I’m sure few would wonder why I was interested in talking to her about this particular essay-which we did via a Zoom call from our respective Los Angeles homes-about the nuance and intricacy involved in writing about one’s trauma for public consumption. Roxane and I have known each other for a few years and, of course, my awareness of and admiration for her writing predated that. The piece is well hewn but expansive, exploring the ways in which we reveal ourselves through writing-by choice, as in the detailing of an assault, or more obliquely, as in how a journalist describes a piece of writing about an assault, and the writer who experienced it.
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In her new essay, she describes the book’s reception-overwhelmingly positive responses from readers, while interviews with some members of the media ranged from misinformed to callous-and how the experience of writing the book led to further questions of how to depict trauma in writing. I could admit this thing had happened to me, but I was not ready to share the details.” Finally, in Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, Gay wrote “directly and openly about my sexual assault, how it changed me, how that assault has haunted me for more than thirty years.” “I wrote around it,” she writes of that book’s description of the assault. The piece, inspired by an undergraduate workshop Gay taught at Yale on writing trauma, describes Gay’s experience attempting to write about being gang-raped at age 12, first in fictional stories written as a teenager, “melodramatic and overwrought and dark and graphic,” and then, as an adult, in work like her essay collection Bad Feminist.
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She is the author of several books including New York Times bestsellers Bad Feminist and Hunger, as well as the Marvel comic book series World of Wakanda.“We are walking wounds, but I am not sure any of us know quite how to talk about it,” writes Roxane Gay in her new essay, “Writing Into the Wound,” published on Scribd. Roxane Gay writes a lot and travels too much. Like I was in a place that could become part of what I need home to be.
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Like I was a necessary thread among other necessary threads.
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Eating at Little Dom’s, pleasantly buzzed from good wine and good food, having an authentic-ish meal, I felt that for a couple hours. I want to experience authenticity not in the smarmy ways we say things are authentic, but in a way that makes me feel grounded, connected. The longer I live in Los Angeles, the more I try to find places where I feel like a thread in the fabric of something bigger than myself. Before I moved in, I covered that tree in lights, and at night, when I turn it on, I look at it and think, “This is my home.” This tree is alive and thriving, sheltering the property with a thick canopy of green. In my backyard, there is a large tree, the genus of which I do not know. It felt like we were in a postcard, the kind you send from a lovely vacation in a magical place with a brief note where you try to capture the wonderful time you’re having. On the table, beneath our food, there was brown butcher paper, with slowly spreading grease stains. I was on a double date in a round banquette tucked against a wall. There was cauliflower “risotto” on the menu, is what I’m telling you. Little Dom’s is a red sauce restaurant with a slight edge, reminding us that we’re in L.A., not New York. There was arancini, fried to golden perfection, and an arugula salad. It was practically pornographic, the exemplum perfectum of chicken Parmesan.
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The breast was juicy the mozzarella browned and oozing into the curves of the meat the marinara complex, its pliant chunks of tomato neither too thick nor too thin. What you need to know about the meal I had at Little Dom’s is that I had the chicken Parmesan. Welcome to Red Sauce America, our coast-to-coast celebration of old-school Italian-American restaurants.