Roxane Gay

Beyond the Measure of Men

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Here we are again.

In the New York Times Book Review, Meg Wolitzer takes up the matter of “women’s fiction,” in her essay, “The Second Shelf.” She does a fine job of addressing the ongoing, fraught conversation about men, women, the books we write and the disparity in the consideration these books receive.

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The Alienable Rights of Women

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Lately, I read the news and have to make sure I am not, in fact, reading The Onion. We are having a national debate about abortion, birth control and reproductive freedom, and men are directing that debate. That is the stuff of satire.

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A Round Up of Kony 2012 Links

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Yesterday I clicked on a link from my Twitter feed that took me to a YouTube video about  a man named Jason Russell and his son and then I realized that the video was in fact about Joseph Kony and a decades old conflict in Uganda only Kony is no longer in Uganda and the conflict has been going on for decades.

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Resolved: A Year of Great(er) Expectations

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The most frustrating part of not being able to keep quiet about the willful ways in which people are perfectly happy to enable the status quo is that when you voice concerns about the lack of diversity in any given arena, you are automatically positioned as that person, the shrill and humorless obsessive who simply cannot let things be.

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Toward a More Complete Measure of Excellence

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The measure of excellence is a pursuit with which writers and critics are often intensely concerned. At the end of each year any number of magazines and organizations issue a list or series of lists to quantify the year’s best books, stories, poems, and essays.

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Roxane Gay: The Last Book I Loved, This Is Not Your City

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When I was a kid, I loved participating in my school’s science fair each year even though I did not necessarily have any aptitude for the scientific.

My experiments were never that inspiring but I certainly thought they were—volcanoes erupting with the magical properties of food coloring, baking soda, and vinegar, a suspension bridge made out of balsa wood and kite string that could hold a heavy brick, a microscope set up with a dark red smear of my blood on a carefully prepared slide—simple experiments that made me feel like I had accomplished something innovative, even in the face of the far bolder experiments around me.

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