An Open Response

The following is a response to a friend of mine who, after reading my previous post “It Might Have Been,” noted that he didn’t see the imbalance between male-centered and female-centered movies I’d written about. There are so many movies about girls and women now, he said, and to support his contention he cited Twilight, Divergent, and The Hunger Games as popular movie series that center on strong heroines.

As my friend, he deserves the best response I can give him, but I can’t help thinking he’s not the only one who may not notice the imbalance, particularly in this year of Wonder Woman. So herewith I present my answer.

Dear (Name Withheld),

I would certainly agree that representation of female characters in Hollywood movies has improved vastly since the 1980s, when a kick-butt SFF heroine like Ellen Ripley was pretty much out there on her own. But we still haven’t arrived at the balance I so long to see.

First, you cite Divergent, Twilight, and The Hunger Games as movie series with strong central female characters. With The Hunger Games, point taken. The first two films were critical and commercial successes, and while critics were more lukewarm on the last two, audiences still flocked to them. I loved the first two and even enjoyed the last two, and actually found the Katniss Everdeen played by Jennifer Lawrence a stronger and more proactive character than the Katniss of the books (something I would normally never say).

Yet I have to dispute the other two examples. The Divergent series failed miserably with critics, and bad movies, unless they perform spectacularly at the box office, tend to lead to fewer movies with female leads, not more. (Catwoman, anyone?) In fact, the underwhelming response to Divergent and others of its kind has led me to suspect that adaptations of popular female-protagonist YA SFF book series may be on the way out.

Twilight is its own animal. The book series’ fanbase would storm the theaters to see these films no matter what critics might say. Yet I have to respectfully agree to disagree with those who see the vacant, passive Bella Swan as a strong character. One of my biggest regrets about the current state of YA fantasy fiction is that Twilight and its legion of imitations have made more scarce the sort of adventure-driven female-led stories that Tamora Pierce and Robin McKinley are known for writing. I know I want to read about and see young heroines saving their worlds, not obsessing over their hot supernatural boyfriends. (Buffy the Vampire Slayer at least got to do both.)

Also, that these movie series exist doesn’t prove that male-driven movies no longer dominate the screens. This summer we got two good mainstream movies with powerful female leads, the energetic and hopeful Wonder Woman and the darker Atomic Blonde. But since the summer, what have we seen? True, “Oscar bait” limited releases like Battle of the Sexes, Lady Bird, and Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri have popped up (all of which I want to see), but of major mainstream releases, how many have boasted female characters who are not love interests, sidekicks, or villains? Among family films and animated films, the lack speaks loudest, at least to me. Where is this year’s Hunger Games? Last year Disney released a strong pair of heroine-driven cartoon features, Moana and the Oscar-winning Zootopia. This year, however, every single major American animated release has had a male protagonist, except Leap (which failed) and The My Little Pony Movie.

Of course Wonder Woman was great — I saw it twice in the theater, and regret not having gone back for a third time — but compare the number of Wonder Woman films we’ve seen to the number of Batmans and Spider-Mans. Good movies with female leads are out there, but for every one of them, we see ten or more movies with male leads. I’d like to see things even out just a little more.

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It Might Have Been

I went to my first Atlanta Radio Theatre Company rehearsal in January 2004, to offer the group my skills and service. I thought, naturally, I would make my mark as a voice actress, and to some degree I have. But once I got a look at my first script for radio drama, I decided I would write for the company. That very week I started work on my first ARTC script, which became, in time, The House Across the Way.

The first draft had problems galore. I’d included a folksy narrator whose frequent interjections slowed the story’s pace to a crawl. Yet Bill Ritch, our leader, and other members of the company heard enough potential in it to encourage me. They helped me see I didn’t need the narrator at all. They coached me in writing instructions for sound effects and gave me suggestions I could use to sharpen my characterizations. Thanks to their guidance, the script grew better bit by bit, and the day I heard it performed was the proudest moment of my life up to that point. I knew I’d given the company something of value, and also that they’d helped me every step of the way to make the script the best it could possibly be.

I’ve had many such proud moments since then, all the culmination of the same process: I’ve brought an imperfect first draft to a rehearsal, the actors have read through it, Bill and others have helped me see where it’s strongest and where it most needs improvement, and I’ve worked on it until it’s just right. Each time I’ve gone through this process, I’ve been bolstered by their faith in my work. Their nurturing has helped me evolve into a better writer. Bill even helped put me in contact with Nancy Knight, who would become my agent and later my publisher.

I thrived at ARTC because I was welcomed and valued there. At no point was I ever made to feel I had nothing worthwhile to contribute. In my eyes, ARTC is what a creative community ought to be — an organization of mutually supportive individuals who respect and are respected by each other. To that vast, corrupt creative community of Hollywood, I find myself shaking my fist and shouting, “Why the hell can’t you be more like the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company?”

This past DragonCon I heard the story of how and why Gates McFadden, who played Dr. Beverly Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation, was fired after its first season. It seems she went to her bosses to suggest that the show’s female characters could be better served by the storytelling, and rather than addressing her concerns, the bosses chose to ignore them. After I learned that, I couldn’t get one question out of my head: what if, instead of replacing her with Diana Muldaur (which ended up not working out), the men in charge had listened to her? What sorts of intriguing storylines might have showcased the female characters in ways that might have made them fan favorites? What memorable, powerful moments might they have been given?

