“So, what’s the deal?”

It’s better to create something that others criticize than to create nothing and criticize others.

Ricky Gervais said that once, and it touched me deeply in my special spot. So much so, I was moved to create a website where I could host a collection of poetry and short stories that will surely get me into trouble. I chose the name White Women Holding in Farts because the imagery it evokes is only second to its acronymic and onomatopoeic excellence, wwhif, a word I’d beg you to whisper. Astonishingly, not a single person was squatting on the domain name.

I should take a second to point out that many of the poems about my husband were written in the middle of the pandemic, when we were stuck at home and circling each other like buzzards. These days, we throw “love darts” at each other, like hermaphroditic land snails.

When I was a younger writer, I subscribed to the narrative principle called “Chekov’s Gun,” which argues that any detail given to the reader should be relevant. In other words, if you mention a gun on the wall, someone best shoot it. But I’m in my forties now. Fuck Chekov.