Every Page Should Explode
Light the fuse and cover your ears: It's a new year, and I sent my book to press.
When I moved into my apartment two years ago, the apartment I rented after I left my marriage, I made a collage to hang above my desk. My book manuscript on dynamite had lain dormant for months. The collage depicts my desire to finish it: A huge hand pushes open nested doors, one after another, extending a book. Letters fly off the page like confetti. The background is turquoise green.
I looked at it every time I sat down at my desk to write.
Now the manuscript for Dynamite Empire is at the press. The collage worked. I did it. I sent it in on January 1st, with the smell of fireworks still hanging in the air. I hadn’t slept the night before.
There’s still a lot left to do before the book comes out. The draft manuscript will go through review with my research partners and peer reviewers, and they’ll likely ask me to make some changes. I know a lot of authors fear reviewers, but in my experience, these final readers give the polish that brightens the book. I will also be working with the press to design the book itself (the cover and so on) and plan our marketing and publicity campaigns.
“Every page should explode, either because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography.” –Tristan Tzara
In American culture, dynamite is a watchword for power and achievement. When something is a big success, we say “it’s dynamite!” I hope that my book is as explosive and successful as its subject.
When I sent the manuscript in earlier this month, I remembered that I had made book collages before…I made one for my last book, too.
I made this one for my first novel, Strike Patterns. I was nervous about switching from academic writing to creative writing. In the collage, a beribboned and bejeweled company comprises a literary salon. The central female figure sits at ease, soaking up the attention of the others. Behind her, a hand raises a massive, leather-clad book (huge hands: a theme in my work?). For a base, I adapted a vintage souvenir from Italy: a tiny print in a faux-gold baroque frame, mass-produced to help tourists commemorate the art of the Great Masters. I named my piece “The Authoress.” It’s a little tongue-in-cheek. I was thinking about the poison-tipped success of being a “female author” in an industry of Masters, where one’s accomplishments are always diluted by one’s gender. In the United States today, while slightly more than half of published authors are female, they still make less than their male fellows.1
In 2025, I also released an edited volume about military waste, Demilitarizing the Future. My contribution featured a walking tour of the Dynamite District, an old explosives manufacturing zone in my hometown of Albany, California. Read more about it here. Most recently, I published a few poems and a collage in together in sacred grief, a beautiful zine about community healing.
Of all the things I published last year, the one I am most proud of is an essay in Noema Magazine about gardening with my father. The gardening essay was later selected as a top five recommendation by Long Reads.
I also founded Assemblage, a collage and art collective, with my friend and colleague Kelly Donohue. I’ll write about that more in a future post. Here’s a peek.
Meanwhile, my health continued to worsen. In 2025, I started using a cane and wheelchair. My apartment is close to The Wheelhouse, a community mobility resource center, where a very kind wheelchair expert outfitted me with one that properly fits my height and weight. A friend joined me because this was the kind of thing I didn’t want to do by myself.
Many days, I struggle to get out of bed and accomplish simple household tasks like cooking and cleaning. In the last few months of the year, my health finally stabilized—meaning that at least I’m not getting worse, ugh. As I continue to make my way through this divorce, this illness, and all the ongoing hardships of my life, friends and family show me I deserve to be treated with love and respect. They remind me that I still managed to finish two books despite being ill (okay, they’re right). Chronic illness is a blow when I am already knocked down, a challenge that makes all other challenges harder, and I am grateful for the kindness and care of my family, friends, and neighbors.
2025 was a hard year, but also a year of accomplishments. So, now I have created this habit of making collages for each of my books. I wonder what I’ll make next.
Happy new year, dear readers.
The wage gap is real: The average male author earns $77,216 and the average female author earns $74,111. See: Author Demographics and Statistics.