We’ll never know. Her complaint was silenced. And since then, I’ve learned that this incident with McFadden was just one instance, a comparatively innocuous one at that, of a far-ranging system-wide silencing of women’s voices. Hollywood, it turns out, has an abundance of ways of letting women know that their concerns are not valid and their contributions are not appreciated. For skeevy producer Harvey Weinstein and his ilk, it involves treating the women who work with them as if they were living blow-up dolls, present solely for their gratification. For others it’s more passive — continuing to give work and even accolades to actors and directors with a history of undervaluing if not downright mistreating women (e.g. Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Mel Gibson, Casey Affleck). And for others, it means directly limiting the opportunities given to women: Cartoon Network Adult Swim’s head honcho keeping women out of the writing room because apparently we create conflict rather than comedy; DC Comics keeping known harasser Eddie Berganza on their payroll and “solving” the problem by not assigning female writers and artists to the departments of which he is in charge (he’s been fired at last — too little, too late); Matt Damon, on Project Greenlight, responding to a suggestion that a a woman and a man of color might be assigned to direct a certain project with the assertion that the place for diversity is in front of the camera, not behind it. How can aspiring female writers, artists, and directors fail to get the message?

What this means effectively is that, outstanding exceptions like Kathryn Bigelow, Ava du Vernay, and Patty Jenkins notwithstanding, control over Hollywood’s narratives — which stories are told, and how they are told — rests largely in the hands of men. Of course, quite a few men can tell women’s stories well and create fully actualized female characters, but those aren’t likely to be the kind of men who would participate consciously in a system that denies women a role in the crafting, not just the performance, of stories. Not long ago, I asked in this blog, “Why can’t more movies pander to me?” This was before the Weinstein story broke, and similar stories followed. Now, not only do I know why most movies don’t pander to me, but I find myself surprised that it happens at all.

In many ways, the current shake-up in the entertainment industry is the best thing that could happen to it. The curtain hiding the corruption has been lifted, and women who have been victimized and exploited by the system and the men within it are at last being listened to. In the long run, we may see considerable positive change. But systems that have been in place for decades don’t collapse overnight. We’ll see more darkness before the light breaks through. For now, men still control Hollywood’s narratives, and I find myself contemplating a boycott of movies starting next year. (This year, I admit, I still want to see Star Wars VIII, The Shape of Water, and The Breadwinner, and possibly Lady Bird and Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri.) I might come out for a well-reviewed movie with a female creative team, but otherwise I doubt that Hollywood as it stands now has much, if anything, to say to me.

And as with Gates McFadden’s situation, I can’t help wondering how much might have been different if brilliant women with stories to tell had been made to feel welcome by Hollywood, as I was by ARTC. Might we have seen both more and better woman-centered movies? Might the lines between “chick flick” and “guy flick” have over time become so blurred that they lost all meaning?

Might we have seen well-made, intelligent historical dramas detailing the lives of such women as Irena Sendler, Nancy Wake, “Stagecoach Mary” Fields, Mary Lou Williams, Sybil Ludington, Marie Marvingt, Katie Sandwina, and Isabella Bird?

Might we have seen top-notch big screen adaptations of Octavia Butler’s Kindred and Wild Seed and Sarah Zettel’s Fool’s War? Might the work of Tamora Pierce and Robin McKinley, as well as Nnedi Okorafor’s Akata Witch and Zahrah the Windseeker, have been made into high-quality family films?

Might every year have brought a wealth of movies that pandered to me, along with every other movie buff eager to see girls in women in more important, complex, and varied roles?

Maybe not. Perhaps male-driven stories would still have dominated the big screen. But we’ll never know, will we?

 

 

What’s Making Me Happy: Thanksgiving 2017

Lois McMaster Bujold, The Curse of Chalion, Audiobook

It’s been more than a decade since I first read this novel in print, and while many of its details might have slipped my mind, I hadn’t forgotten its stirring effect on me. I seized the opportunity to revisit the story in audio form, and now I find I love it even more. It has so much to offer the fan of second-world fantasy: brisk and artful prose; a well-built world tinged with echoes of Old Spain; a detailed and fascinating religious system; nauseatingly evil villains, adept at deception and treachery and brutality; an indomitable young heroine; and a protagonist, Lupe dy Cazaril, who in many ways is the best of men — a man with a strong sense of responsibility, humility, and respect, a mature man rather than an entitled overgrown adolescent. The mentor/pupil bond between Cazaril and the spirited princess Iselle warms my heart; it’s a joy to watch him support and encourage her, step by step, to become her best and most powerful self.

I’ve written a great deal in this blog about the kinds of female characters I enjoy and would love to see more of, but lately I’ve come to see more clearly than ever how important it is to see good male characters (emphasis on good) as well. By this I mean male characters who behave like adults, who fight for something larger than themselves, who take responsibility for their actions, who treat others with honesty and kindness, and who show themselves capable of forging solid based-on-respect friendships with women. Fiction, not just fantasy fiction, needs more Lupe dy Cazarils.

Melissa Caruso, The Tethered Mage

I don’t want to say too much about this one, as I’m still only a little more than halfway through it, but I don’t doubt it will make my favorites-of-the-year list. It centers on two female characters, one a privileged heiress and another a scrappy street urchin blessed (or is it cursed?) with fire magic. Their prickly, difficult relationship forms the heart of the book, and I’m relishing watching it develop. Yet my favorite aspect of the novel is the world itself. It’s influenced by Renaissance Italy, with its political infighting between powerful families, but Caruso has made it refreshingly gender-egalitarian, with men and women occupying all roles and stations of life. Both Amalia the heiress and Zaira the urchin have daunting obstacles to face, but gender prejudice is not among them. Hallelujah! This is how it’s done, my friends.

Brandon Sanderson, Oathbringer

It’s finally out! I’ve been thirsting to get my hands on the third volume of Sanderson’s epic Stormlight Archive series, ever since I heard Sanderson read excerpts from it at DragonCon 2016. Now it is mine at last. I’ve just passed page 200, so all I can already say is that it’s huge and beautiful and I love it, and I’m thrilled to spend time once again with Kaladin, Syl, Dalinar, Shallan, and the brave, funny men of Bridge Four. Ah, to be in Roshar now that fall is here!

