Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

Challenging the Big Academic Press Worked for Me

May I brag? I got this email from the kind and communicative Managing Editor of the only academic journal I ever published in: “The Sixties: A Journal of History, Politics and Culture,” from the large publisher Taylor & Francis, which publishes scads of academic journals. He wrote:

“We've recently compiled our publication data over the past seven years and thought you might be interested in the positive results. We're happy to report that your article, "Women’s Liberation Explosion At Boston University (1969–70),"  published in our 2014, 7.1 edition remains very popular and was one of our top ten most downloaded articles from Taylor & Francis in 2014… We're very happy to see the popularity of the article, and hope you will be as well. Thanks so much for your contribution to the Journal!”

But here’s what I’m really proud of. Academic journals and book publishers offer the most appalling contracts to writers of almost all publications. The journals don’t pay. They ask you to indemnify them against any legal challenges. They demand to hold the copyright of your work. And then they put your essay behind a paywall which means that it is only read by students and faculty of the universities that pay them for access.

I was approached by one of the editors about using my piece and was pretty happy about the idea of being included in the ivory tower for once – until, that is, I saw the contract. Since a contract is something that is negotiated between two parties – despite publications telling you “this is our standard document” – I started negotiating with them (with some support from my union's brilliant contract advisers.)

I told them that I would only indemnify them up to the amount they paid me: zero. I told them they could not own the copyright unless they were buying the piece outright, which wasn’t happening. I told them that I refuse to have my (unpaid) writing, about building a revolutionary movement, no less, behind a paywall.

To their credit, they agreed to all of it, every single counter-request, and the result is that people can actually get to my essay and read it. I know that the stakes are higher for people who make their living in the academic realm, but writers be advised: If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

You may have already read my piece, but if not, feel free – literally – to click here.

Reading Me

I’ve had a number of things published recently, but those of you who aren’t on Facebook probably don’t know about them. In case you’re interested, here’s where to check them out:

My piece on my complicated reaction to the Supreme Court marriage decision was published on lgbtsr.org. It’s called “Susie and the Supreme Court” and you can read it here.

Check out my flash fiction (VERY short story) entitled “If Only” that was published on a literary site called Brilliant Flash Fiction. Read it here.


This is a regular length short story. The editor of Blotter accepted it unusually fast, saying that he was glad he liked the story, because I already had him at the title. It’s called “The Cold Butch and the Carpetbagger." Read it here.

Finally, writer/editor Stephanie Shroeder interviewed me about Lillian’s Last Affair for an online magazine called “50 is the new 50.” Read it here.

Angelina Weld Grimké

I only recently heard about the writer Angelina Weld Grimké (1880-1958), a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance. She was mentioned by Kay Bourne in one of the events she and her collaborator, the photographer Craig Bailey, are doing around the Boston area about the local history of Black artists. Kay mentioned Angelina Weld Grimké at a celebration of LGBT Black theater people in honor of The Theater Offensive.

Grimké wrote with gut-wrenching intensity about lynching and racism and Black families. Her famous play Rachel (1916) was Grimké’s response to the call by the NAACP for work that would counter the racism of D. W. Griffith's 1915 film, The Birth of a Nation (1915).

I read her amazing short story “The Closing Door,” in the thick collection Black like us: a century of lesbian, gay and bisexual African American fiction, edited by Devon W. Carbado, Dwight A. McBride, and Donald Weise. This story knocked me on my ass. The characters are drawn with a humanity that makes them seem present in the room, not the least Agnes, the anchor of everyone else’s feelings. When one of her brothers arrives from the South with desperate news of another brother, Agnes is catapulted into a terrifying depression. The range of perspectives inside this one home is monumental. And the ending is a weighty comment on the bittersweet complexity of motherhood within an oppressive Jim Crow environment.

Because I have not yet read much of her work, this post will necessarily be short. I write to share in the off chance that, like me, Angelina Weld Grimké is missing from your shelves. Work of such power and import may be something you want to experience.

