A Personal Anthology, by Rosa Rogers

In one of my selected stories, an unnamed narrator is asked what she's been reading lately. Her mind goes blank and the present moment is distilled as the author skilfully depicts the multitudinous thoughts that pass in the space between thought and speech. When first asked which stories I'd like to include in my anthology, a dozen rose like a flash – an instinct. The stories were not fully formed but composed of impressions and my memories of reading them: where I'd been, how I'd felt, how, when I'd finished, I glanced away from the page or the screen to see the world slightly anew. There are connective threads in this collection: of representing women's experience, of the potentiality of form and expression, of the short story and also of art and what they have given to me and my writing over the years.

'Between Sea and Sky' by Kirsty Logan (First published in Hag: Forgotten Folktales Retold, Virago, 2020)

'Between Sea and Sky' is concerned with the excavation of a Scottish town's hidden secrets and underlying truths "except [a mother's] own truth, of course. The truth of how she got me". Composed of short narratives split between mother and son's voices, this potent and dark retelling of ‘The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry’ brims with the affectual aspects of language, staying true to its folk-song origins. In the story's opening, a mother sings to her baby who is strapped to her chest by a seal-grey sling:

"Oh my darling wee fishie, I won't let go of you
I cannae hear you speak but I know you love me too
Oh my darling wee fishie, I'll hold you close to me
I cannae see your eyes, but your love is clear to see"

Shortly after her son's birth, she continues her work as an osteoarchaeologist, digging up bones that the locals in the town would prefer to keep buried– hidden with unspoken stories under the earth. She and her fatherless son are treated as outsiders, made to feel shame by a community of women who "each think it could be their own husband" she slept with.

I listened to this story within Hag: Forgotten Folktales Retold in its audiobook form on a long walk in the local woods. When the narrative switches to her child's longing to know the origin of his birth, I listened with a quickening heart. A story echoing my own. 'Between Sea and Sky' explores motherly love and also a child's desire to know where they've come from. When the child discovers his father, he's revealed to be a man of the sea, the child himself thus part-selkie. It's then decided that the boy will spend six months in the water and six months on land, his mother continuing to speak to him in his absence. Though, as the child grows, his yearning to be with his mother throughout the year deepens. At six years old, he feels "apart and incomplete", knowing the "time for words had passed; I needed actions". On a stormy night, he leaves the sea to visit her, turning up at her small house by the beach unannounced. I will not say what happened next, but perhaps you can imagine. Logan's tale crescendos with its raging storm. The border between sea and sky (or water and air) becoming fluid, undefined. When I heard the final lines of this tale, I can remember exactly where I was standing in the woods, the exact shade of light through the trees, the exact way the wind lifted, goosebumps rising like small worlds on my skin.

'little scratch' by Rebecca Watson (First published in The White Review, 2018, and available to read online here. The short story was developed into a novel of the same title in 2020, published by Faber)

Winner of the 2018 White Review Short Story Prize, Rebecca Watson's 'little scratch' was unlike anything I'd ever read before. Since, I have adored the innovative writing of authors such as Eimear McBride, Dawn Watson, Louisa Reid, though still, Watson's rendering of a contemporary modernism feels fresh, engaging, entirely unique. The prose of her story zigzags across the page and columns of text (of thought) appear simultaneously. We are part of the protagonist's stream of consciousness, or as the author puts it, her "stream of experience", as we are drawn into the narrator's "honest present tense". On the surface, we follow a young woman navigating a world of office hierarchies. She hopes not to draw attention to herself as she leaves her desk, orders lunch and sits hidden "behind the coffee station". When she's seen by a colleague and asked what she's been reading recently, her mind is

"gone,

not a clear head but a blank head, making me question my capacity to think at all (even though I know that questioning my capacity to think is thinking in itself"

I have recently been teaching this story to third-year undergraduates and many have expressed how uncomfortably close the narrative voice can get. As Sarah Hemming writes, we "feel as if we've climbed into someone else's mind and skin". Watson's ability to render her protagonist's interiority is spellbinding, and as the story progresses, we sense that under the surface, something more sinister is going on. After her lunch, she hides in a toilet cubicle to scratch her skin, then reflects on the uncanny stillness of her face in the mirror, then receives an email on "SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE WORKPLACE". The story's ending powerfully gestures towards but does not speak the trauma lurking beneath.

