#ReadWomen: Why I Already Do It, And Why You Should, Too.

YA is not about the men.

This should be a given. Considering the wealth of hard-hitting authors I know - wielding gorgeous prose, poignant truths and a quick, apt response regardless of situation - who are ladies, considering just how many women are part of this industry and help to make it a better place every day, this should be something we already know, celebrate and consciously position in major news coverage.

(And in case you are not aware of the fact that this is not how things are going, in coverage or in which voices are continuously celebrated as certain members of the industry make overtures to double down on their personal prejudices and sexism...and which voices are perceived as "tearing down", "full of rage", and "unduly sensitive" - have a good, strong dose of my lady Kelly Jensen. 

You're welcome.)

So, here we are on the cusp of #ReadWomen: an awesome plan to radicalize the month of December by positioning women reads on your reading list and encouraging others to do the same. To tell the truth, this is something that I do already.

My reading diet is comprised of the women I admire and wish desperately I could write like, who stir up my sensibilities and lend wings to otherwise staid ideas and whims, who offer up words that melt on my tongue and warm my veins and give me hope when the rest of the world would have me think that, like the other contents of Pandora's box, it fluttered out of reach a long time ago.

There is nothing - nothing - like reading words from someone who understands how you feel, what you face, the days when you are raising your voice above your head like a trapped bird in your hands and searching for a safe place to loose it and let it unfurl.

And goodness knows I am tired of presenting a friend with the idea of reading YA literature, and having them say, excitedly, "I do read YA! I read John Green and Patrick Ness and Neil Gaiman." Goodness knows I am tired of having male portrayals of teenage girls unfolded and shaken out and presented to me, with a furrowed brow: "This seems a little skewed, but from what I hear, this is what YA has for us."

It is not. It has never been. And the men I mentioned are good at what they do - brilliant, even - but their works are a tasting platter and I've savored the courses these feature writers and list round-ups skirt about with their plates held high and their eyes averted.

Support the voices that know the snarled threads in your heart and want to help you loosen them, one strand of the teenage experience at a time. There are so many of them you may not know of. But they are waiting for you.

All of that said, the #ReadWomen challenge is not limited to young adult literature, and the hashtag on Twitter and Tumblr is bubbling over with suggestions and encouragement. One of my personal favorite lists so far is courtesy of my good friend Fatima, who made a point of adding in WoC authors that many may forget or overlook (remember the marginalized voices, who have farther to go and be heard when it comes to these brief moments of amplification), and is also making a point of reblogging other lists that undertake the same mission.

Another person to keep an eye on when it comes to educated, accurate recommendations with more than a pinch of diversity: Dahlia Adler, my absolute favorite book pusher and a great lady all around. 

I think Fatima has covered a lot of my favorites, but as we draw closer to December, I'll be tossing up a list of my favorites over this year and from farther back in the distant mists of my own adolescence (which, let's be honest, wasn't that long ago).

#ReadWomen. It's coming. Be ready. You have a whole month to devour and discover new favorites and broaden your horizons. Don't pass up that opportunity.

When You Ask Me About Diversity. (Or, When I Have No Other Words to Give.)

At all times, I hold a fistful of words.

They are the words I think will sound the best. The ones that have always served me the best. The ones that, like a sword shoved into the hands of a farmhand selected by destiny – that very first, crisp phrase at the beginning of a novel – have come to an understanding with my grip and grasp of how they should be used.

Some of them look like this:

You can do it.

I know you can.

Some of them I clench my palm around until it is sweaty and white-knuckled and painful:

But…there’s a caveat here.

But...I’m not sure how you will take this.

I never feel like the right person to share those words. I've been told, repeatedly, I am qualified: by who I am, what I've lived. I do it, daily. I always keep my face forward, too tempted to constantly glance over my shoulder for the bridges I am sure I am burning in my wake. 

When you ask me about diversity, I want nothing more than to hold your hands and tell you, firmly, that I want nothing more than to tell you the exact right words, the words you need to hear most, the words that will unstopper your voice and heal hearts and open minds.

As a marginalized woman, I understand the temerity that comes with these conversations. I understand – raw and deep – the bruises, the scrapes, the eternal sense of, “No one wants to hear me. I’m not worth hearing. No one wants to read about me. I’m not worth reading about.”

When you ask me about diversity, I want to tell you, “Having this dialogue always feels like I’m holding a raw egg as I speak. My fingers are clenching, and unclenching, and sooner or later I will say the wrong thing or squeeze down too hard and I’ll find myself slick with shame and raw yolk.”

This year, I’ve spoken multiple times online, and once, in person, on diversity. I offered the words that felt right when I weighed them in my hand. I offered the words that I hoped would do no harm, that in turn would educate those who heard me to do no harm to others.

I am not sure why you ask me about diversity. I want to think it is because you are looking for someone who understands the bruises, the scrapes, the eternal sense of, “No one wants to hear me. I’m not worth hearing. No one wants to read about me. I’m not worth reading about.” 

I want to think, if you are not a marginalized voice yourself, you want me to hold your hands and tell you, firmly, that I want nothing more than to tell you the exact right words, the magic words, the words that will heal hearts and open minds and reach out to others.

I am not sure what else I can tell you that hasn’t already been said, by more qualified, more eloquent voices. I am not sure what else I can tell you that hasn’t already reached deep into my wrung out heart, made every word that came out after it seem trite and redundant and overly dramatic and not worth the telling.

Tonight, I am not sure what else to say, except that the conversation so often gets so convoluted and painful. So often, people’s words and hearts and experiences are swept away and under the rug.

When you ask me about diversity, I want you to keep asking, and keep asking, as long as the words you offer are polite and sincere and true. I want to tell you to set aside privilege, old expectations, barbed stereotypes. 

I want to tell you: I just worry that I’m not offering you the right words to keep going. 

When you ask me about diversity, I hope that my answer is enough to keep the conversation going where it needs to go, so change can follow in its wake. And hope that it is enough to satisfy the question that was asked. And hope that it will be taken the right way, that it will not wound, that it will not be used to wound me.

At all times, I hold a fistful of words.

They are the words I think will sound the best. The ones that have always served me the best.

Tonight, some of them look like this:

I am here and I am trying.

You are here and you are trying.

Do no harm.

Cut no corners.

Keep writing.

That’s all we can do.