Down with Default

What role does the artist play in times of socio-political turmoil? I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately. And all my thoughts keep turning back to my old nemesis, The Default.

We have to dismantle the Default. I’ve written about it before, but now, in light of recent events, tearing it down brick by brick feels like a more urgent task, to which we must apply ourselves with conscious effort.

Just to reiterate: what is the Default? The way it works in fiction is that whenever the sexual orientation, race, or gender of a character has no bearing on the plot, that character defaults to a white, straight male. Through the Default, we get an overabundance of characters — not just protagonists, but characters in general — who are white, straight males. Most writers who employ the Default aren’t trying overtly to be racists, sexist, or homophobic. The Default works on an unconscious level, which is why it will take quite a lot of work to eliminate.

The Default is one of the key roots of privilege.

When 95% of movies made, along with at least that percentage of the books we study in school, are about you, privilege naturally follows.

When stories depict you as “normal,” while everyone of a different race, gender, or sexual orientation is shown to be a deviation from “normal,” privilege naturally follows.

When you can play any role in a story, while the roles played by those who differ from you are dictated by their race, gender, or sexual orientation — because there must always be a reason why a character is black, female, gay, or trans — privilege naturally follows.

When stories about you are considered universal, while stories about others are deemed “niche,” privilege naturally follows. This is perhaps the Default’s most insidious aspect. Readers of color, female readers, and gay readers are constantly asked, through their school years and after, to identify and empathize with straight white male protagonists. Yet if you’re a member of the Default, not only is the same effort not required of you, it’s not even expected.

The kind of racial violence we see in the murders of George Floyd and Ahmad Arbery is the extreme end result of this failure of empathy. It’s entirely too easy to brutalize someone you’ve been taught all your life, not only by elders and peers but by the stories you take in, to regard as “Other,” as not “normal,” as not part of “Us” but part of “Them.”

We need to start telling better stories. We can only do that once we become aware of the role the Default might play in the characters we develop. I include myself in this. I came of age on a steady diet of 19th century British fiction, classic black-and-white movies, and Masterpiece Theatre, which has shaped the way I imagine my characters. I may have been challenging the Default when it comes to gender, but I need to do more when it comes to race.

This is no quick fix. It’s a long game. But the more we set our minds to the problem, the stronger the groundwork we’ll lay for those who come after us, so that in time every well-written story, whatever the protagonist’s race, gender, or sexual orientation might be, will be perceived as universal, and empathy for those different from us will be expected of everyone.

In the meantime, my plan, once I’ve finished the books I’m currently reading, is to spend the rest of 2020 reading only books by authors of color (except for the new Stormlight Archive novel; that I have to read as soon as it comes out this fall). I have quite a list: Gods of Jade and Shadow (Silvia Garcia Moreno), The True Queen (Zen Cho), The Tiger’s Daughter (K. Arsenault Rivera), The Ghost Bride (Yangzee Choo), Song of Blood and Stone (L. Penelope), Parable of the Talents (Octavia Butler), Deathless Divide (Justina Ireland), The City of Brass (S. A. Chakraboty), House of Binding Thorns (Aliette de Bodard), Brown Girl in the Ring and The Salt Roads (Nalo Hopkinson), Everfair (Nisi Shawl), Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Tomi Adeyemi), Shadow of the Fox (Julie Kagawa), Dragon Sword and Wind Child (Noriko Ogiwara), The Bloodprint (Ausma Zehanat Khan), Flame in the Mist (Renee Ahdieh), and books from the considerable bodies of work of Nnedi Okorafor, N.K. Jemisin, and Michelle West. I’m on the hunt for new authors to try, so recommendations are welcome.


The Invisibility of Mothers and Daughters

Another May is with us, and another Mother’s Day has just gone by. Every year, Mother’s Day brings multiple salutes to the mothers of fiction, both good and bad. Reddit Fantasy — a site I frequent because despite Reddit’s reputation, a good many insightful discussions take place there, and its moderators take the “Be Kind” rule seriously — offered a thread where members could post about their favorite mothers and mother figures of fantasy, good or evil or both. Since parents are hard to find in most fantasy fiction, I was interested to learn what people would say.

