Labrys Lit: What I’ve Learned From Running a Lesbian Book Group
“The idea of a group where lesbians came together to talk about books; it was such a wonderful thought. And it wouldn’t let me go.”
Claire L. Heuchan
By Claire L. Heuchan, author, essayist, and award-winning blogger. She's Founder & Chair of Labrys Lit Lesbian Book Group
Truth be told, I’ve never thought of myself as one of life’s do-ers. As a child I was happiest with my nose in a book. And even as an adult with political consciousness, I found myself drawn to feminist writing and theory over direct action. But then I founded Labrys Lit. And the experience of starting and sustaining a lesbian book group has changed the way I think about a lot of things – myself included. More significantly, it has changed my perspective on how and why feminist organising happens.
During the 1970s and ‘80s, there was a golden age of lesbian spaces. Bookshops and bars; history groups and community centres. There were even multiple Black lesbian groups to choose from – something which, having come out circa 2012 in the west coast of Scotland, was so far out of reach it took on the quality of a fable in my imagination. Reading about the accomplishments of those who organised lesbian groups and spaces, flicking through Spare Rib or WIRES in Glasgow Women’s Library, I felt sure the women who made this vibrant lesbian cultural scene happen must have known what they were doing; felt confident in their ability to transform wistful dream into reality.
When I decided to start Labrys Lit, I didn’t have any of that confidence. If we’re being perfectly honest, I thought there was a very good chance nobody would sign up or attend the first meeting. Lisa-Marie was astounded when I made this confession. After all, we’ve both heard other women lament the lack of events specifically for lesbians. But when you grow up Black and female in this society, you simply cannot take it for granted that people will pay you any mind.
Before our first meeting, the possibility of failure – that it would just be me, the author I’d invited along to speak, and the FiLiA tech team sitting in an increasingly awkward Zoom room – loomed large in my mind. I’d even planned out an apology to V.G. Lee – a truly remarkable lesbian author – for wasting her time. But still. The idea of a group where lesbians came together to talk about books; it was such a wonderful thought. And it wouldn’t let me go.
The idea of Labrys Lit began with a hashtag. In January the Feminist Library published a statement in opposition to women defining and organising as a sex-class, which alienated many of their supporters – me included. This statement announced plans to “overhaul our archiving procedure” and hinted at the possible removal of texts in which sex (as opposed to gender) was the unit of feminist analysis and means of defining women. In response FiLiA began #OurFeministLibrary, asking women which books we’d like to include in the collection and what events we’d hold around it. Right away, I knew: a lesbian book group. A space where our stories are celebrated; our lives the norm rather than the exception.
Fortunately, other women felt the same way. The sign-ups came in thick and fast, many with deeply touching messages about their hopes for Labrys Lit. Women in search of community; looking to rekindle a love of books; wanting something different from male-dominated LGBT orgs. I was particularly moved by the words of a lesbian whose partner had died, leaving her with a vast collection of lesbian books and no idea where to begin. I’ve read every single message. Many of them made me cry. And our membership continues to grow. We’re an international lesbian book group, with members across different time zones and continents.
Six meetings in, and Labrys Lit is starting to feel like a community. Regulars are getting to know each other, becoming comfortable sharing details about our lives. It’s a relief, as a young(ish) lesbian to have the opportunity to speak frankly with other lesbians, older and younger, about things like parenting, surviving homophobia, and the politics of butch/femme roles. Like mainstream society, mixed-sex LGBT spaces are almost invariably male-dominated – unless groups make a conscious effort to be actively anti-sexist, which few do. So having a space where lesbians’ interests, stories, and voices are the priority still feels something of a novelty to me.
Though our members come from a broad range of backgrounds, we’re all women and we’re all lesbians – those commonalities give us a sense of togetherness. And by that I don’t mean we agree about everything all the time. At our recent meeting, women held contrasting views over whether polygamy of monogamy offered the lesbian characters in La Bastarda greater freedom from patriarchal norms. But even when our interpretations of a text or our feelings about it differ, there’s a shared understanding about lesbian life that makes the group discussions flow.
Thanks to the openness and imagination women bring to our meetings, Labrys Lit has exceeded my wildest expectations of what a lesbian book group could be. It is a privilege to hear every single woman’s perspective on the books we read. And an honour that they choose to spend the last Sunday afternoon of every month talking about lesbian stories.
The researcher Brené Brown says that “vulnerability is the core, the heart, the centre of meaningful human experiences.” And I think that she’s right. I made myself vulnerable in risking failure to try and build something that I believe in: lesbian community. And the women of Labrys Lit made themselves vulnerable by showing up to try something new, untested. If we had been closed off and guarded, Labrys Lit wouldn’t have worked.
We’ve also been very lucky in the authors, who have been so generous in sharing their time and ideas with us. V.G. Lee, Allie Rogers, and Julie Bindel were all tremendous. I feel so lucky to have heard these women speak about their work. And it’s a great source of personal fulfilment to play this small part in connecting other lesbians with our culture.
During my lifetime there have been great steps forward in the availability and quality of lesbian media. But there’s still a long way to go before the male gaze and heteronormativity cease to undermine the telling of lesbian stories. That’s why it’s important for us to read work by and for lesbians. There’s also a degree of stigma that continues to be attached to lesbian stories. Even when there’s no overt homophobia, lesbian books are still regularly treated as an inferior form of culture – something that is shameful to seek out, or a bit of a joke. So there is power in reading lesbian books openly, together.
I don’t yet know what Labrys Lit will grow into. But that uncertainty isn’t defined by worry or doubt. It instead represents a world of possibilities. I now realise that most architects of lesbian spaces in the heyday of the women’s liberation movement didn’t start off as experts. They were simply women who saw an absence of lesbian community organising and decided to change it. They were willing to put in the hope, the time, and the effort to make a lesbian space happen. And that was enough.
There’s nothing mystical about it; the pioneers of lesbian space were not pre-ordained Chosen Ones. Though I do think their courage was a kind of magic. And – as Millicent Fawcett once said – “Courage calls to courage everywhere, and its voice cannot be denied.” I would love nothing more than for Labrys Lit to inspire other lesbian groups.
Maybe you want to start your own lesbian book group. Or maybe a book group isn’t your cup of tea. Perhaps you want to start a lesbian group for history or hiking, crafting or a community garden. Whatever floats your boat, go for it. If you’re feeling a lack of dedicated lesbian space in your life, my advice is to build it. Because I guarantee there are other women out there feeling the same way.
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