Welcome to A Room of Our Own
A Feminist/ Womanist Network
A Room of Our Own: A Feminist/ Womanist Network is a trans-inclusive, women-only blogging platform created to share women’s writing, art, experiences and musings. It was created both to combat cultural femicide – the term coined by feminist writer Bidisha to define the erasure of women from politics, art, and culture – and celebrate women’s creativity in a space without men.
I would like to apologise to everyone who submitted their writing. I’ve only just read the submissions and they are all beautiful, inspiring, and provoking. I will email everyone this week for my failure to be in touch sooner. I am suffering from severe depression and anxiety disorder from PTSD and have been struggling a lot these past few months. My support for women’s writing remains. Just waiting for my brain to catch up.
Check out our fabulous anthology of women’s essays, poetry, and short stories and help financially support our feminist and womanist network!Read More
Women only spaces are a fundamental part of the feminist movement and represent women’s right to self-determination and liberation. We’re collecting short stories, poetry, and essays that illustrate, explore and define the importance of women-only spaces for the feminist movement and women in general: as a space which prioritises women’s voices over mens and that refuses to allow men to dictate the terms of the conversation. Email: email@example.com
Submission deadline: May 30, 2018
Originally published: 28.05.18
I gave birth to my second son under a tree. It was under an Ash tree, and it was bloody. Days after, a chuckling visitor told me I could be heard the other side of the hill; that everyone within a mile radius knew he was coming. I’d delivered that son standing, my two feet rooted into the ground, my face up to the sky. Roaring.
A few years later saw my car, boot full with the weekly shop, pulling in to the driveway next to my house. A short, clear three metres over tarmac and lawn lay between car and front door, but it would be another hour until I was home. My daughters head butt deep in my pelvis, her feet tangled under my ribs, I could not force those last few steps and fell instead into a dead, dribbling sleep against the steering wheel. I woke to confusion and imminent labour, thick red indents striping my cheek. ….
Gappy Tales : Writer, feminist, mother. Likes cake, hates Jeremy Clarkson. These are my principles – if you don’t like them, I have others. @GappyTales