installment, sent out this week (June 2019). Sign up here if you want to.


Hello friends,

First, some promo: my new chapbook Kicking the Baby is now available from Another Planet Press. The essay is about coming into queer cultures of public sex “later in life,” written with/through Delany, Acker, Tea, etc, and came to be after Arielle Burgdorf, an MFA candidate at Chatham, invited me to work with her as part of a publishing course she was taking. How thrilling to be approached by a stranger, someone I didn’t know and had never met, who was aware of and admired my writing! How did she stumble upon it, I wondered? [excised material]

One section of the essay layers experiences of public sex at Brooklyn play parties. In writing it I was nervous about appearing naïve or immature especially to my community of queer perverts in Brooklyn; at the same time as I was nervous about coming across as ace-insensitive or erasing or repudiating my experience as a post-ace and still sometimes sexually ambivalent person. In Pittsburgh, I had dinner with [excised for blog version]

You can order the chapbook here. [redacted]



And then, I flew to Vancouver, to participate in Unthinking Sex, Imagining Asexuality, the inaugural international conference on asexuality studies. Because I vanished from the field after the 2014 publication of the scholarly volume I co-edited with KJ Cerankowski, I was not sure about showing up to this conference. Was I still a part of this community? Had I ever been?

KJ twisted my arm (and the conference covered speakers’ travel costs) and we appeared together on a panel titled “Five Years After Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives,” reflecting on the legacy of our volume, the first collection of scholarly essays on the topic of asexuality ever published, in the world. I used my opening remarks to offer a chronicle or explanation of where I’ve been; I’ve pasted them at the bottom of this letter for anyone who’s interested.


I’ve been revisiting my experiences on the job market a lot this year—in part because of that conference, the first academic conference I’ve attended in a while, and also because of a March visit to [excised]





I just finished Fascination by Kevin Killian, a collection of three of his memoirs, and am grateful for his presence in this world. [excised] For Brooklyn book club, we read Rita Indiana’s Tentacle (weird trippy gonzo fiction from the future ft. parallel temporalities; Yoruba spiritualism and near-future tech; ecological fatalism; fantastical full-body gender transition; an anemone-crowned god). With Liza I read Last Days at Hot Slit, the new collection of Dworkin’s work, a stirring assortment of forceful intensities; and am about to read Larissa Lai’s The Tiger Flu for the Happy Little Comets new spec fic group.



Five Years After Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives Opening Remarks (Vancouver, 4.25.2019)

Our panel title may be “five years after” but it’s been a full decade now since we set to work on this book. As we note in our introduction, KJ and I met in 2009 at a grad student conference and started dreaming up some sort of project that same afternoon. At the time, only a few scholarly articles had been published from any academic perspective but particularly from a humanities perspective (surprisingly, not even from feminist and queer perspectives), though the ace community was rapidly growing and ace discourse was proliferating online.

As our first step towards building this project, we co-wrote a commentary on asexuality as a “new” orientation—new for feminist scholarship, that is—published in Feminist Studies in 2010. Our goal was to incite more research and analysis, particularly from feminist and queer perspectives: this became the foundation for our book. In the meantime we organized a panel on asexualities for a queer studies conference at UCLA in 2009, and the first panel on asexuality at NWSA in 2011.

As we developed the volume and began the process of sending out proposals to publishers, both of us earned our Ph.D.s and went on the job market. I moved to the armpit of Illinois for a visiting gig teaching literature and creative writing, and ended up staying on a second year. When the book came out in 2014, I was about to accept another visiting gig at Beloit. I was also celebrating the publication of my other book, also years in the making, which came out the same month this one did. That book, Kill Marguerite, is a collection of short stories negotiating (among other things) sexual ambivalence and incipient queer desire through new possibilities of genre and form.

In our original commentary for Feminist Studies we distanced ourselves from making the claim that asexuality studies needed to be its own field. Over this past decade, of course, it’s become one: At the same time we were working on this project, a number of scholars, including many of you, were also developing special journal issues and publishing now-canonical work at a rapid pace. Now here we are at this conference, the first of its kind.

In these five years since the book’s release, the field has expanded quickly, and KJ, my coeditor, has continued to actively contribute to it. I, meanwhile, have somewhat fallen off the map—I’m not entirely sure I should be here. But because my experiences illuminate issues related to gender, labor, the academy, and, well, sex, I want to offer a partial chronology of where I’ve been.

