Yellow Arrow Publishing Blog

Kapua Iao 4/7/26 Kapua Iao 4/7/26

“The everyday is our portion of eternity”: Of Devotion and the Notebook

By Lillian Deja Snortland, written February 2026

I was at first absorbed entirely by the mystique of “the author”—beginning with Beatrix Potter’s fables and peaceful watercolors of the English countryside. Eventually, my voracious reading introduced me to many other avatars of authorship, including the grave, troubled artist, wandering the proverbial (or literal) woods, shepherding the truth about nature and the human condition, and so forth.

They made anything real—how could there be any greater power?

When I was a toddler, I wanted to one day own a tea shop with my mother and become an author myself. For a long time, my north star was Christopher Paolini, the young author of the Eragon series; with talent and drive, he wrote the first book when he was only 15 and published it officially only a few years after.

I will publish a fantasy novel by the time I’m 18, too, I promised myself.

On clunky computers, I spelled stories about fairies and demons. Fanciful and unserious, maybe, but my imagination was my domain, a place to formulate, resolve, and release reality’s constraints at will. No matter how the world saw me, with my brown skin and messy hair and curiosity, there was dignity I felt with every word I recorded. Children innately flex these muscles of self-actualization, and if they’re lucky, they are encouraged by others to strengthen them.

With 16 candles on my cake, I had ideas swirling around and around, scenes written, and accompanying doodles. However, no book was born by the time I was a legal adult. Eighteen came and went, and 20, 24—now, nearly with my 30th birthday in April, there is still no novel with my name on anyone’s bookshelf.

Yet I have created more than I ever thought possible through commitment to the core of my practice: keep observing, keep absorbing, and keep processing on the page. As it turned out, creation came easiest when I removed authorship from its lofty pedestal, and my writing became a simple part of daily living, my “every day,” as necessary and commonplace as taking a breath.

At one time, as part of my job at the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, I sat at a podium and checked donors into a lounge. Throughout those nights, my notebook, which I carried in a tiny white beaded purse, was surreptitiously tucked away, whipped open, and then hidden away, over and over again.

The dotted notebook contained guest demands to pass along to my bosses the next day. It was also a space for schedules. For hurt feelings that I wasn’t sure how to say aloud. Dinner shopping lists. Pros and cons. Travel lists and strategic plans. Questions. The names of songs with swells that felt akin to my characters’ journeys. Words I needed to look up. Descriptions of people and their behavior.

My notebook is perhaps what might be called a commonplace journal, perfect for someone whose brain is tantamount to spinning plates.

There’s no limit to what one might include. For example, while traveling in a bus, my handwriting nearly illegible from the bouncing, I copied a few sentences from James Baldwin’s Notes of a Native Son,which imbued my writing with a new rhythm. Lines from video essays and colors I really want to wear in fall (chocolate brown, if you’re curious). Academic-style presentations and YouTube videos might be synthesized in equal merit. If I’ve enjoyed a movie or book, I consider why, be that the pacing, weaving of descriptions, length of sentences, overall chapter structure, and keep my observations like a treasure map—though I don’t always have the “X” marked yet.

The tiny notebook was my companion as I processed myself, not as a diary but as a grounding tool. The pen in my hand flitted about with no aim, but with the utmost attention to what was immediate in my life.

After the musicians’ scattered warmups melded into a single tuning note, and the lights dimmed, I took a temporary seat in the hall myself. Once I could no longer see the page in the darkness, I wrote in diagonals, with black ink looping back over itself. This was a time for poetry. Static, random lines, pops of a color, doodling blindly.

At intermission, I would return to the podium and write some more. In between pleasantries, closets of coats, refilled Keurig cups, and boxes of white wine, I drafted scenes of a fantasy world, made of character types I’d tended to as a child, and incorporating elements of media I loved.

Whatever world my imagination had once lived in developed over the decade. In my vignettes, there grew the vision of a character with thick brown hair and oxblood-colored eyes. An island. A festival. Magical systems and transformations. Countries bearing suffering and moral conflicts that resembled present-day horrors.

At this job, my time was often traded in for a paycheck, but I was lucky it afforded me spans of boredom and an empty page. Novelist Henry Miller wrote (then later published along with other “commandments” in Henry Miller on Writing (1964)), “Don’t be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand”—and so I did, between taking orders, in the dark, always learning and watching, remaining humbly faithful to my creative practice.

Interspersed amongst commentary about my work, house, and community, nothing shiny and literary linked together in an obvious way. There were no chapter titles, nor logical order. Nothing particularly resembled a noble lightning strike of brilliance I’d always imagined, naively, that Paolini might have felt while writing Eragon. Yet quietly, the scenes, brightened and shaped by the music around me, sequenced together. I transcribed the notes onto my laptop and found I had over 50,000 words: a first imperfect draft of exactly the sort of novel I’d been chasing for years.

Sharing a novel with the public was my dream, but it was this commonplace journaling, this scattered meditation, that provided me an unexpected ladder to reach it.

French author and activist Simone de Beauvoir went to see her friends often, and this social treat was part of her creative world. Writing at the symphony amidst the white noise of strangers allowed for a calm sense of momentum without the immense crushing pressure of isolation. I often take notes after meetings with friends where we sit and gab about life, or create stories, scripts, and tabletop role-playing games together. I attend local poetry and fiction readings or find cheap tickets to the symphony on occasion.

During a recent girls’ trip to New York, I purchased a tiny notebook with a blue-and-yellow watercolor tree on the cover. Containing no more than 30 milky pages, I asked my friends to fill the emptiness with whatever they wanted. Over the course of our trip, they left me with stickers and sketches of a bagel shop, a scruffy dog, and Stonewall.

As our trip drew to a close, I took a page at the end and drew the chevron pattern from a woman’s coat who stood near me at New York Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station. In spite of its meaninglessness, the pattern was part of a story just waiting to be written. Once my eyes opened, and even while at times I felt far adrift from my novel’s success, I found my writing growing richer as my relationship with the world shifted endlessly between my internal landscape and that of the external.

Concepts from truncated notes often return like a north wind and drive some part of my creative work. Rather than by divine inspiration, I can trace my mind’s connections directly back to something I took notice of in commonplace musing. Disparate thoughts and observations are not without meaning, but a form of meditation and mesmerization.

Take, for example, this fragmentary passage from author Julian Barnes’ novel The Sense of an Ending, which stirs the heart and queries the passage of time with everyday things:

I remember, in no particular order:

‍‍—a shiny inner wrist;

—steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;

—gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;

—a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by half a dozen chasing ‍torchbeams;

‍—another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;

—bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.

This last isn’t something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn’t always the same as what you have witnessed.

We live in time—it holds us and molds us—but I’ve never felt I understood it very well. And I’m not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back or may exist elsewhere in parallel versions. No, I mean ordinary, everyday time, which clocks and watches assure us passes regularly: tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing—until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return.

I recently viewed the Ruth Asawa retrospective at the MoMA, labeled Ruth Asawa: A Retrospective exhibition. Though I was familiar with her commercially successful works, I was most inspired by her textile and meditative practice. She was patient in her pursuit of quiet beauty, with works spanning repeated, unpolished graphite gestures of an elementary sunflower, to her powerfully modern paintings and wire sculptures.

Her sketches were not a rudimentary means to a grandiose end. They were part of her fundamental daily practice of living. “Doing is living. That is all that matters,” Ruth Asawa is quoted on a panel in the exhibit. As she walked, through the concentric expansion and contraction of her thoughts, the path was created beneath her. In his book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (2007), Haruki Murakami speaks of routine habits as follows: “The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.”

Commonplace journaling was one such way I mesmerized myself. This professor shared a series of anchors to consider when observing the world, including, but not limited to: readings, watching, sketching, eating, praying, quoting, needing, eating, buying, thinking, considering, debating, owing, avoiding, looking at, wondering about, checking in, gratitude, planting, harvesting, nurturing, weaning, creating, listening to, ignoring, cooking, wearing, planning, releasing, tasting, touching, smelling, noticing, embracing, rejecting, waiting for, allowing, learning, dreaming, becoming, embodying, giving, appreciating, resisting, hard truths, delights, small wins, inside/outside, architecting, sound, sidewalks, streets, traffic, stores, trash, sticker, graffiti, energy, sounds, a color, a shape, an accessory, dynamics, attention/distraction, and so forth.

It was only after years and years that I discovered delight in dry observations, arranging sights and sounds which, if I described them alone, would mean very little. In director Guillermo Del Toro’s film Frankenstein, Lady Elizabeth countermanded scientific voracity in favor of wonder towards God’s smallest creatures. Lady Elizabeth’s faith was tenacious, and I think of her faith as something akin to my own. French writer Maurice Blanchot writes, in a translation of his piece “Everyday Speech,” “The every day is our potion of eternity.” My habits are a trellis for my dreams, including my desire to see my name on the spine of a book. But by the same token, my habits are in attendance of the awe-inspiring every day.

I write, therefore I am, and therefore I am also in this eternity with you.

Though I have no religion, journaling has become a sort of ritual, a grounding procedure based on mechanical habit. I believe one’s craft has very little to do with talent and much more to do with devotion. Writing and paying attention are ways of life, and anyone can do it.

Writing in the dark of the orchestra hall, there was nothing splendid in my routine or my view of myself. It was then that I sensed my sweet spot—when I wrote from within a paradox. I was both dedicated and casual. My writing could be everything, but most importantly, it was nothing at all—I observed simple things and trained myself to say simple things, too. When writing became so commonplace, it allowed me to detect, within the swirling chaos of time, compelling patterns worth sharing.

As a creative, it behooves you to open doors around you rather than closing them. Start wherever and however you can, today: take life in. After all, consciousness is a matter of attention.

And what is any life made of, if not infinite stories?

Lillian Deja Snortland’s poetry, essays, features, creative nonfiction, and short stories have appeared in Postscript Magazine, OUCH! Magazine, Goucher Magazine, Yellow Arrow Vignette BLAZE, and Amplify Arts publications, been performed at Voxel Theater, and exhibited at the Temporary Arts Centre in Eindhoven, The Netherlands. Her essay “The Tragedies of Ecstasy” was nominated for a 2025 Pushcart Prize through After the Art literary magazine. She will be leading a Yellow Arrow workshop called Bear Fragments in May; registration is at yellowarrowpublishing.com/workshop-sign-up/bearfragments.

Her work explores metamorphosis (physical and metaphorical) and precipice. She loves collaborating with teams in any creative medium, including film writing/production (having participated in the Baltimore 48 Hour Film Project and the Maryland 72 Film Fest), tabletop role-play, and musical jams.

Originally from Eugene, Oregon, Lillian graduated from Carleton College with a BA in Classical studies and a minor in French/Francophone studies, and has an MFA in nonfiction from Goucher College. She enjoys lounging in parks, zooming via public transit to Baltimore cultural events, and hosting thematic parties in her apartment.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we LUMINATE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook and Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 4/4/26 Kapua Iao 4/4/26

A Young Woman’s First AWP: On Nerves, Community, and Finding Your Voice

‍By Camille Leah Barrón, written March 2026

‍

I taught myself to read twice.

The first time was like everyone else. The second time was harder—that was in middle school, newly diagnosed with dyslexia, learning to reorganize letters in their proper order to form a sentence that actually made sense. It was slow. It was frustrating. I liked the idea of reading—of dreaming up new worlds and sharing stories—but for some reason, I was never good enough at it to take advantage of the enjoyment everyone else experienced. And then I found the books that made the effort worth it. Young adult fantasy. Dystopian fiction. Stories about girls who had no business surviving the situations they were dropped into, and who survived them anyway. I read every one I could get my hands on. I decided then: If they could fight their way through impossible worlds, I could fight my way through a page.

Reading became an escape at first. Then a passion. Then I started writing stories of my own. I made a decision somewhere in those pages: one day, I would work in publishing.

That day looked like this: spring break, junior year of college. My classmates were on their own vacations with their friends or families. My little brother was backpacking across Iberia. I was at the Baltimore Convention Center in the professional clothes I bought specifically for the occasion, about to walk into AWP—11,000 writers, editors, publishers, and me—for the very first time.

The AWP—the Association of Writers and Writing Programs—conference is one of the largest literary gatherings in the country, spanning several days of panels, craft talks, readings, and a book fair. Yellow Arrow Publishing, a Baltimore-based press, had only attended a handful of times before. This year, AWP came to Baltimore, and we kicked things off the night before the conference opened by celebrating Yellow Arrow’s 10th anniversary with a reading from 10 of our incredible authors.

The last time I had been inside the Baltimore Convention Center was for a Comic Con when I was in middle school. The differences were obvious—one had thousands of people dressed in elaborate costumes of their favorite comic book characters, and the other had thousands of people carrying tote bags overflowing with literary magazines and dog-eared chapbooks—but the energy was surprisingly similar. Both were thousands of people converging in one place to celebrate and learn within a shared passion. Both were overwhelming in the best possible way.

This time, though, I wasn’t a middle schooler tagging along with my best friend’s dad as a chaperone. I was there professionally, as an intern, with “Yellow Arrow Publishing” on my badge.

The book fair alone had hundreds of booths, small presses, journals, and publishing houses stretching across the floor in every direction. Panels were happening simultaneously upstairs across multiple rooms, with lines of people snaking out into the hallways waiting to get in.

I stood at the Charles Street entrance for a moment and genuinely did not know where to go first.

Walking into a new experience without knowing a single person, without knowing the unwritten rules of how things work—it’s disorienting in a way that’s hard to explain. You look around and assume that everyone else knows exactly what they’re doing, that they’ve done this before, that they belong here in some way you don’t yet. You think: I’m just an intern, these people are real adults.

But then I started noticing the people around me more. And what I saw was this: so many women. Women presenting at panels, women running booths, women standing in the hallways mid-conversation, animated and engaged. Women who looked like they had been coming to AWP for 20 years and women who looked like they were figuring it out in real time, just like me. In a split second, I felt less nervous. I wasn’t alone in that room. Not even close.

The connections came slowly at first, then all at once.

Through Yellow Arrow, I had the chance to meet other interns along with people interning at other small presses. What I didn’t expect was how quickly a shared admission of nervousness could dissolve the tension of meeting someone new. Within the first few minutes of almost every conversation with another intern, someone would say some version of “I wasn’t sure what to expect or I’m still figuring this out or I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing,” and suddenly we were just people talking, not professionals performing professionalism at each other.

That’s something nobody tells you about networking: Most people aren’t as confident as they look, and most people are genuinely happy to talk to you. About their writing. About the press they’re working for. About where they’re from, what brought them to publishing, what they’re excited about right now. The conversations didn’t feel like transactions. They felt like people just sharing their love of reading and writing.

The community at AWP was more welcoming than I had any right to expect as a first timer. People offered advice freely—not in a condescending way, but in the way that people share things they wish someone had told them earlier. I absorbed as much as I could.

And the representation in that convention center was incredible to see. So many women. So many people of color. So many voices that publishing has historically struggled to center, now showing up and claiming space with full force. It wasn’t just visually affirming—it was a reminder of why small, independent presses like Yellow Arrow exist in the first place. The industry has room for more voices; it needs them. Walking through that book fair, I saw what it looks like when the door gets held open a little wider.

I started my internship in January not knowing what publishing actually looked like from the inside. I left AWP with a slightly clearer picture, and it was bigger and stranger and more interesting than I had imagined.

