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.