“Over time, reader becomes writer – in fact, becomes obituarian – and the catalytic chain continues indefinitely.” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 133).
“[...] it’s just an idea delivery system, I’m not really interested in genre.” (Lavery, Please Miss 9)
I work at my university’s Writing Center. For the last two years, I have spent two weeknights every week tutoring writers across the college. A majority of the students I speak to would be working on their very first academic papers. Sometimes, the session goes like this:
Student: (a version of) “Can you just tell me everything that’s wrong with my paper?”
Me: (a version of) “What would you consider “wrong” with your paper?”
Student: (a version of) “I’m worried I don’t sound academic enough.”
They’re terrified! They see in front of them the formidable rite of passage: to emulate a nebulous, singular “academic voice”. But that task is simply a mirage. Such a voice does not exist and pursuing it is futile if not dangerous. When anxious students yield unconditionally to the apparatus of academia (that “academic voice” or their annotated bibliography), their own voice diminishes. The writer is consumed. The tutoring session would be spent resurrecting their presence from the text they’ve written.
At its core, writing that first paper is a negotiation. The writer wrangles their ideas and organic understandings into the scaffold of writing conventions, formal structure and language. In exchange, they acquire a new identity – that of an academic. This negotiation happens every time a writer writes. Having accompanied many students in their versions of this negotiation, I am invested in the construction of a writer’s presence in a text – especially in encounters with genre conventions (complex power structures). How does a writer preserve their agency and autonomy in a text? (Can it be done?)
Grace Lavery might have done it, I think, after reading her texts Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and the Essay. Juggalo Chicken Drink is the first chapter in Lavery’s speculative memoir Please Miss. The Egg and the Essay is the sixth chapter in Lavery’s book Pleasure and Efficacy, a scholarly volume of work exploring the Lavery-coined term “trans pragmatism” (Lavery “Scholarly Work”). In this paper, I will provide close readings of both texts to articulate the genre conventions (academic essay and trans memoir) and modes of writing employed in each text, highlighting how Lavery meaningfully subvert genre conventions. I will then articulate how Lavery's identity as a writer and agency emerge through rhetorical and formal decisions, using the writing pedagogy concept “writer-based prose”.
Why these particular texts? One: a coincidence, I happened to have read them in the same month for a seminar course. Two: these texts, belonging to different genres, comprise a small yet engaging sampling of Lavery’s writing. In it, I find palpable Lavery’s writer presence asserting her identities against genre conventions.
Part One: The Idea Delivery Systems
The Egg and the Essay is an academic essay, first published in the journal Transgender Studies Quarterly. It explores “egg theory”, the literary genre written by queer academics about other queer academics, the academic move to conflate queerness and transness, and the nature of reading/writing essays (among other topics). Like all academic essays, The Egg and the Essay presents the writer’s ideas in conversation with other writers’ ideas. Writing conventions for the academic essay pertain to both its form and rhetoric: the introduction–discussion–conclusion structure, Standard Edited English and field-specific vocabulary, an aversion to first-person pronouns, etc. – norms that The Egg and the Essay would deliberately refuse to uphold. These academic conventions are the product of complex power structures, including a colonial history that made English the language of the academy (Altbach 3608) and a historically homogeneous demographic of academics (across class, race, gender, and sexuality).
Juggalo Chicken Drink discusses Lavery’s attitudes towards the penis (both hers and the conceptual penis) and various moments in her life, employing frequently the imagery of the Juggalo Chicken Drink and clowns. As part of a memoir authored by a trans writer, Juggalo Chicken Drink belongs to the trans memoir genre, but meaningfully disrupts its writing conventions. Historically, trans memoirs follow the “medical master narrative” (Catherwood 47) that retells gender transition, featuring distinct identities pre-treatment (“depressed, self-loathing outcast”) and post-treatment (“hyper feminine or hyper masculine heterosexual”) (Catherwood 54). Such narratives depict the trans subject as possessing little to no autonomy; conversely, they romanticize, glorify (even deify), and credit medical professionals for the transgender person’s transformation even beyond surgical transition (Catherwood 48). This master narrative affects the form of the memoir, for example, a linear chronological order that preserves the distinction between pre-transition and post-transition periods. It also has rhetorical impacts on the memoir, from language (phrases such as “being in the ‘wrong body'’”) and imagery (the mirror appears often) to anecdotes about self disgust and despair (Catherwood 46, 47, citing Sandy Stone). These writing conventions are the product of complex power structures, including a cis-heteronormative, misogynistic culture that defines the gender binary and a medical system that polices trans subjects’ agency. Increasingly, recent trans memoirs are breaking away from the aforementioned master narrative (Catherwood 61, 67). However, these writing conventions are still very much present, and perhaps most evident in reader and publishers’ expectations (Esposito).
