Books

"The gangs of girls marched into where we lived like they were welcome. (And, to be fair, they had been once…) They knew from how they’d known us then where we kept what was dear to us. They knew where we hid our special secrets. "

-Rebecca Brown, “The Ruined City” from The Terrible Girls

". . . I escaped to the yard, soothed myself in the branches of an oak tree, dangling over periwinkle, looking out for swifts. Sixteen, I reflected, biting into a stolen pie. By this time in her life, my sister Mary had been pregnant. Ovid had dedicated his life to poetry. Queen Elizabeth had seen a suitor beheaded. Romeo and Juliet were dead. Whereas I, Margaret Lucas, was nothing if not in health, no single true adventure to my name."

Margaret the First, Danielle Dutton

"My dark hair makes my eyes more cat-like and brighter in hue. More Eastern European. Less American. I am starting to make sense to them. I am taking off all my American skin. Killing my ability to pass for the Middle American and quiet and from here. Instead I am from the bloki again. Soviet-built and dooming."

-Karolina Waclawiak, How To Get Into the Twin Palms

"Behind every crazy woman is a man sitting very quietly, saying 'What? I'm not doing anything.'"

Problems, Jade Sharma

The liberating thing about publishing an essay collection before you are a fully formed person is that there is nothing to fear. You have no readers. No experience. No memories of doing it before. No wounds. The bad thing about publishing an essay collection at twenty-five, when the frontal lobe has barely finished developing, is there is nothing to fear. No readers. No experience. No memories of doing it before. No wounds.

Chloe Caldwell, I’ll Tell You In Person