  • I have been, for much of that time, on the job market, a finalist for more than ten jobs in English and Creative Writing, six of them tenure-track. The two jobs I secured were both visiting, two two-year stints where I was managing a nine- to twelve-credit load of new courses every semester, while applying to the full gamut of lit and cw jobs.
  • A year after my first story collection came out, I watched my small press publisher go bankrupt and my book die a fast death.
  • After delaying it for two (more) years while living in rural Illinois and continually interviewing for jobs, in 2015 I started hormone replacement therapy (then stopped then started again).
  • In 2016 I decided, no more job market! And I chose to move to New York.
  • Since then I’ve cobbled together a living teaching part-time while freelancing and doing some academic editing. I get paid much less than I was, but I have been blessed with affordable rent. And (at last!) I get to teach all of my fields – literature, creative writing, and GWS… uh, at three different schools.
  • While I’ve always participated in both academic and artistic communities, the disciplinary boundaries of the academy—and the meager travel and research funds available to me now as an adjunct—have made it difficult to keep up both scholarly and creative pursuits, and ultimately creative writing won out. I have published no additional scholarship in asexuality studies or any field since putting out this book. But I have been writing and publishing a lot: chapbooks, essays, stories, literary criticism, weird hybrid performance scripts, all of them informed by my relationship to asexuality and asexuality studies. I am close to finishing a novel in which there is no sex—my protagonist is arguably ace, though doesn’t use that language (it takes place in the 90s); while building a second collection of mostly sex writing.
  • Because my primary field is creative writing, my status as editor of this volume has been mainly a perplexing bullet point on my CV, but it did get me reliable adjunct teaching in the GWS program at Pace. This spring I thought I’d make use of my scholarly record and proposed a course in Asexuality Studies. After some debate over the topic’s legitimacy at a faculty meeting I didn’t have to attend due to being an adjunct, the course was approved. Then promptly got cancelled due to low enrollment. But maybe we’ll try it again.
  • I moved to New York in part due to the desire to participate in a queer/trans sexual culture before I “age out” of what tends to be a young-leaning scene. In the past few years I’ve enjoyed a lot of mostly non-romantic sex and erotic play of various kinds in both public and private settings. I have also enjoyed the wide range of non-erotic things that consistently fill up my life, and long stretches of not pursuing sex or play at all.
  • Two Fridays ago I was at a play party in Brooklyn, not playing. Just drinking beer in my street clothes with friends.
  • Last Friday I was at a launch party in Pittsburgh for my new chapbook, a long essay about all of this—about coming into cultures of public sex as a no-longer-ace person in my mid-30s.
  • And now I’m here, with you.

The Year in Review: 2018

The following highlights are not exhaustive.


Dodie Bellamy, entire body of work, and especially The Buddhist, When the Sick Rule the World, and Academonia 


In October I spent a week in San Francisco shadowing Dodie Bellamy for a writing project related to the Wattis Institute’s year of Dodie (whence I took the above book cover collage). She took me to community acupuncture and gave me a walking tour of her neighborhood; we had tea in the café at the bottom of Twitter Towers; and other adventures I will commit to the page in coming months. To support this project I’ve been slowly and reverently revisiting Dodie’s work, including early work like Feminine Hijinx and Pink Steam which I read and loved years ago without solid context for New Narrative. Reread When the Sick Rule the World with Liza as part of our book club offshoot (see below), exhilarated as ever by Dodie’s audacity and mirth, her vulnerability and candor, her genius in stretching the essay as a form. While rereading The Buddhist at Borderlands Café, I got cruised by someone who wished to chat about Buddhism, not Dodie, of whom they had not heard: Hard pass. Back home in Brooklyn, I just finished Academonium, and Dodie’s essays on sex writing, genre, and the academy/job market have been reviving my lapsed faith in writing sex. For this project I’ve also taken a few trips to the Beinecke Library at Yale, to see what treasures I might find in Dodie’s and Kevin’s shared papers. They are plentiful. A glimpse:


(an original letter to KK from Dodie’s alter ego Mina Harker)