My Introduction to August Wilson’s Extraordinary Play “Fences”

Better late than never. I knew next to nothing about August Wilson until he died in 2005. The upside of that deficit is that now I can catch up on all his amazing work. I should’ve known about Wilson because he was born in the Hill District of Pittsburgh in 1945 and I was born in the Hill District of Pittsburgh in 1947. A hill of housing Projects for poor people, in later decades it became known as the “worst” part of town, and at one point, a “no-go zone”—meaning, I believe, that the police were afraid to enter the neighborhood. Back in our day, when there was a sense of community, the population was a mix of African-Americans, many of them – like Wilson’s mother – having come up from the South, and Jewish and Italian immigrants. I only lived in the Hill District my first three years, and then we moved out in 1951, I believe.

August Wilson was there a bit longer. But in the 1950s when his family moved out to a white working class neighborhood not far from where we were living by then, they were the target of a lot of racist shit. He had a hard time finding a school and ended up for a while at Connelley Vocational High School, where my dad studied to be an electrician one or two years before getting an electricity shock that put him in the hospital and ended his education. August Wilson too left school around age 15, but he more or less educated himself at the Carnegie Library – the place that saved my life as well, and in fact that library ended up giving him the only college degree they ever awarded.

He produced a series of 10 plays that portrayed black life in Pittsburgh in succeeding decades called The Pittsburgh Cycle – all but one take place in the Hill District. He won two Pulitzer Prizes for them. In fact, seems like he won every damn prize available to playwrights in his too-short life.

I got “Fences” out of the library (one of the ones that won him a Pulitzer). And read it last night. It is compelling, deep, honest, and beautiful. It wrestles, with wit and with candor, with the difficulties of living in that flawed institution known as the family, which itself is embedded in a racist society that refutes your claim to a decent life. Sons are pitted against fathers, and wives against husbands. “Fences” faces the complexities of extended families – and all nuclear families are just one betrayal or disability or disaster away from being extended.

I warn you now that I’m about to have an August Wilson orgy – I’m going back to my library to order as many of the Pittsburgh cycle as are available. I highly recommend that if you haven’t read “Fences,” take an hour or two and enrich your life.

I haven’t touched on the adult part of August Wilson’s life, because I don’t know much about it. I thank Kay Bourne, my go-to historian, for turning me on to August Wilson and to so many other talented, accomplished African-Americans.

I end with two quotes about writing from August Wilson:

“I don't write particularly to effect social change. I believe writing can do that, but that's not why I write.”
  

“Between speeches and awards, you can find something to do every other week. It's hard to write. Your focus gets splintered. Once you put one thing in your calendar, that month is gone.”

And here is an excerpt from the 2010 Broadway revival of FENCES, starring Denzel Washington (as Troy Maxson) and Viola Davis (as Rose):
 

When You Send a Fancy Email to your Entire List: Stats and Conclusions

If you’re interested in numbers, you might be interested in the statistical results of my email burst about my new book, Lillian’s Last Affair. After spending a couple of days stumbling around trying to figure out the free version of MailChimp, a service that allows you to send out semi-fancy emails to bunches of your friends, I hurled an announcement of Lillian’s publication to almost my entire email list on Friday, May 8.

But here’s the thing: MailChimp’s list software immediately recognized that my list was “stale” – a splendid and accurate adjective. That list has been accruing for all these years that I’ve been on email. I have three or five email addresses for many folks, those who have changed their service, their identity, or their country of residence. I often added on their new address without getting rid of the old, as one does when one doesn’t have an order disorder – like the American OCD (or the British OBE). When one tends towards the administratively chaotic, “stale” lists can result.

