I love the season of Advent. Always have. There is something exciting and hopeful about looking forward to replaying Christ’s birth in the Christian liturgical year. I like it so much more than the season of Lent, which anticipates the Easter narrative of Christ’s death and resurrection. To me, all the violence and death is not much to look forward to. Plus we deal with those realities in life everyday so I just don’t care as much about Easter, or find Christ’s death and resurrection as helpful as I do God’s incarnation in the Christmas story. Some Christians may think I’m off my rocker for claiming that the incarnation is more meaningful or helpful than the death/resurrection, but hear me out.
As a queer woman, I stand in the lived experience that so many of my LGBTQ brothers and sisters when the holidays come around. A lot of us can’t be ourselves. We are denied our existence and have to perform our genders and sexualities in ways that make us blend in, thereby silencing our authentic beings. Some of us can’t talk about our partners; we call them our roommate or our friend. We don’t touch each other because we don’t want to make people feel uncomfortable but at the same time we are constantly uncomfortable. But it doesn’t matter because we are silenced and we keep silent because somehow our comfort doesn’t matter at the expense of others.
We queers find ourselves at what seems to be an impasse but we hope it may be a threshold of possibilities and potentialities. This time of Advent is like this threshold and I think it generates hope for us queers. It is a time of already but not yet here. We are living after God came to live in our flesh with us but has gone away to come back again someday. So we replay the story that our ancestors lived to walk with them in waiting, again. So too, queers are here, we live in our stories and we wait for a better future where we can be ourselves. We are all in an in between time as we wait—Christians and queers alike.
Queer theorist José Muñoz calls this kind of in-between time “queerness.” This is precisely why I appreciate Advent and its liminal character so much because I find it so quintessentially queer. It is not yet here—an ideal that we can’t quite ever touch but we can feel its warm illumination on the horizon bursting with potentiality. In this definition, queerness is, in a sense, a desiring—a desiring for something that we are missing—something that is not yet here. Christians desire knowing God and knowing ourselves. We desire purpose and relational love.
What was said: The cancer has returned, Bob. Your pelvis lit up like a Christmas tree on the PET scan. There’s nothing more to do, but go home for hospice.
What it felt like: We’ve scheduled your plane crash, Bob. Prepare to depart at Gate 7D.
"No!” I said as Angie, my coworker approached. She didn’t have to say a word. It was evident by the clear bowl in her hand what she wanted. She opened her mouth to speak but again I said, “No!” I raised one hand to let her know just how serious I was about the answer to the question which she hadn’t even asked.
Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual
in my family.
Each year my cousin would come to help my mum.
They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box
that used to hold her big doll called Topsy.
Then they would put them all in their special place
in my family.
My water broke as I climbed out of bed on Christmas morning. I'd stayed up late the previous evening, listening to a reading of Dylan Thomas' “A Child's Christmas in Wales” on the radio. Afterward, I lumbered to bed and collapsed onto the mattress like a sinking ship. Less than six hours later, I was suddenly in labor with my first child.
My
nephew
Joe begs
me to buy a
new tree. Buy 8
sets of LED lights,
buy shopping carts full
of ornaments, some glass,
some plastic, for the little ones
to pull and throw.
Christmas, a time for connecting with old friends. In the week between Christmas and New Years Eve, people consider the age-old tradition of setting New Years resolutions. Already I’ve seen countless memes wishing the end of 2016 away as the year to forget. When we look back at 2016, we remember endless months of campaigning commercials; the Chicago Cubs finally won the World Series after 108 years, Brexit from the EU, Samsung’s misstep with the explosive Note 7. But even more than that, remember the good stuff…and good stuff in 2016 exists. Like my beautiful niece’s first birthday party, laughs shared with coworkers, parties with friends, and the first date that led to a relationship.
Mama Jones’ little aluminum tree
Sits atop the library table
Strung with silver garland
And the few unbroken decorations
We could find.