An Atlanta Christmas, to be performed by the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company at the Good Acting Studio in Marietta, GA on December 9 and 10.

More than a decade after Christmas Rose, I have finally written a new Christmas piece for ARTC! Set at the North Pole and called The Sleigh of Unspoken Dreams, it focuses on a trio of elves who are just plain sick of turning out corporate and licensed merchandise and flex their creative muscles by crafting toys that haven’t yet been, but should be, asked for. Its debut performance takes place in just three weeks. If you happen to be in the Atlanta area and want to take in a special festive activity, check out our show, which also includes scripts by gifted ARTC writers David Benedict, Rhetta Bodhaine, Ron Butler, Cyd Hoskinson, Dave Schroeder, Brad Strickland, and Jonathan Strickland.

 

On Being a Social Justice Bard

I’m not a fighter. Direct confrontation tightens my chest and sours my stomach. I’m about as athletic as a dead sea slug. I’m not even all that great at the art of snarky put-downs. Whatever other qualities a person needs to be a satisfactory warrior, I’m pretty sure I don’t have them.

What am I good at? Stories. Writing stories, reading stories, watching stories, talking about stories, thinking about stories. So I call myself a Social Justice Bard. What that means, for me, is that I believe there is a wider variety of stories to be told, and perspectives to be shown, than we’ve seen so far. It means I’d like to see us, as creators and as consumers, expand our ideas of what a good protagonist can be or do. It does not mean that I feel stories should no longer have white male heroes, but rather that we should move away from the idea of white male as the default for hero, and particularly the notion that stories with white male heroes have universal appeal while those that depart from that template are written only to please a specific niche.

As a reader, I seek out books that challenge the default, but also offer plotlines, characterization, and prose that can draw me into the books’ worlds and hold me there. An essay by Liz Bourke, recently published on Tor.com, deals with the notion some readers have absorbed that writers are being asked to sacrifice “quality” for diversity, as though stories that follow the default are somehow inherently better. Weak writers, to be sure, may shoehorn “diverse” characters into their stories and expect to be praised for such, but if any character feels shoehorned rather than organic to the story, that’s bad writing, pure and simple. I look for stories that do not ask me to make some mythical choice between quality and diversity, and I’ve had no trouble finding them. Anyone who thinks such a choice is necessary has never read the work of Octavia Butler, Nnedi Okorafor, N.K. Jemisin, Zen Cho, or Ken Liu, not to mention Kate Elliott, Elizabeth Bear, Django Wexler, Max Gladstone, or M.H. Boroson.

As a writer I’m just getting started, with only two published novels and six short stories to my credit, as well as my plays for the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company. When it comes to creating diverse casts of characters, I know I could do better. But I’ve noticed over the years I’ve been writing that my bent is toward tales about the kinds of characters we don’t often see. When people think of romantic heroines, they generally don’t picture were-rats or albino giants, but in Atterwald and Nightmare Lullaby respectively, that’s what they are. My male heroes, too, depart from the usual template; in Atterwald he is bedridden, and in Nightmare Lullaby, he is afflicted by a curse that gives him the appearance of old age. I can’t be sure where my inclination toward unexpected heroes will lead me in the future, but in my current work-in-progress I decided to give two of my major characters — one the male lead, another an important supporting female character — dark skin, because I saw no reason why they shouldn’t have it. Nothing in the plot or in their personalities forbids it. It’s a way of playing around with the default and the expectations it has wrought.

Issues of representation and inclusiveness are not always clear-cut. Are there certain kinds of characters that a heterosexual white woman writer like me should keep away from? This article from The Mary Sue highlights the dangers of “getting it wrong,” and the ease with which controversy is sparked in this Age of Twitter. What some readers view as representation can seem, in the eyes of others, more like appropriation. How can we be sure we’re on the right side? I’m afraid the closest I can come to an answer is to be certain our own hearts and minds are fully invested in the stories we tell and the individuals we write about, and that we’re not just putting ourselves through the motions. Any character we create should be for us, first and foremost, not a type or a token member of a group but a unique human being. While this is no guarantee against controversy, it increases the likelihood that our stories will be worth reading. White male M.H. Boroson may not seem like the ideal person to write about the adventures of a young Daoist priestess in Chinatown in 1898 San Francisco, but The Girl With Ghost Eyes has won praise for its detailed evocation of time and place and its flawed, brave, believable heroine, Li-lin. Her story was clearly in his heart and mind, and he told it well.

The Mary Sue article ends with an exhortation for writers to try moving away from the usual default settings for fantasy characters and worlds. The risk, it argues, is always worth taking. When my friend Sketch asked about the definition of “Social Justice Warrior,” one of his friends suggested that an SJW might be someone more concerned with trivialities than with important issues. I wonder how many people might see representation and inclusiveness in fiction as a trivial thing to worry about, not realizing the difference it can make.

The recent release of a new trailer for Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi ignited a fresh firestorm of rumor that Rey, heroine of The Force Awakens, was destined to turn to the Dark Side. I found myself less concerned that she might turn evil — I still have too much faith in the franchise to believe it would callously deprive us of its first live-action Force-sensitive heroine, considering how important she is to more fans than just me — and more troubled by the number of people who want her to turn evil. One commenter online suggested Rey had to become a villain because “girls aren’t strong enough to save the world.” When someone disputed him, he challenged him to “name one female Jedi.” There have been a few, but except for Ahkosa in Clone Wars, so far they haven’t been protagonists, and of course the Expanded Universe is no longer canon, so other posters were stymied.

If only he could have understood that the very reason he thought Rey bound to turn evil is also the reason she should not, must not, turn evil. We need him and other Star Wars fans to see that yes, girls are strong enough to save the world.