I emphasized the exclusionary history of the academic essay and the trans memoir because this history gave form to writing conventions and readers’ expectations. It is what the writer’s identities come up against every time they write, whether conscious of it or not. In both The Egg and the Essay and Juggalo Chicken Drink, Lavery persevered by disrupting genre conventions through deliberate rhetorical decisions.
The Egg and the Essay disregards the academic essay genre’s demand for an objective, authoritative tone through Lavery’s casual voice and colloquial language, deliberately juxtaposed against academic synthesis. For example,
“Yet the affect that Sedgwick has committed to, and I suppose in the end it’s not so different to Reed’s own, is that of the “stubborn magical defiance”, an asymptomatic and repetitive performance of foreclosed femininity, the femininity of the difficult woman, which can always be relied on to supply a compensatory pleasure to the subject that fails to transform itself into the object of its own desire.
Which is, how you say, fine. The force worth resisting is not outright hostility to transition among queer scholars [...] but the holding of trans thought to the implicit standards of egg theory.” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 123)
Against a comprehensive (and by all means ultra-academic) summary of Sedgwick’s idea, Lavery directly speaks to me, the reader – “Which is how you say, fine”. The emphasis acts as a literary shrug. Lavery is picking her battles – not criticizing Sedgewick’s idea by itself, rather, she takes issue with its applications. What is the additive value of the colloquial sentence? Let’s try replacing this sentence with another phrase with an equivalent (in idea-value) phrase:
“[...] that fails to transform itself into the object of its own desire.
However, the force worth resisting is not [...]”
or,
“[...] that fails to transform itself into the object of its own desire.
This idea is fine on its own. The force worth resisting is not [...]”
or,
“[...] that fails to transform itself into the object of its own desire.
The force worth resisting is not [...]”
Evidently, the additive value of the sentence I omitted lies in its delivery of Lavery’s attitude: she is at once ambivalent about this particular idea and exasperated by its proliferation.
The casual language, unconventional in academic essays, signals Lavery’s authority within the text. Through the use of the pronoun “you”, the colloquial sentence demands the reader's attention (“I, reader, am being spoken to”). Its call for response (“how you say”) is an implicit call to action – to follow the academic discourse at Lavery’s speed (“I, reader, am supposed to catch up”). Above all, it interrupts the rhythm of academic discourse to deliver Lavery’s confidence in her reading and critique of ideas. This sample of colloquial language upsets the academic practice of deferring to authorities – citations, here – that allows the “temporal rhythms of egg theory” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 124) to proliferate. In the paragraphs following the above excerpt, Lavery criticizes an opportunistic Sedgwick citation, purposefully reductive so impossible to disagree. The citation, employed to conflate transness and queerness (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 125), appears as an example of academic malpractice. By revealing her stance and attitude, Lavery locates her authority as personalized and tangible. This is crucial, as it implements in practice the demand that trans people should be the authority in their narratives. The rhetorics of her essay complement her ideas, demonstrating her command over the genre and readers’ expectations.