MailChimp is only following the law, apparently, which is there to guard against spam. Surprisingly, it seems that most of my emails did get through. According to their stats I started with a list of 1,036 addresses of which 833 were delivered (80%) and 203 (20%) bounced. “Delivered” includes all those emails that got conveyed into accounts that, while not cancelled, haven’t been checked for years.
 “Delivered” does not mean “opened” – and opened doesn’t necessarily even mean read. However, according to MailChimp, 357 (43%) have been opened. Not too shabby at all, since their “industry average” is under 20%.

My main discomfort came when, despite my best efforts to weed out inappropriate folks from the list, at least a couple were mistakenly sent to contacts I should have removed from the original list. Who would be inappropriate? In a general sense it would be anyone who wishes I had not sent the email. More specifically, I tried to eliminate any professional contact with whom I do not have any other relationship and who never “signed up” to receive my news. Ex-friends who harbor a grudge don’t want my happy announcements. People who receive it against their will may be bemoaning the fact that one can’t “unfriend” an email contact as easily as a Facebook “friend.” Six did “unsubscribe” from my MailChimp list, so if there are any more emails from that source, they won’t get them.

One more stat may be of interest: the click-throughs. How many actually clicked one of the links that took them to a place where they could buy the book? 48 (13% of those opened). Of course that doesn’t indicate how many then actually bought the book, but it all explains why “they” say that you need a huge platform, tens of thousands, to sell more than a handful of books. I’m a reasonably friendly, communicative, well-connected person, and even my stale list, accumulating all my cyber-life, is paltry.

For that reason, I am dependent on the kindness of friends and other generous folks. I would be so grateful if you bounced that email on to your own selection of friends who might like short stories that have been described by my betters as “beautifully written” and “touching, shining, tawdry, and sometimes hilarious.“

Lillian's Second Book Party is Sexier

I had my second book party for Lillian’s Last Affair last night and seventeen fascinating folks attended. Several had already read the book and brought their copies for me to sign. Charles Coe – poet, friend, union comrade – generously held the party for me at his home. Mutual friends from the National Writers Union were there along with other avid readers.

This time the crowd demanded that I read from the sexy bits. (At the senior center book launch, I had been asked by the staff not to do so.)

A book party is a groovy opportunity for me. As a writer trying on my own to let people know about my labor of love, it’s one of the only means of engaging with readers about the book face-to-face. I have a couple of other fabulous friends who are talking about having a book party for me, opening up their own Rolodex to bring Lillian new readers.

I’m longing to read at salons, events, birthday parties, literary fairs, bat mitzvahs, sex ed conferences, senior housing, short story orgies – you name it. So if you want me – call me. Meanwhile, thank you Charles and all those who popped by.

Lillian’s Launch

Since I taught senior fitness there for over a decade, it’s natural that I hold Lillian’s launch at the Senior Center. These students are my peeps, my primary community. When I published Thanks But No Thanks: The Voter’s Guide to Sarah Palin a month after Palin had been selected as a VP candidate, they held my first book party.

I had been warned by J, the lovely head-honcho of Activities, not to choose reading selections with a lot of swearing or sex talk. “Your students know you, but we’re advertising it widely, so some people might come and feel offended.” This puts a crimp in my options.  I know she’s right when the first two (strangers) to seat themselves (front row) ask me, “Which film is being shown today?”

Somehow my departure from home to the Launch is a mess. I’m using my old fashioned travel wheels, that metal device that you used to load your suitcases on before suitcases had wheels. It’s served me over the years in multiple capacities, including transporting to my flat furniture I found on the London streets. I load my big box of books – always the optimist – and other necessities and go down to the car. I undo the box from the wheelie device, and stash everything in my trunk, get in the car and start to pull out of the garage.

My phone! It’s upstairs charging. I return to my space and grab the elevator up for the phone and take a pee, what the hell. I’m back down seven flights into the car and off down the street. Three blocks later: Oh shit, I’ve forgotten my jacket, all ironed and on its hanger. I do a U-ie and go back. I live on a four-lane main road. There’s a spot in front of the building so I do another U-ie but then someone slips into that spot ahead of me so I do a third U-ie and park it across from the building. I rush up and down with the jacket. I do a U-ie and 30 minutes later arrive at the Senior Center at my original intended time, 12:30. Okay, except that I’m semi-drenched in sweat.

