Milcah Halili Orbacedo Interviews Wendy C. Ortiz


Wendy C. Ortiz’s searing new memoir of growing up in Southern California in the ’80s and ’90s, Excavation, unearths the complicated legacy her five-year relationship with her charming and flawed teacher 15 years her senior. Her teacher — now a registered sex offender — encouraged her passion for writing while making her promise not to leave any written account of their dangerous sexual relationship. Excavation is just out from Future Tense.

You could make multiple twitter accounts from the different voices you use in your writing. In the business world, lacking a singular voice makes one less marketable. What drives you to write in your multiple voices when writing in a more singular voice may promote more traditional success?

If I stuck to one voice when in reality I contain a multiplicity of voices I wouldn’t feel like I’ve maintained the integrity of my work (and possibly my identities). Writing memoir specifically, it feels essential to me to unleash as many of the voices as possible (the ones I have access to, anyway). I also prefer a world where our multiple identities are given free range—which flies in the face of a singular voice and making one’s self “more” or “less” marketable. (The 28 year old in me is reading this going, Just how “marketable” have you ever been, and has being marketable ever really motivated you? for example.)

Excavation: a Memoir was just released this summer by Future Tense Books. Your next book, Hollywood Notebook, will be published by Writ Large Press in fall/winter. Will you offer readers of Hollywood Notebook a voice similar to Excavation? What should we expect next?

Hollywood Notebook takes place in Los Angeles after I’d spent eight years in Olympia, Washington in two separate serial monogamist relationships. I landed in my studio apartment in Hollywood, single, living alone for the first time in years. The voice spans the ages of twenty-eight to thirty-three and is very much influenced by the books, people, music, and experiences of that time. I call it a prose poem-ish memoir, as it contains eighty-some short chapters in the form of paragraphs, lists, and stream-of-consciousness passages.

After Hollywood Notebook I’m interested in returning to other works-in-progress: a book of music-themed essays, poetry centered on my mother and grandmother and our entwined relationships, a memoir based on my Modern Love column, and a memoir about the period in Olympia between the ages of 20-28 which I think of as a long gestation, and some other secret things.

If you could blend two of your voices together from any of your works (On the Trail of Mary Jane, Excavation, your essays at The Nervous Breakdown or Specter, etc.) which two voices would complement each other the most? Do you have a masterplan to eventually merge all your voices? Or you do enjoy the compartmentalization?

I’m fond of the voices that find themselves in my fiction (like “Black Car Land” in Specter, and some other fiction I’m working on)—there’s a starkness to the voices I feel both comfortable and very uncomfortable with. In some ways I blend the voices together when I put two stories next to one another, as I’m doing now with some fiction. The themes start to emerge from placing the work together and paying attention to whether the voices are complementary or not. The only master plan I have to is to see where the voices go, any of them, all of them.

No matter the voice, your writing is always very corporeal and visceral. You are very generous when it comes to material and emotional details, and it balances out very well. What are the physical drives that take you to the corporeal and visceral in your writing? What about the body and the emotions it manifests inspires you to write in such a way?

As someone who has struggled, then learned, then forgot, then remembered to stay in her body most of her life, focusing in on the corporeal and visceral feels necessary. It’s also what I enjoy about some of my favorite writers, how they bring me back to my body with their texts.

What would you say is the over-arching theme of your writing, the heart of your work?

I hesitate to say there’s one over-arching theme. If we think of a heart, the human heart with its four chambers, I might say abandonment (from others, of others, and of self); embodiment (of identities that help one to survive, however ‘survive’ is identified); exploration and troubling of the idea that there are only two sides to every story (which I don’t believe—I think there are many); and transformation. (It’s important to note that this is what I think today; if you asked me this yesterday or ask me tomorrow, the answer might differ. It’s not always static.)

Oakland Queer: An Anthology edited by Ariel Gore

Call for submissions

In the tradition of the LAMBDA Award-winning anthology Portland Queer: Tales Of The Rose City, emerges a new anthology to celebrate queer Oakland. We’re seeking character-driven, first person queer narratives set in Oakland, California.

Stories may be fiction or memoir or hybrid, set in any decade, but should have a clear Oakland connection — neighborhood-centric stories especially appreciated – growing up in Oakland, adventures in queer Oakland, moving to Oakland, raising kids in Oakland, work, art, falling in and out of love, finding and losing home, punk houses, band shows, regular urban life. What is your Oakland queer story?

Submission Deadline February 1

Please send submissions to or to:

Ariel Gore ℅ Hip Mama

P.O. Box 3555

Berkeley, CA, 94703

Spitboy: An Interview with Michelle Gonzales, by Breezy Barcelo

I recently had the lucky chance of interviewing Michelle Gonzales, author of Pretty Bold For a Mexican Girl: Growing up in a Hick Town, former drummer and lyricist of the 1990s female punk band Spitboy, and creator of the zine Spitboy Rule. Check it out!


On the first page of your zine, you mention that being in Spitboy was one of the most formative experiences of your life – that you gained confidence, self-knowledge, etc. When did you realize that?