There are independent presses and literary magazines operating on shoestring budgets with enormous amounts of heart. There are editors who specialize in poetry and editors who work exclusively in literary fiction. There are authors at every stage—debut writers with their first book, seasoned writers reinventing their practice, writers who also teach, also edit, also run presses of their own. The publishing world isn’t a single ladder you climb. It’s more like a web with a hundred different points of entry and a hundred different ways to build a life inside it.

The panels reinforced this. Conversation after conversation made clear how deeply collaborative writing is—how much writers rely on each other, how communities form around journals and workshops and readings and, yes, conferences like this one. Writers supporting other writers isn’t a nice sentiment. It’s structural. It’s how the work survives.

I also learned something more practical: Networking doesn’t have to feel like performing a version of yourself that’s more polished and less real. The most meaningful conversations I had at AWP happened when I stopped trying to say the right thing and just talked honestly about what I was learning and what I cared about. Professionalism, it turns out, isn’t a costume. It’s just showing up and being present and treating people like they’re worthy of your full attention.

What made that easier than I expected was how freely people offered up their knowledge—especially women. There was no sense of guarding hard-earned wisdom or doling out advice strategically. If anything, it felt the opposite. The women I met seemed genuinely invested in watching another young woman find her footing. Like they remembered exactly what it felt like to be new and had decided that the best thing they could do with everything they’d learned was to hand it forward.

The advice was surprisingly simple.

Be yourself in your writing. Don’t soften your voice to make it easier to swallow. Your work has a place, especially when it doesn’t fit cleanly into a box. Women’s voices matter and need to be heard, not as a gesture, but as a genuine correction to a long history of erasure.

I’m a junior in college. I’m a poet and a rhetorician. I’m an intern. I am, by most measures, at the very beginning of whatever this is. AWP didn’t change that. But it did something more useful—it reminded me that everyone starts somewhere. The writer signing books at her publisher’s booth was once a student who didn’t know what AWP was. The editor presenting a panel on queer ekphrasis once stood at the entrance of a convention center feeling exactly the kind of overwhelmed that I felt on day one. The conference exists, at least in part, because the literary community understands that the people coming up behind them need to see what’s possible.

Sometimes the hardest part is walking into the room. The sheer act of showing up when you’re uncertain, when you don’t yet know the language, when the imposter syndrome is loud takes courage. But once you’re inside, you realize that the room is full of people who want you there. People ready to hand you a piece of advice, strike up a conversation, or simply exist alongside you as proof that this world is bigger and more open than it might have seemed from the outside.

I walked into AWP not knowing what to expect.

I walked out knowing that little girl who struggled to read was now a part of the conversation.

Camille Leah (Cam) Barrón (she/her) is a junior at Loyola University Maryland majoring in writing with a minor in gender and sexuality studies. She grew up devoting much of her time to reading, writing, and playing lacrosse and has since developed a deep commitment to women’s empowerment and language as a tool for connection, argumentation, and social change. Her academic and creative work centers on rhetoric and poetry with a particular focus on conversations surrounding her Méxican heritage, mental health, gender-based violence, and feminist thought.

*****

Kapua Iao 3/17/26 Kapua Iao 3/17/26

Before the First Amendment: Elizabeth Timothy and the Women Who Built the American Press

Elizabeth Ann Timothy - painting by Henry Benbridge (MET, 26.286). Wikimedia Commons (commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Elizabeth_Ann_Timothy_MET_DP168945.jpg)

‍By Kavitha Rath, written February 2026

In 1738 a widow stood in a South Carolina print shop with a choice to make.

Her husband, Lewis Timothy, had died unexpectedly. A French Protestant Huguenot, he left France for The Netherlands to flee religious persecution. There, he learned Dutch printing techniques and married his wife, Elizabeth. The Timothy family then emigrated to Philadelphia, where Lewis was appointed by Benjamin Franklin to operate the South Carolina Gazette.

At a time when women had little formal engagement in public life, Elizabeth stepped forward to manage the enterprise after her husband’s death. Often recognized as the first woman to work in American journalism and publishing, she assumed control of the Gazette, establishing a precedent that would later be recognized in the tradition of “printer’s widows” who took over colonial presses after their husbands’ deaths.

However, Elizabeth Timothy was not just preserving her husband’s work. She was exercising authority in a space rarely open to women—and doing so with notable business acumen.

Liminal Authority

The transition was careful and intentional. The masthead was changed to read “Printed by Peter Timothy,” her then 13-year old son, since she could not run it under her name. In the first issue published after her husband’s death, Elizabeth ran a notice explaining that she would oversee the paper as interim editor and publisher until Peter came of age. Legally and culturally, the authority was framed as temporary and male-bound, but in practice, it was hers.

This liminal positioning illuminates how women often occupied the margins of formal power while exercising real control. She managed subscriptions, negotiated advertising contracts, oversaw printing logistics, and stabilized the paper’s finances in a fragile colonial economy. Benjamin Franklin himself later praised her competence.

Long before the First Amendment enshrined freedom of the press, an immigrant woman was already practicing it.

An Immigrant at the Foundation

Elizabeth’s Dutch origins are not incidental.

The Dutch Republic of the 17th and early 18th centuries was one of Europe’s great centers of printing, commerce, and intellectual exchange. Amsterdam was known for publishing religious dissent, scientific discovery, political debate—and sometimes texts banned elsewhere. The Dutch were merchants not only of goods but of ideas, including notions of pluralism and coexistence.

Dutch commercial and printing networks extended into their colonies as well. In the 19th century, colonial print infrastructures in places like Indonesia would later provide tools that nationalist movements used to articulate resistance. As in many imperial systems, the press outlived the authority that sought to contain it.

That paradox feels familiar in early America. Before independence, colonial newspapers were already shaping dissent, debate, and political imagination. The American Revolution did not invent the press; it was incubated within it.

At a time when immigration is often framed as a strain on national identity, Elizabeth’s story offers a quiet correction. The institutions we call foundational—journalism, public discourse, civic exchange—were built not only by native-born statesmen but also by newcomers who carried traditions of print, trade, and resilience across oceans.

The Press as Literature and Subversion

Colonial newspapers were not modern newsrooms. Intercolonial communication was slow, and fresh “hard news” was often scarce. Legal and cultural restrictions discouraged and even punished overt political commentary.

As a result, many colonial weeklies resembled literary journals as much as news bulletins. Their pages included philosophical essays, moral reflections, personal anecdotes, satire, and poetry in various forms. Literature became a vehicle for indirect discourse—a way to explore ideas that could not always be addressed explicitly.

To control a newspaper in that era was to shape the rhythm of civic life: what a colony discussed, debated, feared, or hoped. Elizabeth helped maintain that channel at a formative moment in American public culture.

A Quiet, Complicated Revolution

Elizabeth did not publish manifestos about women’s rights nor publicly call for gender equality. Her revolution was quieter.

In the 18th century, women had few opportunities to engage in public affairs. Yet, she negotiated contracts, oversaw production, and ensured consistent publication in a volatile environment. Competence itself became a form of subversion.

At the same time, her life reflects the contradictions of her era. Like many white colonists in South Carolina, she owned slaves for her household. Any celebration of her achievements must sit alongside this reality. She was a woman navigating restricted civic space—and a beneficiary of a brutal system. Both truths coexist.

A Lineage of Women in Print

Elizabeth’s story catalyzes a lineage of women in publishing.

In the 19th century, Margaret Fuller became editor of The Dial and later one of America’s first female foreign correspondents. She asserted that women were not merely subjects of writing, but architects of intellectual discourse, and her editorial leadership widened the boundaries of who could speak in public forums.

Later, Ida B. Wells wielded the press as a tool of direct moral confrontation. As editor and coowner of The Memphis Free Speech, she documented the horrors of lynching with relentless precision. She understood that controlling the narrative was essential to challenging violence. The printed page became not just a record, but a weapon against injustice. (For more information about Ida B. Wells, see a blog written by Yellow Arrow Publishing 2022 intern Piper Sartison at yellowarrowpublishing.com/news/honoring-ida-b-wells-sartison.)

In the 20th century, Toni Morrison reshaped literary culture both as a writer and as an editor at Random House. Before becoming a Nobel laureate, Toni Morrison championed Black authors whose voices might otherwise have been sidelined. She did not simply contribute to literature; she altered its infrastructure, ensuring that marginalized stories found durable form.

Across centuries, the pattern holds: women have been integral to publishing and the press, even when their contributions were obscured by legal or social constraints that rendered their authority provisional, indirect, or uncredited.

Small Presses, Present Tense

Today, the landscape of publishing looks very different from a colonial print shop. Digital platforms accelerate circulation, creating new opportunities for women and historically marginalized writers. At the same time, corporate consolidation narrows certain channels even as independent spaces proliferate. The Fourth Estate has not disappeared, but it has dispersed.

And the central questions remain: ‍

Who gets to print?

And who gets printed?

Small presses and community-driven literary organizations carry forward the quiet revolution Elizabeth Timothy embodied. These outlets operate with intention rather than scale, prioritize relationships over market dominance, and understand publishing as stewardship of diverse voices.

Women-led presses, including community-rooted organizations like Yellow Arrow Publishing, Abalone Mountain Press (spotlighted in a recent blog by past intern, Avery Wood, at yellowarrowpublishing.com/news/spotlight-abalone-mountain-press-wood), Tupelo Press, and Harbor Review, continue to amplify the voices of women-identifying writers and other marginalized groups. They create platforms for emerging writers, for perspectives historically excluded, and for hybrid or experimental forms that resist easy categorization.

In this way, the lineage from colonial gazette to contemporary chapbook is not as distant as it might seem.

Then, as now, the work involves:

Identifying and curating voices
Managing circulation and distribution
Building community through ideas in text
Holding space for coexistence and pluralism (or belonging and inclusion)

Inheritance and Responsibility

Women’s History Month invites both celebration and reflection of our past and future.

The American press was never built by a single demographic, ideology, or generation and instead was shaped by immigrants, widows, editors, activists, and writers who understood that information is power—and that power requires responsibility.

Elizabeth Timothy’s story reminds us that leadership is not always loud, but sometimes it looks like the quiet continuity and daily grind of showing up at the press each morning and ensuring the paper goes out on time.

Before the First Amendment, there was a woman born in The Netherlands, emigrating through Philadelphia, and running a newspaper in a colonial port city—proving that the American page has always been more plural, resilient, and quietly revolutionary than we often remember. While the press is protected by the Constitution, it exists because of people who are willing to take on the labor—and risk—of publishing. Women have been doing that from the beginning; it is time to reveal, amplify, and luminate their voices.

Several sources were used to write this blog:

Adam, Ahmat B. The Vernacular Press and the Emergence of Modern Indonesian Consciousness (1855–1913). Cornell University Press, 1995.

Baker, Ira L. “Elizabeth Timothy: America’s First Woman Editor.” Journalism Quarterly 54, no. 2 (1977). doi.org/10.1177/107769907705400207

Bishop, Lindsay C. “Elizabeth Timothy, First Female Publisher and Charleston Resident: A Story of Perseverance.” Charleston Women Magazine. charlestonwomen.com/featured/elizabeth-timothy-first-female-publisher-and-charleston-resident-a-story-of-perseverance

“Elizabeth Timothy: First Woman Editor-Publisher in America.” History of American Women blog. womenhistoryblog.com/2008/10/elizabeth-timothy.html

Friedman, Tyler Paige. “Women’s History in Charleston: The Femme Sole.” Instagram post, March 12, 2024. @walkandtalkchks. instagram.com/p/C4akx-2MHI6

“An International News Medium: The European Dissemination of 17th-Century Dutch Newspapers.” Europeana, November 21, 2019. europeana.eu/de/stories/an-international-news-medium-the-european-dissemination-of-17th-century-dutch-newspapers

King, Martha J. “Elizabeth Timothy.” South Carolina Encyclopedia. scencyclopedia.org/sce/entries/timothy-elizabeth/

Kavitha Rath is a writer based in Maryland, whose publications have appeared in Strange Horizons, Mythic Delirium, Papercuts Magazine, and more. She serves as a belonging and inclusion advocate for Yellow Arrow Publishing. Follow Kavitha on Instagram @kavithanrath, Tumblr @ishtarverse, and at kavitharath.wordpress.com.

*****

Kapua Iao 3/10/26 Kapua Iao 3/10/26

Spotlight on Abalone Mountain Press

By Avery Wood, written December 2025

At Yellow Arrow, we believe in uplifting marginalized voices and supporting the intersection of womanhood with a vast array of identities. And we support all publishers who focus on amplify diverse voices. Abalone Mountain Press is a women-owned independent publishing house owned by Amber McCrary, a Diné woman and a “feminist, zinester, and poet.” McCrary and Abalone Mountain Press were one of Phoenix Magazine’s 2021 “Great 48.” She is a “Red House Clan born for Mexican people—originally from Shonto, Arizona and raised in Flagstaff, Arizona.” She earned her BA from Arizona State University in political science with a minor in American Indian studies and her MFA in creative writing at Mills College.

She is the proud author of Blue Corn Tongue: Poems in the Mouth of the Desert and Electric Deserts! She is also the author of many wonderful multimedia zines, poems, interviews, and art that you can find at ambermccrary.com or at Yellow Medicine Review, Room Magazine, Thin Air Magazine, Poets & Writers Magazine, Turning Points Magazine, The Womanist, and The Navajo Times. Abalone Mountain Press itself is “operated on the traditional lands of the Akimel O'odham and the name Abalone Mountain is inspired by the Diné term (Dookʼoʼoosłííd) for the San Francisco Peaks in Flagstaff, Arizona, which holds deep sacred significance to the Navajo people as one of the four holy mountains.

Abalone Mountain Press’ slogan is “A Place for Indigenous Writers to Dismantle the Canon.” Through various multimedia works such as chapbooks, zines, anthologies, coloring books, their blog and podcast, and their Abalone Writing Circle, Abalone Mountain Press supports and uplifts Indigenous voices in the Phoenix area and beyond. Their work includes themes like Indigenous culture, mental health, queerness, spirituality, the natural world, Native masculinity, and more. Incredible titles from Abalone Mountain Press (and Indigenous Nations Poets) include The Future Lives in Our Bodies: Indigeneity and Disability Justice, an online zine with authors featuring Jessica Mehta (Cherokee Nation), Rachael Johnson (Diné), Gillian Joseph (Ihaŋktoŋwaŋ and Mdewákhathuŋwaŋ Dakota), Scott Bentley, and Johnnie Jae (Otoe-Missouria and Choctaw), as well as award-winning Two-Spirit storyteller Taté Walker’s poetry collection The Trickster Riots.

As McCrary describes in Abalone Mountain Press’ blog, The Trickster Riots is a collection of poems that “weaponize the English language against colonial normativity and navigate the responsibilities of an urban Two-Spirit writer carrying and empowering the next generations.” Abalone Mountain Press works to lift up Diné voices and is a wonderful place to support Indigenous authors and creators.

Find Abalone Mountain Press at abalonemountainpress.com or on Instagram and Facebook @abalonemountainpress. All quotes within this blog come from the Abalone Mountain Press at abalonemountainpress.com/mission.

Amber McCrary is Diné poet and zinester. She is Red House Clan born for Mexican people. Originally from Shonto, Arizona and raised in Flagstaff, Arizona. She earned her BA from Arizona State University in Political Science with a minor in American Indian Studies. She received her MFA in creative writing with an emphasis in poetry at Mills College. McCrary is also the owner and founder of Abalone Mountain Press, a press dedicated to publishing Indigenous voices. She is a board member for the Northern Arizona Book Festival and Words of the People organizations. She is the Arizona Humanities 2022 Rising Star of the year and a Native Arts and Cultures Foundation LIFT awardee.