Juggalo Chicken Drink disregards the trans memoir genre’s voyeuristic demand for autobiographical accounts – “expositions of trans life as it is lived” (Lavery, Please Miss 9) – by interspersing her narration with creative, surreal elements. In-between recollecting her first job (Lavery, Please Miss 19-21) and her experience taking Viagra (Lavery, Please Miss 24-27), Lavery spends three full memoir pages restaging her creative process scripting a(n ideally 3.5-hour long) Juggalo-friendly adaptation of Ghostbusters, highlighting the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s backstory and completed with a soundtrack and potential casting decisions. The account is as humorous as it is delirious: “A shot lingers on a picket fence, which suddenly doesn’t look like a nice fence but actually looks like a scary fence, like a bad fence” (Lavery, Please Miss 22, emphasis by the author). The clumsy naivete of “bad fence” is the source of humor, so neatly opposite of “nice fence” and indisputably contrasting against the complexity of the topics in discussion. Later, recounting her addiction recovery, Lavery includes her version of Bill Wilson’s story (the founder of Alcoholics Anonymous) (Lavery, Please Miss 31-37). The story is totally surreal, featuring life-long commitments to pole-sitting, eerily Freudian conflation between mothers and wives, and the fusion of one’s buttocks into a chair. The retold tale is prefaced by a feverish chain of concepts and knowledge, linking together the Alcoholics Anonymous program, psychoanalysis, and Pennywise the clown (Lavery, Please Miss 30). These creative elements disrupt the memoir genre’s gravitational pull towards the autobiographical and the chronological. They subvert readers’ expectations to be told Lavery’s story, and instead, show them Lavery. These elusive, surreal sections contribute to the mosaic experience of reading this memoir, humanizing the writer. We know she is funny, creative, certainly not afraid of run-on sentences, and above all – an active agent in remediating her life experiences.
Juggalo Chicken Drink also distinctly diverges from the conventions of the gender transition narrative in discussing the transgender body. Void of deified medical professionals, the text approaches the topic of the body through Lavery’s musings – written, unexpectedly, academically. Consider the following excerpts,
“A penis is not a dick; a penis is definitively not a dick. A dick is the thing that a penis is not; insofar as a given object is (a) a penis, it is thereto also (b) not a dick.” (Lavery, Please Miss 14)
and,
“When Butler describes the foreclosure of the penis as an operative condition of the Lacanian phallus, they mean that the very negation of the penis in the name of the phallus positions the penis (material, disappointing) as the key to the disenchantment of the body.” (Lavery, Please Miss 15)
where Lavery examines the nature of the penis through formal logic and a dual reference to Butler and Lacan. Lavery’s academic voice is positioned inwards. In other words: I, the reader, is not being spoken to here. The logic proof she just laid out is not primarily written to prove a point to me, the reader – if it were, I imagine we’d get a footnote for “Lacanian phallus” – but to transcribe the narrator’s thought process. This intentionality builds Lavery’s presence as authority: she spontaneously sweeps the reader off into a dense academic discussion about her attitudes towards the body. At the same time, these academic interventions form Lavery’s identity as an academic within the text. The “academic” fraction of her identity thus never gets lost in other parts of her identity (her transness, her recovery, herself as a lover or friend, etc.), emphasizing the wholeness of personhood. Lavery’s resolve to include academic vernacular decisively disrupts the singular focus on gender transition and lack of personal agency commonly expected of the trans memoir.
In The Egg and the Essay, Lavery employs a parallel tactic: she inserts autobiographical writing within the academic essay. These insertions go beyond the rhetorically vernacular or stream-of-consciousness elements explored above; they are thematically personal. They appear as both formal modifications to the conventional essay structure and paragraph-level interruptions. For instance, the last section of the essay, titled “a few fond farewells” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 130), was added in a later publication of the essay. The section itself is a section motivated by the personal – written in the grief over Lauren Berlant passing away (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 131). It discusses the voyeurist nature of reading essays among other topics. The inclusion of this section disrupts the generic academic essay structure: where one would expect a culminating conclusion and evaluation, “a few fond farewells” and the essay as a whole ends in the indefinite space of a new thesis (“the out that you come is different from the out that you write” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 143).
Lavery also blurs the lines between essay categories – memoirs and academic writing – by interrupting academic paragraphs with autobiographical tangents. Consider this excerpt, in which Lavery discusses the inherent double-function of the argumentative academic essay:
“We write laterally when we write essayistically, etymologically downstream from the Latin exagium, meaning both “a weight” and “a weighing,” both that which is used to measure the weight of an object and the act of establishing equilibrium on a scale. You were a Scorp, but on the Libra side – a Halloween babe. I crushed on a Scorp once; not too long ago–ouch. ” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 131).