Michelle: I think I knew all along that I was gaining these things: I especially remember getting really comfortable during interviews, speaking articulately and confidently about women’s issues, and I was only between 21 and 26 during my days in Spitboy. I remember realizing at one point that I was able to answer interview questions more easily and clearly than when we first started. The self-knowledge grew over time, as it tends to do, but Spitboy spent a great deal of time reflecting on our experiences, processing out loud and being mindful. That was a good practice to learn in my twenties that served me well when I went back to school, became a mom, and began teaching community college.

In “The Spitboy Rule” story, it cracked me up when you said, “For some reason we always broke down in Wyoming. Wyoming was Spitboy’s Bermuda Triangle.” When I was 18, 19, and 20 and traveling with a bus full of punk and hippie kids, we always seemed to break down or get stuck with no gas money in the middle of Wyoming or Nebraska! Of all the time I’ve spent in big cities or camping in the middle of nowhere, and not feeling scared much, I was genuinely scared a couple of times in those states. Were you ever super scared in those breakdowns?

Michelle: You’re not the first person to comment on that Spitboy’s Bermuda Triangle line. I do remember being scared. In fact, I remember not opting to be one of the people who walked/hitchhiked to a service station to get help. Karin, our guitar player did that, and Paula too, since she knew how to work on cars, to talk parts. I stayed back with the van and read a book in an attempt to calm myself. I grew up with a lot of chaos, so I wasn’t always a lot of help in situations where I couldn’t imagine the outcome. People would usually look at us weird when they’d stop to help us or when we’d come sputtering into their service station, but on that first tour when it was just the four of us – four women – people were very willing to help us, even if it was in that “What-seems-to-be-the-problem-little-lady?” sort of way.

I can just picture “Huggy Bear Boy.” In fact, I’m pretty sure I dated him. Were there a lot of odd balls you had to interact with after your shows?

Michelle: Huggy Bear Boy was a nice guy. I just didn’t want to hug him or anybody else I didn’t know. Most people we met on tour were super nice. I do remember that there was one guy in particular in, I think, Savannah, Georgia, we were pretty freaked out by. I don’t remember his name, but he organized our show. We played in what seemed like sort of a biker bar, but it was an all ages show, since that’s all we would play – all ages venues. We went to the guy’s house before the show, and he had a bunch of reptiles, and the place smelled terrible. He was also the leering creepy type, and we were supposed to stay the night at his place after the show. We lied to him telling him that we had to leave that night because we had a long drive in front of us. We drove somewhere near the beach, slept in the van, and went to the beach in the morning before leaving for our next show. This is probably an example of one of the many ways being a band of women is quite different than being all-male.

After you made your statement on stage: “We’re not a riot grrl band,” did you have to explain yourself a lot? How did you, and how did you feel about having to do that?

Michelle: Everywhere we’d gone prior to making that statement, people had asked us if we were a riot grrl band. We had really grown tired of it. We did make enemies. A lot of riot grrls really hated us for it, which didn’t feel good at all, but we couldn’t really blame them after I had been so undiplomatic. Later, when we put out our “Mi Cuerpo Es Mio 7”, a riot grrl accused us of cultural appropriation. I’m writing a piece about this right now. I don’t think we would have been accused of cultural appropriation if I hadn’t said “We’re not a riot grrl band” in public. The accusation was a low blow and misdirected too since I’m a Chicana and the name of the 7” was my idea – a way for me to have the band represent an element of the band that we had never represented before – my Chicanisma.

You said at the end you would have gone about things differently, but not much differently. I’m glad. We needed girls like you in the scene to get the ball of change rolling. I mean, my boyfriend is a total feminist, so I’m glad you said that.

Michelle: Riot grrl was a really important movement, but it wasn’t our movement. Spitboy formed before riot grrl became a national movement, but I’m still really glad that they existed, but we existed too.

Just one last question before you go: What would you say to a young, feminist artist who is at that stage that you were when you first got to school and first met Adrienne? You mentioned that you didn’t know what you wanted to do and didn’t even know if you belonged in school.

Michelle: Since I’m now a community college English instructor, I think I have to say that you shouldn’t ever rule out school. I believe that too, that if you’re not ready for school, you can always go back later like I did. In fact, I know that I got a lot more out of college since I went back full-time in my late twenties, and I brought the confidence that I gained in Spitboy and the life experience to my classwork, which really helped all the studying, tests, and essays feel relevant and real-world. When I first went to college, I had no idea what I was doing, how to apply what I was learning, or how to navigate the complicated system of academia, and I also wanted to be making music. Some people can do both, but I wasn’t one of those people. If this young female artist is a true artist who does her research and engages in an artistic community, that can be an education too.

Thank you so much for taking time to answer my questions and to make your zine! Where can we all read MORE?

Michelle: The Spitboy Rule: Tales of a Female Punk Band zine can be ordered for $4 plus shipping from Etsy at
or $3 plus shipping via Paypal:

Additional Spitboy Rule pieces can be read for free at


Breezy Barcelo loves to write, make crafts and hang out with kids (including her own). She is currently working on a zine with her teenage daughter called Motherkin.