'Fear' by Lydia Davis (First published in Conjunctions 24, Spring 1995, and available to read online here; collected in Almost No Memory, FSG, 1997. Included in The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis, FSG/Hamish Hamilton, 2009)

This short story is a paragraph long and captures Davis' exceptional minimalist craft. I read it in The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis in the summer following my first year at university. Moving from a Northern working-class village to enrol on an English Literature and Creative Writing course in an unfamiliar city, I felt like an imposter. I was close to leaving and returning home to work at a bar that I loved. A bar which held weekly open mics, where people from all walks of life shared stories that felt to me so honest, so far from pretence. I hadn't really felt connected to the literature studied during the course, but a tutor I admired gave me this text, and as I read, I felt that maybe I could do this writing (and university) thing. Davis' stories are complex and intelligent, though they are also subtle and highly relatable. Her minute observations on being human in all of its joy, humour and tragedy, are exceptional. In her story, 'Fear', a woman runs from her house calling:

"'Emergency, emergency,' and one of us runs to her and holds her until her fears are calmed. We know she is making it up; nothing has really happened to her. But we understand, because there is hardly one of us who has not been moved to do just what she has done, and every time, it has taken all our strength, and even the strength of our friends and families, too, to quiet us."

Events in Davis' short-short fiction may seem small and inconsequential, though it is within these snapshots that she pulls together those intricate moments that compose our daily lives. Still, when I struggle with my writing, I go back time and time again to this collection feeling similarly seen, understood and whole-heartedly inspired. 

'Sonny's Blues' by James Baldwin (First published in the Partisan Review, 1957, and widely collected, including in Going to Meet the Man, Dial Press, 1965, which was published as a Penguin Modern Classic in 1991. The story was also published as a Penguin 60 in 1995)

A cold December day. An empty student flat. The light dimming in shadows around me. My impressions of reading 'Sonny's Blues' during my second year of university are still very much alive, the sound of Sonny's song still distantly playing.

In Baldwin's controlled and beautiful prose, the emotional impact of this tale of complex brotherly love and loss is amplified. The narrator, the older brother, begins with a shard of ice in his chest where his heart once was. The two brothers have become distant due to their separate ways of dealing with the trauma of their impoverished childhood and their daily lives as young black men in 1950s Harlem. Sadness and oppression permeate this story in its sound and silence. The older brother 'freezes' himself as survival, the younger (Sonny) turns to face it – crafting his suffering and failures of communication into his music. We follow the older brother as his icy front begins to thaw with time. He experiences the loss of his daughter and, in feeling this deep grief, he seeks to reconnect with his brother. They argue about how one should live their life, though their words continually fail to say what they mean – this inability drawing thick lines between them. Still, when Sonny invites him to hear his music, the older brother agrees. He enters Sonny's world and watches as, in the story's artful crescendo, Sonny plays his blues. He struggles with control initially, but then it pours from him like water.

"Sonny's finger filled the air with life, his life."
His brother listens.
His brother hears.
"I understood at last that he could help us be free if we would listen and that we would never be free until we did."

'The Husband Stitch' by Carmen Maria Machado (First published online in Granta in 2014 and available to read here. Collected in Her Body and Other Parties, Graywolf/Serpent’s Tail, 2019)

Machado's collection, Her Body & Other Parties, was passed between women I knew over the years – sisters to friends to lovers – to land in my lap. Before reading, I already understood a wisdom had been shared: of how to be a woman of want in a world created by another gender. And of how to put a shape to the intangible fear of being a woman disbelieved.

The first story in this collection, 'The Husband Stitch', is part horror, part folk tale, part magical realism – a genre-expanding story that subverts expectations so often considered unchangeable within "our known world". We follow a narrator's tale of becoming/unbecoming as she falls in love with a man "she knows she will marry", as she exerts her deep-rooted sexual desire, as their love deepens, as she becomes pregnant, as she is tricked by those thought she could trust: her doctor her husband, as she bears her son, as she gives herself to her lover without her desire, as she navigates women's time-old stories of not being believed, as she is betrayed by her husband who cannot bear her having one secret – her green ribbon – being kept from him, who, in the story's ending, unties this final part of who she is.