Here, we have an articulation of the poles in the essay, followed by an interjection about Berlant’s astrological sign and her own. The horoscopic tangent calls readers’ attention to Lavery’s presence in the text. But what that presence is doing is not quite similar to the example explored earlier – she is not asserting herself as authority, just speculating on astrology. I read this tangent to be a show-not-tell instance of Lavery herself as the voyeuristic reader, wishing to know “something more, less, or other than what ‘everyone knows’” of Berlant (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 130). The voyeuristic readership is ultimately going to be futile – “what I have is the archive, which everyone knows” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 131), but nevertheless she’s engaged in it, so much so that she herself becomes an example in her own text. Lavery’s decision to make transparent her deeply personal motivations for writing and the act of becoming part of the text illustrate her autonomy and directive control over the essay. She overrides genre expectations for objective, impersonal writing while maintaining the persuasive power of her arguments.
The use of casual language in the academic essay and creative tangents in the memoir, the cross-genre interjections – autobiography within the academic essay, academia within the memoir – demonstrate the command Lavery has over her genres. It is true that any academic essay is part memoir, including those written by my anxious tutees who wish for their academic essays to be nothing but academic. The writer’s experiences shape the essay, from the very decision on just what to write about to word choices. It is also true that – when written by an academic – any memoir is part academic essay, once the academic voice is part of their many voices employed to make sense of the world. Close-reading Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and The Essay, I find Lavery deliberately collapsing these genres past this natural convergence. In the process, she establishes her multitudes of identity, highlights her presence as the autonomous narrator, and supports her theses through the very rhetorics of the essay.
Part Two: The Writer
When students come to the Writing Center with “I don’t sound academic enough” concerns, most often, they have written “writer-based” texts. “Writer-based” describes the function, structure, and language of a text written “by a writer to himself and for himself” (Flower 19) – signaling a lack of consideration for the intended audience. The writer-based text privileges the writer’s discovery process, a decision influencing the structure and language of the text: highlighting the “associative, narrative path of the writer’s own confrontation with her subject” in structure, using “privately loaded terms” and missing contexts in language (Flower 19-20). As a result, writer-based texts are not fully legible to the reader. In the context of the academy – tutoring, for all of its rich potential for insightful articulation (Flower 36), writer-based prose is usually undesirable in anything but a first draft. It is, after all, “the writer’s homework” (Flower 37), meant to be hidden from eventual readers. Yet Grace Lavery employs writer-based prose extensively across Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and the Essay. Her use of “discovery” language and deliberate disregard for the reader contribute to a subversive use of writer-based prose that asserts the wholeness of her personhood and critiques the voyeuristic nature of writing.
Across both texts, Lavery frequently employs self-references to convey her subjective experiences. Below is a partial plot of all the self-references she makes in Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and the Essay, as well as a sample of these self-references with in-text context. This query is run using the first-person pronoun “I”.
Fig. 1) Lavery’s self-references
Fig. 2) Lavery’s self-references sample (with in-text context)
These self-references share the telltale “writer-based” focus on discovery – “the “I did/I thought/I felt” focus” (Flower 25). This discovery process is even transcribed explicitly at times, such as:
“I find myself needing something more, less, or other than what “everyone knows,” more than what “ there remains . . . only,” and yet what I have is the archive, which is what everyone knows. Do I know anything else? Emphatically not [...]” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 130, emphasis added)
Here, Lavery is articulating the conflict between her situation and desire, posing a question and answering it. This is a quintessential discovery process: our writer is literally discovering – naming, giving form to – her emotions, desires, confusions, and resolutions. Taking out all discovery-related elements, this excerpt is equivalent to a bland “my understanding of Berlant is limited by the archive, which everyone has access to”. This butchered rewriting highlights the value (and necessity) of narrating Lavery’s discovery process. The repeated emphasis on the writer’s first-personhood – “I did/I thought/I felt”, or, here, “I find myself/I have/I know” – underscores the embodied quality of her experience. The writer-based language locates the writer as an active agent in the text: highly visible (clearly signaled with “I”s), with assertive ownership over her feelings, ideas, and actions.
