Good morning, Readers.

Someone has declared war on writing and (unpublished) writers.  Apparently.  Specifically, it's some guy named Tom Mitchell who has declared war on writing and writers, and he did so in THIS article.  Friend and fellow writer A. Laramey made his ridiculous screed known to me in her blog post last Wednesday.  She said she was conflicted about it.  I'm not.  It's a stupid rant from a frustrated writer who hates that the 'wrong sort of people' write and let it be known they're writing on social media.

He actually states that he "...realised the full extent of my hatred for unpublished novelists during an evening of drinking craft beer with a friend."

How horribly ironic, him being an unpublished novelist and all.  Perhaps he's trying to come off as ironic/funny hipster-ish but, as April said, he misses the mark.  By a wide margin.

He looses me completely when he starts in on genre, but I'll start from the very beginning.

Oh for Pete's sake!  This was his reaction when a friend told him that he wanted to write a novel.  This was Mr. Mitchell's reaction.

Dafuq did I just read?  People planning to write novels in the future are a symptom of the failing health of the literary world?  What?  Am I the only one who finds this nonsensical?  Not to appear rude, but people not writing would be far more indicative of the literary world's failing health.  After all, there must be people to write in order to have a healthy literary world.  There must be writers.  More, there must be new writers, new voices, new perspectives, else the blood of the literary world stagnates and goes stale.  People writing lots is ultimately good for the literary health.  Sure, not all of what will be written is good, but that is neither here nor there.

Like many people, he has a fear that more people will be writing fiction than reading it.  I'm not sure that that has not already come to pass myself.  However, in general, people who write also read.  People who hope to write well should read a lot.  Those who are serious about the craft soon come to realise this, and they start reading.  A lot.  Even if they never become serious about their craft, what's the harm?  Let them write.  What's it to you?

This is actually more loaded than I think I can handle without loosing my temper.  I find the most problematic aspect of all are the grossly overt classist overtones of this sentiment.  Working class people starting a novel?  Say it ain't so!

And is the desire to be a writer unreasonable?  I didn't get that memo.  I don't find it unreasonable at all.  Anyone can and should write a story if they feel they have the skill and discipline to get it done.  Does that mean they're entitled to be picked up by traditional publishers?  No.  But if it gives them pleasure and purpose to try, what's it to you?  If they decide to self-publish, well, good on them.  That's a lot of work and expense.  Again, if that's what they decide, how is that a problem?  They will be tried in the court of popular opinion, if they're seen at all.

Wait, there's an AmXMen tag?  Get me in on that!  My superpower is not going postal when people prove to be snobbish, elitist jerks.  Joking aside, I have no idea what this complaint is about.  If someone is writing, they have every right to say so.  And if they write every day, be it only fifteen minutes a day, they have every right to identify themselves as a writer, whether or not they have a finished manuscript.  Whether or not they are published.  If they're writing, they're a writer.  Let me define writer for those who still don't understand:

Writer
noun
One who writes.

There you go.  That's all you need to know about what a writer is and who can claim to be one.

Yes, because encouraging people to follow their passions and give them a platform with which to achieve something is inherently evil/wrong.  Do I have an eye roll gif?  Where is my stockpile of eye roll gifs?

He then goes on to express 'almost' pity for agents, who must be flooded every December with ill-edited manuscripts, having to read piles and piles of drivel around the end of NaNoWriMo.  This, I concede, may well be an issue.  Even still I cannot fault these writers - and they are writers, whether any of us like it or not - for trying.

If you have a completed, semi-completed or barely started manuscript, you, sir/madame, are a writer.  As it happens, you are currently an unpublished writer, but a writer nonetheless.  Given this is the case, please excuse my confusion as to what the point of this is exactly.  Is this a projection of self-loathing?

Then there is this sentence:

Mr. Mitchell, I'm curious how you propose people acquire this skill without practice?  Writing, like all skills, must be constantly practiced in order to be improved upon.  Skill is not something that someone is born with.  It is learned, worked upon.  Like throwing a ball or shooting an arrow accurately, it must be practiced.  How are people to get sufficiently good at writing to please your obviously very delicate sensibilities if the very act of practicing - i.e. writing - irritates you enough for you to write an entire screed against people who do it.

So sure, what they're writing now might not be great stuff, but give these 'wanna be writers' a few years, and they'll be the next Steven Erikson (I chose a very good fantasy writer specifically because of the next quote)... if they're lucky enough to be noticed.

And yes, plenty of unpublished stuff out there is utter rubbish (and a lot of published stuff, I might add).  There is also plenty of unpublished stuff out there that is absolute gold.  Just because a work is currently unpublished does not mean that it is entirely unworthy.

At risk of being one of those people, OMFG!  What?  Fantasy gaining popularity is a problem?  For the record, he targets science fiction as well, with space opera receiving a special mention.  As a speculative fiction writer, I'm trying very hard to contain my current ire.  I fail to see a problem with fantasy becoming mainstream.  Do you know what that means?  It means that more people are reading speculative fiction.  Let me reiterate what is important about that sentence.

More. people. are. reading.

And if more people are reading speculative fiction, it means that publishers are going to be hungry for more talent in speculative fiction.  That means some of those currently unpublished speculative fiction writers will one day be published speculative fiction writers.  Is this what is really bugging Mr. Mitchell?  That these speculative fiction writers may be published before him?

I will also add that he paints the average fantasy lover in a terrible light:

As a fit young woman with little to no facial hair, I'd like to send a hearty 'piss off' to Mr. Mitchell.  I love fantasy.  I love science fiction.  I'm less thrilled by horror, but that's neither here nor there.