I want to tell you about the time my sister, my mother, and I followed the desire of my sister’s heart. We went into the clock store at the mall. My sister went first when the idea came to her. She found the grandfather clock she believed would fit grandma’s house best—the one she thought grandma would want.
I resent Christmas more and more the older I get. It’s a combination of my lack of religion, my extreme laziness and my crippling anxiety. I stress myself out to the point of hyperventilation over how much money I’m going to spend (how many years can I skate by on homemade gifts before it becomes tacky?), what to get people (is it appropriate to just give someone a Target gift card if you’ve known them for over 10 years?), and about how I’m going to get it for them (do I shop online and hope that it ships in time, or do I brave the masses of the screaming kids and sweaty people at the mall?). Once I’ve got the gifts in hand, I look forward to the feeling of sweet, sweet relief that I get when I’ve handed them off, although I really don’t start to feel remotely relaxed until after the new year.
As I said before, for me, the resurrection of Christ doesn’t do much for me theologically. There is no desiring for God to leave us having changed nothing in our world. We still have death and destruction and chaos—nothing to miss here. We are still waiting for a time when queers can just be queers. Sure, things are slowly progressing but legal marriage isn’t solving deep seeded hatred and fear towards us. So we wait for God to come back to relieve us of this world and its messiness. So the resurrection doesn’t give much hope. It doesn’t give me a vision of potentiality on the horizon. But the incarnation does.
I think because God came to live on earth with us God can relate to us. God knows how rough it is here. That gives me hope. God has cried, yelled, laughed, smiled, and loved in a body like mine. In dwelling in our flesh, in my flesh, God gives me permission to be human in all its messiness and beauty. I don’t have to be someone I’m not. I don’t have to wait for society to change and see me as a child of God worthy of love, dignity, and respect. I don’t need permission from anyone to be my gloriously queer self. God’s flesh makes mine holy.
So we look forward to a time when the holidays aren’t so hard for LGBTQ folks. We actively sit in the not-yet space of people like us who can’t be themselves with their families during this time of Advent. Like God was once in our flesh, we too are in this flesh that isn’t quite what we want it to be or maybe it isn’t what others want it to be but it is. So we perform our queerness by being ourselves in hope that this space gets better for ourselves and for others.
I am glad for this season of Advent because it is queer like me. It gives me a space and time where I don’t have to order the chaos and be someone I’m not. I can just be. We can just be. And I have hope for a future that’s not yet here because I know God is with us, for us and among us. And She, with all her mystery and flair, is so so queer.
-Sarah Smith
The hermit crab essay is a term originally coined by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola in their craft book Tell It Slant: Creating, Refining, and Publishing Creative Nonfiction. Like its namesake, the hermit crab essay borrows an existing container, such as a list, set of directions, tarot card reading, or real estate listing, and makes it its own.
In this workshop, we’ll explore how different authors use the Hermit Crab Essay as a creative vehicle for approaching topics that may feel too difficult, vulnerable, or traumatic to write about directly. I’ll share writing exercises, practical tools, and techniques that you can take with you to experiment with this form and begin crafting your own next essay.
The success of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl (2012) heralded a new era of domestic suspense. Most of the novels that came to define this genre featured white women narrators behaving badly. While this convention invokes the precedent of the pathologization of hysterical women, we must also consider how this convention relies on contemporary white privilege. How do Caro Claire Burke’s Yesteryear (2026), Alice Feeney’s My Husband’s Wife (2026), and Meagan Church’s The Mad Wife (2025) use unreliable narration to suggest that madness is a privileged state?
Women characters are still too often judged by one question: Is she likeable? That question can do a lot of damage on the page. Anger gets softened. Ambition needs an explanation. Bad decisions need a sympathetic reason behind them. A woman can be selfish, difficult, ruthless, jealous, furious, or want something she probably shouldn't, but writers often start sanding those edges down because they're afraid the reader won't like her. But liking a character and wanting to keep reading about her are two very different things. Stop Making Her Likeable is a 90-minute workshop about what actually keeps a reader invested in a complicated woman. We'll look at why readers can become completely absorbed by characters they don't approve of, what makes difficult behaviour fascinating rather than simply frustrating, and how motivation, contradiction, desire, and agency affect the way a reader responds to her. We'll also look at our own pages. Where are we explaining a woman because we're afraid she'll be judged? Where are we making her apologize for wanting something? Where have we given her a tragic reason for behaviour that we might simply allow from a male character? The goal isn't to teach writers how to create an “unlikeable female character.” It's to stop treating likeability as the price a woman has to pay to be worth reading about.