Renee Gladman +++ Book Club


When my good friend and former book club co-runner Liza Harrell-Edge left New York for the Pacific Northwest early in the year, I did not know if my heart would go on. It has, in large part because we have kept up a semi-rigorous monthly reading group, just us. (Our Brooklyn book club has gone on, too, though we miss her dearly.) Originally our agenda was strictly to read and discuss Renee Gladman’s Ravicka series, now that the fourth and final volume, Houses of Ravicka, is out. We’re halfway to achieving this goal, taking our time as we weave in and out of the constantly fluctuating imaginary city-state of Ravicka to wander wherever our enthusiasms take us—a detournement Gladman would probably support. Over the summer we worked our way through Samuel Delany’s immense, slow-burning (literally! the city of Bellona is on fire) Dhalgren, as Gladman has acknowledged its influence on the Ravicka series. We took a side trip through The Bostonians, Henry James’s archly comic novel of the women’s movement, which has nothing to do with Ravicka really, it just came up that we both wanted to read it—though I guess it’s about the city, too. This month we wrapped The Ravickians, the second in the series, comprising an imagined metatranslation of the Great Ravickian Novelist’s diaristic musings, an absurdist poetry reading, and a multi-character dialogue that maps in language one journey through the city of Ravicka. Excited for #3. May our literary kinship continue in years to come.


Ron Athey, Acéphalous Monster at Performance Space New York, November 2018


bb’s first Ron Athey performance and as intense as expected—though not in the ways I anticipated: no live mutilations or blood-letting; a surprising amount of language. Acéphale was Bataille’s seceret society, its symbol the headless man, and Acéphalous Monster is a one-person performance made up of five different segments tracing an arc from fascism (Athey channeling Hitler/Nazism in costume and hairpiece within the confines of a grid) to the guillotine block (as Louis XVI) to the headless man (Ron as minotaur; then as some kind of floofy dandelion). Supplementing the performance were text and video projections, including footage of a ritual involving an elaborate peacock butt plug and other spectacular SM implements and events.

My initial reactions were a bit nonplussed, like okay, enough with Bataille, why retread such stale source material—though I’d just been discussing temporal drag in my Revision & Reenactment class—also, bring on the live mutilations. Yet mutilation was occurring on the body of the texts: Athey was cutting up cut-ups (and cut-ups of cut-ups), deploying Gysin and Burroughs’ famous method. There was a lot of attention to fascism in this performance—Ron, in the post-performance Q&A, described the first grid segment (a re-imagining of Gysin’s Pistol Poem) as creating chaos within rigid order via random permutations—all to say I’m embarrassed at how long it took me to draw connections between Bataille’s fascist context and our own. Then I got it: yes.

Side note: Dodie Bellamy’s Cunt-Ups, which also works with the cut-up, has recently been reissued by Tender Buttons Press. Hooray!


Kathy Acker events, Performance Space New York, March/April 2018

PSNY also put on a series of events celebrating Kathy Acker this spring. I attended an excellent film program curated by Matias Viegener and the marathon reading of Blood and Guts in High School. As someone who has been strongly influenced by Acker’s work but never met or shared space with her, I was moved to take part in, if peripherally, this ecstatic, convivial celebration of her writing and life.


Trap Door Launch at the New Museum with editors Johanna Burton, Tourmaline, and Eric Stanley and contributors Ché Gossett, Juliana Huxtable, Miss Major, and Toshio Meronek (February)


This event celebrating the publication of Trap Door: Trans Cultural Production and the Politics of Visibility was—a scene. Standing room only (a big room!), a field of very hot trans and queer people; I confess my friends and I did some shameless trans celebrity spotting, even pointing, so rude. What a treat to be in the presence of Miss Major and these other luminaries, and to see this cross-generational exchange. The volume itself is gorgeous and full. My Brooklyn queer/trans/feminist book club dedicated two meetings to it; group favorite was probably Morgan Page’s essay on her podcast One for the Vaults, which treats trans history as hot gossip.

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Review: Jill Soloway’s She Wants It

I wrote the following review for 4Columns but my editor felt the book was not worth the space and ended up cutting it. I did get paid (thanks!) so haven’t pursued placing it elsewhere … why not place it here, on this space I have cruelly neglected for more than a year? Behold, my review of Jill Soloway’s She Wants It: Desire, Power, and Toppling the Patriarchy (released mid-October by Crown Archetype). (This was first draft so not as worked over as it would have been if it had gone through 4C’s rigorous editing process.)

It’s been four short seasons for Transparent; four big years for trans representation and visibility. Since Transparent made history in 2014 as the first TV show with a leading trans character (albeit played by a non-trans actor), its creator Jill Soloway has gone from being an unlikely spokesperson for the trans and queer communities to a member of those communities. In their new memoir She Wants It: Desire, Power, and Toppling the Patriarchy, Soloway charts these changes, telling the story of their own rapid reorientations in the wake of their parent coming out as trans at age 70. Electrified by new queer feminist insights and an impassioned interrogation of gender and power in Hollywood, She Wants It is an unusual celebrity memoir. But in the end, it’s a celebrity memoir. If it’s better than most, still we want more.