(And I have thus far played one game of a tabletop R.P.G.  I loved it.  I own a D20, and plan on acquiring a full set.  Come at me, bro.)

RAGE!

What a tit.  Look, I would be apologetic that the wonderful unadulterated love of gaming and speculative fiction is bothering Mr. Mitchell, but I'm not quite that Canadian.  No one is forcing you to join in a Dungeons and Dragons campaign.  People enjoying themselves... in public (gasp)... makes you angry?  You think the harmless partaking in some games is undignified?  You need to seek a therapist.

Let me guess, a card game after dinner is fine, BUT THEY BETTER NOT BE MAGIC: THE GATHERING CARDS SO HELP ME (dead) GOD!

Seriously, where are my eye roll gifs?  Where did I put them?

And then there is this gem:

I think this is the crux of the matter.  Somewhere in Tom Mitchell's psyche sits the archetypal writer; the lonely bookish type who knows his genius... and is lonely in that knowledge.  In Mr. Mitchell's psyche, that's sexy.  I'm going to leave alone the glorification and romaticisation of a life so unfulfilled it results in suicide alone.  I'm pretty sure I don't need to point out how incredibly wrong and twisted that is.

I'm not going to, actually.  Fuck anyone who reduces serious mental illness, reliance on drugs and tragic loss of life to some twisted aspiration.  Fuck that guy right in the ear.

I'll wager, however, that Mr. Mitchell envisioned himself as that sexy under-appreciated unpublished writer; that rakish bookworm with a good heart and tortured soul (excuse me while I barf, please).  I suspect that this piece is a reaction to finding out that he is not so special after all, not nearly as unique.  And he doesn't like it.  What's more, he doesn't like anyone who doesn't fit the embarrassingly archaic and archetypal image of an unpublished writer he's bought into heart and soul.  Those people are undignified, are fat and gross, they play games and have fun.  It may be that Mr. Mitchell had the sudden realisation that his exclusive club - the club of unpublished writers - has a broader membership than he wanted, and it includes some (in his opinion) undignified types; it includes types that do not match the extremely limiting image of the unpublished writer he has so clearly romanticised in his own mind.

The reality is, anyone can be an (unpublished) writer, and that makes us all less special.  I would contend that we most certainly ought to get paid for our work, just as plumbers, taxi drivers and check-out clerks.  I would also contend that we are no more special than plumbers, taxi drivers and check-out clerks.  Furthermore, just like plumbers, taxi drivers and check-out clerks, we are varied in our interests and hobbies outside of our occupation, including but not limited to playing tabletop R.P.G.s.  We're human beings, not gods.

The bottom line?  Writer's aren't special.  It's time to come down from our ivory towers.  It was time a long time ago.

That reality seems a little tough to bear for some.

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

So you remember how last week I kept wanting to blog about something, but could never remember what that something was (because I'm gifted that way)?  Well, I've finally found the time, the words, and actually remembered!  Now, hold on to your hats, people.  This will be a rant.

A few weeks ago, I posted THIS article on my Facebook page regarding a certain writer, Veronica Roth, and the ending of her Divergent series.  For those of you who don't know what the fuss was about, it goes a little something like this:

SPOILER ALERT

Right, well, at the end of the series (the whole of which had seriously romantic overtones, I understand) she kills off her main character, leaving the romantic interest all alone forever and ever amen.

Her fan base exploded, spewing all manner of vitriol at her.  Some of it was the stuff one might expect.  Things along the lines of 'OMG, this was so depressing.  I want to curl up and cry forever now' (I'm paraphrasing).  You know, the normal grief that readers go through when a beloved character passes into the literary beyond.  I have grieved for such characters myself (looking at you, David Eddings.  SPOILER ALERT: I still cry about Kurik.  Seriously.  That was an iced blade right in the feels).

Some of the stuff, however, were threats; promises of bodily harm and promises to do everything in the readers' power to destroy Ms. Roth's career.

It got so bad that author John Green (whom I adore, if you must know) weighed in on the raging twitter fire storm, saying things like:

"As a reader, I don't feel a story has an obligation to make me happy. I want stories to show me a bigger world than the one I know."

and:

"Basically, I would argue that books are not primarily in the wish fulfilment business. Okay. Rant over."

Incidentally, a reader wrote a blog post HERE about how John Green was wrong, noting:

"You don’t get to build up the promotional machine and pat all these passionate fans on the back for their grass roots support and then slap them in the face with criticism when they aren't loving all the decisions made by the author."

Um, yes.  Yes, you do.  But more on that later.

Ms. Roth is not the only author to receive threats.  Charlaine Harris, author of the Sookie Stackhouse series (you know, the series that served as the base for the television series True Blood).  When an early copy of the book was leaked online by a German fan, Ms. Harris ended up getting all kinds of seriously mess-up shit.  There was the usual milder stuff like, 'I can't believe the author would do that!  That sucks!' (paraphrasing again) to threats of suicide and death threats.  You can read all about these treats (sarcasm is not a typo) right HERE if you feel like you absolutely must.

As a writer who simply does not write happy tales (Ethan Cadfael: The Battle Prince is an exception, and even then, people die and friends part ways), I do have a vested interest.  In my defence, none of the endings I've written were a conscious choice I've made.  I've written about this before, but in all honesty, the way my imagination works is as if the ghost of the protagonist came to me in a dream, introduced themselves and then said, "And this is how I died."  Which I then relate to you good folk in prose.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

But I'm putting away my writerly hat for this.  Today, I am donning the robes of a reader; a very, very grateful reader.  And to those readers who somehow feel entitled enough to dictate a story to its creator to the point of personal threats when the author deviates....

