I'm a Reservoir Bitch

Exploring Dahlia de la Cerda's book of essays and my own complicated feelings about... feeling something.

Running from darkly funny to poignant and brutal, Reservoir Bitches by Dahlia de la Cerda is easily one of my top books for the year. Hell, it might even be the top book of the year. And that’s saying something because it ruined a whole day-and-a-half of my very privileged vacation. (Sorry, Ben!)

Reservoir Bitches is composed of 13 interconnected essays of strong Mexican women determined to solve their problems on their own (translated from Spanish, and the translators nailed de la Cerda’s voicey-ness). These women know, like so many women, they can’t count on others for help. Faced with the prospect of becoming a victim—used, exploited, or dead—they opt for the blood of others.

What I loved so much about Reservoir Bitches is how de la Cerda took painful stories—so much of which I had experienced—and applied such a snarky, acerbic, irreverent voice. The way she connected women who are made to feel isolated and lonely and small. These stories are about things that happen to women or what other people do to women. They’re individual, but these women and their stories (and, dare I say, all women) are connected in their universality. That single idea, though, that these stories come from a universal experience makes me unfathomably angry.

There is nothing I love more than rage-y characters. It’s like I can inhabit them, become them. Their anger is mine… but in their world, I can actually do something about it. That is to say, I see myself in these female characters full of rage and I’m a little jealous of them for fulfilling my fantasies. I can stop people-pleasing for a hot second and let my petty little heart dream of revenge. I can throw enemies into imagined alligator pits or down the oubliette in my backyard.¹ Reading about female rage, in particular, gives me almost this high. It’s visceral. It’s… healing.

“It turns out that Jorge Santacruz was right, revenge does heal all wounds.” —Reservoir Bitches

Usually, I don’t annotate (I don’t believe in harming innocent books), but this book demanded it from the very first page. Too many expressions of betrayal, anger, rage, etc, etc were accompanied by my own little notes of “LOL!”² “I LOVE THIS BITCH!”

I’m glad the book didn’t have trigger warnings, and usually, I'm a stickler for that. There are certain things I don't want to relive. But this puts the power back in women's hands. Scenes that could easily be heartbreaking, in fact, are anger-inducing, which then evolves into motivating. Something can be done, can’t it? I can’t just imagine better. There has to be better.

The title, though I can’t be sure, may be inspired by Reservoir Dogs, the movie by Quentin Tarantino. There are theories about how he came up with that title—of course, no one knows for sure—but apparently he once visited a production company that had plenty of unmade scripts that employees lovingly (snidely? jokingly?) called reservoir dogs—as in dogs trapped in a reservoir tank and fighting for attention. For a film chock full of violent individuals fighting it out, it fits.

And isn’t that me? Isn’t that all of us? Railing against the powers that be? Fighting for our space in the world or our voice to be heard or just to be seen, God damnit.

There was so much pain and violence in Reservoir Bitches, but ultimately, these women fought for themselves in whatever way they could, given the confines of their sometimes claustrophobic lives and circumstances. The anger, the revenge, the misremembering, the friendships… I don’t know quite how else to say it, but this little book of essays consumed me.

At one point in my life, I had heard, then maybe internalized, that anger was a cheap coping mechanism. It sent me spiraling. Was it a cheap and easy feeling to reach for because I didn't want to explore what tricky things my life made me feel? Did some essays in this book anger me because I related to them and didn’t want to scratch those scabs?

Anger has been a long-standing fixture in my life—and one of my life’s greatest mysteries. Growing up, I lived a charmed life, but I was so so angry. Irrationally, awfully angry. For a long time, I avoided writing about myself or journaling at all because I was afraid of what emotions might come up or what scary things I might uncover about myself. If there is a reason for my anger, I worry about what it is… what I might be blocking out.

“That song pretty much sums up my life: I’m trapped in an infinite loop of bad decisions with consequences that are never not dramatic.” —Reservoir Bitches

Honestly, I remember so little from middle school and high school. Little snippets, but truly so little. That scares me. After dealing with the trauma of a mugging, then a sexual assault, then being cheated on and having to get tested for an STD because of it, then a miscarriage. On and on and on. I know what the aftermath looks like… I know how my mind warps and colors and blacks out. I know how my anger builds and explodes. And I was so angry.