My Religion

New Prose by Jenny Forrester

I wanted to be good, and I wanted life to be fair.

Mom and I sat on the porch, and I told her how I thought things should be.

“You know how Joseph Smith created a whole new religion based on the idea that white people had been to this place before and that the Indians and white people had lived together before, long ago, but the white people all died out and left this great religion, etched into tablets and buried it all for the return of the white people to America.”

I reasoned that I could write a religion that allowed women to be equal to men.

I said, “Women could have multiple husbands.”

Mom said, “I don’t want even one husband.”

We laughed as the sun set over the chalk-colored hills and the great mesa in the distance and the mountains behind us became dark giants.

“What are you laughing about,” my brother wanted to know, his hair shuffled on his head, no t-shirt over his rib-ragged chest.

“Oh, nothing,” my mom said. She shushed me with her gaze.

This was one of those conversations that wasn’t for my brother Brian’s ears.

Later, mom said, “You can have children without being married.  If you get married because you’re pregnant, you’re making two mistakes instead of just one.” But she looked me in the eye and said, “You, of course, don’t have to worry about any of that yet.  Not until you’re much older.”

When I told her that there were girls in this town having sex already, she said, “Well, that couldn’t be true.”

And then she said, “If they are, they’ll ruin their reputations.”

I would have to learn how to navigate mixed messages.


Jenny Forrester was the 2011 recipient of the Richard Hugo House New Works Competition award and has been published in a variety of places including Nailed Magazine, Penduline Press, Hip Mama Magazine, and Indiana Review. She and Ariel Gore co-edited the anthology The People’s Apocalypse. She’s the curator of Portland’s Unchaste Readers Series.

Back Curved Like a Swan, Arms Free

New memoir excerpt from Bastard Child of a Renegade Nun by Laura Green

“I can’t believe you have this book in your apartment.”

From where I’m sitting on the floor by the bookshelf I can only see the leaping crest of Tara’s bangs over the couch’s cat-shredded arm.

“Oh my god, it’s porn.”

Is that bad? I can’t tell, which makes me want to grab The New Our Bodies, Ourselves from her hands. Or knock her out. Or stay very still.

Sex is dangerous. Sex is all-you-can-eat at my favorite restaurant and everything’s free but half the food’s poison. I’m starving all the time but I don’t want to be the first to sink a fork in.

I thought I was safe with Tara. I thought she was just as grease-stained and drooling as I am, because a few weeks ago she showed me three condoms and a thick pink rod in her mom’s nightstand. The rod had a turn on switch. It was splayed and nubbed at one end like the nose of the star-nosed mole I saw at the Museum of Science. Tara said I couldn’t touch anything in the drawer because her mom would know, but I think Tara touches that rod.

Is twelve too old to like the Museum of Science? I worry that going there’s something I shouldn’t admit to. Especially going there with my mom. Twelve. Twelve is too old, isn’t it? To kneel by the egg-shaped chick incubator? Hatch, chicks. Hatch before I move on.

Maybe Tara’s never touched the rod. Maybe she would never even think of it.

“It’s, like, a medical book,” I dodge. There are medical things in the book, but – come on, who am I kidding? It has a chapter called “Sexual Pleasure and Enthusiastic Consent.” Enthusiastic.

“It totally tells how to do it.” Tara sounds triumphant. Why? What has she found out? I’m sure it’s worse than I’ve feared. I should run. What should I grab? What should I cover? Her bangs quiver like antennae in a buffeting wind.

It does tell how to do it. The New Our Bodies, Ourselves tells about all different ways to do it. It tells how to do it if you’re in a wheelchair. In one place it even tells about ladies doing it to each other.

“Really?” I try to sound surprised. My spine is prickling. “Gross.” Is it gross that I have this book in my apartment? Is it great? Is this book more dirty than condoms and star-nosed rods? Is it dirty in a worse way? I can’t know from just Tara’s bangs.

One time, weeks ago, I rubbed lotion that smelled like peach-scented plastic on Tara’s puffy breasts. She’s covered in freckles, but not in places the sun’s never touched. Those places were pale white with blue veins. It doesn’t mean she couldn’t turn on me.

And one time we pretended I was Mr. Harrison, our woodworking teacher with whom Tara’s in love. Tara lay under me while I struggled to get my hand so my fingers could reach inside her. I needed to do it without breaking the belly-to-belly sex position I think Mr. Harrison would employ.

She was soft and warm down there; inside she was slick and pillow-y. I didn’t expect it to be so slick, almost pleated. It was different than I am inside, I think. Was it? I was so afraid while it was happening I could only hold on to every third or fourth thought. I wanted to change positions so I could slide my whole finger in, but that’s not how sex works.

After a while Tara said she was going to be Mr. Harrison and we flipped so Mr. Harrison could press herself against my thigh.

We were just practicing, though. It isn’t like I thought that was a real thing. Tara and I aren’t like the homos in The New Our Bodies, Ourselves. Is that what she thought I thought? Was she mad about it? Is she here to get evidence? But she did it too. Will anyone believe me?