Avery Wood (she/her) was the fall 2025 program management intern at Yellow Arrow. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, and attends North Carolina State University, studying English and business administration. Following graduation, she intends to bring her passion for business and creative writing to the publishing industry. She was thrilled to be a part of the wonderful Yellow Arrow team, making a difference and amplifying female voices.

*****

Kapua Iao 3/3/26 Kapua Iao 3/3/26

Birth of a Debut Poetry Collection: Dear Planet

By Ann van Wijgerden, written January 2026

It was a week never to be forgotten. Not one, but TWO totally unexpected things happened. The first came during a family video call.

. . . . But, before that, a bit of context: My husband, Paul (Dutch), and I (English) live in the Philippines. About 18 years ago we founded a charity here called Young Focus. Currently, we work with a team of around 40 Filipino colleagues, and together we help provide education for just under 1,000 young people living in Manila’s slums. (For more info, here’s our website: youngfocus.org.)

Every now and again Paul and I can be heard declaring we have the best job in the universe. It is unbelievably rewarding seeing what a long-term difference a full education can make in a young person’s life. But, of course, the work does have its downsides, too: being far away from family (thank God for video calls!); the constant confrontation with the injustice of extreme poverty (poetry is my coping mechanism); the madness of Manila traffic (music soothes the soul).

Meanwhile, both of our grown-up children, together with their spouses, live in the

Netherlands. Every two weeks or so, the six of us have a video call, and it was during one of these calls that it happened. Our daughter was patiently waiting for each of us to have our turn sharing the latest, when finally there was a pause in the conversation, and she said quietly: “Actually, I have a bit of good news.” There was the slightest of catches in her voice, and instantly I had tears in my eyes, as if my body “knew” before I did. Moments later her words confirmed the amazing news of her pregnancy, the tears-of-joy tap got turned full on, and Paul and I were expecting our first grandchild!

The second totally unexpected thing happened only a few days later.

. . . . But, before that, another bit of context:

For almost 2 years I’d been trying to find a publisher for my first poetry collection, but to no avail, experiencing only silence or rejection emails—apart from the occasional positive rejection encouraging me to keep going with the manuscript submitting. What also stopped me giving up was a simple determination to find a home for these poems, my “babies,” where they could be together, because I’d become convinced they belonged together; they had a story to tell, they had a song to sing, and, as a chorus they needed to sing together, not scattered across the world in different mags, or shut up in silence on my laptop.

Just three days after hearing our daughter was pregnant, I received an email from a publisher based in the Netherlands responding positively to samples of poems I’d sent and requesting the full manuscript, soon after that, expressing serious interest in publishing.

In contrast to the unadulterated joy of earlier in the week, my emotions were mixed, to put it mildly. Rationally, I was telling myself that I should be feeling stupendously happy: FINALLYYYY a publisher! Instead, I found myself wrestling with such an attack of imposter syndrome and disbelief. Could this be real? Were they serious? Dare I go for it?

Very thankfully, it was around this time that I received help from an unexpected source. A business in Manila, which is supportive of the work of Young Focus, had organized an event for our students celebrating International Women’s Month. Four Filipino professional visual artists had been invited to speak about their experience making art. Some of us staff joined the event as well. It was so inspiring—not only for the students! It was just what I needed to hear, breathing courage into me, to “Embrace the journey,” as my new Filipino artist friends put it.

One week later I signed the contract with Fidessa Literary, and the publication adventure began.

Since then, (and yes, all within nine months) a book has been published, and a baby has been born. Were I to list the joys of grandmotherhood, I’d never shut up. So, here I’ll limit myself to sharing four of the joys I’ve experienced so far, having a debut poetry collection birthed into the world.

First, the cover. One of the things that had drawn me to Fidessa Literary at the very beginning was their book covers; these are works of art in themselves. And indeed, once the contract was signed, I discovered their strategy is to commission an artist to collaborate with the author to come up with a unique cover. Remember those four visual artists who so inspired me to snap out of my “imposter-syndrome-dip”?! Well, Fidessa agreed to my suggestion to ask one of them—the amazing painter Tara Soriano—to make the cover. To my delight, she said yes, and then it was even more exciting to see what Tara came up with. She totally got the theme, the feel of the book! (The imposter syndrome part of me was even satisfied: If purchasers of my book didn’t like the contents, at least they had a beautiful-looking item on their bookshelves!)

The second joy was the editing process. Seriously! Initially, I’d been a bit apprehensive of how this would go, though I’d been assured I’d have the final say if there were any disagreements. But it was everything I’d hoped it would be. Where there was a need for improvement, without telling me what to do, the editors encouraged me, pushed me to dig deeper, reach higher (“further up and further in”—The Last Battle by C.S. Lewis). It was a wonderful experience.

The third? You couldn’t make this up if you tried! The third joy is my cousin Juliet in New Zealand. (My late mother was a New Zealander.) Juliet was getting her debut poetry collection published over exactly the same months. It was so lovely to have someone, a companion along the same road of first-time publishing, comparing notes on anything from book covers, editors, book launches, to last-minute jitters.

Fourthly and finally, and most wonderfully unexpectedly of all, was Fidessa, the publisher deciding to partner with our charity Young Focus, sharing about our work on their website, donating a proportion of their book sale profits, attending a big communication event we had in the Netherlands (bringing a whole load of my books with a “pay what you like, 100% goes to Young Focus”), and now in 2026 starting a partnership with an Indy publisher in the Philippines, not only to launch my poetry collection here, not only to translate and publish Filipino writers for the broader market, but ALSO to collaborate with Young Focus, potentially for the students to access a platform for writing and publishing!

These days nothing can compete with watching the gorgeous face of my baby granddaughter breaking into a huge grin of pure joy. But witnessing this book-birthing process as it escalates and evolves into something so much more than getting poems published . . . it’s pretty darned delightful, too.

British by birth, Ann van Wijgerden lives in the Netherlands and the Philippines. She’s had nonfiction, poetry, and fiction published in magazines such as Orion, Orbis, The Sunlight Press, The Wild Umbrella, Queen’s Quarterly, as well as Yellow Arrow Publishing, and is a 2025 Best of the Net nominee. Her debut poetry collection Dear Planet was published by Fidessa Literary in July 2025. Ann cofounded and works for a nonprofit called Young Focus (youngfocus.org) in Manila.

*****

Kapua Iao 2/10/26 Kapua Iao 2/10/26

Spotlighting Lori L. Tharps’ Podcast Your BIPOC Writing Coach

By Avery Wood, written November 2025

Lori L. Tharps is an award-winning author of both fiction and nonfiction, as well as a writing coach, journalist, former college professor, and podcast host. Tharps attended Smith College for her undergraduate degree, then attended Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism. Afterward, she went on to work as a journalist for Entertainment Weekly, The New York Times, The Washington Post, and several other publications, as both a writer and editor. She has written three nonfiction books: Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America (2001), Kinky Gazpacho: Life, Love & Spain (2008), and Same Family, Different Colors: Confronting Colorism in America’s Diverse Families (2016), as well as a fiction novel, Substitute Me (2010). She “lives a proud global literary lifestyle,” having moved to Spain in 2021, where she then launched her first podcast in 2020. Called My American Melting Pot, the podcast evolved into Your BIPOC Writing Coach. You can find the podcast at podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/your-bipoc-writing-coach/id1442662387.

Tharps also leads a private writing community for BIPOC women called The Reed, Write, and Create Sanctuary and launched a YouTube channel called Literary Lori. She lives her life in support of BIPOC writing and writers, advocating for social change through writing, guiding, and teaching new and experienced writers, carving a space for BIPOC voices to grow and thrive.

The podcast itself has grown in the last five years, where Tharps’ initial focus was on “being a Black woman married to a Spanish man, raising three bilingual, biracial, bicultural children,” The first podcast ran for a single season in 2020 before it transformed into the Reed, Write, and Create Podcast. Then, Tharps began to focus more on “bite-size sessions of creative writing coaching.” She believes in the power of stories and the need for more of them from marginalized voices—specifically BIPOC, female-identifying, and nonbinary individuals—a mission much like our own work at Yellow Arrow Publishing.

By 2025, the podcast will be known as Your BIPOC Writing Coach. Tharps revitalized her commitment to helping Black, Indigenous, Latinx, Asian American, and all other writers of color, promoting underrepresented voices and guiding their work into excellence. She understands the fiery passion of budding writers, and her goal is to create a space for them to get tangible writing advice that will guide them throughout the writing process.

I personally listened to more than a few of her podcasts in preparation for this blog post, and her tone throughout is cheery, supportive, and insightful. A pep talk. I personally found lots of inspiration and countless helpful tips, some of which I will endeavor to share here. But, if you are a BIPOC writer looking for a little motivation or seeking a space that shares the stories and advice of other accomplished craftspeople, you’ll have to go check out the brilliant podcast for yourself. Some intriguing episode titles include: “Why Smart Authors Aim for the Backlist,” “Behind the Book with David Ruggles: The First Black Man in America to Open a Bookstore,” and “Behind the Book with Literary Agent Regina Brooks: On a Mission to Bring More Asian American Stories into the World.” There are more than 100 other amazing and insightful episodes, with more to come. Some focus on advocacy, some on promotion and craft, and some simply on the state of the world for writers and, really, all individuals.

It was hard to choose which episodes to listen to first—all the different featured perspectives are fascinating and insightful. I listened to her very first podcast sharing her experience and story as a mother in a multicultural American family that moved to Spain, and I loved it because it gave me an introduction into Tharps and her story, as well as served as a kind of cultural criticism for the world as it was back in 2020. I listened to her June 2025 episode “Writers: Do You Have a Reading Habit or a Reading Hobby?” that talked all about how curated and intentional reading can vastly help a writer grow and discussed the tools and mechanics for reading with intention. This was a solo episode for Tharps without a guest accompaniment. Some tricks of note were using a receptacle for tracking reading notes and adding an index to the end of that receptacle for easy note reviewing. She talks about being thoughtful in selecting books, not purely for quantity but for quality, and having a purpose for reading a book as a writer, clearly in your mind throughout your read. She wants writers to avoid mindless “dirty reading” as she calls it. With Tharps’ episode, “How to Strategize, Plan, and Execute a Book Tour that Guarantees Success,” I found both inspiring as well as truly informative, as a budding writer myself. If you are a BIPOC writer and have any specific questions about publishing, publicity, writing in multiple genres, or simply want to know how to get started, I guarantee you there is, or will be, an episode for you on Your BIPOC Writing Coach.

Tharps’ podcast is special not only because she’s an amazing creative writing coach but also because she often learns with the listeners as she speaks with inspiring and noteworthy guests, both BIPOC authors and publishing professionals, all eager to embolden and raise the voices of their communities. As Rebecca Caroll, author of acclaimed titles Surviving the White Gaze: A Memoir (2021) and I Know What the Red Clay Looks Like: The Voice and Vision of Black Women Writers (1994) said in the episode “Telling Black Women’s Stories Across Platforms with Rebecca Caroll”: “Black women showing up for each other is timeless and regenerative.” In this particular episode, Tharps and Caroll discuss journalism, apathy, and cynicism, the effects of politics and violence on writing, the art and complications of writing a memoir, and so much more.

I think it’s absolutely brilliant the way that Tharps has seamlessly integrated activism into a writing coach podcast, featuring professionals from all identities and walks of life, supporting and raising their voices as well as those of her listeners. She gives a spotlight to the topics of activism themselves—race, gender, society, the changing world—while simultaneously balancing practical and tangible writing tools and advice to support all her listeners of any identity or background.

(All quotes came from Lori L. Tharps’ podcast Your BIPOC Writing Coach and her website at loriltharps.com.)

*****

Kapua Iao 11/15/25 Kapua Iao 11/15/25

Why Fundraising Matters and Why I’m Glad to be a Part of It!

By Emily Ross

When I joined the board at Yellow Arrow I already knew how transformative their work was for women-identifying writers. I have thoroughly enjoyed being involved and hearing from our writers and program participants about how unique and community-minded Yellow Arrow is. And Yellow Arrow does it all! From publications to workshops to the writers-in-residence program, and community partnerships, I’m always amazed by how wide-reaching and deep-meaning Yellow Arrow’s programs are.

But as powerful as the programs are, they do not run on passion alone. It takes staff, web hosting, author stipends, workshop instructors, and marketing costs, among many other things to make this work possible. Fundraising is how we make it happen. Unlike a for-profit business, any revenue we generate, from chapbook sales or workshop fees, must go back to serving our mission. This leaves a gap between our generated revenue and the costs associated with our programs. Donations, grants, and sponsorships are how we close that gap and allow Yellow Arrow to stay sustainable and grow.

I see both the fundraiser and fund-giving side of this equation every day. As a grantmaking professional, I talk with prospective grant applicants, read applications, and coach organizations to become better grant writers. At Yellow Arrow, I help write and submit grants for our programs. This perspective has taught me how vital it is for nonprofits to diversify their funding, communicate their impact clearly, and build relationships with funders who share our values.

Fundraising is more than just the money. It’s about building a community around a mission, creating opportunities for people to invest in something they care about, and amplifying voices who might otherwise go unheard. When a donor, foundation, or workshop participant supports Yellow Arrow, they’re not just keeping our lights on, but helping us provide free or sliding-scale submission fees for first-time writers, expand our residencies, and partner with other local arts organizations to reach new audiences.

Serving on the board at Yellow Arrow has shown me that every dollar fundraised, every grant, every donation, every membership translates directly into more space for women’s stories in the literary world. I’m passionate about fundraising and grateful to the Yellow Arrow community that makes it possible! Together, we’re not just publishing; we’re creating a more inclusive, empathetic, and vibrant literary community in Baltimore and beyond.

Join our 10-year anniversary campaign now as a donor to help us keep writing change into the world together. What we can do in the next 10 years is BOUNDLESS—but it starts with you.

Ready to write our change into the world? DONATE TODAY.

Emily Ross (she/her) is an arts and humanities professional with expertise in museum education, social work, and grantmaking. Working at the intersection of culture and human services she champions collaboration and community voices in her career. She holds a BA in art history from the University of Virginia and an MSW from the University of Maryland, Baltimore. She currently works as the program officer for grants at Maryland Humanities. Based in Baltimore, she enjoys trips to the Renaissance Fair, New England beaches, and art museums.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook and Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 10/7/25 Kapua Iao 10/7/25

I Can Only Write for Course Credit (Finding Motivation Amid College Burnout)

By Kristen Caruso, written August 2025

I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone, including myself, before now, but it’s true. It’s been almost one year since the last writing course I’ve taken, and apart from the occasional scribble in my notebook, it’s also been one year since I’ve truly written anything. Now, coming up on the first semester of my junior year, and taking an advanced fiction writing course, I questioned myself: will I even be able to write for that?

Before this summer began, I envisioned myself spending hours with a notebook or Word document, inspired by the possibility of the next three months without a lecture to attend or paper to write. Then there I was, with just a few weeks before school started, and the only thing I’d written was my first blog post for Yellow Arrow. Which I was happy to do—but it was also an internship-related task. And I couldn’t remember the last time I sat down to write without having to.

