The first thing you need to know about the writer Dorothy Allison, who died last week at 75, is that she could flirt you into a stupor.

As a scrawny, know-it-all stripper girl in 1990s San Francisco, I was in a position to know this. I’d often see her at leather-dyke gatherings, and we had a hugging acquaintance, so I was happy to spot her at a party at a mutual friend’s house. She glided toward me in the kitchen and said, “I see you’ve got a hickey there, Miss Lily.” Dorothy raised her eyebrows and dropped her voice—just a little. The overhead light glinted in her long copper bangs. “Maybe you’ll let me give you a hickey sometime.” A proud southern femme, she knew what her drawl could do, and she worked it like a strut. I stood there in that kitchen, a 22-year-old punk-ass bigmouth, dumbstruck and immobilized by her charm.

“Her friends loved Dorothy like hard rock candy,” the feminist writer Susie Bright wrote in a remembrance last week on Substack. To many scrappy queers and misfits in the Bay Area, Allison was a real-life friend, but to legions more of us, she was a true intimate on the page. Her words, sweet on the tongue, drew us to a body of work that managed to be both a delicacy and a necessity. Each devoted reader can cite the quote that broke them open. Though her essay collection Two or Three Things I Know for Sure would become my survival guide, the sentence that first grabbed me by the throat was Ruth Anne “Bone” Boatwright’s line from Allison’s debut novel, Bastard Out of Carolina: “Things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.”

Allison was born in Greenville, South Carolina, in 1949, to a 15-year-old mother who’d left school to work as a waitress and cook. After a childhood of privation marked by incest and violence at the hands of her stepfather, Allison became the first of her family to graduate from high school. Writing her way through various day jobs after college, she reckoned with class struggle, poverty, abuse, lesbianism, desire, illness, and the long-reaching legacy of trauma. Her poetry, fiction, and essays ranged across varied terrain, but they always sprang from a root of astonishing tenderness and almost unbearable clarity.

An outspoken member of the “ungrateful poor,” Allison knew that literature is medicine—as are community, pleasure, and even recreational flirting. She preached that a dogged commitment to honesty, however dark or knotty or elusive its pursuit, was essential for healing from the lacerating edge of life. Always quick to credit the women’s movement for giving her the tools to reenvision herself, Allison, through her work, her teaching, and her way of moving through space, transformed the cornball self-help concept of “radical embodiment” into a living gospel.

[Read: The great American novels]

One might say that she wrote from the heart, but it would be more accurate to say that she wrote from the hips. She eschewed such distancing techniques as overt sentimentality, the taxonomic graphing of oppressions, and theory-headed la-di-da. Instead, she went straight to skin and bone and viscera, sites of both injury and regeneration among the bodies of the queer, the poor, and the sick. Few other writers could so perfectly express the way that shame bathes you in a wave of prickling heat, or the hole-in-the-chest sorrow of loving a mother you couldn’t trust. She evoked delight just as vividly, describing the satisfaction of stirring ingredients together to make a simple gravy and the glinting, double-edged appeal of masochism. Most crucially, she articulated the way that societal hatred can fester in your gut, rotting you from the core, and that the only remedy strong enough to stanch its spread is plainly naming the truth of it.

She said as much: “Two or three things I know for sure, and one is that I’d rather go naked than wear the coat the world has made for me.”

It’s easy to dismiss so-called trauma plots after several decades of confessional literature, but in 1992, when Bastard Out of Carolina came out, none of us queer kids held any hope that we could see our complicated stories get published beyond the margins, let alone ushered into the literary canon. With Bastard, which fictionalized her abusive childhood, Allison made real money and a real impression, and she used that security to solidify her role as a teacher and an advocate of the historically unheard. She exploded any idea we had about what was possible. When she said, “The only magic we have is what we make in ourselves, the muscles we build up on the inside, the sense of belief we create from nothing,” we believed her.

I can’t help dwelling on the timing of Allison’s death, on the day of a presidential election that marked the ascension of J. D. Vance—as disingenuous a chronicler of the working class as there ever was. I remember what she wrote in her first nonfiction collection Skin: Talking About Sex, Class, and Literature:

The worst thing done to us in the name of a civilized society is to label the truth of our lives material outside the legitimate subject matter of serious writers … I need you to do more than survive. As writers, as revolutionaries, tell the truth, your truth in your own way. Do not buy into their system of censorship, imagining that if you drop this character or hide that emotion, you can slide through their blockades. Do not eat your heart out in the hope of pleasing them. The only hope you have, the only hope any of us has, is the remade life.

There are a few more things that you need to know for sure about what Allison meant to those she leaves behind.

Know that her deeply personal stories introduced us to ourselves. Know that she taught us to fight for liberation with all five senses, and to forge a weapon out of beauty. Know that when she broke through, she brought all of us with her. This rock-candy-hearted revolutionary, through her devotion to art and to truth, didn’t just pull us forward into new territory; she redrew the map.