Some of the “best moms” mentioned included Molly Weasley (Harry Potter), Lady Patience (Hobb, Farseer), Cordelia Vorkosigan (Bujold, The Vorkosigan Saga), Misaki (Wang, The Sword of Kaigen), Phedre (Carey, Imriel’s Trilogy), Mrs. Frisby (O’Brien, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH), Sally Jackson (Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians), Tavi’s mother (Butcher, Codex Alera), and Polgara (Eddings, The Belgariad). As name after name rolled by, I started to notice a couple of things.

One, while fantasy fiction may include more mothers and mother figures than might have been previously thought, it could still do better. In particular, it could give us more mothers as protagonists and co-protagonists in their own right, rather than relegating them to supporting parts in someone else’s stories. Women don’t suddenly stop being interesting people with stories worth telling the moment they become mothers, and fantasy writers need to realize this.

Also, I couldn’t help seeing that the vast majority of the “best moms,” particularly those moms who claim substantial space in the narratives, are mothers of sons.

Polgara, Cordelia, Sally Jackson, Tavi’s mother, and Patience are raising male heroes. Phedre, the central character of the first Kushiel trilogy, raises a male hero in the second. Mikasi, a splendid character in a very good book, has four sons, no daughters. Mrs. Frisby has daughters, but it’s to save her son that she goes on her hero’s quest. (The passing thought she gives to her oldest daughter is to dismiss her as empty-headed.) Likewise, despite her climactic “Not my daughter, you bitch!” moment, Molly Weasley spends a majority of her page time throughout the series acting as Ron’s mother, not Ginny’s. This makes sense, since Ron is the more important character, but still it makes her part of the pattern rather than an exception to it.

Why do we see so few characters being awesome mothers to daughters?

I considered some of my favorite reads over the last several years, checking my memory for some positive mother-daughter interactions. One stood out: Melissa Caruso’s Swords and Fire trilogy, in which protagonist Amalia’s mother grooms her to follow in her political footsteps. Amalia’s relationship with her impressive, exacting, and often intimidating mother is given a good bit of attention, especially in Book 1, The Tethered Mage. Theirs is a complicated bond, and yet for all the tension between them at times, I never had cause to doubt their love and affection for each other. Even more remarkably, Amalia’s mother is still alive at the end of the trilogy. We have every reason to believe she will continue to be a supportive guide and occasional source of frustration for her daughter.

When I tried to think of similar relationships in other books, however, I found myself disappointed.

The acclaimed trilogy with the most obviously central mother-daughter relationship is N.K. Jemisin’s Hugo-winning trilogy The Broken Earth. Over the course of the series, Jemisin develops both Essun (mother) and Nassun (daughter) as intriguing, complicated characters. But while Essun clearly loves her daughter — she spends most of the books trying to find her again after they were separated — she shows her almost no affection, so that when the two finally do reunite, they’re practically enemies. In the search for fantasy fiction’s Mother of the Year, it’s doubtful Essun would crack the top fifty.

Then I considered another fantasy series I love, Lois McMaster Bujold’s Chalion, specifically The Curse of Chalion and Paladin of Souls. These two books give us three generations of women: The Provincara, Ista, and Iselle. It sounds like an ideal set-up for mother/daughter bonding, right? If only they actually shared more than 5% of total page time. In Paladin of Souls, Ista expresses her love for her daughter Iselle, and we believe her because she is a character we trust. But we never see them interact. All the affection between them is kept off page, making them a less than satisfying contrast to the story’s villain, a monstrous mother who subjects her daughter to torture for the sake of her ambitions for her son.

Another series I love, Brandon Sanderson’s Stormlight Archive, also comes up short. Two supporting characters, Navani and Jasnah Kholin, are pretty okay with each other for the most part, but they, too, share almost no page time, particularly when contrasted with the complex but sympathetic bonds between father Dalinar and sons Adolin and Renarin, as well as between Kaladin and his surgeon father. Then we have Shallan, our female lead, who has only ever been loved by men (brothers, fiance, father who was abusive to everyone but her). As a child she kills her mother in self-defense, and her relationship with her stepmother is just as toxic. So, no Mothers of the Year here. Sanderson’s work is not completely lacking in complicated-but-loving relationships between mothers and daughters, but you have to look to his (excellent) short story, “Shadows for Silence in the Forests of Hell,” to see such a relationship given any substantial focus.