Clearly I needed to be motivated, but not for an end goal. With this in mind, and inspired by Yellow Arrow’s Invitation to Write course, I decided that what I needed was structure: a writing routine. Each week, I set aside just 30 minutes a day, logging that time on my intern timesheet as blog 2 work, to write. A flexible, attainable amount of time I could weave between all my work and going to the beach.

As I was scrolling through different writing routines and challenges, I realized that I had to make one that was more customized to what I need—fitting for a burnt-out college student forcing herself back in, and with only a few weeks left of the summer. Here’s what I came up with:

Week One - Writing Prompts and Challenges (Any Genre)

Each day, I spent the whole 30 minutes responding to a writing prompt or challenge from a list I made ahead of time. For this week, there were a couple of rules I set for myself. Firstly, I couldn’t stop writing for more than a few seconds at a time. And I couldn’t go back and edit or expand upon something I’ve written previously. Only moving forward.

Week Two - Focus on Fiction

Although I let myself play around with different genres and styles in the first week, I knew I had to force myself to practice fiction writing to prepare for my upcoming course. It’s (fairly) easy for me to start writing poetry or poetic prose, but fiction feels more definite. I needed this push to get me into the right head space.

Week Three - Expansion

To me, an important part of fiction writing, especially when the professor has a minimum word count, is being able to expand on an idea or starting point. I needed to not just get in the mood to write prose, but practice fleshing out a whole story. For this week, I chose one of my drafts from the week before to expand on. It didn’t need to be complete by the end, just longer and more complex than how it started.

After crafting my new writing routine, the only thing I could do was start—and hope I was up for the challenge.

WEEK ONE

The first week had some trial and error. At first, I wasn’t sure what time of day I would prefer to write at. I thought I’d be pretty flexible, being able to easily slip in and out of the writing mindset at any time as long as I had it set aside in my Google calendar. This was not the case. I realized within the first few days that I wrote more and felt more confident when I wrote in the morning. Freshly made iced coffee and a whole day in front of me, I was able to let myself get lost in the prompts.

WEEK TWO

Focusing just on fiction was harder than I thought it would be. I kept using the list of prompts each day, but now with the prose lens, I found it tricky to find inspiration for stories rather than personal pieces of poetry. That’s when I had to tweak my routine just a bit. Before jumping right into writing, I let myself do something inspiring for at least ten minutes. This varied from reading a chapter of a current read to scrolling on Pinterest to rereading older pieces I’ve written. It wasn’t until I was in the right headspace that I could begin.

WEEK THREE

The last week of this challenge was my favorite. Once I smoothed out some kinks and problem-solved to get motivated in the first two weeks, I was glad to expand on something I wrote on earlier. I picked a work-in-progress that I was most excited about and had lots of ideas for already. This is also a week where I was allowed to revise and edit. This challenge wasn’t about hitting a word count goal for me—just finding motivation and inspiration for writing again, which I really felt at the end.

Challenging myself to write every day forced me to not just write, but also pay attention to my writing needs, and learn how best to create a writing routine that fits them. I feel much more confident in my ability to get started writing, and more in-tune to who I am as a writer. My brain feels warmed up. If you want to start a writing routine for yourself, I suggest doing a trial period. Try different times of the day, before and after work, in different locations, with or without having just eaten. I tried this in the summer, but I also imagine that the different seasons may play a huge role as the weather and schedules change. I didn’t realize before I started this challenge how impactful these factors were in how I felt during and after writing. This probably isn’t true for everyone but listening to what makes you perform at your most comfortable and confident level goes a long way in creative spaces. While I tried this over the summer, without classes or being on campus, I knew a writing routine for the school year would look drastically different. But now I know how to approach it in a way that works best for me and my writing, and I’m ready to take on the semester.

Kristen Caruso (she/her) is a junior at the University of Rochester but calls New Jersey home. As a double major in English and business with a minor in French, she hopes to combine her areas of study in a publishing career. Kristen’s interest in publishing began as the editor-in-chief of her high school’s yearbook organization and continues to thrive on the editorial board of her university’s art and literature journal. She enjoys coffee, the color green, poetry, nonfiction about trees, the ocean, Rochester snow, New Jersey pizza, music that’s somewhat bad, and lists that are too long. Find her on Instagram @kris10caruso.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 9/30/25 Kapua Iao 9/30/25

The 5am Writers Club

By Mickey Revenaugh, written September 2025

Every morning, seven days a week, 365 days a year, you will find me upright before sunrise, coffee in hand and laptop open. I post a proof of life on all the socials, then dig into whatever project is most bedeviling me at the moment. Some days the words rattle out like marbles from a tipped tin, other days are type-two-delete-one. But by the time the rest of the world wakes up, I’ve staked my claim. I am a writer because I belong to the 5am Writers Club.

That might sound backward. Don’t you have to be a writer first, before you get to join any club with “writers” in its name?

I’m here to argue the opposite. Hear me out.

Most of the identities I hold proudly are self-ascribed. While there’s objective evidence that I get all raucous over the lives of women, and that I prefer sidewalks to dirt, and that I get hooked on things that might kill me, no one else bestowed on me the title of feminist city slicker in recovery. That was all my doing.

Same thing with being a writer.

Of course, as the kids say, you have to put in the work.

Me, I figure I’ve composed millions of words over my long lifetime. There were the middle school crush and apocalypse poems, a few dozen of which I remember assembling into a manuscript and sending off to a New York City publisher by mail, with a self-addressed, stamped envelope, just like my writer father did; just like him, I welcomed my book back a month later with a nice noncommittal note to keep at it. I wrote multiple stories per issue for the high school newspaper I edited, and the upstate alternative newspaper I edited, and the collection of teacher magazines I edited. I produced a constant flow of “no more than 20 pages” pieces for writers group workshop critique and then 20 times that for my MFA thesis. I’ve had some stuff published along the way and lots of stuff not. Right now, I’m in the final editing stages for a nonfiction book, one that takes me back to my journalism roots but also lets me put a creative riff on things like the hairstyles at a homeschool conference and the crackle of tweens putting on a 12-kid prom.

I’ve put in the words.

But it’s the 5am club that has me waking up every day thinking I am a writer.

Most folks who do this predawn writing routine do so because they have day jobs, or kids and day jobs, or cats and kids and day jobs: you write before the alarm rings for your other obligations (though the cats apparently serve as their own furry clocks). But I didn’t join the 5am writers club until the day after I retired from my day job, which did get me in the habit of wee-hours working by giving me a U.K.-based team and boss to manage. Petless and childfree, I shot awake on that dark December morning in 2022, tiptoed into my newly liberated home office, and typed in the hashtag that I’d heard about from grad school compatriots and writing group friends.

#5amwritersclub

This was on Twitter back when Twitter was still called Twitter and was only 90% hellscape. What came up on my screen when I searched on the hashtag was evidence of globally distributed secret cells of creatives sheltering in place, sending bite-sized dispatches into the darkness. Poets and romance novelists and sci-fi writers and memorists, lit fic purists and multigenre maximalists, the semifamous and the not-yet-published, all raising a hand to say, “I’m here.” Some would add #amwriting, others would fret about feeling blocked. Some were there to celebrate the #writingcommunity and others indulged in #shamelessselfpromotion. The variety was astounding, clamorous yet soundless beyond the wave of my own breathing, like dancing in the middle of a silent rave where everyone’s wearing message tees.

I lurked for a bit, trying to intuit the rules. What soon became clear is that the only rule of #5amwritersclub is that, other than no trolling (everyone is very, very kind), there are no rules.

You post your thing, you add your hashtag, you heart some stuff, and you get on with it.

Most importantly, no one questioned my right to be in the club. It was all just thumbs-up and the occasional personal “Hello” after a few weeks. (And a little barrage of DMs from people wanting to help with marketing or sell me crypto, but I ignored those.)

I soon developed my own signature kind of post: a photo of some odd thing I saw in my wanderings around Brooklyn and elsewhere—a “random click”—posted as a writing self-prompt. For each picture, I would write a few hundred words, just locally on my laptop, not for sharing quite yet. (Others were more forthcoming, including someone writing a memoir in daily tweets, all lowercase with lots of ellipses, and the poet who posted a new haiku every day. I could only dream of being that bold, or that productive.)

Over that first year of 5ams, I put together a whole novella in flash—who knew there was such a thing?—with a photo and a chunk of text on each page, telling the warped story of a young art school dropout squatting in an abandoned cement factory in the Hudson Valley. She appeared to me before daybreak every morning, and I channeled her. Someday she may see print.

Along the way I “met” writers from all over the world: because it’s always 5am somewhere, their posts might come in hours before mine or hours afterward, but we were all in the same club. Some folks gathered for a virtual donut party on Fridays while others just raised their tea mugs in virtual toasts. There were many self-made cover reveals and pictures from book fairs and laments about manuscripts started but never finished. Some people disappeared for social media fasts while others went from posting monthly to popping up hourly. A stalwart speculative fiction writer from Florida wrote one morning about the scream of an oncoming hurricane—and then fell silent for a week. We all barraged him with relieved greetings when he returned, hawking his dystopian dolphin tales from another, drier location.

Around the 18-month mark, I discovered that my next-door neighbor, a much-published writer of edgy fiction, was hosting the occasional two-week sprint she called the Ungodly Hour Writing Club. Each weekday morning for a fortnight, you’d log into Zoom at 5:30 a.m. with camera and mic off and just write together in companionable silent witness. Sara would occasionally post an inspirational quote in the chat, and some try-hards like me would wish everyone a good day at 6:30 a.m. sign-off time, but that was it. Your Zoom profile pic, name, and pronouns were your living hashtag. Another Ungodly sprint is starting this week as I write this. I’ll check in with my 5am compatriots on Bluesky, Instagram, Facebook, and Threads (but not Twitter/X, not anymore), then roll right into Zoom. Sara’s keeping sessions open till 7:00 a.m. this time. We’re all very grateful.

Since mid 2024, my predawn writing sessions have been focused on this real-life book I’m writing about various forms of unconventional education American families have been flocking to since the pandemic: multiple flavors of homeschooling, microschools, roadschooling, virtual schooling, and the like. I have an agent and an editor and a university press publisher, and deadlines both self-imposed and official. I’ve been using my photo prompts as “WIP warmups” to ease into the vast wordy morasse of my manuscript. I do work on this project at all hours of the day and night, but predawn sets the tone. I’m finally heading into what I hope will be final revisions before the beast goes into production and then emerges in print in 2026.

I’m looking forward to seeing what emerges from the darkness then at the #5amwritersclub.

Mickey Revenaugh (she/her) is a nonfiction/fiction writer who is also cofounder of Connections Academy, a global network of virtual K–12 schools. Her various obsessions meld in School’s Out, forthcoming in 2026 from Johns Hopkins University Press. Mickey’s shorter work has appeared in Vice, Catapult, Chautauqua, and many others. She holds an MFA from Bennington College, an MBA from New York University, and a BA in American studies from Yale University, but she may be proudest of serving as board president for Yellow Arrow Publishing. You can find her at @mickeyrevenaugh on social media or mickeyrevenaugh.com on the web.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 9/9/25 Kapua Iao 9/9/25

Spotlighting midnight & indigo

By Kristen Caruso, written June 2025

“For Black women who write and the readers who’ve been waiting for our words.”

As explained on their website, midnight & indigo began years ago, on a Christmas morning with a typewriter wrapped up in a bow and 10-year-old Ianna A. Small, the founder and editor-in-chief of the press. That typewriter, combined with Small’s immense love for reading and writing, would inspire her to search for books with characters that look like her, and eventually write them herself: “Something magical happens in the pages of a book, when you see yourself reflected in the characters you love,” Small says. “Or the first time you see your own words staring back at you from a previously blank page.”

Ianna A. Small is the magic behind midnight & indigo Publishing and midnight & indigo, a cozy corner of the literary world where Black women writers’ stories come alive. By day, she’s orchestrating a symphony of words as editor-in-chief and cheering on the next wave of storytellers through midnight & indigo’s writing program. By night, you might catch her lost in a Black or South Asian novel, yelling at a twist in a Korean horror movie, or perfecting her roti-making skills. She binges Insecure, The Golden Girls, and cultural food documentaries like it’s a competitive sport, and dreams of one day running midnight & indigo from a lounge chair overlooking the archipelagos of her happy place: Greece. A proud Syracuse University alumna, Small is a member of ACES: The Society for Editing and the Editorial Freelancers Association.

Founded in 2018, now having published over 400 Black women writers in print and ebook journals, online essays, and special speculative fiction anthologies, midnight & indigo has become a powerhouse in amplifying the voices of Black women all over the world highlighting their contributions to the literary landscape. For Small, midnight & indigo is more than just a job, it’s her purpose and passion, and she’s proud to say that the press is not backed by any corporate investors or huge budgets, just the talent and hard work of their team.

As for publications, midnight & indigo publishes a triannual journal, available in print or as an ebook. The journal focuses on short stories, essays, and speculative fiction. Each issue publishes anywhere between eight and 22 works and writers, with beautifully photographed and designed covers. Their online journal is updated all year round on a rolling basis.

Their current issue, The Music Issue (Issue 13), combines the intricately linked relationships between writing and music, exploring the generational, powerful, deep, and often complex connection Black women have to different genres. From church hymns to K-Pop to Nat King Cole to ‘90s CD booklets, the inaugural music issue highlights 12 writers through essays and short stories.

On their website, midnight & indigo also posts glimpses of the content of their journals as essays and blog posts, such as “What Writing a Romance Novel Out of Spite Taught Me About the Fictional Man” by Desiree Winns. A cleverly honest and much needed essay, Winns describes how her frustrations with the lack of Black woman leads in romance novels—and men’s dismissal of romancing Black women in real life—drove her to write one of her own.

Another featured piece is “Candles in the Window: A Generational Blessing of Hospitality” by Lex Dunbar, a personal work of how always being welcomed home by their great-grandmother and her hospitality being passed down to them, Dunbar found a home in their queerness and trans identity. These beautiful essays show just a glimpse of the talent and powerful voices that exist in the rest of the midnight & indigo publications.

Apart from publications and literary journals, midnight & indigo also offer opportunities for Black women to learn about different aspects and genres of the craft. In 2022, midnight & indigo launched its Writing Program for Black Women Writers. Here, Black women can participate in a variety of online, virtual workshops and seminars taught by authors, creatives, and writing professionals, all created specifically for Black women. The classes are tagged with different topics: craft, fiction, nonfiction, and editing, with course options of length ranging from one day to four weeks. Some of the upcoming workshops and courses this fall include “Exploring Memoir: Personal Story & Power for Creative Nonfiction Writers” with Dhayana Alejandrina, “Decolonizing Our Writing Voice” with Dr. Kiara Lee, and “Polish and Pitch: A Black Woman Writer’s Guide to Self-Editing and Querying” with Catherine Mwitta. Since its launch only three years ago, more than 600 writers have participated in the online writing program.

Another service offered by midnight & indigo is Developmental Editing & Story Coaching, with Small herself being the editor. Patrons have the option to choose between a shorter (under 7,000 words) and longer (under 90,000 words) piece of work to be reviewed, receiving an analysis of many story elements including pacing and flow, character, and style and voice, as well as a one-hour, face to face feedback session. The goal of these editing sessions is to strengthen manuscripts and take them to the next level. Developmental editing is not the same as copy editing—it will focus on the big picture, structural feedback and issues of a manuscript.

midnight & indigo is not only an organization that publishes and broadens the reach of Black women writers’ voices and stories, but they also encourage, inspire, and guide new and upcoming writers to do the same. “Black women have always written—across kitchen tables, in the margins of time, through memory, imagination, and truth,” their website states. “midnight & indigo was founded to hold that work and honor the writers behind it.”