"'Do you want to untie the ribbon?' I ask him. 'After these many years, is that what you want from me?'
His face flushes gaily, and then greedily, and he runs his hand up my bare breast and to my bow. 'Yes,' he says. 'Yes.'
I do not have to touch him to know that he grows at the thought.
I close my eyes. I remember the boy at the party, the one who kissed me and broke me at that lakeside, who did with me what I wanted. Who gave me a son and helped him grow into a man himself.
'Then,' I say, 'do what you want.'"

Sisters by Daisy Johnson (First published by Jonathan Cape, 2020)

Edgar Allan Poe defines the short story as a literary work capable of being read "in one sitting". Though Daisy Johnson's Sisters is a novella, I'm including it in this anthology as I read it on a single stormy evening, fittingly in the North of England. The brevity of this tale adds to its intensity and underscores its gothic horror themes of things being hidden, unknown, not quite as they seem. After closing the book, the story quickly found its way into my dreams. I remember the nightmarish quality of that night. Torrential rain against the skylight in Huddersfield. Memories of the novel flickering in and out of my broken sleep.

I could see the opening scene, the young sisters with their fairy tale names (July and September), sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the back seat of a car "sharing air". Their single mother driving them up the bone of the country. Oxford to Yorkshire. Escaping an unspoken incident that happened in their school to make a "new start" in the North. Sister July spotting an arrow of light from the sunroof pooling between them, thinking how she and September are so close, it wouldn't have surprised her if, "slit open, we shared organs... a single heartbeat". I could see the isolated Settle House in Yorkshire, alive and kaleidoscopic. Shadowy shapes inside resembling bodies, ants shifting behind broken glass, corridors repeating, activity happening "just out of view". I could see the sisters' liminal days spent under the blue light of the TV or sharing bathwater or playing make-believe games like September Says – straddling the line between violence, mimicry, love. I remembered the mother always elsewhere, existing like "furniture" in a distant dark room. I remembered the outside blurring in and, with it, a haunting seeping between. July getting caught in the space between the house's inner and outer walls. September's disembodied sound, unable to be found. I remembered the change in the air. Time losing its "line". I remembered the truth of the incident from school coming into view. I could see the sister's caught breath. The girl-shaped hole. The family's centre removed.

'Colour and Light' by Sally Rooney (First published by The New Yorker, 2019, and available to subscribers to read here. Collected in Being Various, Faber, 2019)

How can we connect with another? How do we relate to ourselves? To what extent can our conversations communicate what we mean, how we feel?

In 'Colour and Light', we follow hotel worker Aidan, his business-orientated, hard-to-relate-to brother, Declan, and the mysterious screenwriter, new-to-town, Pauline. Before the present of the story, the boy's mother has died, a person Aidan deeply related to, "the person on earth who loved him most". When he thinks of her, "the thought creates a feeling – the thought might be only an abstract idea or memory, but the feeling follows on from it helplessly". This proximity to her characters' inner turmoil and complex psychology often draws me into Rooney's stories. Aidan is self-reflective and hyperaware of how he inhabits the world, of how he sees others and how he is seen; he yearns to understand what things mean and how he can relate to the 'social' world of adults and expectations. Meeting Pauline is a hot flash of colour in the grey of his daily existence. People hang on her every word and desire to be with her, while, conversely, he feels utterly alone: "If I dropped dead the only people who would care are the people who would have to cover my shifts".

Through a series of chance meetings, Aidan and Pauline's lives intersect. Their conversations are lively, playful and almost reach an honesty that Aidan yearns for. In an interview with The New Yorker, Rooney explains, "I tend to write characters who are roughly as articulate and insightful as I am about what they think and feel. In other words, they are sometimes perceptive but more often crushingly unable to describe or explain what is going on in their lives". Aidan and Pauline epitomise this idea; the two attempt to voice their similar feelings of alienation and loneliness, but there is a barrier to their intimacy. Their own selves getting in the way. They speak of sex, but it seems this isn't exactly what they desire; the root, it feels, is connection. Ultimately, they part, and like Aidan, we are left to wonder what it all meant.