In this course, author Piper L. White will discuss feminism through the use of fairytales and how to take these beloved childhood stories and twist them into our modern writing by delving deep into the psyche of women-identifying people and their everyday horrors to craft their own prose pieces.
This product gives you access to all four weeks of the workshop. Purchase one or more drop-in sessions here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class are a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
This listing is for an individual class. To purchase access for the full 4-week workshop, click here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class is a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
Many writers feel drawn to write about their lives but struggle with uncertainty: Why this story? Why now? And who is it really for? This workshop is designed to help writers move beyond doubt and toward clarity by focusing on the deeper meaning and purpose beneath their story.
In this interactive, craft-forward session, participants will be introduced to the Memoir Compass, a practical framework that helps writers articulate their motivation (why they are writing), mission (who the story serves), and message (what meaning or insight the story carries). Through guided reflection and writing exercises, participants will begin shaping a personal narrative rooted in intention rather than overwhelm.
This workshop is ideal for writers interested in memoir or personal narrative, as well as fiction writers drawing from lived experience, who want to move forward with greater confidence, focus, and direction.
Some of the most compelling creative nonfiction begins with the feelings we are tempted to avoid: anger, resentment, shame, fear, or the sense that we have an axe to grind. In this six-week workshop, writers will explore how to follow that emotional heat toward deeper, more honest work—without sacrificing compassion, complexity, or craft. Through close readings, writing exercises, discussion, and constructive feedback, we’ll consider how to transform strong feelings into writing that reaches beyond catharsis and connects with readers.
IT’S NO SECRET THAT FEEDBACK IS AN IMPORTANT PART OF THE WRITING PROCESS.
In fact, we argue that it might be the most important part of the process.
But it’s hard to find a writing community. It’s hard to find the people who are willing to take the time and the effort to read your work and give the feedback you really, truly deserves.
That’s where HerStry Critique Groups come in!
HerStry Critique Groups are small groups of 6 women who gather online for 6 weeks to share their writing, give constructive feedback and gain skills as writers.
Weekly online sessions last approximately ninety minutes, with three women sharing their work each week. Writers of all genres and levels are welcome and you may share both works of fiction and nonfiction.
Sessions take place on Mondays 7PM CT, Tuesdays 11AM CT, Fridays 11AM CT
WHAT’S INCLUDED IN THE HERSTRY CRITIQUE GROUPS?
Six 90 minute live workshop sessions
Three 20 minutes sessions in the “hot seat” to get you work critiqued
Written and verbal feedback from your fellow workshop participants
A weekly in depth edit and critique of your work from the group leader after each session
Weekly writing goals and accountability check ins
Full video recordings of each session to keep for your records
Say goodbye to the lonely, stuck in your head writing life!
LET’S WRITE!
From conception to submission. Let’s make summer sizzle with stories.
Writing a short story doesn’t happen in one session. It takes multiple drafts to get it exactly right, to create characters that come to life for the reader and a world they can’t stop thinking about. In this seven week course we will work on a single short story from conception to submission ready. The seven week session will include generative brainstorming sessions, short story craft talks, multiple workshops for feedback from fellow writers, and detailed line by line feedback and edits from your instructor. Plus, we’ll talk about submission venues, cover letters, and when to know if your story is ‘finished.’
On the darkest dark night of winter, one small light marks the start of the festival.
This darkest night is the longest night, too. In winter, in Maine, daylight can last maybe eight hours—if you’re lucky. And as the moon of the month of Kislev wanes from quarter, to sliver, to new, the Chanukah festival begins.