“Don’t act like you haven’t read it. You’ve totally read this a million times.”

Of course I have. At least a million, which is why it’s so strange I’ve never seen the little red journal before, just three books over from Our Bodies Ourselves. Its spine is no thicker than my pinkie. It says RECORD in shiny gold letters. There’s a shiny gold box around the word and smaller boxes all up and down the spine. The other books in the bookcase are soft-covers with cracked bindings mashed to just white paper at their corners. This is something different.

“What time does your mom get home?” Tara asks, tipping her head back so I can see her pink forehead and the end of her flat, speckled nose.

“I don’t know, like, five-thirty?” I’ve sunk into matching positions with her. Head against the wall, back against the floor, knees tenting up in front of me. Book balanced against my legs.

“What time is it now?” Tara voice is still sharp, it could be a trick. Her questions could mean anything. What time is it now. What does that mean?

The journal’s cover is slightly bumpy. When I hold it at an angle I can see it’s etched with a pattern that looks like the residue of thousands of tiny bubbles, popped. It’s marbled like an Easter egg. It’s as light as an egg. I crack it open.

The pages are measured out in tightly spaced baby blue lines running horizontally with one pale pink vertical stripe at their left edge. My mother’s handwriting slants along the blue lines in dark blue pen. Neat and even like a lake being blown by a steady breeze.

In the open space at the top before the measuring begins she’s written, June 13, ’75. Three months before I was born.

Here you are, six months old already and I’ve talked with you so many times. When I found out you were with me a warm feeling came over me, which has never left–not even for a moment. It’s like having all my hopes and desires of a lifetime fulfilled.

I close the cover quickly. My heart feels too near my skin. This is from when I was not separate. This is from when I was only imagined. From when everything was still furled tight and I might become a thousand different people. Now so much set and unchangeable. My throat feels stretched, like I’m trying to choke down all the years.

The bend in my neck and the hard knot of time in my esophagus make it hard for blood to get through. I can feel it struggling below my jaw. I can hear it.

“Hey, what time is it now?” Tara corkscrews her body and pushes herself up so her head is propped on the arm of the couch. “What’s that?” she asks, pointing her chin at the journal.

“Nothing. For homework,” I improvise. “Four? Prolly?”

My mom from long before. Here in this book. Talking to me. It’s toppled me so completely I forgot about navigating Tara. I forgot the perils on the couch right in front of me. The thousand different people this moment could turn me into.

“Wanna read it in your room?” She thumps the thick book filled with sex that’s wedged between her chest and the couch. Relief. It washes away the knot. I swallow it. We’ll read the book and practice stuff. It won’t fill all my brain. Worry will still chatter in the background, but it will be a mumble, not a howl.

I lead the way. Another step further from being curled tight and perfect, another step I won’t be able to walk back.

I don’t put the journal on the bookshelf. I take it with me. It was written to me. It’s mine. I close the door to my room, my door. Lock my lock. I have a lock. It feels like just another thing that I’ve made up, but I pinch and twist – I feel it click. The knob won’t turn now. What if my mom comes home early? What if, like God, she’s always watching me? I need to close her out. I need to keep her close.

Under my bed there’s a Converse shoebox where I hide my diary. It’s a gigantic box for the gigantic men’s high-top leather sneakers I make my mom buy me. I like them in a size that exceeds my feet by inches. I’m too tall for my age, I have breasts and hips and my period already, and I hope maybe no one will notice. Maybe no one will see it–me.

They do, of course. Once a boy called me Green Giant. Jolly Green Giant. Do they all call me that? All of them. All of them do, but despite it, I intend to grow. The giant shoes make me trip climbing stairs and I have to take them off to run or to walk on anything but perfectly flat, well swept terrain. My mom thinks it’s weird and hysterical that I want them, but I need them. I need the extra space. There’s more of me, I’m sure of it.

There’s plenty of room in their box for this book. I drop it in. I take out the peach scented lotion.

“The person reading gets a backrub. You read first.” This is one of the ways to start. She lies on a pillow on my rug.

She points at a drawing, “Gross! Who’s that hairy?!” I push up her shirt. She reaches around and arcs like a swimmer, then it’s over her head and off.

“Gross,” I agree. In the twisting my pillow moved. I can see its flowered case between her legs.

“Lips,” she reads in disgust. “Our lips.” She laughs and laughs. I laugh.

We both know this food is poison but we’ve skipped so many meals and you can die from hunger too.

I tug on the waistband of her stirrup pants. She lifts her hips so I can pull them down.

My mom fell asleep before I did.

If I fall asleep while she’s still awake and the house is lighted, while she’s still tending things and taking care of us and moving, then I’m okay. Mostly. But if I’m still awake when she turns out the lights in the living room and kitchen and the only light left is the one by her bed and then if she snaps off even that yellow bit of consciousness–if I’m still awake then–I’m doomed.

