Say Yes

Here in Florida we have disasters and devastations that give warning, that we know are coming, like hurricanes. We've experienced the initial bands of rain and wind gusting through that twist the tops of trees like rubber, and we've startled at the first thuds of limbs dropping. And then the main wall of the hurricane comes close. Pots, yard art, and garbage cans are secured. Jugs of hurricane water have been stored under the sink for months. Shutters are closed. Battery banks are charged. We've loaned the neighbors extension cords for their generators. Friends have called for the final pre-strike check in. We've downloaded movies. I've stared at a weather app and known there was no more hope of a wobble or wind shift. All that is left is to brace.

It's a week until the Presidential Inauguration. We know to believe the forecast. This is a newsletter about writing, so here's how I've prepared and how I've braced.

Not well, really. I mean I did all the regular things in an attempt to avoid this oncoming devastation like door knocking, campaign contributions, and such. And since, I've given money to places like Planned Parenthood and The Southern Legal Council (an organization at the forefront of protecting trans rights here in Florida) as well as various old lesbians and disabled writers. But mostly I stay home and scroll dog videos and binge TV shows that I've seen before so I can follow along while playing Candy Crush. I haven't been writing much. I haven't been reading much. My voice has become more monotone.

It is true that I injured my arm some months ago. As a result, I've had to change how I move through the world. It sort of terrifies me. No, I don't want to write about that yet. But the days I get to be floaty from the stronger pain meds and stay on the bed all day, propped up by pillows, in a muu muu, with the computer on my lap makes me as happy as I get.

But this mental ossification has writing-induced cracks. Because I am a writer, it seems. I was asked to teach a creative nonfiction course for The Lynx, our wonderful local bookstore, in support of their Banned Books initiative, and I get paid. (Half the class fee goes to their nonprofit, half to me.) Mostly I wanted to just stay home, but my writer self-esteem (ego) has always been easily bolstered by any sort of recognition from other writers and also by money. So I said yes. I'm using my writer brain again as I put together a class by pulling bits and pieces from all over and adding in anything I wished I’d been taught or told, omitting what seemed useless or mean, and leaving room for the needs of whoever actually takes the class. Yes, I am trying for a class that does everything. Yes, before we begin, I will scale that back to what is the most effective for the time allowed.

Also, I was invited to present at ReadOUT 2025: Queering the Narrative. It's a book festival in Gulfport, Florida that celebrates "diverse voices, stories, and authors from the LGBTQ+ community, and I am thrilled to be included as one those writers. And they pay enough for almost one night in a hotel room in South Florida. So Pam (who knows well how to support a writer spouse) and I will drive three hours each way down the Russian roulette game that is I-75 where I'll speak in public and, I promise, not wear a muu muu.

The chance to be of service to other writers. And then to be part of a public queer celebration. In Florida. A month after the Inauguration. How could I not say yes to both?

(Sure my vision on one side is at half-mast because of the probably anxiety-caused inflammation of my eyelid. But never mind that.)

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