By Isabelle Anderson
The first time I was moved to tears by a book, Each Little Bird that Sings, I was in the third grade. I came into the reading class discussion with two crucial notes. First, this book had made me cry. Second, I wanted to learn how to do that with words. So at eight years old, I pronounced myself a novelist and my career took off one copy paper sheet of half-plagiarized story at a time, many of which I thrust the burden of reading upon any unsuspecting, too-nice person. The book, about young Comfort Snowberger whose family owns a funeral home, deals with loss in several forms: the death of a loved one, the end of a friendship, and aging out of childhood, topics that I could connect even to my eight-year-old life, having lost the first member of my family the year before. My uncle Ian, my mother’s brother had often eased the strain of my early fatherless years. Before his death, like many children, I could not fathom loss. Each Little Bird That Sings was a story that reached me at exactly the right time. What was most important about this reading experience was both the connection and the revelation; Deborah Wiles’ Each Little Bird that Sings made me cry then, once I was sold on the power of words, made me a writer.
The second time someone else’s words changed the trajectory of my life, I was 15, tearing through the young adult genre looking for words in the remote shape of my uncertain self. When I read Nina LaCour’s Everything Leads to You in a laundromat in the new town we’d just moved to, I found something I hadn’t known I was looking for. The book’s protagonist, Emi, is a young lesbian with a dream of working in set design. Emi’s queerness exists alongside her love for design, and the narrative introduces it neutrally, unaccompanied by a coming-out plot or a trauma-ridden backstory.
By then, I knew I was queer but didn’t know what that meant beyond the difficulties I might endure. I had read so many of those stories—some exploitative tales exhausted with pain or utilizing tropes that harmfully portray queer women, and many more truly beautiful and honest accounts of the challenges that come with embracing queerness—that I had not even considered the happy ones. Once again, the right story had found me. The lightness of Emi’s story was so tonally disconnected from how I had imagined my own future, but after reading the book, I knew the direction I wanted to take this lifelong commitment to writing. My stories could be those stories.
Yellow Arrow Publishing considers creativity “an act of service,” an idea to which I subscribe, believing the giving and receiving of a story to be one of the greatest tools in enriching human connection. The service that Deborah Wiles and Nina LaCour have done by putting out work that touched my heart—and I’m sure the hearts of countless others—is unquantifiable. Their words reaching me at exactly the right time in my life of truly miraculous, especially considering the challenges women face in the publishing world. To carve out a space for women-identifying writers to tell their stories means changing the culture of publishing altogether. My understanding of publishing has always been that only a certain kind of story gets published and that books with diversity don’t sell as well. This ideology centers publishing around money-making rather than honoring the heart of literature: to express and honor the human experience. Yellow Arrow does not shy away from difference, but celebrates it, publishing stories of women across age and experience.
My work so far at Yellow Arrow has shown me the ways in which a space is being made, not just for women writers, but for women in publishing as a whole because Yellow Arrow provides space on the board, in staff positions, and in learning opportunities in teaching and taking workshops. Yellow Arrow’s mission in publishing women-identifying writers, experienced and new to the craft, gets to the root of gender-based inequity in the publishing industry and applies action to the only real solution: publishing women.
That it took me so long to find happy stories about queer women tells me that so many of those stories simply haven’t made it through the rigamarole that is publishing. Yellow Arrow, one publication at a time, is making it possible for life-altering stories—some that can be as simple as someone like you experiencing and expressing joy—to reach the right people at the right time, and to ultimately change the landscape of publishing.
Every writer has a story, and every story is worth telling.
Isabelle Anderson is a fiction writer and poet from Baltimore, Maryland. Isabelle is currently a senior at Washington College studying English and creative writing, and an editor for multiple campus publications, including the student journal Collegian. You can find Isabelle on Twitter @ibaspel.
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