gentle disruption of autumn patterns
Welcome to Mommy’s El Camino.
September 28th was the date of the last official event I did this year to support the April 2025 reprints of my books. On that Sunday afternoon, my partner and I arrived at the co-working space, Groundfloor, in Echo Park. We were guided to a spacious back room with tall ceilings, windows, and comfortable furniture. There were bookshelves lined with books I never ended up pausing to look at. In the back corner of the room, friendly people beckoned.
This was a meeting of The Lit Club, hosted by Hannah Eko. Attendees were present to taste the samples of cannabis made available, as well as talk about my book Bruja. Joints and edibles and jars of flower were arranged on a tray. At least three women were talking and sharing about the offerings. There was a small convergence of folks who had come from a Latinas in Cannabis conference nearby. After a demonstration, I was introduced to dabbing, using a very high tech implement. It reminded me of the times in my youth when someone would come up with some hash, and because they knew things I didn't, they’d heat a couple of knives and put the hash between the knives. I distinctly remember the careful sips one had to take using that method. Was that analog “dabbing”?
This particular container, made up of people interested in words and weed, became hazy with smoke. Hannah, with her gorgeous voice and inimitable presence, led the group in a writing exercise. High, I wrote about the card that was chosen. Hatred was the subject of the card that had been chosen randomly by a participant. I scribbled some thoughts about hatred as a seed I sowed, with consciousness about keeping the seed and its flower contained, not wreaking havoc in the rest of the garden. Every person shared either what they’d written, or their process in thinking about what they’d written. My partner surprised me by sharing a bit about her own writing process.
There is this whole landscape of people out there, doing what you wish you were doing already. That’s how I felt at The Lit Club. Hannah Eko has cultivated a vibrant group of writers and other creative folks to be in community in a part of the city once a month, every month, and as I sat among them, occasionally puffing on a joint, I felt extremely at ease, which is not how I typically feel when I’m at an event where I’m to be IN CONVERSATION. I wasn’t afraid of being high and in conversation. Our group writing exercise, and the fellowship beforehand, had already sealed it for me.
Anyway, I assume I made sense, and if I didn’t, it was a very forgiving and loving audience.
I’ve been in and out of my writing projects lately. When I start asking myself if I’m a writer, though I’m not writing much (absurd question), I know it’s time to shift gears. Fall is when I like to commit to doing nothing more than what family obligations have me doing. At the same time, I’m feeling an overwhelming sense of needing something else—new inputs is the easiest way to describe it, as I try to flesh it out for myself. The Lit Club was one such new input—a whole other world of folks I didn’t know before but was made to feel instantly comfortable with. I recognized one person who had come to my reprints launch at Stories back in April. Madison Hernandez runs the Groundfloor Echo Park sub club Cannabis Club, and her presence was part of what made me feel at home. The whole experience made me remember what I enjoy about being out in the world. I can be an intense introvert homebody, and this event, which I thought of as my last obligation of the year to the outside world, actually drew me back out.
On Tuesday, October 21st, I finished a very long work day at 6pm, ate leftovers from my partner’s recent birthday dinner, and rushed out the door to Skylight Books. My dear friend Myriam Gurba had her book launch for Poppy State. I haven’t been to many book events this year other than my own, for a variety of reasons that have included exhaustion, pain, and general need to conserve energy on weeknights. As I walked past all the Figaro Cafe tables that so many funny memes have been made of and entered the bookstore at five after 7, I thought, This is alright. I was out on a weeknight, a school night, as I think of them, because the kid is in 9th grade and even just trying to corral her into doing whatever she needs to do any given week night takes a lot of energy. I hugged a friend I haven’t seen since a reading I did in sweltering August. A seat opened up for me. Then I spent the evening listening to Myriam in conversation with Olga García Echeverría, as well as the audience, who offered their favorite plants in exchange for packets of poppy seeds Myriam had brought. The woman next to me was writing things down in a little notebook and I realized I wanted a little notebook to write in, too—getting out my phone to type notes did not feel like the mode I wanted to be in. My absorption of the conversation felt mammoth. I realized that in all my conversations with Myriam, I did not know a lot about what is going on this book, and I was starting to understand its ingredients more clearly. Most of all, the conversation made me want to write, which is to me what the best book/writing conversations inspire.
When I got outside I realized there had been a light rain. Home by 8:30pm on a weeknight—after an evening spent listening and thinking new things—now that was appealing. Maybe I could do this again. Like, go out on a weeknight to an event, with a little notebook, absorb, and then be home by 8:30pm.
The truth is I can’t be held accountable for showing up to stuff, though. The familiar autumn urge to hunker down is ever present for me. But I’m trying to push through it, gently. I’m still in pain, still often very tired, and yet: I need community and new inputs. My community at the pool is great—one of my 9am crew brought me a book of poetry this week, in a Ziploc bag, telling me as we passed each other between classes that she’d bought two copies to support a poet who had lost things in the Eaton fire, and then slipped the book into my bag while I was in the pool. I think I’m feeling, momentarily, open to disrupting my own autumn patterns and getting out to see and experience. Even on school nights. Another work in progress.
my books are waiting to be read by you