If you or anyone you know is a Black woman looking to be published, midnight & indigo’s upcoming deadlines are August 31, 2025, for speculative fiction, and September 30, 2025, for short stories and creative nonfiction. Spread the word and keep an eye on midnightandindigo.com/write-for-us for more information and new calls for submissions!

To find out more about midnight & indigo or support them, you can follow their Instagram @midnightandindigo and Facebook @midnightandindigo or sign up for their newsletter here.

“midnight & indigo is a literary journal and publishing company dedicated to celebrating and nurturing the voices of Black women writers worldwide.” (All quotes and Small’s bio came from midnight & indigo’s website, midnightandindigo.com.)

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 8/19/25 Kapua Iao 8/19/25

Worldbuilding Tips and Tricks: Making Your Setting Feel Real

By Jacqueline Goldman, written March 2025

Worldbuilding is an essential part of storytelling, shaping the way readers experience a fictional world. A strong setting enhances immersion, deepens character interactions, and adds layers of meaning to the narrative. Whether you’re creating a world for a novel, a screenplay, or a creative project, thoughtful worldbuilding makes the difference between a forgettable backdrop and a vibrant, living world that captivates audiences.

Worldbuilding is one of the most exciting yet daunting aspects of storytelling, whether you’re writing a novel, designing a Dungeons & Dragons campaign, or developing a setting for a creative project. A well-built world immerses readers, players, or audiences in a setting that feels lived-in, consistent, and full of possibilities. But how do you craft a world that feels real? Here are some key tips and tricks to bring your setting to life.

1. Start with the Big Picture

Before diving into the fine details, establish the broader framework of your world. Ask yourself fundamental questions:

What is the genre and tone of your world? High fantasy, grimdark, post-apocalyptic, steampunk?
What is the level of technology and magic?
Is it a single continent, a massive archipelago, or an entire universe?
How do people in this world survive? What are their sources of food, water, and shelter?
What are the major conflicts or struggles that shape the world’s current state?

Answering these macrolevel questions will help set the foundation for everything else.

2. History Shapes the Present

A world without history is a flat world. Consider major events that have shaped its present state:

Wars, revolutions, and conflicts
Natural disasters and their impact
The rise and fall of civilizations
The evolution of magic, technology, or religion

You don’t need to write a full history textbook, but having a rough timeline of key events will add depth to your world.

3. Culture is More Than Aesthetic

Culture isn’t just about architecture and clothing—it influences everything, from language and customs to politics and religion. Consider:

How do different regions or races interact?
What are their traditions, celebrations, and taboos?
What are the major religions and belief systems?
How do people express themselves through art, music, or literature?

Try to think beyond stereotypes—cultures should feel nuanced, with internal conflicts and unique customs.

4. Economy and Trade Matter

A setting feels more real when it has a functioning economy. Consider:

What is the primary currency?
What are the major exports and imports?
How do people make a living?
Are there economic disparities between regions?

Economic factors shape the interactions between different regions and influence political relationships, creating opportunities for conflict or cooperation. Whether it’s bustling trade cities, agricultural hubs, or isolated villages, these economic structures determine the wealth and power dynamics within a society.

5. Geography Influences Everything

Where people live affect their culture, economy, and daily life. Think about:

Climate and weather patterns
Major landmarks (rivers, mountains, deserts, forests)
Natural resources and their scarcity
How geography affects warfare, trade, and expansion

A world with vast deserts will have different survival tactics and trade routes than one dominated by ice and tundra.

6. Language and Naming Conventions

Names carry weight, and consistent linguistic rules make a world feel organic. Think about:

Naming conventions for cities, regions, and people
How different cultures speak and communicate
Slang, idioms, or dialects
Multiple languages (do they evolve over time?)

Avoid using real-world names unless you have a reason; unique, internally consistent names strengthen immersion.

7. Magic and Technology Need Rules

If your world has magic or advanced technology, establish clear rules:

Who can use magic or access technology?
Are there limits? What are the costs?
How does it impact daily life?
Are there laws or organizations that regulate it?

A well-thought-out system prevents plot holes and keeps the world believable.

8. Politics and Power Structures

Governments, factions, and leaders shape your world’s conflicts and alliances:

What type of governance exists? Monarchies, republics, theocracies?
Who holds power and how is it maintained?
Are there secret societies, rebel groups, or criminal organizations?
How do different factions interact?

Political intrigue can add rich storytelling elements and logical motivations for characters.

9. Daily Life and Small Details

Big picture worldbuilding is important, but the small details make it feel lived-in:

What do people eat?
How do they celebrate milestones like birth, marriage, and death?
What are common superstitions?
What games do children play?

A bustling marketplace, a folk song sung at a tavern, or a regional dish can make your world feel authentic and tangible in a way that grand landscapes or epic quests cannot. These everyday moments ground the setting in a reality that feels familiar, even if it's entirely fantastical.

10. Balance Planning and Organic Growth

While it’s important to establish key details of your world, leave room for discovery and flexibility. A rigidly planned setting can feel artificial, while one that evolves naturally can surprise both the creator and the audience. Consider:

Which aspects of your world must remain fixed?
Where can you allow room for development as the story unfolds?
How can you incorporate new ideas without breaking established lore?
Are you allowing characters and events to shape the world naturally?

Sometimes, the most interesting elements emerge during storytelling itself, allowing your world to grow in unexpected but logical ways.

Final Thoughts

Worldbuilding can be a long and sometimes overwhelming process, but it’s also one of the most rewarding aspects of creative storytelling. Remember that not every detail needs to be planned from the start—sometimes, the best elements of a world develop as the story unfolds. Keep notes, stay flexible, and allow your world to breathe and evolve over time.

Worldbuilding is an art, and no world is ever truly finished. The best settings feel like they existed long before the story started and will continue to evolve after it ends. Whether you’re designing for a novel, a game, or just for fun, these tips will help you craft a setting that feels deep, immersive, and full of possibilities.

So go forth and build—but don’t forget to leave a little magic behind the curtain!

Jacqueline Goldman (she/her) is an aspiring publishing professional and junior at Loyola University Maryland pursuing a degree in communication and media with a specialization in journalism and a minor in writing and business journalism. With experience as managing editor-in-chief for The Greyhound, nonfiction editor at Corridors Literary Magazine, and acquisitions editor at Apprentice House Press, she enjoys shaping compelling narratives and pushing the envelope.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 7/1/25 Kapua Iao 7/1/25

Writer’s Block: Wanting to Write But Having Nothing to Say

By Jacqueline Goldman, written February 2025

There’s nothing quite as frustrating as staring at a blank page, fingers hovering over the keyboard, mind utterly empty. You want to write. You sit down to do it. But somehow, nothing comes. Your brain, so full of thoughts just moments ago, has hit an inexplicable wall. It’s frustrating, disheartening, and, if you’re working on a deadline, downright stressful.

Here’s the thing—this happens to every writer. You’re not alone, and you’re certainly not any less of a writer because of it. Even the most seasoned authors, those who have written bestsellers or won literary awards, experience this exact struggle. So, what can you do?

Writer’s block isn’t just about being out of ideas. Sometimes, it’s having too many scattered thoughts that refuse to take shape. Other times, it’s feeling like every idea you have is uninspired or not worth writing about. The irony, of course, is that the best way to overcome writer’s block is to write about it.

That’s exactly what I do. When I feel stuck, I write about being stuck. And in doing so, I inevitably find my way out.

It sounds counterintuitive, but if you don’t know what to say, then say exactly that. Describe the frustration, the blinking cursor, the way your mind feels like a snow globe that refuses to settle. Sometimes, the act of acknowledging the block is enough to loosen its grip. Other times, it’s just the beginning of a longer battle, one that requires patience and a willingness to push forward despite the discomfort.

Next, set small, achievable goals. Instead of pressuring yourself to produce a masterpiece, commit to just writing a sentence. Then another. Give yourself permission to write terribly—because bad words on a page are still words, and they can always be revised later.

If you’re stuck, don’t start with your main project. Instead, try a creative warm up. Freewrite for five minutes about anything, use a writing prompt, or describe a mundane object in extreme detail. Engaging with words in a low-pressure way can help ease you into a more productive mindset. I often find myself writing short poems to begin. These exercises may seem trivial, but they act as mental stretches, preparing your brain for deeper creative work.

Another trick? Change your scenery. Step away from your desk, go for a walk, people watch at a café or switch to pen and paper. A shift in surroundings can do wonders for shaking loose new ideas.

Just this afternoon, when I did this, I found a little nook in the Humanities Department at my school. It looked like something straight out of Harry Potter’s world, and that alone was enough to inspire a new piece of writing. Inspiration often hides in unexpected places—you just have to give yourself the chance to find it.

Speaking of books, read something that inspires you. Sometimes, the best way to get words flowing is to consume good writing. Whether it’s poetry, essays, or even an old piece of your own that you’re proud of, seeing the rhythm of language on the page can help reignite your creative instincts. Reading reminds you why you love words in the first place and can rekindle that spark of motivation.

If writer’s block persists, try writing in a distraction-free environment. In today’s world, distractions are everywhere. Social media, emails, and the endless stream of notifications can make it difficult to focus. Use apps that block notifications, set a timer for focused writing, or go old school with a notebook and pen.

And if that doesn’t work? Step away. If the words refuse to come, let them be. Give yourself permission to do something completely different. Cook a meal, take a shower, doodle in a notebook. Sometimes, the best ideas arrive when you’re not searching for them.

I’ve found that movement often helps. A simple walk outside can do wonders, but if you want to shake things up, try a new form of exercise—I commit to spin classes twice a week and sometimes they’ll have unique and creative themes that get me energized, shaking loose whatever thoughts were stuck in my subconscious.

Another approach is to write from a different perspective. If you feel blocked writing in the first person, try the third. If you’re stuck in prose, switch to poetry. If words aren’t working at all, draw. Creativity is fluid, and sometimes, taking a detour helps you return with fresh eyes.

Think about your favorite writers; chances are, they’ve struggled with this, too. Read their interviews, their essays on writing. Many authors openly discuss their battles with writer’s block and their personal tricks to overcome it. Sometimes, just knowing that even the greats wrestle with the blank page can be comforting.

Try embracing the block instead of fighting it. What if, instead of seeing it as an obstacle, you viewed it as a sign that something inside you needs more time to develop? Not every moment has to be productive. Some of the best writing happens after periods of silence.

Alternatively, when you feel the pressure to create, try to start and explore things from a different point of view. You can avoid the trap of rationalization and instead, find yourself accidentally creating something of value.

Writing is an act of discovery. If you sit down expecting brilliance, you’re setting yourself up for frustration. Instead, treat it as an experiment. What happens if you write without thinking? Without worrying? What if you just let the words lead you?

Once you start, momentum takes over. One sentence leads to another. One thought sparks the next. And before you know it, you’re no longer stuck. You’re writing.

You can do anything for five minutes, right? Well, typing with writer’s block is an uncomfortable feeling—like putting in your eye contacts in the morning. But once you’ve fought through the awkward stage, you can finally see clearly.

Above all when you have writer’s block, be kind to yourself. Writing isn’t about perfection—it’s about showing up. Some days will be harder than others, but if you keep putting words down, even when they feel clumsy or pointless, you’ll break through the block. And before you know it, you’ll be writing again.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 5/27/25 Kapua Iao 5/27/25

Best Places to Write and Read in the Baltimore Area

By Gabby Granillo, written March 2025

Baltimore, as I have come to know it, is nothing short of lively, eclectic, and cozy. Reading and writing are two of my favorite things to do and when I have the time, these are my favorite local cafés and small businesses I like to support. Having a safe space to read comfortably, write your next novel, or plan some prose for your next reading is important!

Good Neighbor

Right off the bat, the name is quite fitting. Good Neighbor is a hole in the wall that is bright with large bay windows and found in Hampden, Baltimore. It is typically not loud in noise level, aside from your expected chatter between barista and customer. The seats are very comfy, but everything is first come, first serve. This location is good for both reading and writing, however if you are an individual who needs silence to focus, this is not the place for you. Desperate to try it out anyway? Invest in noise canceling headphones and you’ll be set for hours. If you are not looking to get takeout or order a coffee on the go, I recommend getting there shortly after opening and parking yourself in a chair to read and write. Make a day out of it!

When the weather obliges, Good Neighbor has outdoor seating to accommodate more guests, however, the patio is closed late fall to early spring. Another incentive to visit Good Neighbor is their newly established shoppable hotel, called guesthouse, designed for staycations, rejuvenations, and creative writing retreats. They offer weekday discounts, free daily coffee for specific bookings, and gift cards!

Hours of Operation:

Monday–Wednesday | 7:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.

Thursday–Friday | 7:00 a.m.–6:00 p.m.

Saturday–Sunday | 8:00 a.m.–6:00 p.m.

Location: 3827 Falls Road, Baltimore, Maryland 21211

goodneighborshop.com

Artifact Coffee

A unique artifact indeed! This is one of Baltimore’s best hidden gems. Free Wi-Fi, seasonal menus, handcrafted beverages, and plenty of seating: this has to be your next stop! The rustic and warm environment inside makes this a perfect place for writing inspiration, while the outdoor seating is great for catching rays with your favorite book. The noise level varies depending on the time of day and whether it’s a weekend. Many locals visit Artifact to grab a coffee and stay for the ambiance.

While Artifact is popular, you will never feel out of place in this coffee shop; friendly staff, intimate lighting, and comfortable seating make this an unparalleled experience. Its sister restaurant, Woodberry Kitchen, would also be a perfect place to host a poetry reading or book launch: they have extensive seating, a large cocktail and refreshment menu, with devoted staff and chefs to make your experience unforgettable.

Hours of Operation:

Monday–Friday | 8:00 a.m.–3:00 p.m.

Saturday–Sunday | 8:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.

Location: 1500 Union Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland 21211

artifactcoffee.com

Bird in Hand

Bird in Hand is one of Yellow Arrow’s favorite partners to work with; the absolute best place to host a poetry reading, journal about your day, catch up with a fellow author, or write poetry independently. Located on the outskirts of Johns Hopkins University, it is a hub for writers, coffee lovers, and busy students. Bird in Hand doubles as a bookstore with walls lined with novels, ensuring visitors feel immersed and cozy. They have ample seating both inside and outdoors on their elevated patio.

The menu at Bird in Hand is what draws in many visitors as well! Between serving locally crafted coffee, a tea bar, and specialty spirits, they have everything. They offer breakfast meals, sandwiches, salads, and a snack for everyone. The noise level is not excessive, but far from silent. Being a busy spot, I would recommend cozying up in the corner to read or write alone but sitting at any table when working on group projects or meeting a friend.

Hours of Operation:

Sunday–Tuesday | 8:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.

Wednesday–Saturday | 8:00 a.m.–8:00 p.m.

Location: 11 E 33rd Street, Baltimore, Maryland 21218

birdinhandcafe.com

Pitango Bakery & Cafe Fells Point

A favorite of mine is Pitango Bakery & Cafe in Fells Point. Situated right on the water with lots of sunlight and extensive indoor and outdoor seating make this café paramount. This place is fitting for individuals who like to write and read at all hours of the day. With long hours every day of the week, a central location to shops, restaurants, and good views, Pitango is perfect.