That’s because Soloway, creator of the Emmy-award-winning TV show Transparent, is an unusual celebrity, a nonbinary queer feminist with legit creative power and real cultural sway. In She Wants It, they are still astonished at all that; and while the “How did I get here?” humility butts heads with their class privilege (c.f. the “sad supermarket Brie” bought by a personal assistant for their kid’s birthday party (wah wah)): hey, it’s a celebrity memoir. We read it for access to the celebrity world, and Soloway delivers, describing meetings and parties and dinners with the Duplass brothers, Mel Brooks, Shonda Rhimes, among others; directing Kathryn Hahn and Kevin Bacon. More notable, perhaps, are the different celebrity worlds made adjacent here: trans artist Zachary Drucker sharing chapter space with Jeff Bezos; dyke poet Eileen Myles rubbing pages with Reese Witherspoon.

Divided into loosely organized chapters, She Wants It chronicles Soloway’s path from downtrodden Hollywood reject to award-winning director. “Once my parent came out,” they explain, “I was suddenly powered by a huge gust of yes” (25). Soon, Transparent was born—“the script came out so easily, like a slippery baby” (41)—and Soloway arrived not long after, now an award-winning director who has transitioned from married “straightbian” to a nonbinary queer live-processing their breakup with Myles (one can’t get any more queer, we might say, but that would be a dare).

Soloway’s story is nothing if not compelling. It’s also familiar, as it’s been so thoroughly metabolized on the show. In She Wants It, Soloway describes the Pfeffermans as the idealized, “better version of our family” (68), Soloway’s own arc most closely mirrored by Ali’s. Throughout, they reflect on the ways in which the show has shaped their own reality: “This is what’s wrong with writing a TV show about people who are all fragments of you. You can never tell what comes first, the fiction or the reality” (117).

Another hazard, not unexpected, is that Soloway’s fiction exceeds this work of nonfiction on nearly all counts, and especially in its wisdom and daring. Among Soloway’s greatest skills as screenwriter and director is their ability to build emotional precision into scenes that capture behavior as messily ugly as it is uncomfortably comedic. (Their notes on their directing approach, which draws on writer and producer Joan Scheckel’s trademarked Technique of “playable actions,” are illuminating.) The conflicts between the often awful, always riveting Pfeffermans are deliberate and controlled.

In comparison, Soloway’s on-the-page scenes read as uneasy, the authorial “I” pulling back or redirecting just when things begin to get interesting—or, cough, ‘problematic.’ At the end of the first chapter, after Soloway’s trans parent coming out to them over the phone, their then-husband Bruce responds to this news by coming downstairs in one of Soloway’s dresses; the two of them break into laughter. The only commentary offered here is “Jesus fucking Christ.” End scene. Wait, what?

Moments like this—left dangling, begging for self-examination—litter a book that might otherwise be not only entertaining (as it frequently is) but more thoughtful. Soloway offers self-reflection about some choices—such as the “original sin” of casting Jeffrey Tambor, a cis man, in the role of a trans women—but it’s inconsistent and the scene/info balance is uneven. When they’re not barreling to abrupt and confusing ends, as above, perfectly interesting scenes get hijacked by infodumps or successions of vaguely rhetorical questions.

When they do bring analysis, it’s often frustratingly—even willfully—shortsighted. They describe getting a C on a women’s studies paper in college for “failing to interrogate my own heteronormativity” (35). She Wants It gets maybe a B-. Take their discussion of the Divided Feminine—the ways in which women are forced to separate with “another side of themselves” (unclear what side this is) to “access male privilege”: “Men want a good wife, a sweet mommy. In return, a woman gets a house, diamonds, babies, safety” (26). By which they mean straight cis men and straight cis women, of a certain class and experience. (And generation?)

There’s a terrific scene of Soloway watching porn with Eileen Myles. “Neither of us was much into feminist or queer porn,” they inform us, then proceed to rant about how sexist porn is—so sexist, in fact, they had to write a manifesto about it. It’s an amusing scene to sit in on, and their overexcitement is endearing. But there’s nothing like watching the most misogynist porn to confirm how misogynist porn is. References to a nebulous revolution similarly come across as naïve and quixotic, self-congratulatory.