Representation could do this. It can do wonderful things. I still remember hearing Megan Follows, at this year’s DragonCon, tell of a prison inmate who, having learned misogyny at his abusive father’s knee, found in the Anne of Green Gables miniseries a new way of seeing and understanding women and wrote Follows a letter to thank her. And I remember how the young relative of a Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan had his eyes opened to racial injustice, and his heart opened to empathy, when he went with his class on a field trip to see the musical Ragtime. Anecdotes like this give me hope at a time when nearly every news story makes it clear that as far as we may have come, we are still many, many miles away from where we should be, in terms of how we look at and think about each other.

To control behavior is the work of legal systems. To open minds and change hearts is the work of stories and the Social Justice Bards who tell them.

Understanding “SJW”

I have a good, sweet, funny friend called “Sketch” who works as a freelance animator.  I first met him through the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company, and ever after I’ve known him to be the sort of man that people are darned lucky to have in their lives. He has even helped me make my blog site look so good. In recent years I’ve come to think of him as “King of Facebook,” because he’s better than almost anyone else I know at starting funny and thought-provoking Facebook discussion threads. About a week ago he posted the question, “How would you define ‘Social Justice Warrior’?”

That’s intriguing, since a definition that everyone can agree upon has yet to be laid out in plain terms. It’s one of those mercurial phrases that means whatever the person using it wants it to mean, and even that person may not have the clearest idea of what it is. After all, it sounds like a positive thing. We all want a just society, don’t we? Even if we really didn’t, we’d say we did. Justice is an ideal to aim for, and those who fight for it, as warriors do, should earn our admiration, right? Yet the term “Social Justice Warrior,” or “SJW,” is nearly always used as a jibe or insult.

So, what did Sketch’s friends have to say?

Some responded with humor. Probably my favorite comment: “People who believe in social justice, but didn’t go cleric, mage, or rogue.” Another poster quipped, “I’m pretty sure that’s a superhero from the ’70s.” Another witty reply held an edge, a bite: “A phrase used to express that the user is an asshole.” The funny posts highlight the vagueness of the term’s meaning, and also the truth that it usually says as much, if not more, about the one using it as about the one it’s being used against.

Others suggested that the term as a negative might have some validity. One poster explained that when the phrase was first tossed about, it referred to a person who was, as it were, all talk and no walk, and/or was perpetually offended by anything and everything. Plenty of posts went with this meaning:

“I generally approve of social justice. HOWEVER there is such a thing as a person misconstruing everything as a slight against SOMEONE. These are the people that… I refer to as ‘social justice warriors.'”

“Similar to white knighting, it’s someone who is fighting for their own personal image more than the actual injustice.”

“They might . . . be very concerned about small issues while ignoring larger ones.”

Some posters took care to lay out distinctions between those sincere and sensible in their pursuit of social justice and those who took it to an illogical extreme:

“Someone who wants to censor free speech for simply disagreeing or finding speech offensive. Someone who is willing to debate and have an open dialogue is [a social justice] advocate.”

“I keep a very distinct line between ‘social justice warrior’ and ‘social justice bully.'”

Yet for some of the posters, the term has ceased to be a sound criticism. One post pointed out that it has been “co-opted by the alt-right as coded speech for ‘anybody that has a problem with me saying shitty things about women, people of color, homosexuals, and Jews.'” Another declared, “To be perfectly honest? Social justice warrior is exactly what it sounds like. Someone who fights for social justice. . . SJW is how hatemongers mark those who stand against hate.” Here it’s clear that an insult in the eyes of one person can be high praise to another.

When a post proclaimed, “Just substitute ‘Antifa Thug’ it’s the same thing,” I wasn’t sure quite how to take it. The poster might have meant that “SJW” has as little merit as “Antifa Thug,” but it’s difficult to tell from a Facebook post; while one can easily hear sarcasm, reading it may be trickier. Whatever the intent, I have to confess this one put a bad taste in my mouth, less because of the post itself than because I react more viscerally than sensibly to the word “Antifa.” I remember the very first time I encountered the word in print: in an article quoting the rants of a slobbering puke-monster (doubtless under the mistaken impression that he is human) who murdered two men on a Portland train because they stepped in to stop him from bullying a pair of young girls. I’ll have a hard time hearing or reading the term “antifa” without remembering that man and his crime, or the young men who lost their lives because they took a stand for basic decency. These young men, we might say, were “social justice warriors” in the purest sense of the phrase.

Then there were the posts that offered a more personal perspective on “SJW”:

“I think it means a person who calls others out on their bullshit. I say this because when I do that, I am called a social justice warrior.”

“Apparently I am one. I get called one several times a week by people who do not like the things I openly talk about.”

These posts got me thinking about where I come down on the “SJW” scale. What kind of social justice warrior am I? What kind do I want to be? Do I get offended too easily, and by too many things? Do I let my dislike of confrontation keep me from speaking out? What would I have done, had I been on that Portland train?

To be continued.

Escapism

Each quarter I ask my Freshman Composition students to tell me what they see as the value of reading. While several of them tell me honestly that they’re “not much of a reader” and they can’t recall the last book they enjoyed, I always get some good answers — expansion of knowledge and awareness of the world, expansion of vocabulary, etc. And there’s always at least one who says something like this: “I know it’s lame, but we read to escape.”

I know it’s lame…

Students always seem so darned apologetic when they give this response. They’ve been told often enough, though perhaps not in so many words, that escape is the least productive, least valuable reason for reading. The word escapism is rarely spoken without a judgmental wrinkle of the nose. When critics and other arbiters of quality want to call a story shallow and/or meaningless, they often dub it “escapist trash,” or, if they’re feeling a bit generous, “escapist fun.” Of course the fantasy genre, the genre I love to read and write, is not infrequently dismissed entirely as “escapism.”