The fuck, people?  Just whose story is this, anyway?

I get it.  People are invested.  I, as a reader, tend to get very invested in the books I read (provided that they're well written.  Poorly written books also give me a visceral reaction, but it's usually gagging).  When the aforementioned Kurik was killed in the final book of The Ellenium series by David Eddings, the first thing I did was shut the book, walk from my bedroom to my mother (who was sitting in the living room), and cry on her shoulder for a good five minutes.  This is absolute fact.  I mourned the death of that character for weeks and weeks.  It took about three weeks before I was ready to return to Sparkhawk's world now that it was devoid of Kurik.  When I cracked open that book again to continue reading, I did so through bitter, bitter tears.  I was twelve or thirteen at the time.  I'm tearing up a bit now just thinking about it (not even joking)!

Even still, I genuinely don't understand where this reader entitlement is coming from.  The Ellenium was not my story.  I was reading a fantastic series about amazing people and riding along with them like an invisible shadow; experiencing all they did, but unable to affect any of it.  Did I wish that Kurik didn't die?  You bet your arse!  I still wish to this day that he lived on, forever snarking about how idiotic the nobility are.  That didn't happen, and I'm going to have to live with it.

I suppose it's largely because I absolutely agree with John Green and, without knowing it (I only discovered Mr. Green a year or two ago), always have.  Books to me are invaluable treasures.  They are looking-glasses into other worlds, other times, other modes of being.  They exist to expand my horizons, challenge my courage, teach, comfort and chide.  I can engage in battle with vicious denizens of Hell, sail the high seas, ride the clouds, fall from the sky, swim in the darkest ocean, walk through fire all from the safety of my bed.  Wrapped warmly in blankets and with a comforting hot cup of tea (or a large glass of heady red wine, depending on my mood), I can bravely march through the wilderness in hail and sleet towards untold terrors.

Books have been my greatest teachers.  They have taught me empathy.  They have shown me that what is right is often not easy.  From an early age, I knew the value of courage, that courage is not bravado and that even the most insignificant creature in the world can become a hero if they have true courage.  Books have taught me about grief, and hopelessness, and despair, and that I can get through it all to see brighter days.

I treasure books for this reason (and a wee bit of much-needed escapism, but that's beside the point).  I was never under the delusion that I had any control over what happens in these books.  That was never for me to decide, which is another important lesson books taught me; sometimes some things are out of your control and it sucks giant hairy balls.... but you will survive it.

If a book affects you deeply, you have in your hands a good book.  Whether it makes you laugh or cry or rage, you have experienced something profound from the safety of your seat.  This is a rare privilege, denied to many, for which you should be extremely grateful.  If you are so involved in a story that you can call yourself a super-fan, then the author has done something right.

But being a super-fan entitles you only to your fandom, not the story itself.  Divergence is not your story.  It is Tris' story.  Sookie Stackhouse belongs only to Sookie Stackhouse.  It is her tale.  The Ellenium is Sparhawk's story.  None of these stories are yours.  They may not end the way you might like.  Fairytale endings they are not.  And you should grieve!  You should rage against the unjustness of the world these characters you loved inhabited.  But you should also understand that you did not make this world.  You were granted entry into it; a peek at something wondrous you would otherwise never have known.

So, perhaps, instead of threatening the authors of these amazing wonders that you were lucky enough to experience, you might, instead, consider expressing gratitude... you know, once you've stopped balling your eyes out.

Damn it, Kurik...

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Some good news!  The books I ordered for Can Con have arrived.  It looks like I will have all I need for my table there.  Yay!  Set up is taken care of; thanks to the Amazing Flatmate.  A schedule is almost ready to be released, so I'll soon be able to tell you where I'll be and when.  Yay!

Some bad news!  I discovered last night thanks to my Kung Fu brother who is also a G.P. that I likely have a partially torn tricep.  Ugh!  On the one hand, I'm really ticked off it happened.  On the other, I'm glad that the pain I was feeling last night, which resulted in my really pathetic attempts at some of the exercises (which I had to quit because of the pain... I hate quitting), was actually for a reason.  I wasn't just being a total wimp.  So, no weights for me for a month or so, though I think I'll do more core exercises while my arm heals up.  I am sad.  I was looking forward to getting stronger faster.  Oh well.

Neither of these things have anything to do with what I intended today's post to be about.  I just needed to celebrate and whinge in that succession.  I've done it now and now I feel better.

On with today's post!

Last night, I read this article.  First of all, I want to commend the author.  It's not easy to look in the mirror and recognise the true source of feelings like this.  Most people don't.  They bellyache and groan and throw tantrums like overgrown toddlers, and never dig any deeper than their own bruised egos.  They snipe at the perceived reason for their hurt - other people.  Successful people.  They tell those people to go away.  To stop.  To do something else and just cease and desist with all your success already!  (Looking at you, Ms. Ruth Graham)

They hurl insults.  They get angry at the person in question.  They spread their indignation and their disdain in an effort to tear the other person down, to minimise their success.  They may call that success luck.  Or chance.  Or blame it on the successful person's looks ("they only made it because they're pretty" (or some such rubbish)), or perhaps they "were total sluts and slept their way to the top."  They will call that success anything other than what it is: deserved.

Some people go so far as to attempt to sabotage the success or even the life of the person whose success inspired their envy.

I know this condition as Tall Poppy Syndrome.  For those of you who don't know, this syndrome is 
"a social phenomenon in which people of genuine merit are resented, attacked, cut down, or criticised because their talents or achievements elevate them above or distinguish them from their peers." (thank you Wikipedia for a better definition than the one I tried to come up with).