A Room of One's Own by Virginia Woolf (First published by Hogarth Press, 1929, and widely available today, including in the Penguin Great Ideas series)

In every room I have lived in, Woolf's A Room of One's Own is one of the first books I place on the shelf. Between cities, countries, situationships, relationships, work in hospitality and lecturing jobs around the world, I have continually sought a space which may have the conditions I wish to write, to think, to dream. Because, as Woolf explains: "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write [...] Intellectual freedom depends upon material things. Poetry depends upon intellectual freedom."

There have been many times when I have almost given up on this pursuit. Coming from where I have, the concept of being a writer has always been said to be somebody else's dream, and within a series of low-paid, highly-skilled jobs and somewhat elite art events, this notion has been reproduced time and time again. Yet, inspired by Woolf and the others noted in this anthology, I continue to try. I want to read fiction about the characters and experiences I would have identified with when first starting university all those years ago. I want to add to those voices on the shelf that speak about women's representation and class in a nuanced way. In her essay, Woolf explores the effect of the negation of women's voices in history how, in this absence, women become othered, placed inferior, misrepresented. I hope to continue to write so my specific story does not remain unspoken or misunderstood, and in my teaching, I hope to encourage diverse students to put a name to their experience, too. Because, as Audre Lorde puts it, in the process of articulation, individuals can "put a name to the nameless so that it can be thought".

'Talking to Myself, Talking to You' by Kathleen Fraser (First published in Each Next, The Figures, 1980 and also in Feminist Studies, Summer 1981)

When working on my first novel, I was obsessed with modernist and neo-modernist authors from Woolf to Fraser to Watson to McBride. I was attempting to depict a second-generation, working-class girl's coming-of-age tale in its specificity and felt guided by these writers. I know it can often be understood that "experimental" literature seems to be a way of setting a boundary between the author and the reader. However, whilst engaging with this work, I found the absolute opposite. Through their innovations, I felt I was able to get closer to understanding the complexities of the female experiences they were depicting; I was drawn to consider how plain language has felt "a brutal tool" (Watson) that cannot, as James Joyce explains, render those parts of human existence that do not fit within "wideawake language, cutanddry grammar, goahead plot".

Kathleen Fraser's critical and creative work, influenced by the tradition of modernism, directly and playfully confronts women's "dis-ease" with language, literature and authority. Her narrative piece, 'Talking to Myself, Talking to You', addresses a key tension in her writing. Namely, how she can represent a specific female reality within a "structure that gagged me". In this story, we follow a female narrator as she attempts to communicate with her absent male lover. But, "I had to stop because I couldn't begin. Too much prelude". She seamlessly shifts in her stream-of-consciousness style between memory and reflection as she hopes to put a name to her reality in a way she might later explain to him. However, repeatedly, she fears male judgement – a directness, a logic – where her internal experience cannot reside.

"I suddenly feel exposure. Unable to present something firm and clear ... a logical extension of the productive person you've known me to be. Will you find me out? ... No answer surfaces."

At the end of this piece, the narrator does not find the words but ends with a promise that she will continue to try. At first, this ending may seem like the narrator's failure. However, I believe in inhabiting this specific story of a woman's inability to speak, Fraser achieves in showing the reader (in an embodied way) what it feels like to be alienated in a language system you are forced to perform daily.

Queenless by Mira Marcinów, translated by Maggie Zebracka (Queenless will be published in the UK on July 30th by Héloïse Press and can be pre-ordered at bookshops now)

"Queenless – a honey bee colony without a queen."

Like Johnson's Sisters, I read this short novel in one breathless sitting. Composed of poetic-prose style vignettes, Queenless tells the story of a daughter's mixed love for a mother she is losing. The narrative traces their coming together and their eventual separation in a structure akin to a tide breaking. We are left with a young woman learning to live without her gravitational centre (her 'queen').

Marcinów is a Polish writer who is also renowned for her critical work in psychology. What stood out to me most when reading was her skill in depicting an honest, potent love between two women. Carl Jung writes, "Only the paradox comes anywhere near to comprehending the fullness of life", and I believe Marcinów succeeds in showing in her prose that the paradox is the closest tool we have in comprehending the "fullness of (love)" in its hungry, messy form. A daughter speaks of her mother's flaws and toxicity, naming their relationship "unhealthy", but she could not love her more; she could not want to leave her more. The form of this story magnifies its emotional content – comprised of fragments, lyrics, scenes, and sparse, sometimes single sentences. In the white space of the page, we collate these fragments into a whole whilst also having the time to reflect and thoughtfully participate. We grapple with the narrator to consider how we might put a shape to our own love for our mothers, our own inarticulate griefs, our own desire to live in the face of it all.