Because of the Museum of Science, I know this sort of magic trick. You stand in a doorway and open your arms to the sides like wings. The doorjamb stops them, but you have to keep pressing against it as hard as you can for a slow count of 60. After enough time your arms re-calibrate. They accept this new intense and specific gravity and resign themselves to live under it forever. Then, just when they start to forget the press of the world they came from, you step into the room and your arms fly from your body like snipped balloons. That’s what nighttime is, but instead of my arms it’s my whole being flying away.

Don’t be such a baby, I coach myself, You’re twelve years old. What are you, scared of the dark?

It isn’t the dark. It’s the space.

Where am I? Where are my edges?

I sit up and reach for the wooden dowel folded into the bottom of my shade. I tug it and it springs up, unlatched, from my hand. The pink haze of the streetlight near my room shines in, but weakly. It isn’t enough to pin me in this moment, which is gone already.

I try praying. Dear God, please make me believe in you. If you exist make me believe in you. It instantly makes me feel guilty. If God exists he should be spending time saving babies with no lips and holes in their spines and women trapped in lagoons by scaled and yellow-eyed creatures. I’m just one girl in one moment in endless, sprinting time. One tiny flick of girl. I’m sorry , I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Small and selfish. Pompous. Presumptuous. What kind of God would notice me?

If I get up and walk the ten or twelve steps from my room to my mom’s room I can climb into her bed and that will be enough, but I’m twelve. I swore off sleeping in my mom’s bed when I turned nine and again when I turned ten. Eleven. Don’t be a baby. You just need to stop it. STOP IT. But I can’t. I need something outside of me to make me stop. I hang myself over the edge and pull out my box, slide the lid off and pull out the red journal.

July, 31 1975 Today I’m worried about you. The doctor said you were small for your age. Up until two weeks ago you were big for your age. What happened to you? Aren’t you eating well? Please, please grow big soon.

I will! I do! I’m fine, pregnant mom. I turn out fine. For a second it’s comforting to know how it turns out. Then it’s just horribly sad that it’s always turning.

August 2 Today you had the hiccups! Or at least I think you did. Maybe you were just kicking with rhythm. You’ll have to try out different instruments!

September 1 You’ve been so active lately. I hope you’ll always be this energetic and happy. I have so many things I should be doing but I spend hours just marveling at you. You’re not even born yet and already I can’t concentrate on anything but you.

This is the God I need. Who can make me and carry me and still think that I am the miracle. That I’m reason enough.

But she isn’t a god, and someday there will just be this book. The thought makes hot fear pool in the base on my brain. Or cold – the kind of cold that burns your skin clean off.

October 1st. I’m born. You like to lie in the opposite direction of the fetal position with your back curved like a swan and your arms free. My darling, I hope you’ll find the freedom you seem to want, and that, in some small way, you’ll make this world a freer place to live in.

But I didn’t want to be free.

I wanted to be held.

Laura Green lives in Portland, Oregon. She’s working on a memoir tentatively called Bastard Child of a Renegade Nun (plus half-Mexican and gay). Please contact her if you have an elegant way to work it all into a title.

Online Writing Workshops with Ariel Gore


I was at a loss after finishing my MFA program… But after eight years of infrequent publishing and no time to write, I found an alternative that works for me. Three years ago, I hooked up with Ariel Gore’s online Literary Kitchen workshops and finally found a group that was the right fit for me: writers not full of privilege (and themselves) who offer honest criticism and support at the same time, and whose work I truly enjoy reading. And that infrequent publishing? It’s not so infrequent anymore.

—Margaret Garcia, Poets & Writers


Lit Star Training

The Original Literary Kitchen Online Writing Workshop

Taught by Ariel Gore

September 6 – Early November This class is full. Email arielgoremedia at gmail dot com to get on the waiting list.


A new session of Lit Star Training — the 8-week+ writing course taught by Ariel Gore — starts September 6. Writers in Lit Star Training spend at least a few hours each week on their writing and online critiques. You can log in any time of the day or night. Writers in the group are new and seasoned, wanting to work on memoir or fiction. The class works as well for those writing to weekly assignments (with no big projects in mind) and for people who are starting or working on existing book projects.

The class is $295 — a $90 deposit will hold your spot. You can pay the deposit right here:

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Online Creative Writing Class Taught by Ariel Gore
November 8 – December 8
This fall, I’m offering a special 4-week session of Lit Star Training. Writers in Lit Star Training spend at least a few hours each week on their writing and online critiques. You can log in any time of the day or night. Writers in the group are new and seasoned, wanting to work on memoir or fiction. The class works as well for those writing to weekly assignments (with no big projects in mind) and for people who are starting or working on existing book projects.
Class size is limited, so please sign up early.
Cost of the workshop is $155

A $55 deposit saves your spot.

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Online Creative Writing Course Taught by Ariel Gore
Power Through the Holidays with 12 Assignments in 14 Days
December 19 – January 1
Always the most popular class in the kitchen. Instead of having a nervous breakdown, use the holiday weeks to produce up to 100 pages of new writing.

You’ll get 12 assignments in 14 days and lots of great feedback (an-assignment-a-day & take 2 days of your choosing off.)