I want to reclaim that word, wipe it clean of its negative taint. I’m quick to tell those apologetic students they should never be ashamed of reading to escape, and I let them know I’m an avid fantasy reader. Escapism has value the critics may not be able to wrap their minds around. Indeed, I think this sad, confusing world we live in would be better off if more people, at least once in a while, embraced escapism.

Escapism might be loosely defined as “to get out of one’s own head, or to get away from one’s own problems.” Those who decry it have the idea that “get away from” is synonymous with “avoid” or “hide from,” but is this necessarily the case? I think of it as akin to what dean of science fiction Isaac Asimov calls “the Eureka Phenomenon.” In his essay of the same name, he explains that when he’s beset by writer’s block, he puts his notebook down and goes out to the movies. As he gains some distance from his story, more often than not, a good idea will come to him. In getting away from his problem, he finds a solution for it. Why shouldn’t an ordinary person’s escape from the stresses of daily life into a well-written piece of fiction have a similar effect?

Readers choose many different kinds of stories to escape into, and while those stories may not necessarily inspire us with the exact solutions to our problems, they offer something almost as good — perspective. Some of us choose light, breezy, humorous reads, like Janet Evanovich’s “Stephanie Plum” series, which makes my husband laugh (and laugh) when he reads them.  (He also laughs at Deadpool comics, but I digress.) As we laugh with these stories, we may find the wisdom to laugh at ourselves and our frustrations. Others of us choose darker, grimmer worlds, such as the Westeros created by George R.R. Martin, and in traversing those worlds we may find our own situations far less bleak than they might be. While we’re escaping, we’re also learning from how the characters solve, or fail to solve, the difficulties they face, and we’re also consuming a vital antidote to self-absorption or “poor me”-ism. The latter is something we could surely all use from time to time.

Another worthwhile aspect of escapism is the chance to step into the consciousness of others, both the author of the book and the characters s/he creates. Some years back I asked a student who claimed she hated to read, “Haven’t you ever wanted to become someone else for a little while?” She answered flatly, “No.” This may have been a sign of how comfortable she was in her own skin, but I can’t help finding it one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard a student say. When we become someone else, we may grow in understanding, of others and ourselves.

When I was first in college, I noticed something about myself. None of the pictures I painted of the life I wanted included me bearing children. I simply couldn’t see myself as a mom, and I came to realize that maternal instinct, often presumed as “natural” in women, was missing in me. When I told my parents about it, they did not, then or afterwards, try to talk me into having children. The alienating pressure came from outside, from a world that told me time and again that something was wrong with me. “Oh, you’ll change your mind” — unless, of course, you’re evil.

While I was coming to terms with this, I saw Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun for the first time, and entered the world of southside Chicago in the 1950s and the lives of an African-American family therein. I found myself imprinting on Beneatha, the daughter of the house, who aspired to be a doctor and had to deal with a mother and sister-in-law who burst out laughing when she told them, “I’m not interested in who I want to marry yet — if I ever get married.” From Beneatha’s words, and her sticking to her ambitions despite ridicule and outright disapproval, I could take a particle of strength for myself, a tiny gift from Hansberry. That particle helped me resist the pressure to take a path I knew in my heart wasn’t right for me. I stepped onto common ground with a character who, on the surface, could not be more different from me. Our similarities meant more to me than our differences. Discovering such similarities, such common ground, can strengthen and expand our capacity for empathy.

These days, empathy seems in woefully short supply. We see signs of its lack everywhere, particularly in what I’ve come to call “selective outrage” — that is, “It’s only a tragedy/problem when it happens to People Like Me.” We see it when a corporate lawyer claims that the victims of the recent mass shooting in Las Vegas don’t deserve sympathy because they were at a country music festival, and country music fans are supposedly all “gun-toting Republicans.” (Sure, just like all fans of classical music are supervillains.) We see it when our current president responds with indifference to the plight of the victims of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico. We see it when people’s reaction to terrorist attacks depends on the race, religion, and/or ethnicity of the terrorists and victims. We see it when comments on the Internet reveal less outrage at Hollywood ex-producer Harvey Weinstein’s appalling treatment of women than at his victims’ “cowardice” at not coming forward sooner, failing utterly to take into account the hell that too often awaits women when they do come forward. “They’re not like me, so what happens to them doesn’t matter.” Those who still wonder how the Holocaust could have happened have only to look around.

One thing that can help bridge the gulfs between us is escapism, the willingness to leave ourselves behind and step into another person’s shoes, see through another character’s eyes. Whether that other is a conscientious leader, a persecuted mage, or a misunderstood monster, every time we let ourselves feel with him/her, we’re reaching across a divide, something we could all stand to practice.

We need escapism. And we need it now.

Maybe, more than ever.

 

 

Book Report: Recent Reads

Even in these trying times, when it seems every day brings another depressing news item that highlights the hurtful divisions in our society, I can still take comfort in good books. It can’t fail to make me happy when I discover new favorite authors or series, or when old favorites remind me why they’re favorites. In the last months I’ve read one of each kind that stands out. (Warning: Spoilers likely.)

Age of Swords (Michael J. Sullivan)

This is one of my new favorite series, not because it has especially breathtaking prose or complex world-building, but because it’s packed full of so many of the things I hope to find in epic fantasy. I praised the previous book in the series, Age of Myth, in another post a few months back, for its sympathetic depictions of female authority and its portrayal of friendship between women. That book must be read first, but the sequel takes these already pleasing elements and turns them up to eleven. Persephone, the woman whom we saw rise to the position of chieftain in the last book, grows and evolves as a leader, making mistakes but learning from them and ultimately triumphing. Suri, the young mage, discovers her capabilities with guidance from her Fhrey mentor Arion (another active and interesting female character), and in the end pulls off some impressive day-saving moves. Also, Moya the archer, Brin the historian, and Roan the engineer, noteworthy but fairly minor characters in the last book, become major players in this one. Roan even gets to invent the wheel!

