A few days before my conversation with the filmmaker Malcolm Macmaster, I had a crisis of confidence concerning my little corner of the indie lit scene. I watched two episodes of the superb Misery Loves Company reading series, one devoted to Pig Roast Publishing, the other to Back Patio Press. I went in thinking, these are my people, but slowly I felt something in me grow morose and then rage filled. Every talented reader /writer was a straight white dude. My podcast cohosts were straight white dudes too. To utter this feels like I’m breaking a code. Transgressive writing is too busy exploring the depths of inner psyche and Taco-Bell wrappers to concern itself with representation. If you’re good enough , it doesn’t matter what you identify as. If you’re good enough, you’ll rise to prominence. On my hand, I can count the writers who have defied the white male stereotype of the scene. One of them is dead. Am I worthy of being published? Am I good enough? If the arbiters of taste are chronically online men who mainly know other chronically online men, would I even make sense to them? I hate that I’m asking these questions of myself but I also find I’m at a dramatic stage in defining my identity. I don’t feel like “woman” describes me anymore. I have no idea what that means for my future. It’s not exciting to feel this way, it’s a knot in my throat that won’t go away. For almost two hours, talking with Malcolm, I felt lighter. I felt wise and confident. It was a beautiful conversation. At the same time, I think of all of you, the dudes of indie lit, and I think you’re gonna turn this episode off. Without Josh and Derek to prop me up, there’s no draw. I hope I’m wrong. I hope, as ever, for belonging and respect and the chance to share my voice.