Cutting through the slapdash quality of much of the writing are ecstatic passages devoted to the intensity of new queer love: “Eileen wanted to know the content of the hunger behind my eyes,” Soloway writes. “She was right there next to my brain…Our ideas about the world made themselves alive into shapes to be revealed to each other” (125). Less scintillating are predictable platitudes about family. “We have to love as much as we can, especially when it comes to family” (179), Soloway offers. This kind of banality seems beneath Soloway, more like the treacly This Is Us than what we might expect from the creator of Transparent.

Though an author’s note alerts us that Soloway will play “fast and loose” with pronouns, they offer little commentary about the title. She Wants It speaks to the book’s concerns with ambition and consent, the show’s interest in the female gaze and its demonstration of female consent. Soloway doesn’t ignore the pallor cast by cast and crew members’ accusations of Tambor’s sexual harassment on set, addressing it (inadequately, likely owing to legal issues) in a chapter titled “Oh, Fuck.” Now that Amazon has dropped Tambor from the show, a big question mark is hovering over the final season, scheduled for release next year. It’s maybe for this reason that the book feels oddly timed and not quite done, its arc incomplete like the story its telling, which includes the story of Soloway’s publicly new-ish gender journey. In a year or two, Soloway might have a clearer, more solid container for all of this. The book would be better for it.






Fall 2017 Notes & News

Below find, in order, one dispatch from Communal Presence, some news, and a pile of enthusiasms.



Last weekend I was in Berkeley for Communal Presence: New Narrative Writing Today, featuring the legends of New Narrative past and present: Bob Glück, Bruce Boone, Dodie Bellamy, Kevin Killian, Camille Roy, Renee Gladman, Dennis Cooper, Eileen Myles, Gabrielle Daniels, Matias Viegener, Roberto Bedoya, Rob Halpern, Gail Scott, yes yes and so on. Seeing all of these writers together in the same room was exhilarating and historical.

In the first plenary, devoted to Kevin and Dodie’s recent anthology Writers Who Love Too Much, Gabrielle, Matias, Roberto, Dennis, and Eileen each briefly shared their own histories and entanglements with New Narrative – how they found it, how it found them. Gabrielle, chronicling what she described as her “apprenticeship” with Bruce and Steve Abbott: “It was a time for my mind to be blown.” Roberto, on “being inside and outside of aesthetic ordering,” particularly as a writer of color: “in and out is a porous terrain of imagination.” Dennis: “Sometimes I was part of [New Narrative], like Kathy Acker, and sometimes we weren’t….now I’ve become lifelong friends with these writers.” Matias [I’m paraphrasing]: “all of us were thrown into these [given] families and then you get a choice, but so much randomness is involved…so many of the people here have become fixtures in my life, and it’s kind of miraculous.” Eileen: “I feel like I’m just hanging out with my teachers…in New York I had learned that you hung out with people who had what you wanted. Each of these guys had what I wanted and I happily took it.” Eileen on meeting Dennis: “We didn’t meet, our magazines met” (Eileen’s Dodgems meeting Dennis’s Little Caesar).

Later, Renee Gladman, in a panel called “New Enactments”: “To be in narrative now is to be in an already fractured state.” At the final marathon reading, she read a stunning piece that got cut out of Calamities; in it, she engaged with Gail Scott’s notion of “a community of sentences” to describe this whole moving architecture of interacting, communal language.


My panel was also a highlight! Sam Cohen and I organized “Bad Boundaries II: Ethics in New Narrative Writing” as a continuation of a panel we put on for the most recent &NOW Festival (2015 in Los Angeles). Maxe Crandall started it off with with a presentation on Poets Theater. “Why is Poets Theater ‘over,’” he asked, “when New Narrative is ongoing, ever-relevant?” He suggested that it may relate to a new cultural investment in the star system–“Poets Theater dies when the star system becomes real.” Three performances on Saturday revived Poets Theater works by Carla Harryman, Kevin Killian & Brian Kim Stefans, and Camille Roy; I trust Maxe (et al.) will keep the medium alive in new forms.

Our panel continued with Nikki Darling, whose paper made connections between New Narrative, magical realism, and experimental fiction as a whole, working to situate both Gloria Anzaldua and Lidia Yuknavitch within the tradition.