'Overnight' by Saba Sams (First published in The Stinging Fly, 2018, and available to subscribers to read here. Collected in Send Nudes, Bloomsbury, 2022)

Sams' powerful stories of teen girlhood in all of its confusion, intense emotion and inchoate self-shifting reminded me of those times my heart felt wide open to a dangerous world, one that I could not help but feel a wide-awake addiction to. In 'Overnight', her lucid descriptions immerse the reader in a 00s world of nightclubs, blue WKDs, Smirnoff Ice and Red Stripe. The strobe light and phone camera screen select what we see as we inhabit young Maxine's perspective. She "saw [George] first in the viewfinder of her Snapchat". As the story progresses we zoom in to who he is and how he relates to her. In the beginning their relationship being one of innocence, listening to George's iPod shuffle (Sean Kingston's "Beautiful Girls") and finding comfort away from their single mothers' struggles and working-class lives. However, it's clear from Maxine's avoidance and almost paralysis in seeing him again that something passed between them. Sams artfully executes the reveal of this event. A car light in the dark slowly coming into stark focus.

1961 Triptych by Remedios Varo (Varo's work is included in IMAGINE! 100 Years of International Surrealism (2024-2026). Beginning at the Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels, the show travels to Centre Pompidou, Paris, the Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg, the Fundación MAPFRE, Madrid, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia)

Neil Gaiman says short stories are "tiny windows into other worlds and other minds and other dreams. They are journeys you can make to the far side of the universe and still be back in time for dinner". My final selection for this anthology is an unexpected one. It is not a short story but, in fact, a triptych: a series of three paintings which tell a story, one which allows us to, briefly, enter another world, another mind, another dream. Remedios Varo was a Spanish surrealist painter concerned, like others in this anthology, in using her art "as a way of communicating the incommunicable". Her work is otherworldly and concerned with liberating the self from the confines, like Machado, of "our known world".

In the first panel, 'Towards the Tower (Hacia La Torre)', we see a group of uniformed young women led away from a bee-hive-like structure by Mother Superior. The women pedal in time, gazing ahead in their trance-like states. However, one of them is still awake. She dares to look outward. A sparkle in her eye. In the second panel, 'Embroidering the Earth's Mantle (Bordando El Manto Terrestre)', the women sit in a high tower directed by the Great Master to work – weaving the fabric of reality. The tapestry of the earth threads from their hands and out of a small gap in the wall, creating a world they are integral to but cannot participate within. Looking closely, we see the woman who is awake stitching a small detail, unseen by the others. She creates a boat, a lover, a new reality for herself beyond the confines of these walls. In the final panel, 'The Escape (La Huida)', the heroine is steering her boat away from the tower, her lover by her side, a dark cave symbolising her new world ahead. It is important to note the lover has not saved her, but she has fabricated her liberation alone.

Will she make it? What will this new passage entail? Comparable to the short story, the ends in Varo's sequence are not perfectly tied up. We are left with questions, wordless interpretations, and I believe a message on the potentiality of women's creative expression. The heroine can use the tools that once enslaved her to articulate (and thus live) her newfound freedom.

Dr Rosa Rogers is an Anglo-Irish writer and visual artist born in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire. She has a PhD in The Contemporary Novel and is currently finishing her first book, Composition, which explores art, class, and complex family ties. Her work has been published and/or exhibited in The Mersey Review, The Menteur, Vortex Gallery and Northern Quarter. She currently lectures in Creative Writing at City, University of London and CIEE, London.

* You can browse the full searchable archives of A Personal Anthology, with over 2,900 story recommendations, at www.apersonalanthology.com. 

* A Personal Anthology is curated by Jonathan Gibbs, author of two novels, Randall, and The Large Door, and a book-length poem, Spring Journal. He is Programme Director of the MA/MFA Creative Writing at City, University of London.

* And if you are interested in contributing your own Personal Anthology to the project, then please let me know by replying to this email. I’m always on the lookout for guest editors!

* Finally, if you enjoy this Substack you might enjoy Creative Digest, a collaborative Substack produced by the Creative Writing team at City, and to which I contribute. Read and subscribe here.