Anger was my coping mechanism. I had built an armored shell around my head and around my heart. Instead of taking things in and working through them, I went into attack mode. What I don’t understand is how could it have been so bad that I told my mom that I’d snap her neck one Christmas dinner? Or that I told my sister I’d break her nose in seven places one morning on our drive to school?

“I’m not great at getting bad news. Some people say I’m in denial, but really I just have a hard time believing bad shit only happens to me.” —Reservoir Bitches

Living trauma and fear and anger every single day, wearing it like a threadbare blanket as if it’s the only thing in the world that’s yours… well, it’s not for the faint of heart.

I have to think something was seriously wrong. What the hell was happening in that little brain of mine? I was malfunctioning, clearly, and just trying to survive.

I don’t have even an inkling of that anger anymore (okay, maybe that's a wee lie.. I have that anger for men who make everyone else feel inferior), but the people and family who knew me then do. They remember the fallout, but I can’t remember what triggered it.

I’ve come around on my thinking about anger, too. Sure, sometimes it can be cheap and the quickest or easiest reaction. But I also strongly believe that anger is an impetus to inspired action.

After years of therapy, journaling, getting my life together, I can finally put some space between myself and those feelings. Yet, I am so drawn to that anger in literature. It’s like I’m seeing an inkling of my darkest self taking shape and voice. It’s a comfort to know others can feel the same rage I did. It’s more fun to watch it evolve into something dangerous and unwieldy.

Maybe a bit of my healing also came from writing characters that became unwilling villains in their own stories. It’s just the way life goes sometimes. But to explore these feelings with my protagonists and their reactions, well, it’s been fun. If you ever read one of my future novels, rest assured there will be a lot of female rage. You’re welcome.

It’s powerful stuff that these stories of violence against women, to women, the violence of our everyday lives—just living and breathing being violent—begs for more attention. So my reservoir bitches, we shall spend a few weeks writing personal responses and evocations to the books. Which means we’re getting dark and vulnerable real fast, my friends. Buckle up.

This is your warning that there will be mention of abortion, miscarriage, and sexual assault throughout my December newsletters.

Book & Drink Pairing

I can only pair this with one drink, but a lot of it—Casa Migas Mezcal. It’s smoky, it burns, and it lights you up. Read this book and rip some tequila shots with me. Please and thank you. I want to trade war stories.

Writing & Querying Update

Sarah Flocken

, who doesn’t know I exist, shared some incredibly helpful tidbits for writers looking to find representation back in October. One of these—to pitch in person—I jumped on immediately. I’m way better in person than in a slush pile, I thought. I’m charming! So I signed up for the Writing Day Workshop Chicago conference, which starts… like right now, as I publish. I’m only a little bit, a lot a bit, freaking out now that the time has come for me to sit in front of an agent and tell them how much Susie Sweetheart rocks.

One of these agents,

Eric

Smith, I’ve long considered one of the nicest people in the publishing industry. To be very clear, he also doesn’t know I exist, but I see him time and again fostering community on several social platforms, lifting writers and agents alike, and offering to help innumerable writers with their queries and pitches. He even has free resources on his website. I mention this (and him) for 2 reasons. (1) If you do take this (and Sarah’s advice) and register for one of these events, please do your homework! (2) One day, I’d love to foster that kind of community with my readers. Writing can be a slog, but there are some really good people out there who want to raise you up with them (like you, Mindy Quigley!).

Before this WDW, I opted into their first 10-page critique and the query critique. I had the call about my pages on Wednesday and the editor couldn’t have been more supportive. She gave great, actionable feedback and told me my query was in great shape. I could have cried happy tears. My confidence was through the roof! Then Thursday happened… and the editor who went through my query destroyed it. We’re talking about red line over everything. Big fat question marks. DUDE! Not the way I wanted to wake up. So I went through his feedback like a responsible adult and then… just tossed the rest.

I’ve come to the realization that Susie Sweetheart isn’t going to be for everyone. Between the Wines won’t be for everyone. And trying to make a universally loved query and novel actually distills my voice and me down to something sterile. Ew. Life’s too short not to be weird. Life’s wayyyyy too short to be that boring.

Pass.

I’ll just hang in my little Substack bubble and get increasingly quirky, thanks very much.

okokok - wish me luck!

Until next time!

xx, bb

1. Relax people, it's a covered well

2. As a rule, I never use LOL