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.

***UPDATE*** Women Only Spaces: An Anthology

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.

 

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Anthology of Women Writers to help financially support our network!

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Check out our fabulous anthology of women’s essays, poetry, and short stories and help financially support our feminist and womanist network!

Paperback       KindleCreateSpace

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Women-only Spaces: An Anthology

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: louisepennington@hotmail.co.uk

Submission deadline: May 30, 2018

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Latest Post:

“On Motherhood” by @GappyTales

Cross-posted from: Gappy Tales
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.  ….

 

You can read the full article here.

Gappy Tales : Writer, feminist, mother. Likes cake, hates Jeremy Clarkson. These are my principles – if you don’t like them, I have others. @GappyTales