The fact of the matter is, just as the author states, the problem is not the other person.  That person's success isn't the issue.  The issue lies with the people perceiving some deeply personal slight from another's success.  The issue lies with how the injured party deals with the success of another person.

Envy is a perfectly normal emotion to have.  It is even reasonable.  It's tough to be plugging away at something all your life, only to be overtaken by someone else.  It's hard to sit back and watch the world celebrate someone else, while you are ignored; sitting in a corner with tears streaming down your face wondering what it is they have that you do not.

I know it's hard.  I am, it has to be said, an incredibly jealous person.  I always have been.  And there are so many people I am jealous of.  So, so, so many.

There are all the women I know personally who are so much more beautiful than I am.  I'm not talking about movie stars or models.  I'm talking friends and family members.  There are a whole lot of them, and every so often I feel the stabbing icicle in my chest that is envy when I look at them.

There is the wonderful Leonie Dawson, who has built an incredible, heartfelt business for herself.  And has a beautiful family.  And just has her shit together, you know?  I went to high school with her.  The personality you see shining bright and glorious on her website and throughout her business, I can guarantee you that's genuine.  She's really is that awesome.  Always has been.  And I've been watching her build this incredible business and family and life from the start.  And I know she has worked, and continues to work, her arse off.  All of her success is definitely deserved.  And I'm still so fucking jealous you would not believe.

Free plug:  If you are looking to start a business and don't know where to turn, Leonie has all the resources you could possibly need, and has also built an incredible network of like-minded entrepreneurs which you can tap into at any time.  I highly recommend her services.

I'm jealous of anyone who isn't living pay cheque to pay cheque.  Seriously.  Jealous.

I'm so very jealous of the artistic talent of my mother, and of my friend and Kung Fu sister Caroline.  Seriously though, they're amazing.

Speaking of Caroline, I am so envious of her strength, and of the fact that she keeps getting to work on it while I watch from the sidelines moping like I'm back in high school and Formal season is approaching.

You get the point.  I'm jealous a lot.  There is a lot of green running in my blood.

So I get envy, I really do.

I do not get Tall Poppy Syndrome, and I never will.  I don't understand how trying to destroy someone else in in any way helpful to anything.  It's simply not constructive.  Wouldn't that energy be better spent if put to use towards one's own success instead of tearing another down (or trying to)?  Does it really make people feel better to hurt someone else?  Because that would make me feel more miserable.

Envy is natural.  I am not looking down my nose at anyone who feels it, even if the envy seems stupid or silly.  I am looking down my nose at anyone who acts in spite.  Petty people are obnoxious.

One cannot help how one feels.  What can be helped is how one reacts.  Emotions are what they are.  They will always be.  Actions can be changed and or controlled.  That's the thing about possessing a brain.  It is possible to halt and think, "Wait.  What good is this going to do?  Who is this helping?" and most importantly and unfortunately very rare, "Why am I acting this way?"

So to the author of the Salon article, Mr. Nathan Rabin, I referenced: sir, you are well within your rights to feel envy.  You are also incredibly brave for admitting it.  Few would.  And I admire you all the more for recognising that John Green is not the problem, that he has done nothing wrong.  It takes wisdom to see through the emotional haze, and it takes great strength to examine oneself so closely.  I salute you.

Self-examination is scary.  We don't often do it because we may just find out we are the cause of the shit we've been blaming on everything and everyone else.  We may just be the monsters we are so afraid of.  Self-examination takes work, and it's hard work to unpack all the hurt.  Self-examination takes courage.  Facing that hurt squarely, poking at it, turning it over, often having to feel it all over again is an enormous act of courage.

I salute all of you who do it.

I wish more people did.

TL;DR:  Envy is natural and you shouldn't feel ashamed if you feel it.  Acting out of spite is petty and obnoxious and you should feel bad if you do it.  And probably get a therapist.  In fact, everyone should get a therapist.  We all have shit that needs to be sorted out.

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Alright, so I'm about to wade into some pretty heavy stuff regarding the complicated author-reader relationship.  And I'm going to do so in a way that will probably irritate readers no end, because I am firmly on the side of authors when it comes to this issue.

I suppose I am, therefore, quite lucky I'm an unknown at this juncture.  If I was better known, I'm sure I would garner a great deal of vitriol from readers who feel entitled; entitled to an author's time, entitled to an author's story, entitled to an author's most polite consideration (no matter how poorly the reader is behaving) ... or god help that author.  Their name and works will be slathered all over the internet in the least flattering light possible with the potential of ruining their careers.

Readers, I love you, but you are not entitled to any of it.

I've already discussed the issue of readers feeling entitled to an author's story in another blog post.  I think I will find it and post it as this month's Throwback Thursday, because it is well worth mentioning again.

Anyway, before I begin, I want you all to know that I am also a reader.  All writers are.  Or at least, they should be.  The difference here, I suppose, is that I've always been grateful to authors.

Reading was how I survived most of my young life.  People were awful.  My family was slowly falling apart.  I felt so alone, and so unloved, and so desperate.  Reading gave me a way to escape the fear, and the anger, and the pain.  It gave me the role models that my world was lacking.  It gave me insight into how to cope with all the hurt.  Reading taught me about the best in humanity at a time when I could only see the worst.

I am alive today because of books.

And I am so, so, so grateful that those books existed.  I am so grateful to the authors of those books for shining their light into my very dark world.

Perhaps it's because I am coming from a place of such deep gratitude that I feel very differently about the author-reader relationship.

Becoming an author has not changed how I feel about this relationship.  It has only served to confirm those feelings.  And those feelings are thus:

Readers, I love you, but you are not entitled to an author's time, an author's story, or an author's polite consideration.  You're not.  You're just not.

