My first book of poetry, I Am Not Your Final Girl, a collection of feminist-horror poems about final girls, is now available. The poems confront the role of women throughout history in relation to subjects such as feminism, violence, motherhood, and sexuality. Each poem is based on a fictional character from horror cinema, and explores the many ways in which women find empowerment through violence and their own perceived monstrousness.
You can find an excerpt from the book below. Visit the Contact page to connect with me on social media or through email, or sign up for newsletter updates at the bottom of this page. If you are a blogger/book reviewer and would like a review copy, please visit the Contact page to get in touch with me.
What people are saying about I Am Not Your Final Girl:
Horror After Dark: “I normally don’t actively seek out books of poetry – except for a few notable authors. However, this collection that you can ‘feel’ deep inside as you read, is the kind that had me going back and re-reading selections immediately. Highest recommendation.”
Kat’s Books: “There has been a lot of talk about how this poetry collection connects to the state of ‘womanhood’ today; women need to read this empowering literature and poetry.”
Sonora Taylor on Hook of a Book: “I read Holland’s words and felt my anger manifesting into something better, something I could cradle and use to keep my fight up as opposed to keeping my spirits down. That feeling continued as I read her recounting of the final girls that fought and clawed their way to the bloody end. I plan to make it to whatever comes next — and I plan to stay mad.”
Fishmuffins of Doom: “I have never been so emotionally affected by poetry. Claire C. Holland masterfully captures each character as they are in the film and relates their experience to women today, whether it be in surviving emotional or physical abuse, being ignored, rejecting the status quo, not fitting into society's view of women, or long for some sort of connection.”
We Who Walk Here, Walk Alone: “Each woman becomes the star of her own movie, and the reader must reorient their thinking to recognize her as a fully realized being of (all-too-fragile, yet incredibly strong) flesh and bone.”
Features of Fright: “These are gut wrenching, heartbreaking battle cries laid out across every page. In a world that is just beginning to listen to survivors, this collection is poignant and ever so important…. Holland has curated the patron saints of tragedy and trauma, and they fight for all survivors.”
Becca Leigh Anne: “[I]t honestly gave me this sense of empowerment. Guys, women are amazing and even though the world is kind of.. shit.. there are inspiring women out there who are fighting every day for others and I have so much respect for them. I think it’s wonderful how Claire C. Holland has also found inspiration within characters in horror films who constantly had to fight…. I’m in awe.”
Horror Geek Life: “[O]ver the course of 40 poems, Holland’s words offer glimpses of situations far and wide, sure to connect with every woman everywhere, and in turn, provide reassurance that 'something can be vulnerable and powerful at once'... and inspiration to stand their ground, speak their truth, and fight a fight worth fighting."
Horror Movie Podcast (beginning at 1:22:43): “I think for any horror fan… this is a really exciting collection." " “You’re getting this whole breadth of the female horror experience.”
La Femme Macabre: “The book is just under 100 pages of thoughtful, powerful, and poignant poetry inspired by all of our favorite final girls created with perfect timing given our current political climate.... This has to be one of the most clever books I've picked up this year so far.
Join Me in the Madhouse: “I became a quick fan of Holland's work, because not only is she a fantastic poet, but her work is also empowering and it tackles a lot issues that we're all facing today, both emotionally and politically."
A woman’s body was made for this,
for birthing, for enduring
hours of pulsating pain, but no birth,
no ingress into this world should hurt
this much. A blade in her back,
it threatens to bubble up from inside,
to pour from her prone and twisting
body, everywhere, frothing
into cracks in the cement, heavy
like paint. And so she thrashes, smashes
her head against the tunnel walls
like a dervish, a devil woman demented
and godlike, with her too-many arms
waving, a container for grief and this other
thing she cannot name. A broken
discontent, willing itself to life.