I’ve arrived early to set up. There are already about 10 of my students waiting. Hugs, kisses, and moving chairs with J into a nice semi-circle. The hall fills up. I’ve asked Bella to introduce me. She is the wife of a Rabbi and has great pipes. But as soon as I unpack some books to put on the table, a big line of people waving tenners forms. (My book costs only $9.99.) I start signing their books with personal messages, but then it is time to start. Bella gives me a brilliant introduction and I take center stage. Well, center floor, there’s no stage.

I start. “I hear there are rumors going around the Senior Center that I’m going to be reading pornographic material. I do apologize, but I will not be reading porn, so all those who came for that reason and who therefore want to leave, feel free to do so now.” Some people are amused and some are looking with discomfort at their neighbors.

I read from three different pieces, chatting in the middle, and it is congenial. I’m surprised at how few questions there are – just 3 or 4 – and I suspect it is because everyone knows that Doreen, one of our favorites, has baked a huge selection of her famous cookies. They are lingering untouched in the back of the room and mere literature is scarcely a sufficient competitor for her lemon shortbreads and chocolate chocolate chips.

Afterwards, I continue signing. My friend Gail, the math genius, takes the money and keeps the records, and more than one of my seniors complements me on my ability to remember their names. I wish I could remember who first pointed this out to me.

With 36 books sold, I’m a rich woman so afterwards I go directly to the famous Jewish bakery for a bag of day-old bagels and then on to my favorite used clothing store. A writer at the dizzying heights of selling 36 books all at once must have new t-shirts. Four or five in a range of hues are now in my possession, the most expensive $2.99, and I’m ready to get decked out for the upcoming book party my dear friend Charles is having for me on Sunday.

I do have a slight concern that when those 36 get home and settle into the story with the very explicitly kinky sex or the one featuring lube and dildos, that they will demand their money back and I’ve already spent like $11.00 at the charity shop.


Thanks to Barry Hock for documenting my book launch with these fine photos.

Wordsmith and Rebel

My books are available on Amazon here or for an inscribed copy, write to ConsentingAdultPress@hotmail.com. Enjoy all of my low-priced books:

A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories

Lillian in Love (a novel)

Lillian's Last Affair and other stories.

I'm available for interviews, readings, visits to book clubs, being the entertainment at your party, talking about senior sex at your senior center, talking about love in senior housing, and any other creative ways to get the word out about my work.

Some of these stories are 5,000 words long, some of them are 100 words exactly. Some protagonists are old and some aren’t.  Several stories feature gay men or lesbians, while several do not. So what unifies this collection? It is the interplay of heart and smart, facing off against the dangers of a viral wedding smooch, a scary staircase, a runaway supermarket cart, a disastrous online date, and a stolen sausage. Of course, you'll also learn about the raisin that falls where it shouldn’t.

Lillian’s life at 84 is tumultuous. She is moving to Manor House to be near Sarah, abandoning the demands of her own home, which has been colonized by her children. How will she and Sarah deal with the reactions of relatives, ex’s, and neighbors to their romance? How do two old women negotiate new love? Will slow-dancing, vibrators, and pot brownies help smooth the way?

 

“If I’m going to go after one more affair of the heart at 84, I’d better get my ass in gear,” says Lillian, speaking for all the characters in these six stories.

Ruby has a run-in with a waterbed and Catherine tokes her first joint in the bathtub with Victor. Elegant Anna’s introduction to kinky sex is bittersweet. And then there’s the neighbor with the strange attachment to the grocery cart. Sue Katz’s hilarious, tender, and impeccably written stories confirm that age fails to erode our eccentricities or dull our ardor.

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