Their menu caters to focusing on honest ingredients, inspired by authentic Italian cuisine, paralleling their attention to detail at Pitango Gelato, their sister shop.

Pitango Bakery’s vibe is light, fresh, and comfortable. You will not have trouble finding a seat with ample room, as Pitango caters to all kinds of customers: families, locals, and tourists, and it’s the perfect date location!

Hours of Operation:

Sunday–Tuesday | 7:00 a.m.–8:00 p.m.

Wednesday–Saturday | 7:00 a.m.–10:00 p.m.

Location: 903 S Ann Street, Baltimore, Maryland 21231

pitangogelato.com/location/pitango-bakery-cafe

Enoch Pratt Library

A must for any Baltimore resident, Enoch Pratt Library is a free, intellectually stimulating, and comfortable environment to write your next novel or poetry composition. The silence this spot has to offer is important and one of its best features as a reading and writing spot. They offer an online catalogue to conduct research, spark your imagination, and access audiobooks!

With long hours and hundreds of seats, make sure to take advantage of this wonderful resource: free Wi-Fi, job and career assistance, photocopier and printing services, computers for public use, and ADA/handicap accessible.

Hours of Operation:

Monday–Thursday | 10:00 a.m.–8:00 p.m.

Friday–Saturday | 10:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.

Location: Central Library 400 Cathedral Street, Baltimore, Maryland 21201

prattlibrary.org/locations/central

The Bun Shop

The Bun Shop is a must-visit café in Mount Vernon, with late-night hours and an extensive selection of snacking buns. This is one of Baltimore’s most unique spots, praised by customers as cozy, inclusive, and friendly. The Bun Shop is great for reading and writing, with an ambiance that will most definitely inspire your latest works. With jazz playing on the overhead speakers, and plenty of outlets, this café creates community and inspires creativity. They have free Wi-Fi, vegan food options, and plentiful seating.

Catch up with friends, grab a bite to eat, or camp out at a table finishing your writing drafts! With seating indoors and a patio outside, take advantage of this adorable Baltimore café.

Hours of Operation:

Sunday–Saturday | 8:00 a.m.–3:00 a.m.

Location: 239 W Read Street, Baltimore, Maryland 212101

thebunshop.feastbuffet.site

If you’re looking for more places to check out, check out Siobhan McKenna’s blog from a few years ago: https://www.yellowarrowpublishing.com/news/inspiring-locations-to-write-baltimore-mckenna. Where do you choose to write in Baltimore?

Gabrielle Granillo is studying English and writing at Loyola University Maryland, minoring in environmental science and art. Raised in Arizona, with much of her family still on the west coast, she now lives in central Massachusetts, her home for the past 12 years. She aims to live in northern Europe after graduation and receive a master’s degree in photojournalism. Gabby spends her days reading Irish novels, practicing street photography, and trying out new recipes. Her three favorite things are hot tea, antiquing, and road trips. She looks forward to making valuable contributions to the Yellow Arrow team, as a woman-identifying writer herself, looking to explore further editorial practices and enhance her voice using inspiration of her fellow staff members.

*****

Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 5/13/25 Kapua Iao 5/13/25

You published a book… What’s next?

By Ashley Elizabeth, written January 2025

You’ve done it.

From drafting your manuscript to editing, to editing again, to putting it away, then editing again, through submissions and rejections, then finally: that acceptance email comes. You’ve gone through the secrecy stage (or at least I did) until the press announces its next selections. Then you’re thrust back into editing. At least this time the next thing to do is cover design, interior layout, exterior layout, asking for blurbs, etc.—but you get it. The list goes on and on as to all the work required for your book to exist in your readers’ hands.

So, what do you do when the book is actually out?

The truth is what comes next is a personal decision, but one that should align with what you want of the manuscript. This is much easier than it sounds.

By the end of 2023, I knew that I would have two collections coming out in 2024: my debut full-length collection, A Family Thing, and my third chapbook, CHARM(ed). That said, I already knew I had a daunting task ahead of me since these two collections were vastly different thematically, and I felt like there was no connecting thread to market them together. I also wanted better for these two collections than what my first two collections garnered, so I knew I had to get to planning early, but what did “wanting better” mean?

It took a while for me to answer that specific question, but in the end, I came up with three wants: more visibility, more celebrations, and more spaces to share my work. I applied for various places to assist in widening my reach outside of Twitter/X, but to no avail, so I got even busier reaching out to venues I had read at previously and even being brave and contacting new ones to book readings or see how I could get involved. While some places said they had no openings for the year, they put me on their list for 2025, and I was grateful.

Alone, this one act combined more visibility and more spaces to share. While yes, this was a want of mine, it also was frightening for someone with social anxiety, but let’s consider this a challenge in the right direction.

Being a poet with these incredibly high expectations of myself, adding that to being a middle school educator comes with its own set of goals, challenges, and expectations. While managing the balance between edits of two different manuscripts in addition to my full-time job and other life events like one of my students stealing my car, I was continuing to submit work outside of these manuscripts and then the unthinkable happened: another chapbook of mine, red line, was accepted for publication—also in 2024.

A Family Thing was due to come out in August, and CHARM(ed) in November, so for red line to be slated for October rose internal panic because it meant that much more work had to be done. It also meant when I book events in the city talking about my experiences as an educator, I have to watch how I approach what I say, which is not so fun (red line covers part of my life as an educator after losing two of my students, my lens as a Black educator in a formerly white-led school, our lockdown situation, and my unconventional ways in the classroom).

But I don’t shy away from challenges: I embrace them.

For people with day jobs, writing by itself can feel like something you don’t have enough time for, let alone all these other moving parts. I would have loved to go coast to coast spreading my voice, but my reality isn’t set up that way as someone with such a demanding career and family life.

There have been times along my publishing journey this year that have veered me into the lane of giving up one, the other, or both, but that wouldn’t have been fair to my readers or my students, those who I continue to work for every day. It also wouldn’t have been fair to me. Since I was younger, I dreamt of becoming an author. Writing, especially writing my subject matter, is good work. Messy work at times, but good, important work.

So, after the collections came out and I spoke at all the planned readings and other engagements I had except for one due to illness, what was there to do?

I didn’t have to wait long to find my answer: After A Family Thing released, school was quickly starting and my car got stolen again, so I had life issues to worry about. After red line released, I picked up a terrible illness from school and was sick for several weeks where I was mainly focused on my health, which then also ran into the release of CHARM(ed) where I was starting to feel better but then ran into issues at school.

I haven’t touched much on the celebrations behind these publications because I consider each time I get to read from them to be a celebration of sorts, especially when I consider the themes within each manuscript. I made it through everything A Family Thing talks about, which is a celebration. Putting a good word into the atmosphere about Baltimore in CHARM(ed) is a celebration when people do nothing but try to destroy it (though I did treat myself to a chicken box and half-and-half both when I got the acceptance and when it was released). Uplifting my deceased scholars that I discuss in red line will also always be an honor and celebration as to know them, to say their names is a privilege.

Now if you asked me, “What do I recommend doing after publishing a book?” I could say take yourself on a solo date, eat a piece or two or five of your favorite cake, rest, dance in your underwear, call your sister and yap for two hours about everything and nothing, order your favorite takeout, marathon your favorite shows that you’ve seen maybe one too many times.

What I’m going to say is: Give yourself credit. You have created something no one in this world has. You have used your voice to speak up and out about something you believe in and that is probably the greatest, bravest thing you could ever do.

In short, what comes next is up to you. There is no right or wrong to your next steps, or any mandated steps for that matter, but whatever you decide to do, enjoy the journey. You’ve earned it, however “it” looks for you.

Ashley Elizabeth (she/her) is a winner of the 2024 Garden Party Collective Chapbook Contest. She is a Pushcart-nominated writer and teacher whose work has appeared in SWWIM, Voicemail Poems, Rigorous, and Sage Cigarettes, among others. Ashley is the author of A Family Thing (Redacted Books/ELJ Editions, 2024) and chapbooks red line (Garden Party Collective, 2024), CHARM(ed) (fifth wheel press, 2024), black has every right to be angry (Alternating Current, 2023), and you were supposed to be a friend (Nightingale & Sparrow, 2020). When she isn't teaching, reading, or writing, Ashley works as chapbook editor at Sundress Publications. She lives on the original land of the Piscataway (Baltimore, Maryland) with her partner and their cats.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 5/6/25 Kapua Iao 5/6/25

Poetry as it is, as I love it

By Elizabeth Ottenritter, written November 2024

“If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me,

I know that is poetry.”

– Emily Dickinson

They say poetry is the only form of literary art that is for no one but the poet themself. This undeniable notion is what had drawn me to poetry in late high school. At first, I thought that poetry always had to rhyme, skipping stanzas to accomplish a consistent sound above all else. I would open my notes app and type something candid, and vaguely lyrical. My first poem was written on March 8, 2020, ironically titled “Thanksgiving.” I won’t expose my young self just yet, but the content was centered around my first love, who I never dated. The repetitiveness of this in my mind was surprisingly easy to put into words. Then, I was slowly able to move into free-verse after discovering poetry doesn’t owe a rhyme—it doesn’t owe anything at all.

I didn’t tell anyone about my sudden interest in the genre nor did I show anyone what I had been writing in fear it would go misunderstood. At the time, I had been trudging through a brutal senior year of high school that had been entirely online due to COVID. I often felt lonely, confused, and undeserving, which reflected in the subjects I’d write about as a subconscious form of consolation. In no way does poetry always come from such circumstances. Some of my favorite poems are about very pleasant things. I found comfort in writing my feelings, which allowed me to better understand myself in return.

I was admitted to Loyola University Maryland that spring and chose to major in writing. While the writing major is an uncommon track at most universities, I felt a sudden surge of confidence during my first semester of college. Writing had been the only thing I never minded looking at or putting time into. In December of that year, I saw that our literary art magazine at Loyola, Corridors, was accepting submissions for their spring issue. I nervously submitted two poems, thinking neither would be taken to publication, but I had nothing to lose anyway. That March, I received an email that changed my life, reading Congratulations! and We would like to accept “Dear Sun” and “No Nutrition.” I waited until I got to hold the publication in my hands and saw my printed work. I even read my poem “Dear Sun” at the release party, my shyness slowly dissipating for good. I was finally in the right place.

Three years later, I am still in love with poetry and language. I am enamored with those who have the talent to create, what I like to call “portrait poems” with words that depict how something appears visually. A good example of this would come from poet Jane Hirschfield and her book The October Palace. Hirschfield’s language is transparent as though you were looking at the hidden wonders of the world through clear glass. Her poetry is a homage to what is around her; there is a physicality to everything she writes. I enjoy Hirschfield’s poem “Page” for how particular and hard-hitting the lines are:

It waits for the old

to grow young, fed and unfearful,

for freighters to carry their hold-held oil

back into unfractured ground,

for fires to return

their shoeboxes of photos and risen homes

Poems such as these are easy to be inspired by and difficult to write. I admire U.S. poet laureate Ada Limón for this reason. Her ability to bend structure to her will is compelling, as is her way of redefining what poetry may look like within her forms. Limón’s poems “Calling Things What They Are” and “The Hurting Kind” are especially reflective of this.

Often, the poetry and art that I respond to is more self-centered. I am drawn to confessional, personal anecdotes that aim to say something larger than the work itself. I like poems about specific experiences—but ones that speak to universal experiences simultaneously.

The first poem I ever loved was “Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe. I remember sitting in my middle school English class, holding back tears over the final line: “In her tomb by the sounding sea.” I didn’t understand why the words had upset me so viscerally. It might have been the building repetition of “Annabel Lee,” the closeness you feel to her through the eyes of Poe, how you never get to know her outside of him, her sudden untimely death and the terrifying notion that love lasts forever. All these concepts, new to me at the time, were the foundation for my interest in writing the human experience. While not everyone has buried a lover in a sepulchre by the sea, most can relate to losing someone they love. A poem has this remarkable ability, one that allows you to see what is already there, as well as the invisible strings that bind us together.

A song has a similar effect. Poetry and music are intertwined for me—much of my poetry has been inspired by music. I am not musically inclined, and I am aware that songwriting has a different intention than poetry, as it is written to accompany music for wide audiences. Even still, many of my favorite recording artists are beautiful writers who are also gifted with the talent for music. For some of my most listened-to songs, I could read the lyrics as a poem itself. Take, for instance, the song “Chelsea” by Phoebe Bridgers.

You are somebody’s baby

Some mother held you near

No, it’s not important

They’re just pretty words, my dear

There is no distraction

That can make me disappear

No, there’s nothin’ that won’t remind you

I will always be right here

When it comes to discovering new and old poetry, I am a big fan of the classic Poetry Foundation website. They post a poem of the day, often coinciding with holidays, historical events, and poets’ anniversaries. Often, I will get distracted on my laptop and find myself lost in a collection of poems on various subjects, like autumn or love. The New Yorker has an excellent fiction and poetry collection as well, which is always changing to highlight a wide range of voices.

As much as poetry is for the writer, it is meant to be shared. I have found both clarity and inspiration while workshopping my own poetry, as well as the poems of others. Art has always been a source of bonding. When something is close to your heart, there is a tendency to hide it within yourself. A poem, piece of prose, or even a song can challenge this notion, as our words live well beyond us. My grandmother passed away this summer, and while we remember her for so many things, she had signs hanging in her house that were so her. One read, “I was so far behind I thought I was first.” We smile when we remember those words and how they have touched us, and that is poetry to me.

Elizabeth Ottenritter (she/her) is a senior at Loyola University Maryland, where she studies writing. She is passionate about reading, crafting poetry, contributing to Loyola’s literary art magazine, Corridors, and traveling worldwide. Upon graduation, Elizabeth hopes to continue her love of learning and language in a graduate program.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 4/29/25 Kapua Iao 4/29/25

The Power of Being Heard: A Voice for Women with Traumatic Pasts

By Julie Alden Cullinane, written November 2024

The ability to have one’s voice heard is more than just a privilege; it is an act of defiance, survival, and healing, especially for women who have endured trauma. As the author of Ghosts Only I Can See (2024), I have found that sharing my story not only liberates me but also empowers others. My mission is to be a voice for women with traumatic pasts, especially those who have survived childhood trauma. Through writing and witnessing, I aim to dismantle the silence that often surrounds these experiences, challenging the gaslighting and denial that frequently accompany them. Amplifying voices is not just a personal endeavor—it is a collective call for change and validation.

The Healing Power of Storytelling

Trauma silences. It isolates and convinces survivors that their experiences are invalid or insignificant. Growing up with unresolved pain, many women internalize the belief that their voices do not matter. Sharing my story in Ghosts Only I Can See was not simply about revisiting the past; it was about reclaiming my narrative and affirming my worth. Writing creates space for healing—it allows us to process, understand, and contextualize our pain.

For women with traumatic childhoods, storytelling offers the opportunity to name what was once unnameable. When we write our stories, we confront the ghosts that haunt us, giving them shape and, ultimately, taking away their power to control us. Writing is both catharsis and resistance—a way of saying, “I was here, and my experience matters.”

Combating Gaslighting and Denial

A pervasive challenge for trauma survivors is the denial or minimization of their experiences, often perpetuated by those closest to them or society at large. Gaslighting, the deliberate manipulation to make someone doubt their reality, is particularly harmful. It leaves survivors questioning their memories, their feelings, and even their sanity. For women, whose voices are historically undervalued, this form of invalidation is especially insidious.