Let's examine the case of Chelsea Cain.  I am specifically rebutting this article, as it smacks of the entitlement that the author is trying chastise Ms. Cain for.

The issue is this, Ms. Cain took to social media to inform some readers in no uncertain terms that she was not their personal lackey, that Google is a thing that exists that readers can use, and that pestering her with inane questions where answers can easily be found elsewhere is inconsiderate and a waste of everyone's time.  This is the offending post:

Could this particular post do without the expletive?  Yes, I suppose.  But I swear so damned much that I'm really not affronted by a single appearance of any variant of the word 'fuck.'  And, to be sure, she's right.  Ms. Cain is an author, not your personal customer service representative.  If you are a fan of her work, wouldn't you rather she spend her time writing her next novel for you to enjoy, instead of reading inane questions the answers to which can literally be found by lifting one's own fingers?

Or shall you bombard her with these inane questions and then scream from the top of your lungs when it takes her a really long time to finish her next book?  Even though, you, and others like you, who feel entitled to ask this author all these silly questions, are the reason she is taking so damned long to finish her next book.

And yes, as the author of the article I'm referencing said themselves that she was right, though her delivery of this fact could have been worded better.  The author of the article still chastised Ms. Cain, noting that she did not have to reply to any of the inane questions.

No.  She needn't reply to these questions.  And I'll stake money on the fact that she didn't.  But even reading these questions, having to sift through this rubbish in order to find and respond to readers who do ask the good questions, the readers who deserve an answer takes a lot of time.  It's time consuming.  It's time better spent elsewhere.

An author's work is to write.  That's not all, these days.  Now, it's also to reach out to fans; plan and organise launches, tours and appearances.  It's being on social media, and answering letters, and selling yourself as if your work wasn't enough, when your work really ought to be enough.

What really, really, really ground my gears, though, was this particular gem of a quote from the article:

Fuck. Off.

Fuck right off.  And I'm saying this as a reader.

The privilege here belongs not to the author, but to the reader.  It is they who are privileged to be able to fall into a world of someone else's creation, a world that they love, a world which makes their lives that much richer.  It is they who are able to benefit from the extremely hard work of the author of the book they are currently privileged enough to be reading.

Writing a book, getting it out into the world, building a readership, planning, and making appearances, touring etc, is hard work.  It's exhausting work.  For most authors it is doubly so because they tend to be introverted, and any social engagement for an introvert is sometimes a monumental task.  Being a widely read author is a culmination of many, many years of often fruitless effort and no small amount of tears.  The fact that the author is widely read now is a testament not nearly so much to talent as it is to dedication and work ethic.

That is the very opposite of privilege.

Further, Ms. Cain works really hard for her readership.  She's dedicated time and effort to reach out to those who ask her (good) questions.  Not a lot of authors do that, and her readership is really fucking lucky that she does.  I admire her so much for this as I once had an author whose work I greatly admired write me back after I sent him a letter.  It made me deliriously happy.  For about a week, I was floating around with a dumb-arse grin on my face.  In fact, it made me feel so good that I credit that reply with my desire to be an author that reaches out her readership as much as possible.

I was incredibly fucking privileged to get a letter from my favourite author.  And Ms. Cain's readers are incredibly fucking privileged to follow an author who cares so damned much about them.

In short, it is not the author who is behaving like an entitled brat.

The publisher thought it best that Ms. Cain take down the offending post - which she did.  The author of the article noted that perhaps it was because they found the post rude and misplaced.  That's quite a leap in logic.  She was asked to take down the post after the idiotic backlash that followed, not before.  Further, they did not ask her to submit an apology for it.  From this, it would be far more logical to surmise that, despite them finding nothing wrong with the post, they asked her to remove it to avoid dealing with the idiotic reader backlash.

And it is an idiotic backlash because, readers, you are not entitled to an author's time.  You're just not.

The author of this article, however, is not satisfied with trying to crucify Ms. Cain for something he admits was justified.  No, he must also attack her for expressing her frustration when the high hopes she had for her latest release were not realised.   Despite having the best of everything, and despite her working her arse off, her latest release did not make the New York Times Bestseller List.

I'm not sure why this is even an issue.  Disappointment is a perfectly reasonable thing to feel when you think you have gold and it doesn't reach its potential as expected.  Frustration is absolutely justified when something you've worked so hard for fails to meet expectations.

The author of the article felt that this "entitled", "privileged" author was blaming her readership for the failure.  This is the post that brought him to his bizarre conclusion:

Umm.... alright?

So the blaming is where, precisely?  Because what I see is an exhausted author who put her heart and soul into a release expressing her disappointment that it didn't do as well as other books she has released.  She really thought she had gold with this one.  She's upset.  She's tired.  She just wants to write.

Why is this a point of contention?

Well, the fact of the matter is that it's not.  There is no contention here.  People are looking for demons where there are only shadows.

The author of the article then had the gall to give Ms. Cain this simple piece of advice:

Nice plug there, dude.  Was this whole article sparking outrage about nothing even remotely deserving of it just one giant advertisement for your services?

I kind of want to punch her right now.

Because of course, simply hiring someone to help you with your workload is the simplest, easiest thing to do.  As we all know, authors are simply rolling in money, laughing maniacally from our towers made of illegally obtained ivory and gold that we can all afford such assistants, with money left over to buy our butlers something nice for Christmas.

In case you didn't catch the sarcasm, we're not.  Unless you're an established big name, you're left out in the cold.  Mid-list authors must pay their own way the majority of the time.  Set up and interview with a television station in the next city over?  That's on you.  You pay your own hotel, your own petrol, your own everything.  The idea that publishers take care of all this for you is a giant fucking farce.  Going on a book tour?  Hope you can afford the plane ticket, bee-otch!