While I love that the ladies dominate the scene, some of the chapters I found most intriguing were told from the perspective of the villain, the Fhrey prince Manawydule, who is desperate to avenge himself on the human race after the death of his mentor in the last book. Through him, Sullivan paints a portrait of radicalization, as he falls in with a group who plan to overthrow the current Fhrey power structure and replace it with a new order in which their race will dominate and all others be brought under subjection. At a time when hate groups are dominating the news more than they have in decades, this story should be told.

A solid four stars.

Time of the Dark (Barbara Hambly)

Hambly has been a favorite author of mine ever since I read The Ladies of Mandrigyn some years back. Time of the Dark, the first of Hambly’s “Darwath” series, has a lot of what I’ve come to expect from her work: strong, involving prose, good conflict, and a brave and capable woman at or near its center. Yet my response to this book ended up being a little more complicated than my love for Ladies and its sequels, Stranger at the Wedding, and Bride of the Rat God.

I’ve always found Hambly to be a feminist-friendly writer, and while I wouldn’t call this exactly an exception, I couldn’t help noticing a more conservative streak in this novel that I hadn’t observed in the other Hambly books. First is the use of a highly old-school trope, the male Chosen One. In this portal fantasy, a young man, Rudy, and woman, Gil, from modern-day California are pulled into the fantasy realm of Darwath because they’re meant to save it, and they must figure out this strange new place and their responsibilities in it. Their learning curve is fascinating, to be sure, but in the end, even though Gil is introduced first, Rudy turns out to be the important one, the heir to the wizard Ingold’s magic and the key world-saver. In the very last pages, poor Gil is left to wonder just why the heck she’s there. The good news (I hope): this is only the first book in the series, so maybe we’ll see Gil discover her purpose in the later volumes.

More problematic, for me, is the contrast set up between Gil, the scholar-turned-warrior, and Alde, the Madonna-like widowed queen with whom Rudy falls in love. If Gil represents the way forward in SFF heroines, a precursor to Hambly’s own Starhawk, Alde comes to us straight from the old school, a woman whose importance rests on being the widow of the last King and the mother of the future one, with little power or skill of her own. It’s to Hambly’s credit that she is able to endow her with a personality, a dash of courage and even a touch of humor. The trouble with Alde is that she’s living proof of the persistence of traditional gender roles in a society where women can fight in the Guard and even hold leadership positions in the church (though the only example we see of the latter is 100% pure evil, so that’s not much of a positive). Women are tougher than men, Alde tells Rudy; “we have to be, to take care of children.” So even if other roles are open, the main business of women’s lives is still, or should be, children. Also, while Alde is written as warm and sweet, almost an ideal, Gil, supposedly our heroine, is presented as deficient, lacking some vital internal component, describing herself as “the woman who doesn’t love” — as if the truly good women are the motherly ones, while those who follow other paths have questionable priorities.

Yet as I mentioned before, this is only the beginning of a series. A lot can happen in two more books.

A slightly disappointed 3.5 stars.

 

Why Can’t More Movies Pander to Me?

We all have our favorite websites, and for me no day is complete without at least one visit to Tor.com, where I can find a variety of commentary on SFF books, movies, TV shows, and games, as well as short fiction and excerpts from longer fiction and lists of forthcoming SFF titles. Among the commentary, I especially enjoy Liz Bourke’s “Sleeps With Monsters,” in which she reviews books and raises issues of representation that need addressing. In a recent post she asks a question that’s come to my mind more than once: “Why Can’t More Books Pander to Me?” While I identify strongly with the early part of the article, in which she describes the alienation she as a queer woman feels when confronted with so many, many books that cling to the image of the Hero as white, male, and heterosexual, it’s the second part — her description of how she feels when she encounters a book that welcomes her, in this case Max Gladstone’s Ruin of Angels — that most gets to me. Few joys can match that of finding stories that embrace us, that assign us value and importance.

As a white heterosexual woman, I have my share of unearned privilege. I don’t have to look quite as hard to find books that welcome me. Since January I’ve found welcome in Kate Elliott’s Black Wolves, Brandon Sanderson’s Arcanum Unbounded, Becky Chambers’ The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet (a sci-fi treat that would welcome almost anyone who reads it), Mark Lawrence’s Red Sister, Michael J. Sullivan’s Age of Myth and Age of Swords, Mickey Zucker Reichert’s Beyond Ragnarok, Robert Jackson Bennett’s City of Stairs, Kate Forsyth’s The Cursed Towers, Leigh Barduro’s Crooked Kingdom, Insitar Khanani’s Memories of Ash, and M. H. Boroson’s The Girl With Ghost Eyes. Books like this thrill me because they show me, not what I am, but what as a woman I could be. They affirm that women can be heroes.

Yet I still recognize the alienation Bourke writes about. As frustrating as it can sometimes be with regard to books, I’ve found it far worse when it comes to movies, particularly in the SFF and action-adventure genres. Occasionally we see a movie in those genres with a female lead, and even more occasionally, that movie will turn out to be good (e.g. this year’s Wonder Woman and Atomic Blonde). But as this list of the Top 25 Fantasy Films of the Last 25 Years makes clear, those few good films are vastly outnumbered by movies about men, made by men and (usually) for men. That majority of movies claims, in implication if not in words, “Ladies, here are your choices: you can be a Love Interest, a Sex Object, a Victim, a Villain, or (if the writer is feeling a bit enlightened) a Sidekick. But Hero? Hands off that one, ladies. It’s for Men Only.”