Across Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and the Essay, Lavery deliberately disregards her audience. This is not to say that the texts lack awareness of their audiences. Quite the opposite was true: Lavery addresses the audience frequently. She does so directly, even precisely naming an audience, “[...] and here the “you”, until now so intimately addressed to you, the reading reader, must be taken to refer to a reader who’ll never read this, the late Lauren Berlant” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 130), or implicitly, “[m]y friends, I have solved my penis problem!” (Lavery, Please Miss 1).
Tangible as they are, the audience is ultimately disregarded. Consider this excerpt from Juggalo Chicken Drink:
“One day, a couple of weeks after I took my last drink, I was telling this story (you can guess to whom) and I realized I had left out a crucial detail: what was the first job?” (Lavery, Please Miss 19)
No, I can’t “guess to whom”. How could I? I wasn’t there! This exemplifies the privately-loaded language of writer-based prose. The full answer is obvious to only Lavery; the reader can give a semi-educated guess at best. The audience, coolly addressed as “you”, is hardly being spoken to but spoken at, their/our (I count myself amongst this audience) confusion persists indefinitely, unexplained. Writer-based prose functions as a device to subvert the voyeuristic expectations of the memoir reader, expecting “expositions of trans life as it is lived” (Lavery, Please Miss 9) .
The disregard for the audience in The Egg and the Essay takes the form of implicit assumptions made on behalf of the audience. The epigraph to the essay includes quotes attributed to “[YOU KNOW WHERE IT’S FROM]” and “[SAME PERSON, A FEW DECADES LATER]” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 115). No, I don’t “know where it’s from”. How could I? I don’t have random quotes from Sontag memorized! Moving past the epigraph (presumably having noted to later Google the quotations), the reader approaches the essay, and is immediately greeted with “Of course the conservative complaint that “one can’t say anything anymore” disguises a primary naivety concerning the nature of language and meaning” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 115, emphasis mine). The use of “of course” implies that the reader is expected to possess a certain knowledge or understanding even prior to the act of reading itself. In other words: merely two words into the essay, the reader faces an implicit assumption of what they know. This implicit assumption destabilizes the reader’s expectation to be explained and convinced through the academic essay’s conventional objective voice.
The use of writer-based prose across The Egg and the Essay and Juggalo Chicken Drink is effective beyond asserting Lavery’s tangible presence within the text and subverting readers’ expectations (which are, again, products of the exclusionary history of genres). Together, discovery-focused language and intentional disregard of the reader (through privately-loaded language and implicit assumptions of readers’ understanding) force the reader to surrender their autonomy and collapse into the writer. Lavery’s frequent “I did/I thought/I felt” assertions pull the reader into her personal, internal, and embodied discovery process. Her assumption that readers know precisely what she writes on no-explanations-required means the reader’s understanding is now a subset of her own. This writer-first approach disrupts the fundamental power imbalance of writing – writer as exhibitionist “scantily clad behind words”, reader as voyeur with perpetual demands for “more, different, or contradictory disclosures” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 133). This power dynamic is flipped in Lavery’s text. The writer is now the voyeur – haphazardly probing at what the reader knows and does not know. The reader is the hesitant exhibitionist, awkwardly coming to terms with the limits of their understanding, their asymptotic desire for tell-all texts, their uncomfortable and problematized readership. “Over time, reader becomes writer” (Lavery, Pleasure and Efficacy 133), but Lavery does not wait for this transformation to brew. Instead, she collapses the reader and writer before our eventual convergence. This monumental collapse ultimately awards the power of the text to the writer.
Part Three: The Case for Writer-based Prose
Subversive and rich as these texts are, when reading The Egg and the Essay and Juggalo Chicken Drink, I was, how you say, “straight up not having a good time”. The writer-based prose was unencouraging and almost illegible, as if designed to keep me out (it was). I was constantly chasing after Lavery’s ideas, internal dialogue, and streams of consciousness, hardly ever catching my breath. I tolerated her surreal tangents (almost entirely elusive to me) and accepted that my questions would go unanswered; that to find out to whom the epigraph quotes belong, I would have to Google on my own time.
Yet my discomfort is nothing to be remedied. My reading practice, after all, is molded by the voyeuristic culture of the essay, with impulses shaped by the same exclusionary history that defined rigid, prying writing conventions. I am part of the problem. And my discomfort is deliberately, rightfully engineered by the genre-bending rhetoric and writer-based voice so that Lavery’s personhood comes first, no matter the genre. Her whole self moves through the essay and the memoir without succumbing to their conventions – complex systems of power and violence.
