Of course I was thrilled to be included in the anthology, Deaf Lit Extravaganza. I’m now petrified that others will actually read my work.
Deaf Lit is broken into 3 parts: fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. The writers fantastically craft stories and personal essays connecting readers to a private experience. The stories say, “here is a snapshot into my glorious life.” They say, “I am me and I am proud.”
My son is currently reading with his 8th grade English class, Hands of My Father, a story written by a hearing boy growing up with Deaf parents. Deaf Lit opens with the fictional story Sifting Dirt by Willy Conley. Sifting Dirt is basically a husband and wife arguing about their hearing son’s imminent foray into kindergarten. It’s a story all parents can relate to; a story of adults trying to figure out what is best for their children. And finally, it’s a story not about ‘me surviving my childhood’ but about the struggles of parenting. It could be a prequel to Hands of my Father.
How do I fit in here? I wrote about interpreting. I’m scared, now, to re-read my work. I’m afraid for others to read it. To judge it as good. As bad. As not the right fit. Or even worse, as not relevant. Until this moment I assumed it would be exhilarating to be published. It’s actually terrifying.
But I’ll do it again.
Go out and buy Deaf Lit. The content is touching. And the physical book is a pleasure to hold. Our editor chose the most deliciously textured cover for his book. This book wants to be held.
My Living List--Year 41 