Moving Forward Together: Day 30
March 30: Imogen Binnie & the Crone Who Writes Herself Into the World
Photo credit: By Imogen Binnie - Topside Press website, Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47770146
On March 30, 2013, Imogen Binnie read from her novel Nevada at Pegasus Books, offering readers something they had rarely seen before: a trans woman protagonist telling her own messy, angry, hilarious, real story. No apologies. No translations for cis readers. Just truth, grit, and radical authenticity.
That night wasn’t just a book reading—it was a moment. A shifting of the tide.
Because Nevada—like Binnie herself—changed the landscape of queer and trans literature.
Published in 2013, Nevada follows Maria Griffiths, a trans woman living in New York, as she embarks on a raw, introspective road trip across America. The novel does not tidy up trans identity for cis comfort—instead, it dives deep into dysphoria, detachment, joy, numbness, and survival.
It’s sharp, it’s funny, it’s sometimes brutal—and it’s beloved because of it.
At a time when most trans characters in literature were either tragic or tokenized, Binnie gave us a protagonist who was complicated, angry, sometimes unlikeable, and deeply human.
Nevada didn’t just break ground—it broke silence.
Born in New Jersey, Binnie has been a journalist, columnist, editor, and punk rock zinester—always pushing boundaries, always centering trans voices, truths, and resistance.
Through her work in zines like Maximum Rocknroll and PrettyQueer, she created space for DIY storytelling and unapologetic identity, long before mainstream publishing was ready to listen.
She’s part of a literary lineage that says:
We don’t need permission to tell our stories.
We are not obligated to make our truth digestible.
We exist in the margins—and from there, we write the new map.
Her work has influenced an entire generation of trans writers—from Torrey Peters to Casey Plett, from punk zines to university classrooms.
Imogen Binnie writes from a place the Crone knows well: the threshold, the borderlands, the space between rejection and creation, invisibility and voice.
The Crone, like Maria Griffiths, is done trying to make herself palatable. She no longer asks permission to speak, and she sure as hell doesn’t wait to be invited to the table—she builds a new one, with mismatched legs and duct tape, and writes her truth on it with a Sharpie.
To walk the Crone’s path in this story is to:
Tell your story in your own damn words.
Refuse the softening, the smoothing, the erasure.
Know that there is power in being messy, angry, real, and alive.
A Spell for Writing Yourself Into the World
This spell is for queer and trans storytellers, for anyone who’s ever been told their story is “too much,” “too raw,” “too angry,” or “not relatable.” It’s for claiming the right to speak, to create, and to exist on your own terms.
What You’ll Need:
A purple or black candle (for power, truth, and identity)
A pen and notebook or scrap paper
A mirror or reflective surface
A stone or safety pin (for grounding and protection)
The Ritual:
1. Light the Flame of Truth
Light the candle, saying:
"This light is mine.
It burns for my truth, my voice, my self."
2. Look Into the Mirror
Stare into the mirror—not for beauty or judgment, but to see yourself. The real you. Whisper:
"I am here. I am whole.
I do not need permission to be."
3. Write the Opening Line
Write the first line of your story. It can be fiction, poetry, rage, memory, or a declaration.
Say:
"I write myself into the world.
I refuse to disappear.
I claim my space, raw and real."
4. Ground the Spell
Hold the stone or pin, charging it with your truth. Keep it with you when you write, speak, or resist.
Snuff the candle, and keep your written line. Let it be the first of many.
Imogen Binnie didn’t just write a novel. She opened a door, kicked down a wall, left a light on for those still looking for their way through.
And like the Crone, her magic is in the truth she refuses to bury.
We move forward together—rooted in history, fueled by resistance, and weaving the future with our own hands.
This is sooooo good, it's going into my "words that moved me" file:
The Crone, like Maria Griffiths, is done trying to make herself palatable. She no longer asks permission to speak, and she sure as hell doesn’t wait to be invited to the table—she builds a new one, with mismatched legs and duct tape, and writes her truth on it with a Sharpie.