Editor’s note: RCWMS Special Assistant to the Executive Director Rachel Sauls recently asked RCWMS trustee and former Anita McLeod Intern Liddy Grantland to reflect on her writing practice. Read Liddy’s writing on her substack.
- What is your earliest memory of writing?
I remember writing poems in a sparkly notebook in the second grade. And yes, I did read them in front of my class—but I have no memory of how ambivalently they were probably received. Which is for the best.
(This preceded the time in the third grade where I wrote a chapter book about the anthropomorphized hula hoops we played with at recess, of which I printed multiple copies at home, using all my parents’ printer ink.)
- What feels most life-giving about writing at this juncture in your life? What feels most challenging?
I have really been appreciating my writing community lately! I have participated in Allison Kirkland’s women writer’s workshop for at least three years, and there’s really nothing like being held by a group of people who genuinely care not just about writing, but about you. I know a lot of writers have little naysayers in their head that purely sound like mean former workshop participants (usually men, who don’t like women talking about their feelings…). I don’t have that voice in my head, but I do have a regular series of voices that remind me that my words matter.
Having unstructured time in this season of my life has actually made finding time to write more challenging. At L’Arche and at Duke, I was often so busy that finding moments to write felt so precious and dear. Now I have the privilege of several mornings a week where I could write for hours…or, I could fiddle around in my garden, take a nap, read a book, watch TV. And I’m working on finding a balance between structure and letting the soft animal of my body do its thing. So I definitely have some work to do around finding a good writing routine in this season of my life.
- Your writing focuses on “stories about people and bodies, and how our bodies are people.” What are some of the unique joys and struggles you experience when writing in a fleshy way?
For all my body-focus, it’s still really easy to forget to share with readers my embodied experience. Because writing the body is hard! You have to put words to a wordless thing. But in a sense, that is literally the job of the writer, no matter what you’re writing about. So, when it goes right, when the words are there—you just feel like cheering. And most of the time, that moment doesn’t come until you’ve pulled your hair out at a blank page, rewritten a couple of times, taken feedback, rewritten again, maybe cried about it in the shower. But when words are there, and they got written, and they told the truth about your lived experience as a body: that’s a delight.
- In the past few years, you completed your undergraduate degree at Duke University, interned at RCWMS, and lived in a L’Arche community in Washington, DC. Now you are in a season of intentional rest in South Carolina. How have your ideas and experiences of embodiment changed throughout these different roles and locations you’ve recently inhabited?
It was easy to live from the neck-up at Duke; my work at RCWMS, and my writing in Flesh and Bones show the real inklings and beginnings of me moving intentionally back into my body. L’Arche is a school for life for many young people, and I definitely experienced that. I left the Duke environment, focused so much on productivity, perfection, performance—and showed up at a place where my job was to keep fellow humans alive, keep a house relatively tidy and put some food on the table, and do all of these things while including each other as much as possible. And inclusion sometimes means things moved slower, or the eggs were a little burnt, or the windows were a little streaky. And L’Arche taught me that that’s just fine!
Especially during the pandemic restrictions, which lasted much longer in the group home setting than the outside world, my focus really narrowed to the bodies in front of me. And if I spent 20 minutes convincing someone to brush their teeth—why wouldn’t I make sure to brush my teeth before bed? And floss? And take my meds? And get a full night’s sleep? And drink some water while I’m at it?
What I will say is that L’Arche work was often hard on the body—you can’t delay a bathroom trip or a doctor’s visit because you’re in pain. Nor do one person’s bodily needs stop because another person’s bodily needs are time-consuming or challenging. So my focus in this season in South Carolina is to remember that I can prioritize my own body and her needs. I can plan around the times when my body has more energy. I can take breaks when I need them. I can leave dishes in the sink because I’m just ready to go to bed. (Come back and ask me about that when the fruit flies start sneaking in this summer, though.)
- Your writing offers “a warm hug and a soft place to be in community.” Whose writing feels like a warm hug and a soft place for you?
Oh, yay! Andrea Gibson, a spoken word poet based in Colorado, was the first to come to mind. I first found them on the internet and from the library, but I saw them perform at Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro twice while in undergrad—both times with fellow baby queers. Cat’s Cradle is not a gay bar per se, but that night, it certainly felt like one! And I felt so hugged not just by the poetry, which often concerns mental and physical chronic health issues, but also by being surrounded by queer and trans southern folks. I left thinking, we do exist! That memory feels soft and warm to me.
- What intrigues you about Substack as a platform for folks to read and engage with your writing?
I’ve been considering Substack for a very long time. I like how it feels a bit like blogger culture, where artists have total control over what they write and readers opt-in to receive it. I also adore when people reply to the emails, or comment, and I can feel like I connected with someone in a deep way. I still feel ambivalent about the goal of growing my audience—what if my audience is exactly the right size? What if I tell people to subscribe and I start sound like, *gasp,* an internet influencer? And the money issue is a big deal! Currently, all of my writing is free, but it goes behind a paywall after two weeks. This summer, I’m hopeful to introduce paid posts, and to run an interview series where I actually pay my participants…but still, asking for money? In this economy? (Meanwhile, I never mind if people writing Substacks or making podcasts or crowdfunding ask for money. It’s just me.)
I do think the whole project is helping me to unlearn the lies that writing is not important. People have told me that words I write are important to them, and that they are glad they get to read them. That is so, so validating.
Thank you!
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