Class size is limited, so please sign up early.


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Ariel Gore is a fabulous workshop facilitator; I’ve been taking classes from her since 2001. In each of the workshops, she brings together a diverse group of writers with varying degrees of competency; and, whether the writer is seasoned or a beginner, she understands exactly where each person is coming from and she meets them there. Not only did I find my unique voice, I learned how to be a thoughtful listener and how to provide insightful critique. I would recommend her workshops to anyone interested in memoir and the art of a good story.

—Lani Jo Leigh


Ariel’s workshops jump-started my psyche. I’m back into looking at the world as a writer instead of as a would-be writer. I have her to thank for that. Workshops are almost at your own pace. Always encouraging. She has a knack for assembling a great group of writers together every time.

—Margaret Elysia Garcia


Ariel Gore’s writing workshop pushed me past the borders of my creativity and into an exciting unknown place of writing within myself. If you’ve ever put to pen to paper and wondered what you were really capable of Ariel’s workshop will take you there.

—Gabrielle Rivera


I thoroughly enjoy Ariel’s workshops. Writers from a variety of backgrounds gather together, bringing in work with all kinds of themes, and as each piece is workshopped, Ariel’s ear for the crucial aspects of great storytelling kicks right in. Her feedback is thoughtful, insightful, precise, and multilayered.

—Bonnie Ditlevsen


When I started writing with Ariel, I had zero idea how to write for audience. In work shopping with her, I have found my voice and with practice have found different ways to formulate story. I have learned how to incorporate dialogue and am so much more confident with my work. I recommend this workshop to all aspiring, practicing, and practiced writers.

—Krystee Sidwell


Read The Greatest Most Traveling Circus!

What is The Greatest Most Traveling Circus, you ask?

Why, it’s a mythical place, a philosophy of life, a new book you’ll love.

It’s a collection of stories about vampires and superheroes, gypsy curses, giant killer robots, psychics, love potions, bar fights over stolen angel wings, and imaginary monsters.

It’s also a novel about overcoming depression, handling loss, and trying to find meaning in a world where the supernatural isn’t the hardest part of life to accept.

It’s the most fabulous book behind the most understated cover. And it will make you happy to be alive.

The print edition of The Greatest Most Traveling Circus is all yours from Sweet Candy Press: And there’s a Kindle edition, too.

Ariel: I fell in love with The Greatest Most Traveling Circus almost immediately when I cracked the cover. I could just feel the joy emanating from the pages. Is writing for you as joyous a process as it seems from the reading point of few—or more an arduous art?

Jonas: It was definitely a joy. I loved telling these stories. I would get immersed in them for long stretches of time. I’d write at work, at home, during my commute to work, in the bathroom; practically everywhere. When I wasn’t writing, I was still thinking about the characters and story lines. It was really exhilarating. On the train home from work, I’d write something that would have me literally laughing out loud, and I’d get a little worried that people around me thought that I was a crazy person. Then some parts actually had me in tears right after I wrote them. I can think of a few parts in particular that hit me pretty hard.

I mean, it was draining at the same time.  There’s quite a lot of really personal stuff embedded in there. But writing it never felt like a chore.

Ariel: Can we talk about genre? Your book had been called an anthology but also a novel. What more can you tell me about the genre? I usually think of an anthology as multi-author, and all these stories are written by you. And I think of a novel as single-author and single-protagonist…

Jonas: I was really torn on whether to call it an anthology or a novel. Technically, it’s an anthology. But at one point during the writing, I started thinking of each story more as a chapter. There are recurring themes, a lot of characters reappear or are mentioned in several stories, and often details in one story resolve or unfold certain situations from previous stories. I wanted it to feel like an anthology at first, then unfold slowly in a way that feels like one story with a large cast of characters. I think, for me at least, the character Ramona is the protagonist, and the whole book is building up to her story.

Ariel: A theme of the book—right from the start—seems to be a certain randomness of existence. I was recommending it to someone and I called it “kind of a beach read that is also meditation on existential philosophy.” Do you think that’s a fair characterization? Or am I just maybe feeling very random and reading into it?

Jonas: That’s a perfect way to put it! I was reading an awful lot of philosophy while I was writing the book.  Right from the beginning, what I tired to do was tackle a lot of very complicated philosophical ideas within the context of very simple stories. The layers are there, but you don’t have to dig for them to enjoy the book. I didn’t want it to be stuffy. Then, yes, many of the characters each seem to be in the middle of an existential crisis, you know, looking for a deeper personal meaning to life—which they realize, for better or worse, through the friendships they build.

Ariel: How long did it take to write The Greatest Most Traveling Circus? What do you like about the final product?

Jonas: I wrote the first stories around 2006 or so. I’d write large batches of them, compile them and give them to my wife as small gifts. I started writing the Amazing Man stories just after the Virginia Tech massacre in 2007. The inspiration was pretty clear at the time, you know, contrasting the renewed excitement over superheroes in movies with a tragic mass murder; you know, the fascination with superheroes in a country that keeps showing us very real, dangerous villains.  It’s mind-boggling that, since then, superhero movies have become even more popular, and there have been many more mass murders like the Virginia Tech shooting. I mean, there was that Colorado shooting in 2012, where the shooter actually referred to himself as The Joker, and went on his rampage at the premier of a superhero flick.