Writers are generally quite poor (most of us work another job in addition to writing, just to keep a roof over our heads) and quite stretched for time, which makes Ms. Cain's desire to personally reach out to her fans all the more impressive.

Before I became a writer, I never once assumed that being a writer was easy, that being a writer was a position of privilege, that writers should be so damned grateful that anyone cares about their work that they ought to give up any hope for the basic respects all human beings ought to expect.  Now that I am a writer, I know it's not easy.  I know that it is not a position of privilege, and while I am grateful for the incredibly supportive community I have currently surrounding me, I know that I am still worthy of basic respect, and I intend to enforce that throughout my career.

Don't come crying to me about 'privileged' writers.  All I will do is hold up a mirror so that you will know the true face of entitlement.

Well, that was far longer than I had planned.  I have to go write a story now.

Ciao!

(Editied, as I was informed that Tez Miller was, in fact, of the feminine persuasion.  Oops!  Thanks, Naomi for pointing that out!)

Good morning, Readers!

Brace yourselves, a rant is coming.

Yesterday, friend and fellow author A. Laramey (followed a whole whack of other people shortly thereafter.  My friends know me well) posted this very interesting article on the recent corrections to a large number (archaeologically speaking, of course) of Viking burials in Britain revealing that almost half (46%) of the warrior burials were, in fact, women.  Which is to say, women warriors given proper warrior burials with their weapons.  These skeletons had previously been identified as male based purely on the fact that they were buried with weapons.

Yes.  You read that correctly.  Because they were buried with weapons, the skeletons were automatically designated male, with no further investigation thought necessary and thus not performed.

Then, because that fact alone is not infuriating enough, there are the comments beneath this article which refute the science with simple statements like, 'This is clearly a fantasy, the sample size is too small' or 'this is bollocks, 46% means nothing.' I'm paraphrasing, but that is the gist of a lot of the comments beneath this article.

Look, I don't mean to turn this into a feminist rant, but fuck it, I'm going to.  I've read a lot of misogynist shit recently, and I'm about ready for battle.  Come at me, bros.  I have swords.  Five of them.  And knives.  And a 43lb recurve bow.

There is this bizarrely prevalent line of thinking which still exists that supposes that because women aren't as physically strong as men, they obviously are so vastly different in every other aspect of existence as well, so much so that they would never participate in 'manly' things like battle willingly.  I see you nodding your head in agreement.  Sit down, shut up.  Women are not delicate little flowers.  Most of us won't faint at the sight of blood.  We obviously have been, and still are, extremely capable of going into battle since there was even such a thing as battle.

The desire to protect loved ones by any means possible - including the physical - is not a gender specific desire.  Neither, for that matter, is the desire for adventure, or perhaps more vainglorious desires like the perks of being thought of as a hero, or greedy desires like loot and slaves and status!  These are all human desires.  And women are, shockingly, I know, human beings.  Certainly not all women have these desires, but then neither do all men.

I doubt very much that much was all that different in the prehistory of humanity, either.

The article above mentions the Scandinavian cultures of the Viking era.  I know better the stories of the Celts.  They are my people, after all (you know how some people identify as Viking, even though they're North American and despite the fact that Viking culture was superseded by a greater Christian European culture LONG before their own ancestors ever came to the Americas (yes, obviously Vikings made it to the Americas, but they didn't stay, and besides that's not the settling/invasion I'm talking about) anyway?  Yeah, like that, but with the Celts).

There are many stories about women warriors in Celtic societies.

Roman Diodorus Sicculus says of the Gaulish women, "...are almost as tall as the men, and rival them in courage." (uchicago.edu)

Ammianus Marcellinus notes that “…a whole band of foreigners will be unable to cope with one [Gaul] in a fight, if he calls in his wife, stronger than he by far and with flashing eyes; least of all when she swells her neck and gnashes her teeth, and poising her huge white arms, begins to rain blows mingled with kicks, like shots discharged by the twisted cords of a catapult.” (uchicago.edu)

Another Roman Marcus Borealis writing during an invasion of Rome by Celts says:

"The women of the Celtic tribes are bigger and stronger than our Roman women. This is most likely due to their natures as well as their peculiar fondness for all things martial and robust. The flaxen haired maidens of the north are trained in sports and war while our gentle ladies are content to do their womanly duties and thus are less powerful than most young girls from Gaul and the hinterlands." (Google it)

In the same period, an unidentified Roman soldier said that, "... a Celtic woman is often the equal of any Roman man in hand-to-hand combat. She is as beautiful as she is strong. Her body is comely but fierce. The physiques of our Roman women pale in comparison." (Google that too.  I'm tired)

D'awwww!  I think he had a crush.

There is mention of 'Female Champions from Ireland' in the old tales (as in, pre-Middle Ages) of the surviving Arthurian Cycle who lent their military might to Arthur in his fight against the Anglo-Saxon (and let's not forget the Jutes) invasion.

Women can, and did, go adventuring.  They went to war.  They fought.  Some survived.  It's right there in the archaeology, and still some people think that a woman's only 'natural' desires were, are, or should be for the hearth and home, and that a culture where women regularly accompanied their husbands to war was never a thing.  Such possibilities are not even entertained, because, well, women, ammirite, guyz?

Well, fuck that noise.

Now I wonder how many other burials were immediately dismissed as male simply because of the presence of weapons.  How much history have we failed to understand because of our own modern, sexist preconceptions about the roles of women?

Oh, and before you go spouting off about the difference in physical strength between the genders, may I take the time to logic that away.