By amplifying my voice and encouraging others to do the same, I aim to dismantle this dynamic. When women share their stories, they assert their reality in the face of doubt. They become witnesses—not only to their pain but also to their strength. Writing, in this sense, is an act of validation and defiance. It is a declaration that our stories are not only real but also worth hearing.

Being a Witness for Others

Beyond sharing my own story, I feel a profound responsibility to be a witness for other women. Trauma often leaves survivors feeling invisible. By acknowledging and amplifying their voices, we create a space where they feel seen and heard. This role is both humbling and transformative. To witness another’s pain is to affirm their humanity, to stand in solidarity with their struggles, and to remind them they are not alone.

Women with traumatic pasts often carry immense guilt, shame, and isolation. When we share and bear witness, we disrupt these cycles. We create communities of understanding and support, where vulnerability is met with compassion rather than judgment. I want to be the voice that says, “I believe you,” and to inspire others to say the same.

Empowering Women to Write Their Stories

Writing is an accessible and transformative tool for self-expression and advocacy. Encouraging women to write their stories is central to my mission. Each story, no matter how small or large it may seem, holds the potential to inspire, educate, and heal. When women write, they reclaim their agency. They transform from passive victims of circumstance to active narrators of their lives.

Writing also ensures that our stories endure. It creates a record, a testament to our resilience. In a world where women’s experiences are often dismissed or erased, writing is an act of preservation and legacy. I want every woman to know that her voice matters, that her story is worth telling, and that she has the power to change the narrative—not just for herself but for others who follow.

Amplifying Voices for Systemic Change

While individual healing is essential, the amplification of women’s voices has broader implications. Systemic change begins with awareness, and awareness grows when diverse, authentic voices are heard. By sharing our stories, we challenge societal norms that perpetuate silence and stigma around trauma. We shift the cultural conversation from one of shame and secrecy to one of empowerment and understanding.

For women who have endured traumatic childhoods, this shift is especially vital. Childhood trauma shapes the way we view ourselves and the world. By addressing these issues publicly, we advocate for better resources, policies, and support systems for survivors. Amplifying our voices is not just about personal validation—it is about creating a world where future generations are better equipped to confront and overcome trauma.

The Ripple Effect of Sharing

When one woman shares her story, it creates a ripple effect. Her courage inspires others to speak out, creating a chain reaction of honesty and empowerment. As the author of Ghosts Only I Can See, I have witnessed this phenomenon firsthand. Readers have reached out to share how my words resonated with their own experiences, how my story gave them the courage to confront their past or to begin writing their own.

This ripple effect is why amplification matters. It is not about a single voice but about a collective chorus. Each story adds depth and nuance to the larger narrative of women’s resilience and strength. Together, our voices become impossible to ignore.

Moving Forward: A Call to Action

The work of amplifying voices is never finished. It requires continual effort, vulnerability, and courage. For me, this means continuing to write, to speak, and to advocate. It means creating spaces where women feel safe to share their truths and ensuring those spaces are inclusive and supportive.

I call on other women to join me in this mission. Whether through writing, speaking, or simply listening, we all have a role to play in amplifying voices. Together, we can challenge the silence that surrounds trauma, confront the forces that perpetuate it, and build a world where every woman feels seen, heard, and valued.

Having my voice heard and amplified is not just important to me—it is essential. It is a way to heal, to resist, and to inspire. As the author of Ghosts Only I Can See, I am committed to being a voice for women who have endured trauma, particularly those with painful childhoods. I want to be a witness, to combat gaslighting and denial, and to empower women to write their stories. Amplifying our voices is how we reclaim our power, transform our pain into purpose, and create a more just and compassionate world. Together, we can ensure that no woman ever feels silenced or invisible again.

Julie Alden Cullinane is a Boston-based writer. She holds both a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English, and her writing credits include poetry and short stories published in numerous literary magazines. Her common themes include womanhood, motherhood, and wonders of being human. In addition to her writing, Julie works as the vice president of human resources for a large behavioral health hospital, a role that offers her a rich perspective on the human experience, which she incorporates into her writing. She enjoys reading and writing in her free time and has a dedicated following on social media, X (formerly Twitter), TikTok, Facebook, BlueSky, Threads, and Instagram. She also maintains an author’s website at julie.wildinkpages.com/poetry to engage with her readers.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 4/1/25 Kapua Iao 4/1/25

Why I Love Poetry

By Caroline Kunz, written August 2024

In the words of Robert Frost, “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” A simple, yet meaningful phrase that largely sums up why I love poetry. Writing poetry allows one the space to grapple with and sort out their most complicated emotions and experiences. Reading poetry allows one the ability to find names for the feelings they once found too difficult to identify. In my experience, poetry brings with it the greatest sense of comfort and relief, no matter how one engages with it.

My sentiments toward poetry haven’t always been so fond. Growing up, I couldn’t stand it. English class was always my favorite—I loved sinking my teeth into books that made me think, like The Giver and To Kill a Mockingbird, and I aced every quiz on figurative language and literary terminology. However, something about the yearly poetry unit left me less than enthused. I thought that poetry’s primary purpose was to remain mysterious and inaccessible, hiding some deeper message that only those well-versed in literature could decode. I believed that all poems needed to sound like a nursery rhyme—the more elaborate the rhyme scheme, the better. Squinting at the board in the front of the room, I tried to piece together what Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven meant when it squawked, “Nevermore,” wondering what was so important about the repetitive word, anyway. I took a stab at analyzing “Jabberwocky” by Lewis Caroll but felt as though I was reading another language. Were “brillig” and “slithy” even real words?

It wasn’t until I studied poetry in my junior year of high school that my opinions started to shift. It’s true that one teacher can completely change a mindset, proving all preconceived notions about a subject to be false. On the first day of the unit, my English teacher had our class open our American Literature Anthologies to a piece called “Desert Places” by Robert Frost. My only experience with Frost at that point had been reading “Nothing Gold Can Stay” in S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders. All I remembered was how confused the short poem had made me feel. I didn’t expect to enjoy this next one, either. Nonetheless, we read.

“What do the images in this poem have in common?” My teacher asked. Everything is desolate and blank, I thought. “Beyond nature and the outdoors, what do these images make you think of?” Loneliness, isolation, melancholy. Maybe it was the step-by-step analysis that my teacher walked us through. Or maybe, it was the fact that at that point in my life, I’d learned the stresses of balancing school with a part-time job and extracurriculars, friendship drama, keeping a strong GPA, and applying to colleges. I’d experienced the nostalgia of growing older (perhaps, Frost was right, after all, when he concluded that “nothing gold can stay”), the sadness of losing a grandparent and an aunt, the uncomfortable presence of change. Maybe it was because I’d shared in these human experiences that I was able to put aside the rhyme scheme and see the poem for what it was: a testimony to the feelings of loneliness and uncertainty that all of us have experienced. An ode to the notion that, at times, we’ve all felt as though we’re wandering a barren path, isolated and alone in our fears that we’ll never find our way through the uncharted territory. It was beautiful. I felt a strange sense of comfort in reading these words—I didn’t know that poetry could be emotional and relatable, allowing readers to see their feelings represented and validated in such short stanzas. I copied the poem down into my notebook so I wouldn’t forget it.

From that point on, I became eager to find poems like “Desert Places”—poems that I could read and digest and apply so easily to my own life. I inhaled the works of Emily Dickinson and Wendy Cope, Oscar Wilde and Ralph Waldo Emerson. I was fascinated by the fact that older poems such as these could still hold so much weight, still resonate so deeply with readers of any age. Before I knew it, my bookshelf was overtaken by a collection of little poetry books.

It’s no surprise that once the poetry bug bit, I decided to study English and writing at college. At present, I’ve completed three years, and I can say with confidence that the poetry classes I take are my favorite. I love the poems that my professor brings for us to read each week—Elizabeth Bishop, Louise Glück, Robert Lowell. I love getting to explore new genres, forms, styles, and narrative voices. I love getting to know my classmates and their opinions so well as we bounce ideas across our classroom’s round conference table. I love our in-class workshops; before every Thursday, we each write a poem to be brought in and edited, questioned, admired, and reworked by our professor at the front of the room.

“No, you can’t use that cliche.”

“I admire the risks you took with this one.”

“Why don’t we just get rid of the first three stanzas?”

“The heart of the poem is really here, in the last two.”

I love the conversation that I have with her red pen as I make my edits the day after a workshop. It’s fascinating to create my own work, seeing which topics I gravitate toward and which I shy away from. While the essays and analyses that I’m assigned in my English classes often prove to be stressors, these poems that I have due each Thursday act as a release, both creatively and emotionally. And, in turn, I’ve found that crafting so many poems has helped to strengthen my writing in every other academic area—it’s helped me to find a sense of conciseness, a greater awareness of pace and phrasing.

Last spring, during the final week of my “Poetic Influence” class, my professor could see the weariness in our eyes. Our once lively class discussions had turned sullen and sparse. We begged for extensions and handed in late assignments left and right, which she usually had no tolerance for. With mere days before final exams began, we were giving her all that we had. “I thought today I’d bring in one of my favorites by Ellen Bass called, ‘The Thing Is,’” she said. “You all could clearly use it.”

In that moment, these words were exactly what I needed to hear. The stress and anxiety brought on by the upcoming exams, the 12-page paper I had due that night, my yearly end-of-semester mystery illness, the bittersweetness of saying goodbye to my friends for the summer, the fact that I hadn’t even begun to pack up my apartment for move-out . . . all seemed to melt away. Bass reminded me that pain, fear, and grief are all inevitable. Suddenly, my problems seemed to become a lot smaller, and I knew that, while I didn’t love life in this particular moment, I would soon “hold it like a face” and appreciate it once again.

So, if you ask me why I love poetry, the answer is simple. Poetry allows us to feel less alone. Poems are like companions. Little reminders that we can stick in our back pocket, taking them out and consulting their advice when we need it most. Poetry grows up with us; “Desert Places” is still with me, in that old notebook from junior year, and in the Frost books that I keep on my shelf. Poetry is more than mere pretty words strung together to sound like an ode or a fairy tale. Poetry is complex, emotive, withstanding. Poetry is universal.

Caroline Kunz (she/her) is a rising senior at Loyola University Maryland, where she studies English and writing on a pre-MAT track. She enjoys traveling, scouting out new coffee shops, and of course, reading and writing. As an aspiring educator, she hopes to share her love of the written word with future generations of students. Her current favorite authors include Taylor Jenkins Reid and Celeste Ng.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 3/18/25 Kapua Iao 3/18/25

Reaching New Orbits with Feminist Speculative Writing by Angela Acosta

By Angela Acosta, written September 2024

The worlds of feminist speculative fiction and poetry are vast. They are filled with spacefaring humans creating homes on new planets, Earth dwellers seeking respite from the sun, ferocious river-born monsters, and high fantasy cities full of spells and runes. You may have read stories by Ursula K. Le Guin, Octavia Butler, or CJ Cherryh that made you rethink what you thought you knew about science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Works by these writers offer alternate histories, examine human nature alongside aliens, and ask their readers tough questions. Feminist speculative fiction decenters whiteness and dismantles colonialism. It walks away from the Omelas to envision more just queer, trans, crip, Black, Indigenous, Latine, and Asian futures.

When I joined the Science Fiction & Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA) in early 2022, I was in awe of the ecosystem of speculative poets, journals, and presses that awaited me. Since then, I have published my work in over 30 speculative literary magazines and worked with small presses to publish two Elgin nominated collections, Summoning Space Travelers (Hiraeth Publishing, 2022) and A Belief in Cosmic Dailiness (Red Ogre Review, 2023). Before then, I had only published a handful of nongenre poems and often got lost in the maze of poetry contests, vanity publishers, and beautiful literary magazines for which my work was simply not a good fit. I had read plenty of science fiction novels, YA dystopias, and literary classics, but I had yet to experience SciFaiku, experimental work, and narrative speculative poems.

I got my start as a speculative poet publishing “The Optics of Space Travel” in Eye to the Telescope. This piece, like much of my speculative writing, grapples with questions of cultural erasure, multilingualism, and family legacies:

My eyes are the bridge between worlds and generations,
when languages and cultures have been assimilated out of me.
I can still see the road ahead, of stories yet to be told,
onward towards Mars and the deceleration of the universe.

Feminist speculative literature is multilingual and multicultural, held steady with the promise that the cultures and languages of Earth will be spoken and celebrated in the future. As a child, I yearned to speak Spanish and to know the recipes and cultural traditions of my Mexican ancestors. Though I didn’t learn Spanish from my family, the language in all its linguistic diversity has become a part of who I am. I have grown from this cosmovisión, a worldview amplified by the many cultures where Spanish and indigenous languages of the Américas are spoken. The literature of Abya Yala, a Kuna word for the misnomer that is Latin America, is full of myths like El Dorado and La Malinche, fantastic journeys and lost homelands, and the recuperation of indigenous cultures and voices. For those who speak Spanish, I recommend Rodrigo Bastidas Pérez’s anthology El tercer mundo después del sol, a collection of stories from across Abya Yala that bring together techno futurism, folklore, horror, and many other speculative subgenres.

My science fiction poetry seeks to envision Latine characters thriving in worlds beyond Earth. I write in English and Spanish about a city built over the Chicxulub crater in “Paradise of the Abyss,” cook tamales with Martian cheese in “Tamales on Mars,” find a new home for the delightfully resilient axolotl in “Rewilding the Axolotl” (Star*Line vol. 47, no. 2), and celebrate a quinceañera (15th birthday celebration) en route to a new galaxy in “Andromeda’s First Quinceañera” (Space and Time issue 142). My bilingual collection A Belief in Cosmic Dailiness contains poems that envision the dailiness of human emotions and experiences in settings beyond Earth, from parties onboard a spaceship to creatures gathered around a campfire listening to filk music (sci-fi folk music). I wrote the collection to capture the wonder and possibility of Latine futures, even when our names and histories cannot be found on star charts.

Recent fiction by Valerie Valdes and Becky Chambers has shown me that space can be for every human and alien species. Their books depict a future where people of all backgrounds and abilities can make their way to crowded space stations and settle on exoplanets without destroying the local flora and fauna. Theirs is a future of accessibility and acceptance of ourselves and our pasts, a place full of found families, multispecies communities, and heartfelt laughter.

For those entering the world of speculative fiction, there are many journals accepting feminist work. The Sprawl Mag, edited by Mahaila Smith and Libby Graham, is a feminist speculative journal “focused on publishing perspectives that have historically been left out of canonical sci-fi and fantasy.” Radon Journal publishes antifascist and anarchist poetry and prose, including science fiction, transhumanism, and dystopia. Most importantly, these journals offer excellent feedback and support their contributors. Other venues for speculative work that I enjoy reading and writing for are Solarpunk Magazine, Heartlines Spec, If There’s Anyone Left, Utopia Science Fiction, and Shoreline of Infinity. Speculative writers of color should consider submitting to FIYAH (Black writers of the African diaspora) and Anathema (on hiatus, planning to return in 2025). For those with poetry manuscripts ready for submission, Interstellar Flight Press is a mainstay of the genre, Aqueduct Press publishes feminist science fiction, Prismatica is for LGBTQ+ writers, and I have personally enjoyed working with the editorial team at Red Ogre Review.