But yeah, around 2007 is when I started to look at the work as a cohesive book and not just a set of stories that occasionally intersected.  I finished it around the spring of 2011, but then there were edits here and there right up until it was published.

I’m really happy with how it all comes together, but I still think it works if you just flip through it and read the individual stories at random.

I’m a Liar

“Is it even ethical to write a memoir as an amnesiac?”


by Avery Cassell

I want to die in the present, not the past. Will that happen, or will I be buried beneath the weight of my wispy past, my past that smothers me, yet when I try to write it down runs away, leaving me with only smokey remnants?

My memories are brilliantly glimmering, yet fleeting. I don’t feel strong enough to make this gift for you, this gift of possibilities and deliverance. And I wonder, is it even ethical to write a memoir as an amnesiac? It isn’t that I don’t remember being a child, however all I remember are odd snippets, with my family almost completely removed from my stories. My reputation inside of my family was that of the overly dramatic, habitual liar. Add a dollop of secrecy and dissociation bred by incest, growing up in Iran where paranoia ran hand in hand with Savak, and you suddenly have a child who felt it was safer to stow memories away tightly. I am the scurrying secretive one that everyone avoids in the lunchroom for fear of contamination. I’m the different one even now, bearing the scars of my past like stigmata. I want you to like me. I want to tell you a common story about watching Gunsmoke on television, eating McDonald’s hamburgers, bullied at school for being queer, and avoiding my senior prom. I want to tell these stories so that we can bond. I cannot. Mass burial pits, Savak, dinosaur bones, chamber pots, roasted baby camel, my father’s hand on my thigh. . . and I’m undone, floating through life alone at age five.

Is this a dream, or is it real? I was always the one with too many stories, the liar, the daydreamer in the back of the classroom, smelling of chalk dust and cobwebs, and doodling in my notebook with my dry heart wandering. And is this another tale from the prodigal daughter? The child that returns over and over looking for love, only to be sacrificed, head down and splayed like an insect.

I’m sitting in Tartine Bakery eating a coconut tart, searching the Friday morning crowds for the most gullible one. I’m going to give you my story. I’m the nicest girl, the one with lush crinolines and an Easter bonnet looking at you slyly from beneath my curls.

This prologue is a scrawl upon a coffee-stained notebook written in the last row. It is a nothing–a fable invented by the worst child imaginable. An incorrigible brat, a fire-starter with one hand on a blade held to her forearm, and the other clenching a bottle of Turkish vodka. I’m the evilest girl; we all know this daughter, the one with her sly eyes cutting whomever she sees to shreds.

This is the story I tell over and over, polishing the details. I dissect it into piles of truth, possible truth, and you-must-be-nuts. No, really. I toss each tid-bit onto their stack grimly. I’m going to catalog this day into a linear narrative that shines like a row of cobalt blue glasses on a window shelf in the sun. Just send this beauty into me like a sliver of glass, straight into my cunt; I’m crucified for your secrets. This day will become a nothing day, just like the day before it and the day after.

I was a boy. I was a boy on that day. I became a boy on that day. I became an artist on that day. Boyhood has nothing to do with pissing standing up, or trucks, or sneakers, or baseball. I know what being a boy means; being a boy is all tender lips opening, bent over at the waist, and soft assholes opening with a grunt and the sharp waft of come. I slip through time, and I change over and over. Not really. I’m lying because that is what I do best. I lay around, a louche who’s up to no good, full to the top of my devious head with dreams and escapades. Please don’t believe me. Walk away. Turn your little head and leave.

Make this story into a hat, and then turn it inside out. Hide the words twirling in the crown and ending in the brim. Full stop. Punch it out. Punch it out of me, until it spurts from my mouth, a gush of black bile. Remember, this is all a lie.

I keep on reinventing myself to get away from my lies, but they sniff me out every time. That tingling in the crock of my left arm, the brilliant shining green grass, the hexagonal quilting pieces, the tall cool pines. . . and I’m lost once more.

My father said that I was a liar. Am I a liar? I know that everything after age 14 is true. Everything after my father stopped fucking me is true. I was cast out of the family several times starting at age 17, and if anyone else had told me this story of family bickering and disownment, I would have been quick to defend the child. Someone has to be the devil around here, and I’ve been a sacrificial victim for so long that I have the role memorized and mesmerized to a nanosecond. I want my father to be good. I want him to be blameless. I want him to be loved. I’ve been researching details for this memoir, and have discovered that I’m not a pathological liar. This is momentous to my personal and family mythology. The truth of my past places me on a desolate plain, surrounded by pain and beauty.

I have an idea. I’ll tell you my biggest lie and you can keep it. It’s my gift to you as a gracious host, wearing a grey woolen smoking jacket and wobbling in the twilight. I’m holding court, dispersing my past like so many bitter licorice whips. This is a confessional–a sprinkle of spit upon my bowed head and I’m absolved, freed. Don’t you fucking look at me.

