Source: Being A Deaf Writer
Source: Influences and Imagination
Source: On Being a Failed Writer
One of my very favorite classic Hollywood movies is the 1941 version of A Woman’s Face, starring Joan Crawford and Melvyn Douglas. Anna Holm, an embittered woman with a disfigured face, blackmails women who cheat on their husbands. Caught in the house of one of her victims’ husbands, he turns out to be a plastic surgeon who offers to operate on her face. The operation is successful, but Anna is still mired in criminal schemes.
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(Left to Right: Alyson Hannigan [Date Movie, 2006], Philomena Kwao, Essie Golden, Tess Holliday)
For the typical size 18 girl like myself, the summer months bring along the ever complicated dilemma: wear longer clothes that cover up “problem areas” but threaten to cause heat stroke, or throw caution to the wind and go for the shorts and tank top that show every jiggle and bump. Up until my senior year of high school, skirts and shorts were out of the question. The last thing I wanted was for everyone to see the bits of me that made me the most insecure about myself. It was a question of comfort. At least clothes left everything to the imagination; I would rather burn under the summer sun to please others than show everyone my chubby arms and legs.
And that’s when it hit me. It’s not like my body was a secret…
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The party was in full swing when a man in a sport coat walked in and greeted me by name. Everything about his demeanor said, I got an invitation, but I had no idea who he was. I puzzled over him like a difficult equation. After several hours of deliberation, I figured it out. I had hired him the week before.
But it’s not just new hires.
My good friend Liz dressed up for my book launch in goth regalia. I didn’t recognize her.
I saw a colleague through the windshield of his car. I looked. I looked again. Nope. I didn’t know him. Something about the glass rendered him unrecognizable.
It’s a miracle my wife still watches movies with me. We get to the final showdown, and I lean over and whisper,
“Is that the cop?”
“That’s the killer!” she says. “That’s the killer he’s been chasing the
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A few days ago, I noticed that people were sharing around my blog post “Muslim, queer, feminist: it’s as complicated as it sounds” without including my Twitter username. Not a huge deal – they were linking back to my blog, so I was still getting clicks and page views out of it – but it was a little disconcerting (not bad, just disconcerting) to realise that my work was being shared around by people who didn’t even know me and therefore couldn’t directly credit me as the creator.
People keep telling me this is a consequence of “fame” (I wasn’t even aware that I was famous!) – that people will share your work without letting you know about it. I suppose I can live with that, as long as people aren’t just copy-pasting words of mine without any kind of course or attribution…
…which is exactly what happened to me…
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