Then Sam and I read part of our chapbook in the works, which collects the two stories we each wrote about the other after our difficult breakup in 2015, and a conversation we’re calling “Processing: On Revision and Repair.” For the panel we read modified excerpts from that conversation, doing a kind of mutual overshare via public processing. The chapbook is an exercise in accountability and repair, and it’s a polarizing project: are we only poking at each other’s emotional leftovers, or are we working toward a new queer intimacy? We think the latter. Here we are with Stephen and Nikki post-panel.

bb crew

Stephen van Dyck, me, Sam Cohen, Nikki Darling (photo by Jess Horn)

Our panel competed with other good-looking panels, and there was much I missed overall. At the Saturday plenary, Rob Halpern and Camille Roy each read deeply affecting back-to-back pieces documenting care and grief for a lover’s gone body. And the opportunity to finally see OG New Narrativists Bob and Bruce read was a gift I don’t take for granted.

Kevin and Dodie’s Writers Who Love Too Much launches at Artists Space in NYC tomorrow. I reviewed it for 4Columns in April.


Presently going by both M. and Megan. For now I am liking holding onto my history in my name as I shift into a new embodiment. 


I’ve got two books in the works and recently signed with Rachel Crawford at Wolf Literary Services, joining some of my favorite peer contemporaries: Tom Cho, Patty Yumi Cottrell, Sarah Gerard.


I’d been working on a Best-of-2016 (yes, 2016!) type post that got sidetracked repeatedly by national and world events. Now I’ve turned it into an early Best of 2017(+), and I have beaten you all. Here are some (mostly) recently published books that have delighted and devastated me the past, oh, year or so.


Myriam Gurba, Mean   Gurba’s first memoir is officially out in a week or two; I’ve got a review forthcoming in 4Columns, so more TK. But for now: the links Gurba makes here  between her own experiences of sexual assault and a much broader rape culture that pervades everything have new timeliness in connection with the Weinstein fallout and the #metoo movement. If you know Gurba’s work at all, you’ll be expecting clever, crass humor and Mean has it in spades: the book is both devastating and devastatingly funny.

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On Names / On My Name


From 2012-13, I edited a column called Name Tags on issues and experiences related to names and naming in The Land Line, a Chicago quarterly—I am hoping to resuscitate this column eventually, maybe even soon, in a new form. At the time (and still), I had seen so many friends and partners move in and out of names, as artists, as trans people, as various public and private selves, and I was interested in learning about other people’s relationships to their names.

I was also chewing on the problem of my own name—and this problem, which is also opportunity, has become more of a dilemma now that my body’s in transit. My given name combines the common (Megan) with the unusual (Milks) and so I’ve had the experience of being called something both regular and strange much of my life. I’ve published under this name for more than fifteen years, but it has never seemed quite right—in some ways it has an “unauthorly” feel—it is quirky and clunky, a limerick’s false start. And yet it sticks in the mind, a certain advantage. I remember struggling through my first painful short stories in college and thinking to myself: Megan Milks is a funny name—why suffer so hard to write serious, Literary stories? Whether this was a form of nominal essentialism or a way of coaxing myself into queerer terrain, well, whatever.

This weekend I had the pleasure of interviewing Eli Oberman for the NYC Trans Oral History Project. Of the many experiences and insights he shared, an observation he made about dysphoria has stayed with me. He was talking about his relationship to music as a form of expression, and made the point that dysphoria doesn’t necessarily have to mean the feeling of being trapped in the wrong body or gender; it can account, too (or instead), for the feeling of being locked outside of language, of not having language to describe your experience. I am feeling this kind of dysphoria around my name right now. I feel unlanguageable. 😦 Not that “Megan” is the wrong name but that there is no right name to come into. People have been (at my direction) calling me different names; I have been introducing myself in all kinds of different ways; it is starting to really itch.

After many conversations with many friends over the past I don’t know how long, I have tried out and discarded the following names: Mason, Masen, Mazen, Madigan, Madegan, Zachary, Fred, Zig. Sig. Sigfried, M. Gay, Carroll, Question Mark Milks. I’m probably missing a few. Thank you, everyone, who has offered input and advice during this time.

What’s in a name? A rose is a rose is a – OR – Call anybody Paul and they get to be a Paul  (Gertrude Stein). For a semester, I tried on the solid letter M., but ultimately it felt too anonymous, too coy; the double M of M. Milks too thick. Also, Facebook would not let me have it—their name policies don’t allow for single initials. This is how I came to use “Maybe Milks” as my Facebook identity for a few months, until Facebook flagged me and asked for documentation I didn’t have. So I became M. E. Milks, for a time, though that did not reflect what I was going by either.

I still like Maybe as a marker, of both doubt and possibility. And I keep coming back to Henry as an option. Maybe.