Avery Cassell is a writer, painter, and cartoonist. They live in San Francisco and are currently working on their memoir, a children’s picture book about a transgendered boy and his family, and an erotic novel.

The Day Before Maya Angelou Died

By Ky Delaney

It was a Tuesday late in May. The early Southern summer haze pressed down, locking the humidity in, a barrier between us and the sun. But a light from the heavens shone down on us that day when a judge cleared Mr. Jimmy Jones’ criminal record of the first degree murder and rape charge for which he’d wasted two decades behind bars. DNA proved he didn’t do it and the white man let him go. But the crime stayed on his record, keeping him unemployable.

Two years we’d been working on getting Mr. Jones’ record expunged. The district judges convened. Even though the rape and murder occurred in the 1950s, the killer was never found. Now it might be one thing to let Mr. Jones out of prison, but erasing those words from his record meant that woman died without anyone known to blame. It was one thing not to have enough proof to support a charge of guilty, but quite another to not have a person accused of the crim. And that didn’t sit easy with folks in a small southern town. Once the district judges agreed they sent the case to the state-level judges for another stamp of approval. They signed the expungement papers and then sent it back to the county for one final hearing, just to be sure. Sure of what nobody was saying, but everyone knew. They had to make sure they weren’t letting a black man off the hook for raping and killing a white woman.

That day when we told Mr. Jones that finally his name was cleared of criminal charges, he reached up from his wheelchair and hugged me. He was seventy years old and wouldn’t be filling out another employment application, but he thanked us with exquisite grace. “Never had white people help me. Sent by God, you two were.”

My contentment of working at a job that changed lives made me stay an extra fifteen minutes at the park pushing my toddler on the swing. As I pushed him higher, it sunk in that Mr. Jones, perhaps for the first time in his life, believed a white person had seen him as an individual, not a statistic based on his skin color. My son and I stopped at the ice cream store before heading home for dinner, splurging on chocolate cones with sprinkles. I fired up the grill and turned veggie kabobs over the grey charcoal while my son played with his train set. After his bath, I opened the windows to let the evening breeze cool off the house. The evening was perfect, right down to the end when he went to bed after one book without a struggle.

Then I made the mistake of checking Facebook and saw a news release reposted by many local friends. “A single mom was raped in her home at approximately 5 a.m. yesterday morning. Her young child was in the house. The suspect is a very dark-skinned black male, with short dreads, facial hair only on his chin, and wearing overalls. Report all suspicious activity to the police.”

I called my best friend who tried to reassure me. “She lives on the other side of town – the bad part.”

Google maps showed the rape occurred less than two miles from my own house.

“So ugly that rape happens. All I can think about is a big black man towering over me. I don’t mean to be prejudice or anything, but imagine being raped with someone like that. The woman probably knew him, it wouldn’t happen to us,” she rambled on in an effort to sooth my nerves.

Someone like what exactly, I wondered. I reread the description of the man. None of the details really mattered except for one. His short dreads could be cut, his facial hair shaved, and he could take off the overalls. But his dark skin could not be hidden. He was a faceless, nameless Black Man.

And I wondered what or who kept me safe. I’d been acting like I lived in a bubble ever since buying the house two years ago. I never locked my doors. I strolled around the neighborhood with my son in his stroller wearing sundresses and fip flops.

That night I bolted my doors and locked my windows for the first time. I picked up my sleeping boy in my arms and carried him to my bed, whispering into the soft nook of his neck, “you’re going to sleep in mama’s bed tonight.” If someone broke into my house, I wanted to have him close, even if I didn’t know how I was going to protect him. I locked my bedroom door and barricaded it with a chair, sleeping with my iPhone next to my bed, 911 pressed on the number pad.

I didn’t sleep that night, getting up to peer out the windows, looking for the Black Man. How stupid to leave my kayak paddles outside, to give the Black Man a weapon he could use against me. I tossed and turned, half wanting to go grab them but then too afraid to get out of bed. If I had a man, I’d be safe, I thought. The Black Man found the single mom home alone with her child. I worried I’d never feel safe until I found a man, any one would do. That night I craved a body to protect me, mostly from my own thoughts.

Maya Angelou died the next day. I read her poem, “Still I Rise” for the first time. I thought about the rapist, whether he could just be a black man instead of the Black Man or every black man. Whether I could look at each black man I passed that evening as I pushed my son in a stroller to the park, look into his eyes and smile, seeing his individual features and the contours of his being. And whether I could rise enough to unfurl my single-mama heart and press love into the withered and wrinkled parts the way Mr. Jones had managed to do despite decades of being falsely imprisoned. Maya Angelou challenged me to rise and find security in the abundance of kindness instead of clinging to prejudices and lingering in the shadows of blame. “And still I’ll rise.”

Ky Delaney practices law at a grassroots legal aid office and solo parents her two-year old son  in Asheville, NC. Her website provides links to her writing and blog.