Written in these distinctly-Lavery, writer-first ways, Juggalo Chicken Drink and The Egg and the Essay disrupt something larger than the genre prescriptions or the weight of readers’ expectation – the inherent violence of writing. When a writer writes, their organic experiences and understandings become arrays of words, meticulously selected yet doomed to fail (in conveying the true range and depth of human experience), to then be consumed whole by others. Consumed whole, because we read all writing in our own voice. The voice readers use to read – the voice in their/our heads – is never the writer’s. In any text, the writer’s identities, voice, and wholeness of personhood, then, comes up against not just the prescriptivism of genres, but against the medium of writing itself – the medium threatening consumption. Lavery’s writing techniques (casual language, creative elements, genre-bending rhetorics, and writer-based prose) thus represent an attempt to reclaim the text as belonging first and foremost to the writer, rebelling against the inherent violence of the text. In discomfort, the reader becomes acutely aware of the power structures present in all texts of all genres. Together, these texts make a case for employing disruptive cross-genre writing modes and writer-based voice as an act of autonomous rebellion against the power structures of writing.
I asked how a writer may preserve their agency and autonomy in a text. Grace Lavery, in fact, did it. She retains her writer’s presence through rhetorical elements (casual language, creative elements, cross-genre interjections), formal decisions (non-chronological memoir writing, disregard for the academic essay structure), and her philosophy of writing – collapsing the genres (by exaggerating natural convergences between academic essay and memoir) and collapsing the reader with writer (destabilizing the reader–as–voyeur power dynamic). This writer’s presence is important because it alone is the “idea delivery system” in writing, not genre. For when all the structures of writing – the guardrails of genre and predestined reader-writer relationship – collapse into themselves, little else remains but the writer’s presence within the text: the writer’s voice that bravely defies the violence of writing to deliver to me snapshots of their human experience.
When my students come to me with essays that just don’t “sound academic enough” (here, writer-based texts), I explain to them what “writer-based” prose is. Most of the session would be spent identifying writer-based elements in their text and discussing ways to revise for increased readability, before they leave the Writing Center with an action plan. But before we begin, I always reassure my students that writer-based prose is not “bad” writing – “just not necessarily suitable for a final academic paper”, I’d say. This is a standard Writing Center disclaimer, even if the text that coins “writer-based” defines “good” writing as no-longer-writer-based (Flower 20). Between you and I, I’d add to that reassurance: I don’t think writer-based drafts are simply “the writer’s homework” (Flower 37), meant to be discarded once remodeled into the next draft. The obvious reason is because writer-based language works, as it clearly does for Lavery. When used with intention, writer-based language is poignant and effective, even if (and at times, especially because) the reader is inconvenienced by it. The perhaps less obvious reason is because writer-based drafts are records of the in-transition-ness of the essay form. As an intermediary stage in the violent process of wrangling human experiences into written language, writer-based prose records the writer’s discovery process and the labor of writing. Before discarding or transforming writer-based prose into something more “academic” or conventional, sitting with a writer-based draft lets the writer get to know their most vulnerable, clumsy, and earnest voice – their voice, nonetheless.
References
Altbach, Philip G. “The Imperial Tongue: English as the Dominating Academic Language.” Economic and Political Weekly.
Catherwood, Rhiannon. “Coming In? The Evolution of the Transsexual Memoir in the Twenty-First Century.” Genre.
Flower, Linda. “Writer-Based Prose: A Cognitive Basis for Problems in Writing.” College English.
Esposito, Veronica. “Beyond the Trans Memoir.” Literary Hub.
Lavery, Grace. “Egg Theory’s Early Style.” Transgender Quarterly.
Lavery, Grace. “The Egg and the Essay” in Pleasure and Efficacy: Of Pen Names, Cover Versions, and Other Trans Techniques. Princeton University Press, 2023, pp. 115-143.
Lavery, Grace. “Juggalo Chicken Drink” in Please Miss: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Penis. Seal Press, 2022, pp. 1-50.
Lavery, Grace. “Scholarly Work.”