DAVID: And who is Henry?
TRACY: I have never met anyone called Henry.
DAVID: So. Who is Henry?
TRACY: I don’t know. Henry is in the cinema, in movies people are called Henry.
DAVID: Which movie?
TRACY: I don’t know, all movies, any movie. They’re always called Henry.

I am currently reading the ARC of Writers Who Love Too Much, the forthcoming anthology of New Narrative writing edited by Dodie Bellamy and Kevin Killian, and just came upon this piece by Leslie Dick which is all about Henry, a name that shows up in this character Tracy’s dream.

I like that Henry links me to Henry James and thus marks a literary and nonfamilial heritage. Though I don’t think of him as so strong a literary influence as much as say Kathy Acker or Samuel Delany, Dodie Bellamy or Dennis Cooper, I have a deep appreciation for his work and feel an affinity for him as someone who wrote often about women, who dabbled in horror, who enjoyed the pleasures of cross-generational relationships, who has been read as both asexual and queer. My sentence structures are not nearly as complex and circuitous, my work rarely hinges on indirection and ambiguity; and no, I’m not claiming to be “The Master” (gag), but: I too write often about girls and women. I too dabble in horror. I too have a relationship with both asexuality and queerness. Henry! I’m you! You’re me! In part.

DAVID: So you were Henry, all the time.
TRACY: Henry is me, me as a child, not not-castrated, but not castrated either, and it’s me the powerful woman,…Henry is her and me—which isn’t that surprising, since on some level I identify with her.

I tried to get Facebook to allow me to use Megan/M. Henry Milks as a name but the slash wasn’t approved. It is difficult it seems to have an unstable identity. Facebook wants to stabilize it. I’ve capitulated; now going by M. Henry Milks on Facebook and in most professional contexts. The M stands for Maybe. It stands for M. “M. Henry” links me to Chicago, and to food; there is a popular brunch restaurant in Edgewater named M. Henry.

It also stands for Megan. While I have never felt I am “a Megan,” whatever that means, as I have tried out various alternatives, I’m appreciating its sounds and cadence more and more: especially when pronounced what I consider the American way—a short e, not the Irish e that bends into a long a. I like the hard g. I like the way the two syllables can be delivered as either spondee or trochee (yes, I’ve been teaching meter this week). Is this a form of grief? Maybe. I haven’t decided whether to kill it or not.

Ideally I’d use a string of names to reflect my divine multiplicity, like Maybe Megan Henry Carroll Magnes Upton Milks. Upton aka Uppie was my maternal gay great-great-uncle; Magnes riffs on my grandmother’s name Agnes; Carroll’s a version of my mother’s middle name. Hashtag matriarchy. Hashtag nonbinary.

This is all to say that you can call me any of the following: M. Henry, M., Henry, Megan, Megan Henry, Henry Megan, Maybe Henry, Maybe Megan, Maybe, just Maybe. For now.

Notes & Updates: Summer/Fall 2016

I started this post long ago! Will not pretend I didn’t. Here you will find: A recap of summer activities & reading notes / updates & announcements, etc.

Summer Recap

June 2016: I’m in Lawrence for two weeks, participating in speculative fiction novel camp for two weeks with friends and friends of friends at the University of Kansas. Three weeks ago, I attended WisCon, the feminist science fiction convention in Madison. I’ve been participating in an Octavia Butler reading group, where we read Butler and other feminist science fiction. When I return, I’ll be teaching a workshop in speculative writing (sign up here!) (September update: This didn’t happen due to bad timing and low enrollment. Would love to try again.) Then moving to New York. (Update: DONE.) It’s been a specfic summer, in other words.

Highlights from novel workshop:

Group plotting FTW! Look how my M moved, became clean and possible! (By M, I mean the shape of the novel, in four arcs. Speaking of M’s: I’m going by M now, transitionally–more on that below.)

At the suggestion of fellow KU novel workshopper and fantastic writer Brooke Wonders, I picked up a copy of The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, a new anthology series developed by John Joseph Adams; this year’s editor is Joe Hill. This first volume collects a ton of writers who participate in/are associated with WisCon (i.e., write feminist, antiracist, proqueer)—like Sofia Samatar, one of this year’s guests of honor, who has not one, but two stories here.

Her “How to Get Back to the Forest” is one of the best stories I’ve read: it appeals entirely to my interests. It recasts bulimia as a survival mode: girls at camp using self-induced vomiting in an effort to get rid of bugs that have been implanted at the bottom of their throats. In her notes on the story (included in the appendix), Samatar brings the story into conversation with Eileen Myles’ “Everyday Barf,” Dodie Bellamy’s Barf Manifesto, and Kate Zambreno’s chapbook Apoplexia, Toxic Shock, and Toilet Bowl: Some Notes on Why I Write. Really smart, horrifying, sometimes funny, tremendously moving story that thinks eating disorders in a speculative register.