Yes, on average, men are stronger than women.  However, you don't need to be the strongest fighter to win.  You just need to be strong enough.

Women were and are strong enough.

And might I say, weapons are a great equaliser.  Anyone who knows how to handle a sword knows that it isn't the strongest competitor that will win a match, it's the smartest (it's really not the size of the sword, folks).  It's the one who moves their feet at the right time.  It's the one who finds just the right angle to take advantage of the weak points in the armour/body.  It's not the strongest fighter.  It is the most skilled, the most able to move, and, most importantly of all, the one best able to think.

Greater physical strength on average may belong to the males of our species.  But the rest?  Well we women have it too - in spades.  It is entirely conceivable that women went to battle, and were baller at it.

So before you dismiss women's roles in historical battle, or even the possibility of women's roles as warriors, and competent ones at that, as 'fantasy' think to yourself, "Am I actually just being a sexist little shit?"  Because the answer is, "Yes.  Yes you are."

Oh, and in case you were confused about the status of women in ancient times, know that not all women were relegated to a lesser class.  As Peter Ellis notes, even modern Western women aren't nearly so well respected.

“In the area of women’s rights, much of the long struggle is only to regain what was once enjoyed by Celtic women fifteen hundred years ago.” 
 - Peter Berresford Ellis (Celtic Women, 15)

I was born in the wrong era.  I'm off to write.

Ciao!

9 June, 2014

I'm a little late jumping on this bandwagon, but I needed some time to get my boiling blood under control lest I say something irreversibly damaging.  But still, I think I need to respond to this.  Yet again.  It's not like I have done it before.  Ever.

/sarcasm

In any case, on the 5th of this month, an article went up on slate.  You can read it HERE if you really want to, though I'd have no idea why.  It's entitled Against YA.  It also sports the tag-line 'Read whatever you want. But you should feel embarrassed when what you're reading was written for children.'

Ugh!

Look, Ms. Graham, I'm actually not a huge fan of YA as a genre.  I tend to find it dull and difficult to relate to, and always have, even when I was in the demographic these novels are supposedly designed to appeal to.  That said, I am not the arbiter of good literary taste.

And neither are you.

Your entire article smacks of baseless elitism, and I am sick to death of reading similar articles by people who are compelled to exalt themselves as superior through their tastes in literature.  More often than not, those people have not actually enjoyed literary fiction all that much, but still have sticks too far up the own backsides to admit that Harry Potter was amazing... even if they secretly think that.

I'm not, of course, accusing you of the same.

The truth is, adult literature is not superior in any way, shape or form.  It is different, yes, but superior?  You cite The Fault in Our Stars by John Green as an example of young adult that has sub-par writing and is undeserving of the wide, adoring adult readership it has; a readership, you lament, that could spend its time reading "superior" adult literature.

Fine.  Defend 50 Shades of Grey.  No, seriously.  That book is adult, and it is some poorly written dreck (my apologies, Ms. James).  There are numerous other books (even classics) that, by all standards, are terribly written.  The classics have managed to make themselves above such criticism merely by being labelled as classics, when all objective observation reveals that they are quite terribly constructed (and sometimes obnoxiously dull).  And it may behove you to remember than many of the classics revered today were considered populist dreck in their time.  There is plenty of absolute rubbish in all genres, and literary fiction is absolutely no exception.

Moreover, what on earth makes you think that readers are exclusive to one genre over another?  It is entirely feasible that readers of young adult also happen to pick up literary fiction of the adult variety; even if they are more subdued about it.

Look, I get it.  We all get it.  Young adult is not to your taste.  It's not to my tastes either, if I'm honest.  You know what is?  Massive tomes of fantasy and science fiction à la Steven Erikson and Frank Herbert.  I've been reading these genres since I can remember, skipping young adult entirely.  That does not make me any better than those who love to read young adult, nor does it make me any less than those who read literary fiction.

You, for some reason, bemoan the satisfying ending common in young adult, claiming that it is not a reflection of real life.  There is nothing wrong with seeking a "satisfying" ending.  If I leave a book without some sense of satisfaction - be it tears of sadness or joy - then, to my mind, the author didn't do their jobs.  Ending a story without giving the reader satisfaction is not emblematic of adult literature, as you claim.  It seems to me to be no ending at all and a signal that the author might not understand story-telling quite so well as they pretend.  Stories, after all, have a beginning, a middle and an end.  Human life is much the same, incidentally.  It starts.  Things happen.  It ends - in death (100% of the time) - the same death that you bemoan young adult heroes sometimes suffering in their stories.

All of this to say that unended stories are, quite simply, not to my taste.

I greatly fear, Ms. Graham, that your own prejudices against young adult stops you from seeing the great depth available in that genre, and I'm not talking merely about the sheer volume of titles available.  I'm talking about the topics they tackle, the thoughts and philosophies they possess, and the incredible richness of all of these that young adult books can provide to their readers if one just looks a little deeper (you know, like they teach you to do in every English class ever).

I feel that, by denying yourself an open and honest look into young adult, you are denying yourself the possibilities of the genre; seeking and therefore seeing only the superficialities of which, in your mind, the genre is solely capable.  It's like standing in a room of rainbows, wearing glasses that deliberately render you colour-blind.

And I have one last beef.  Young adults are not children.  They are exactly as the title suggests: young adults.  Perhaps it's high time we started valuing them as adults instead of belittling them and their passions as childish.  They are not.  Young, yes.  Children, no.  Treating them as children and their passions as childish is thoroughly insulting to young adults.  It takes away their agency, of which they have a phenomenal amount if they simply apply it.  It detracts from all that they can, and often do, bring to the spectrum of adulthood.  If adulthood is all about abandoning one's passions and shedding anything fun for the sake of not appearing childish, then I want nothing to do with adulthood, thank-you very much.