Of course I have the option of not seeing these films, but I still catch their trailers, their ads, and their reviews, partly because as a participant in pop and geek culture I like knowing what’s out there. And I can feel that alienation start to gnaw at me, that sense that I’m meant to exist only in relation to men and that I can be powerful only if I’m evil. The most recent big release to do this to me, Kingsman: The Golden Circle, is a perfect example. Its predecessor, The Secret Service, featured a female character with the potential to be a hero, but she was under-utilized and her best moments took place off-screen; many of the movie’s fans liked her and were vocal in their hope they might see more of her in the sequel. How does filmmaker Matthew Vaughan respond? By including less of her, almost none in fact, but instead giving us a scene in which the main hero must place a tracking device on the wall of a woman’s vagina, and throwing in a female villain for the heroic Bro Squad to vanquish — nearly point for point everything I do not want to see. Vaughan joins Guy Ritchie, Edgar Wright, and Michael Bay on my list of filmmakers who obviously do not care about me, or women like me, as an audience. If I sound like I take this personally, it’s because I do.

Yet these men keep getting work, and they keep repeating the same old sexist shtick because they know they can get away with it. Despite its being “old-fashioned” in the worst sense of the term, or perhaps even because of that, Kingsman: The Golden Circle is a box-office smash. Wright’s Baby Driver is one of 2017’s most highly praised films, yet even the many critics who champion it admit that its portrayal of women is poor indeed. We’re meant to think this flaw is unimportant, something easily overlooked. Comments like, “The movie’s really entertaining, if you can get past the female characters” suffice to spark that sense of alienation in me, and every year I catch myself thinking more than once that I should just write off movies altogether and stick to books.

But I can’t quite do it. Because there are always those movies that welcome me, that make me giddy with possibility. (Spoilers ahead.)

Because of Rey receiving wisdom from an alien female mentor and later calling the light saber into her hand in Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens.

Because of Mercedes, an unexpected hero and a friend to the young Ofelia, firing a bullet into the head of the monstrous Captain Vidal just as she lets him know his baby son won’t follow in his evil footsteps — “He won’t even know your name” — in Pan’s Labyrinth.

Because of young witch Kiki finding her magic again, just in time to rescue her best friend and maybe-sweetheart in Kiki’s Delivery Service.

Because of Judy Hopps discovering the truth about predators “going savage” and racing back to the city to stop the spread of hate in Zootopia.

Because of Diana racing through a hail of German bullets to liberate a captured village in Wonder Woman.

And because of the “moments of awesome” from women in films that don’t fit as neatly into a given genre. Because of Katherine Goble Johnson solving a crucial equation whose answer eludes everyone else in Hidden Figures. Because of Emily Dickinson scribbling poems in the middle of the night in A Quiet Passion. Because of folk artist Maud Lewis selling her first painting in Maudie.

Because of how I feel when I see their triumphs — when I see that female characters on the big screen can be heroes, geniuses, and creators.

And then I’m forced to ask, along with Liz Bourke, Why can’t we have more like this??

 

Wisdom from DragonCon 2017

When I wrote last week’s post featuring highlights from DragonCon 2017, I omitted one of my favorite panels, for the simple reason that I felt like it deserved a post of its own. The panel, a Young Adult Track offering called “YA Myths and Fairy-tale Retellings,” attracted my attention partly because I would have given my left eye to be on it myself, considering the extent of the inspiration I take from fairy tales. Nearly every short story, novel, and radio play I’ve worked on has a fairy-tale element somewhere in its bones, and whenever I’m stuck for an idea I go to the well of my fairy-tale/folktale collections. I would have had so much to say.

In the end, however, I felt I benefited as much from being in the audience and listening to the panelists — Carole E. Barrowman (the Hollow Earth series), Zoraida Cordova (the Vicious Deep trilogy, Labyrinth Lost), Clay and Susan Griffith (the Vampire Empire series), E.K. Johnston (Ahkosa, A Thousand Nights), and Mari Mancusi (Scorched, Gamer Girl) — share about the myths and stories that have sparked their imaginations and the ways that inspiration has worked, and how it might work for other aspiring writers. Much of what they told us, I already knew, at least on some level. But we should never underestimate the value of hearing our own thoughts spoken aloud and validated by others who have found success doing what we love to do. Certain pieces of wisdom stood out to me, because they seemed to speak so clearly to what I’ve been striving for in my own writing.

From Carole E. Barrowman: “The best stories that use formulas are the ones that stretch them.” From Zoraida Cordova: “You have to make the story yours.”

The malleability of the bare-bones mythic or fairy-tale narrative lures writers, inviting so many opportunities for stretching. Such stories excite me, I think, less for what they are in themselves than for what I might change. If I like “The Tsaritsa Harpist,” the story of a queen whose husband has been captured in a foreign land and who disguises herself as a male musician and sets out to liberate him, but I don’t like the idea that only as a man could she travel and perform music, how can I change that? Disguise is essential to the story; what disguise might I employ other than gender? What if, in a certain steampunk world, all music were played by clockwork androids? What if a young woman who has learned the art of music in secret must pretend to be a clockwork minstrel to set free the fiance she has never met? From this came Sarabande for a Condemned Man, one of my favorites among my plays for the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company, a story that I intend, at a point down the road, to shape into a novel.

From Susan Griffith: “Whatever bothers you, that’s an itch you should start scratching.” Similarly, E.J. Johnston tells us we should “find those moments that make us angry.”