Another recent read is Sarah Schulman’s The Cosmopolitans: which is fantastic in a superlative if not speculative way. I suggested it for my queer/trans/feminist book club and was so looking forward to talking about it with other people; but Book Club LET ME DOWN, i.e., I was the only one who finished it. Okay, in their defense, yes, we’ve all had busy summers, and as it’s a newer book on an independent press, there weren’t many library copies available. (This issue of accessibility has been an ongoing problem for our book club; if we want to read contemporary queer and trans literature, much of which is published on small independent presses, there usually are no or few library copies. We need to get more queer and trans lit into libraries.)

On The Cosmopolitans: structurally one of the most elegant and well-executed novels I’ve read. I was deeply impressed by Schulman’s mastery of the form; the depth of character, the links to theater, the surprises, the authorial intrusions, the winkingly anachronistic style: the book takes place in 1958 and has the affective and stylistic texture of a book of the 50s. Indeed, it’s very Baldwin-esque, and his Another Country is mentioned by the author as an informing text in her author’s note.

It’s a novel of friendship, and I think more successful than Hanya Yanagihara’s A Little Life in creating a complex worldview and addressing head-on the ways in which friendship is complicated by difference. The central relationship is formed between a white straight cis woman and an African-American gay cis man. Schulman carefully crafts a narrative that, at the same time as it prioritizes lifelong friendship over sexual/romantic relationships, also legitimizes Earl’s desire for a lover/boyfriend. The novel seems very interested in demarcating the gaps and fissures in Bette and Earl’s relationship, creating parallax by presenting it through both characters’ eyes to show that each one is getting something valuable—if different—from the relationship.

I haven’t read Balzac’s Cousin Bette, one of Schulman’s models for the book, but saw a connection to Henry James’s Beast in the Jungle, which similarly chronicles the lifelong nonsexual relationship between a (presumably gay or asexual) man, John Marcher, and a straight woman, May Bertram, who, the story suggests, wants more than friendship from John—but this uneven desire remains unspoken between them. Schulman’s novel can be read in some ways as a corrective to James’s story, which presents nonsexual hetero friendship as a beard, a pretense. In The Cosmopolitans the friendship is real, valuable, prioritized: although each individual is getting something different out of it, and ultimately Earl needs something else in addition to (not instead of) this friendship.

My main question for my book club, which hangs unanswered in my meeting notes, but maybe you’ll want to think through this with me, is as follows: is Bette’s desire for Truth, her relentless insistence upon and near-maniacal investment in it—heroic or tragic? Or both.


September/October 2016 Updates & Announcements

I taught Sofia’s speculative bulimia story in my intro to CW class last week. Still so impressed with it.

My own contribution to the conversation on bulimic writing is forthcoming in a scholarly volume called Reading and Writing Experimental Texts: Critical Innovations edited by Robin Silbergleid and Kristina Quynn. My chapter “Blah Blah Bleh: Bulimic Writing as Resistance” thinks through Bellamy’s and Zambreno’s theorizations from a feminist disability studies lens while engaging with literary criticism’s historical reliance on pathologizing reading practices. This is an essay that’s gone through many versions: first published in much different, more personal form in Mildred Pierce 5: Comedy and the Grotesque; later funneled through a Society for Disability Studies conference paper; now in happily hybrid semi-academic state.

I’m living in New York now, teaching and writing.

I’m going by “M” until I land on a new name. I’ve got this Name Tags series on names/naming in the works for Entropy but haven’t followed through with it while deliberating over my own name stuff. What’s my name? Is it Zig? Mason? Zegan? Maze? Marzipan? Taking votes.

Shortly before moving, I took one last trip to Chicago to see some friends and meet with Cheryl Wollner who interviewed me for Luna Station Quarterly.

Asexualities: Feminist and Queer Perspectives, which I co-edited with KJ Cerankowski, will be available in paperback soon–exciting! Will make it much more accessible to folks without access to academic libraries. We were never happy about the price tag of the volume.

I’ll be in Indiana in October as part of University of Indianapolis’s Kellogg Writers Series

…and in Toronto in November as part of the Naked Heart LGBTQ Festival of Words.

Otherwise, not leaving. New York folks, say hi. Everyone else, come visit.