So, no.  These books were not written for children.  They were written for the adults who have not abandoned who they are and what they enjoy because someone else thought that being, in your own words, 'snobbish, joyless and old' is what adulthood is all about.

One last thought.  If people are flocking in droves to this genre over what you consider to be a more appropriate genre, perhaps it is because there is something missing in adult literary fiction.  Perhaps, just perhaps, it is because there is some spark that readers are seeking, that draws readers in like moths to a flame.  If adult literary fiction was so very superior, it would be the flame that draws those moths.  If it is not, then perhaps the problem is not the readership, but the genre.

Young adult is not to your taste.  Fine.  But keep your ego in check.  You are not the arbiter of good literary taste any more than I am.

As for the rest of you, read whatever you want, however you want.  Now if you'll excuse me, there are shape-shifting people I must go rewrite.

Ciao!

Good morning, Readers!

Brace yourselves, because I'm about to sound like an eighty-year-old curmudgeon sitting on a porch with a shotgun in her lap, but...

Whatever happened to good manners?

I mean, good grief, people!

In my day job, I work as a receptionist.  Glamorous, I know.  What can I say?  There aren't too many positions open for "female berserker."  In my work as a receptionist, I have come across the worst phone etiquette I thought possible.  Before this, working in retail, I had encountered the worst general manners you could possibly expect... from normal people... who one would expect to know better!

Rudeness is, in my opinion, becoming a frakking epidemic.

Some of you might not consider it a big deal.  To me, because I'm actually an eighty-year-old curmudgeon stuck in a young girl's body, it's a huge deal.  Why?  Because it comes down to respect.

Respect is something that is given, in varying degrees, automatically to all things everywhere.  It is almost always reciprocal.  And while some things get more than others, there is a base amount you give to everything.  For example, when you go for a hike in the Canadian Rockies, you respect the hell out of the fact that this is rattlesnake territory.  You wear appropriate clothing, and you mind where you put your feet.  In return, the snakes will likely respect you enough not to bite (read here: they're actually terrified of the giant two-legged animals that stomp awkwardly over various terrain for fun (hikers) and will try and stay out of the way).

There is the respect that you give to people you know are your superiors (and I'm talking actual superiors, not just people who are of a higher rank than you, though they count as well).  You yield to them.  When they speak, you shut your gob and listen no matter what.  When they ask you for something, you go get that thing they asked for.  You do this all naturally and happily because there is something innate (or overt, like a sash... or something) in this person which tells you that they are to be respected.

Then, there is the normal baseline respect.  The respect you give to perfect strangers who have done nothing to earn any higher degree, and similarly done nothing to earn any lower degree of your respect.  These people include, but are not limited to, your teacher, your parents, your parents' friends, the wait staff at your local diner, the checkout chick at the super cheap grocery store, the janitor, the bus driver, the cops, the homeless, etc.  While you're not expected to be immediately best friends with these people, the baseline amount of respect dictates that, at the very least, you mind your frakkin' manners when speaking to them!  At least, people used to give that baseline respect.  That's not happening any more.

Look, I realise that we're living in an age of entitlement; that tonnes of people believe that they are simply owed whatever thing they desire, and they should get it no matter how much of an arsehole they are (and whether or not they worked for it... but that's a different rant).  These days, one doesn't ask a waitress for their meal, they demand it and you better get it quickly because I'm spending money on this, wench!  These days, one doesn't excuse oneself from a social engagement, they just up and leave, and no one cares if the people left behind are confused or upset about the sudden absence.  These days, people make demands, not requests of perfect strangers in as abrasive a manner as possible.

It's really starting to piss me off.

Can you tell?

And here's the thing, respect is reciprocal.  The more you give, the more you get.  Unless you're dealing with a grade-A arsehole... which appears to be a much more frequent occurrence than it used to be, I'll admit.  At the very least, at the very least, you say please when asking someone to do something.  And then you follow that with a thank you when they do it.

It's not hard, people!

"Move!" is unacceptable (unless they're deliberately blocking your way and being polite has not worked.  In that case, feel free to also throw a solid right hook, especially if they're getting handsy).

"Move, please" is the absolute bare minimum of acceptability in stranger interactions.

"Yes, please" not "Yes."

"No, thank you" (alternatively, "Thank you, but no") not "No" (there are situations where a flat out 'no' is certainly warranted.  Again, if they're getting handsy, time to bring out that solid right hook... possibly a good knee...).

On the phone or otherwise, when someone wishes you a good morning, 'Yeah' is not the appropriate response, you obnoxious brute!

Speaking of phone etiquette, while it is no longer expected that you state your full name before uttering your request, please and thank you are still a part of the conversation.  "May I speak with [insert name], please" is correct.  "Yeah, [insert name followed by expectant pause]" is so far from correct it makes me want to shove the receiver right up your....

Calm blue ocean.  Calm blue ocean.  Calm blue ocean.

Be warned, if we happen to be interacting in any way and you are rude to anyone, be it wait staff, myself or to my friends, you will be so told.  I will not spare you a tongue lashing for sake of propriety.  I am too old to be putting up with that shit, and no one else should have to put up with it either.

So mind your p's and q's, thank you very much.  You will be surprised how well people respond to just that little bit of respect.

It boggles my mind how people have forgotten what getting along in society is and how to do it, and it makes me sad for my own species when people remark with such genuine gratitude on how polite I am.

Polite is what I should be.  Polite is what you should be.

Now get off my lawn, you hoodlums!

Ciao!