One of they key motivating factors in my writing has always been dissatisfaction, the sense that no matter how many wonderful stories I take in and how many intriguing characters I get to know, there is still something I’m not seeing, or at least not seeing often enough. My favorite example to cite is still the lack of female rats in Pixar’s Ratatouille, which pushed me to create the were- rat heroine of Atterwald, my first published novel. (I suppose I owe Brad Bird a thank-you.) Yet this is just one instance of a narrative in which I’ve found male characters occupy the most unique and most compelling places in the narrative. Whenever I’m reading, watching, or listening to a story in which a male character strikes a (non-sexual) cord of fascination in me, I consider what might be different, and what the same, if the character were female; my end goal is to shape this thought into a female character who has the same uniqueness, the same freedom of individuality, that made me admire the male one. Meliroc, the eight-foot-tall heroine of my second novel Nightmare Lullaby, is an outgrowth of my enthusiasm for misunderstood “gentle giant” characters, who are nearly always male.

From Mari Mancusi: “Create an ‘Id list.'” Consider what myths and tales we love, and how and why they manage to hit that undefinable mark in us that so many other narratives miss.

This piece of advice is perhaps the most challenging, yet also the most fun. My own Id list would be made up more of characters and character types than specific stories, but the question behind the list would remain the same: why do these things resonate with me, and how can I use that resonance to create something new? My list is where the monsters live, not evil but feared for their power and their difference, longing to reach across the gulf to find connection and community. There are dragons here, and giants, and shapeshifters, and gryphons, and goblins. They have tales to tell, and I’m only just getting started.

I left the panel wishing it could have been a little longer, as is always the case with the best DragonCon panels. But the seeds are still with me, and I look forward to seeing just what they’ll grow into.

Things I Loved about… DragonCon 2017

Another DragonCon has come and gone, leaving me (as always) eager to see what the next Con will bring and sad that I have to wait so long to find out. Might my favorite big-name author, Brandon Sanderson, return again next year? His absence was the only disappointment, guest- and programming-wise, of this year’s Con. Everything else was wonderful. Some of my favorite things:

Friday’s Q & A with Megan Follows. Readers of my blog know well my enthusiasm for Anne of Green Gables, both Lucy Maud Montgomery’s novel and the miniseries directed by Kevin Sullivan and broadcast on PBS in the 1980s, which made Follows a star here and a superstar in her native Canada. Anne came along when I needed her, at a time when not a single teenage girl character on television represented who I felt I was or whom I wanted to become. Anne showed me that girls my age could be brave, brilliant, unconventional, resourceful, creative — all the traits I admire most. As it turns out, she had a similar effect on a lot of people, enough to form a line around the block in the hot Atlanta sun to hear Follows speak. Even before the panel began, one of DragonCon’s organizers, a gay man, spoke of what Anne meant to him: through her, he said, he learned to embrace being different. (See? Female characters can and do serve as role models for boys.)

Follows, it turns out, is every bit as smart and classy as I wanted her to be, and fully aware of the impact her performance has had. (She offered an example of a letter she’d received from a prison inmate, who thanks to an abusive father had gained a misogynistic outlook at a very young age; watching Anne, he informed her, gave him a far better and healthier view of women.) “What I loved about Anne were the rough edges around her,” she told us. Drawing a line between the sympathetic Anne and the morally dubious Catherine de Medici, whom she plays on the CW’s Reign, as female characters who refuse to be contained by society’s boxes, she declared, “I love strong women. I love them when they’re a mess.” And my heart was full.

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Performing with the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company for their Friday night show. Taking the stage with my friends in ARTC is always a DragonCon highlight for me. This year I got to play a perky robot detective transformed ever so briefly into… something more… in Ron N. Butler’s “Rory Rammer, Space Marshal: The Last Boojum.” And I got laughs! Not many things are more satisfying than making an audience laugh.

Participating in the “Y/A and Away!” panel for the Writer’s Track. Thanks to Nancy Knight, the generous coordinator of the DragonCon Writer’s Track and editor/publisher for Gilded Dragonfly Books, I not only got to talk about my own favorite YA novels and my writing process, but also got to interact with authors Claudia Gray (Lost Stars, Defy the Stars), Diana Peterfreund (the Killer Unicorns series, For the Darkness Shows the Stars), E.K. Johnson (A Thousand Nights, Ahsoka), A. J. Hartley (Steeplejack and its upcoming sequel Firebrand), Rebecca Moesta (the Star Wars: Junior Jedi Knights series), and Kim Harrison (the Madison Avery YA series, the urban fantasy series The Hollows).

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DragonCon Night at the Georgia Aquarium. This special event has been a staple of the Con for several years, and this year Matt and I thought we’d give it a try. So we gathered with a crowd of like-minded fans, most in their cosplay best, to enjoy, among other things, a special costume contest and a Harry Potter-themed sea lion show (at which we, alas, were not permitted to take pictures — though the rest of the aquarium was fair game for photography).

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Monday’s “Women in Comics” panel. I always love it when at least one highlight of the Con falls on its closing day, and this year that bright moment was a discussion led by Jamie Jones, Megan Hutchison, Babs Tarr, and the goddess Kelly Sue DeConnick, all creative forces in the comics industry. Whatever we who attended that panel were expecting, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t what we got. It was announced that as a “tribute” to all the discussions of “Women in Comics” with all-male panels, this all-female panel would lead an examination of “Men in Comics” — and at once, and for as long as the panel lasted, we were transported into a parody world in which women dominated the comics industry, male characters were hyper-sexualized (they had slides), male writers and artists weren’t taken seriously, and male fans were often called “fake geek guys.” This could have gone badly, but the whole audience got in on the joke. (When DeConnick asked a man in the audience, “Did your girlfriend get you into comics?” he struck an aw-shucks pose and responded, “How’d you know?”) What made the parody work were the panelists’ experiences of how talk about women’s roles in comics (as characters, as creators, and as fans) too often goes. While we were laughing, we were learning.

So my husband and I made our way home in satisfied spirits, already contemplating next year. Such is DragonCon’s effect.

(Up next: Wisdom from DragonCon 2017.)