When I first watched the Diné science fiction short film “Sixth World,” written and directed by Nanobah Becker, I was excited to see Diné astronauts tackling the challenges of a mission to Mars. These feminist, anticolonial futures are not without the conflicts of present-day society but offer new perspectives on age-old challenges. Feminist speculative futures are not necessarily utopian, nor do they portray an amalgamation of existing human cultures. They are as specific to the cultures and peoples they depict as they are vast, always venturing for the journey through space and time to be inclusive and accessible.

Angela Acosta, PhD (she/her), is a bilingual Mexican American poet and Assistant Professor of Spanish at the University of South Carolina. She is a 2022 Dream Foundry Contest for Emerging Writers finalist, 2022 Somos en Escrito Extra-Fiction Contest honorable mention, and Utopia Award nominee. Her Rhysling nominated poetry has appeared in Heartlines Spec, Shoreline of Infinity, Apparition Lit, Radon Journal, and Space & Time. She is author of the Elgin nominated poetry collections Summoning Space Travelers (Hiraeth Publishing, 2022) and A Belief in Cosmic Dailiness (Red Ogre Review, 2023).

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 3/4/25 Kapua Iao 3/4/25

Ecopoetry: The Web That Connects

By Laurel Maxwell, written December 2024

As humans we are part of an interconnected web just like the mycelium that snake underneath the soil. As writers we have found ways to write about this connection we feel to the earth, what makes us pause in delight. We know how to select the right words to write about a bee tumbling inside the lip of a poppy. Writing about nature has gone by different names over the course of history. Today we know it as ecopoetry, or ecopoetics. This form of poetry focuses on how humans interact with the world around them, the observations they make, and the natural world itself. It runs deeper than personifying a tree, it is seeing that tree surrounded by forest and wondering what the forest will look like in 10 or 20 years. Ecopoetry works as a way to understand and untangle our thoughts on how humans can harm something beautiful while simultaneously striving to protect it. It can also serve as a call to action to protect all that is already disappearing.

One of the first poems I fell in love with was Mary Oliver’s Spring Day. The iconic line “what will you do with your one wild and precious life” set something free in my soul. Since reading those words I have slowly gravitated toward poets who use nature to make sense of the world. Over time I found myself writing in the same vein. It wasn’t an intentional change, there was suddenly more to write about as climate catastrophe became front and center in my personal life. Months of extreme smoke kept me indoors during summer, and flooding disrupted daily life in the winter. But ecopoetry can also be a love poem. Writing about the way a hummingbird dips into a flower or a honeysuckle vine tangles in a chain-link fence. How nature is resilient in the face of its own destruction in the way humans are not. Years after a massive fire swept through a state park I returned to visit with my mom and husband. Yes, tree bark was blackened, but there were also tufts of green sprouting above our heads.

Ecopoetry isn’t a new form of poetry, think of those early contemporaries Henry David Thoreau and Walden. It does seem ecopoetry has taken on a sudden sense of urgency as the world tips and spins with an increase in natural disasters. It has heightened our awareness of being on this marble in the universe. In my quest to learn more I searched in the scraps of time before dinner, in a few silent morning moments for poets who were writing now. Isabella Zapatas’ Una Ballena es Un Pais (A Whale is a Country) showed me it was possible to write about ecological concerns in a way free of scientific jargon. I loved the creativity she used to discuss animals in their habitats and her perspective on the way humans interact with them. Wound Is the Origin of Wonder by Maya C. Popa was the second book that shook me awake to what writing to the natural world could look like. What made her work different was that she wrote from the lens of loss, to an environment that is all too quickly disappearing. Mary Oliver is the queen of writing toward what is outside our window from geese to grasshoppers. Maria Popava writes at the intersection of science, the environment and wonder. Rebecca Elson used her background in astronomy to write clearly crafted scientific prose while boldly coming to terms with her diagnosis of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in Responsibility to Awe. Newer publications that give a nod toward women writers and the environment are Poetry in the Natural World edited by Ada Limon and Leaning Towards the Light, an anthology of poems geared toward gardeners. All these writers are playful and serious while grasping the fragility of humanity.

I didn’t see the turn in my own work toward ecopoetry until I submitted a series of poems for critique. The reader pointed out how often I returned to interweaving actions between humans and the environment. Within this larger theme I was also seeking to gather a sense of self. He gratefully pointed me toward writers who “document human interaction with the landscape.” I began to become aware of the poems I was drawn toward and found they all touched on nature with a hint of science to provide a sense of grounding. “Write about your obsessions,” Ellen Bass said in a workshop. I’m obsessed with this earth, its changing, and my place in it, the harm humans have caused. How destruction brings about beauty. And this is the root of ecopoetry: work that focuses on the natural world and how humans interact with the spaces they inhibit.

As writers we are often keen observers of the world. We don’t have the luxury of being Walden and spending years at a pond, but we can look outside the front door, at the spider web stranded between two porch beams, a flower sprouting in an unexpected location. This sense of observation lends itself to ecopoetry which places nature at the center rather than humanity. This written word helps to weave our existence within that of the natural world. How many times have I written about the waves in some sense? Their meditative fall and retreat? Or that waves always return to where they started. Smoothing eons of mountains to sand. One of the things I love about ecopoetry is that it can bring our world into focus with something as small as an ant; does the ant know the size of the leaf it carries across the foundation of the world? Or as large as the cosmos.

If you are interested in submitting, there are a variety of publications that are looking for pieces which focus on the natural world. These include Fly Away Literary Journal, Kelp, Tiny Seed, Canary, and Ecotone, among others. The website Poets for Science explores the connection between science and poetry. This well-curated site has ways to advocate for the environment as well as opportunities to share your own work.

In this world of uncertainty I know that I can write what I see as I walk to the store, as I move between classes where I teach. I have my favorite tree whose leaves alert me to the season’s changing well before the air cools. For me, when I write about the environment it helps to keep me rooted. It also helps me pay attention, which in turn provides me with more to sift through as I put words on the page. I hope that you, too, can find joy in the small moments of the natural world to keep yourself moving forever forward.

“What Needs Care”

By Laurel Maxwell

This warming cracked, catastrophically changed planet.

Even though it may be too late to reverse course.

Except right now there is a squirrel with a yellow nut in its jaws skimmering across the patio.

Buttercup blooms on the yarrow plant daring the sun to emerge.

On Thursday I swam out in the ocean.

Investigated a log surfing the currents.

Head in the murky wet I didn’t notice the seal patrolling close to shore.

Today Ruth brought a bounty of pears from her garden.

We handled them like treasures.

The once burned landscape is beginning to care for itself.

Regrowth slow, but there all the same.

The birds which are inhabiting the charred branches, hip high weeds marking the trail.

People tentatively stepping into a brighter landscape than the one they knew.

Who will care for the coral bleached of their colors?
The rising tide battering roads.

Floods that disappear whole towns.

Seeds whose DNA have been so altered whole plant species are disappearing.

What needs care are these bodies we forget

as we hurtle through time.

Their age insignificant as space dust on this

billion-year-old planet.

If interested in learning more about ecopoetry or writing your own, check out Writing Ecopoetry with Joanne Durham, which starts on March 5. In this workshop, participants will read and discuss poetry that spans a wide range of relationships between people and the rest of the natural world from anthologies such as Poet Laureate Ada Limon’s 2024 You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World, Camille Dungy’s Black Nature, and Bradfield, Furhman & Sheffield’s Cascadia Field Guide. Learn more about the class at yellowarrowpublishing.com/workshop-sign-up/p/writingecopoetry2025.

Laurel Maxwell is a poet from Santa Cruz, California, whose work is inspired by life’s mundane and the natural world. Her work has appeared at baseballballard.com, coffecontrails, phren-z, Verse-Virtual, Tulip Tree Review, and Yellow Arrow Vignette SPARK. Her creative fiction was a finalist for Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest. Her piece “A Still Life” was nominated for Best of the Net by Yellow Arrow Publishing. She has a chapbook forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2025. When not writing, Laurel enjoys putting her feet in the sand, reading, traveling, and trying not to make too much of a mess baking in a too small kitchen. She works in education. You can find her at lgtanza.wixsite.com/writer or on social media @lomaxwell22.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.

Kapua Iao 2/25/25 Kapua Iao 2/25/25

Writing Process Notes: How Not to Dread Revision

By Isabel Cristina Legarda, written October 2024

I often get a little flutter in my belly when I turn on my laptop to open a work in progress. Revision can be exciting, but also dreadful. I totally get the well-known quip (often attributed, probably erroneously, to Dorothy Parker), “I hate writing. I love having written.” It’s a joke, of course. I love writing. What I actually dislike is feeling unable to translate what’s in my mind faithfully onto the page. The many stops and starts of finding the right words, the right structure, or the right direction fill me with anxiety. I’ve put my forehead on a desk surface many times and whined, “C’mon, you can do it. Keep going.”

Shirley Jackson claimed she wrote her masterpiece “The Lottery” in one sitting. Her essay about the process, “Biography of a Story,” used to fill me with envy. It describes what I (and I suspect many others as well) fantasize about when envisioning the ideal writing process: sitting in front of a blank page, a lone figure is struck by a compelling idea which then gives rise to streams of just the right words, all written in one great, almost unstoppable torrent, bringing the mental vision to perfect fruition. Inspiration with a captial “I” makes the words flow as if beckoned by some unseen power, and the author sits there writing or typing furiously, barely able to keep up. Jackson’s first version of “The Lottery” may have flowed out with the kind of unusual ease writers dream of experiencing, but in reality, writing it still involved drafts, feedback, and revision, as the process does for most writers.

Though this much-desired writing flow does happen once in a while, I think it’s rare—certainly for me. I might be an especially slow writer. I dread what I’ll euphemistically call the shoddy first draft; I wince at how inadequate it looks and sounds, how embarrassing it is in the ways it misses the mark. I procrastinate to avoid reopening it and seeing all its blotches, blemishes, and giant pores.

The truth, however, is that revision is the heart of the writing process. It’s the space in which the chiseling and shaping of a block of words can set free the hidden, essential work (to borrow from Michelangelo). Craft takes good writing and turns it into art. Although the creative process can be mysterious and elusive, craft is technical enough to lend itself to a methodical approach.

When I’m revising a piece, any piece, I comb through it line by line and ask myself the same six questions:

1. Do I encounter glitches reading it out loud? (e.g., stumbling, awkward pauses, unpleasant sounds, and bad rhythm)

2. Do I need this word (or phrase)? (I’ll question articles and weak verbs like “to be,” adverbs, adjectives, and redundancies.)

3. Can I replace groups of words with fewer words or one word?

4. Is each word the best word?

5. Is the piece “saying” what I want it to? (What do I want it to say?) Can I apply Flannery O’Connor’s well-known quote about stories to it, i.e. is it “a way to say something that can’t be said any other way, and it takes every word in the [piece] to say what the meaning is?”

6. Does the piece contain a DYBI moment? (DYBI = draw-your-breath-in. Often in the form of a fresh image, insight, use of language, or surprising way of seeing something. Examples from the poetry world include “How to Prepare Your Husband for Dinner” by Rachelle Cruz, “Cult of the Deer Goddess” by Caylin Capra-Thomas, and “Epithalamion for the Long Dead” by Danielle Sellers.)

I take heart that even the greatest writers of the past have wrestled, Jacob-like, with the Angel of Revision, like Victor Hugo and Emily Dickinson, whose home in Amherst contains a large interactive display of lines from “A Chilly Peace infests the Grass” for which she trialed different words to see if they would work.

*Interactive display at the Emily Dickinson Museum, Amherst, Massachusetts; photo by author*

*Facsimile of a page from Volume III, Book 1 of Victor Hugo’s* Les Misérables, displayed at an exhibit of his drawings, Maison Hugo, Paris; photo by author

I enjoy catching glimpses of a writer’s process. Images of manuscript pages, with the authors’ crossings-out and scribblings, and literary journals like The Account, where writers explain the backstories of their works, and Underbelly, in which first and final drafts of each work are printed side by side, inspire me and fill me with curiosity and wonder. There’s a kind of flow evidenced in these too—the unfolding of increasing clarity as writers draw ever-closer to the voice and words they want. When I look at the opening lines of my own poem “Boondocks,” published in Beyond the Galleons (2024), in their very first and last iterations, I am startled by how different the two are, yet pleased that the soul of the poem inhabits both:

“Boondocks” ~ opening lines as published

We hear the word and think

uncouth, naive, unsophisticated,

ramshackle huts off the grid,

prints of bare feet pressed

to dirt roads, scattered

corn husks, the smell

of burning wood, skin

prickling against the elements –

where a bad fall can mean

the end of life.

“Boondocks” ~ first draft of opening lines

If you’re from the boondocks

you might be stereotyped as uncouth,

naïve, unsophisticated, a fish

out of water in the civilized world.

We joke about the boonies –

how remote they are, how nothing

of any use can be found for miles,

just corn husks and the smell of wood

burning, ramshackle huts off the grid

along dirt roads carrying the prints

of the bare feet of unwashed, unschooled

children and the men who sired them,

who gather and cut firewood by hand.

Having crafted a piece for hours, days, or weeks, set it aside, revisited it, agonized, had the occasional break-through, and done as much as we think we can do, how do we know when a piece is “finished?” I don’t think we can ever be totally sure. Even the best writing samples could probably be tweaked or rewritten in a hundred more ways. I’ve had the experience of multiple voices offering feedback that led me to rework a piece many times, only to realize after some time away from the piece that my gut was still telling me the original “said it best” and later to have that very original accepted for publication. I’ve often wondered what would happen if I took a lesser-known work by a literary giant like John Donne or Virginia Woolf and distributed the piece without identification to a group of writers to workshop. I have no doubt there would be lots of eager critiquing. Someone always has a suggestion for even the greatest pieces of writing. At the same time, truly helpful feedback, from readers who understand and support the author’s vision, can elevate a work from good to great.

Flannery O’Connor wrote in The Habit of Being, “I am amenable to criticism but only within the sphere of what I am trying to do; I will not be persuaded to do otherwise.” I admire her strong faith in her own voice and work and strive to trust my own intention and vision for each piece that I write. In the end there’s nothing like applying a revision to a poem or short story, reading it to yourself, and exclaiming, “Yes!” in your heart. That feeling might even surpass the pleasure of writing that flows effortlessly onto the page by some “miracle” of Inspiration. With this in mind, I try to embrace revision. It is, after all, what makes us true writers, aspiring masters of our craft.

Isabel Cristina Legarda was born in the Philippines and spent her early childhood there before moving to Bethesda, Maryland. She holds degrees in literature and bioethics and is currently a practicing physician in Boston, Massachusetts. She enjoys writing about women’s lived experience, cultural issues, and finding grace in a challenging world. Her work has appeared in America Magazine, Cleaver, The Dewdrop, The Lowestoft Chronicle, Ruminate, Sky Island Review, Smartish Pace, Qu, West Trestle Review, and others. Find Isabel on Instagram and Twitter @poetintheOR.

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Yellow Arrow Publishing is a nonprofit supporting women-identifying writers through publication and access to the literary arts. You can support us as we BLAZE a path for women-identifying creatives this year by purchasing one of our publications or a workshop from the Yellow Arrow bookstore, for yourself or as a gift, joining our newsletter, following us on Facebook or Instagram, or subscribing to our YouTube channel. Donations are appreciated via PayPal (staff@yellowarrowpublishing.com), Venmo (@yellowarrowpublishing), or US mail (PO Box 65185, Baltimore, Maryland 21209). More than anything, messages of support through any one of our channels are greatly appreciated.