After my mental search let me down, I went back to r/fantasy and started a thread of my own, asking, “Why are good mother/daughter relationships in fantasy so rare?” As you can see from this link, I got quite a few responses.

Some posters pointed out books that had good, sympathetic depictions of mother-daughter relationships: Nnedi Okorafor’s Who Fears Death, Patricia McKillip’s Cygnet duology, Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar series (particularly those books that focus on Queen Selenay and Princess Elspeth), Robin Hobb’s Liveship Traders, Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s Gods of Jade and Shadow, and Ursula LeGuin’s Tehanu. These posts, naturally, made me happiest.

Others argued that all parent-child relationships are underrepresented in fantasy, since the absence of parents facilitates young protagonists’ following the call to adventure. I see that point, I really do. But it still seems to me that mother-daughter bonds, and as well as bonds between young women and mother figures, get less attention from the genre than parental connections of other kinds — father/son, father/daughter, mother/son — as if a male character must be in the picture in order for the relationship to matter. Some posters did point this out.

Others noted that the scarcity of mothers in fantasy fiction might be due to society’s expectation that mothers should be paragons of perfection, not flawed, not complicated, and therefore not interesting from a fictional perspective. If mother characters are less than perfect, one poster writes, they “earn titles of nagging hags and evil matriarchs.” If a number of writers decided to make it easy on themselves by omitting mother characters altogether, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me.

Then there were the saddest points of all, those that claimed good mother-daughter relationships are rare in fantasy because they are rare in real life. I’m still not certain how to respond to this one, except to say that no one should have to grow up with toxic parents. Art imitates life, but then, as Oscar Wilde famously said, life imitates art. A lack of representation of healthy relationships between women could play no small part in the social conditioning that leads many women to see each other, even their own daughters, as rivals.

The worst part of this lack is that we may not even be aware it, until or unless someone calls our attention to it. I didn’t think about it when I crafted my current work-in-progress to give my female protagonist a dead mother and a neglectful stepmother, though she does have a sympathetic female mentor. However, my next planned work, a gender-bent take on George Eliot’s Silas Marner, will focus heavily on a mother-daughter connection. I can hardly wait to see it take shape.

I’m far from the only one who has questioned the comparative absence of mother-daughter relationships from fantasy. Sarah Kozloff and Aliette de Bodard have insights that are well worth reading.


What’s Keeping Me Sane: April 2020

Over the past few years, I’ve tended to preface my posts about things that make me happy with some variation of, “We’re living in hard times, so the things that give us joy are all the more precious.” Since I’ve gotten into that habit, times haven’t gotten much better. Instead, they’ve gotten worse. Right now, they’re about as bad as they’ve ever been in my lifetime. I don’t know of anyone who isn’t suffering, at least on some level, as a result of the COVID-19 crisis. Beyond a doubt, our lives have changed, and we’ve been seeking out ways not only to stay healthy but to make life bearable within our social-distancing cocoons.

My surest lifeline has always been, and (I know now) always will be, fiction — stories that become a part of my consciousness even as they direct my focus outward, away from the anxieties that threaten to cripple me. When stories take my imagination on journeys beyond the here and now, I feel how much more there is to life than this present moment. Even though it can sometimes seem like it, I — we — won’t be stuck here forever.

My husband, the best quarantine companion I could ask for, has suggested to me that we should each share with one another movies and TV shows that the other hasn’t seen. First up (I’d seen it, he hadn’t) was a DVD set of the late 1970s classic miniseries I, Claudius. I’d forgotten just how involving this superb piece of historical fiction is. If it were fantasy, it would doubtless be labeled grimdark, since the ancient Rome it depicts is smotheringly decadent, all its characters are deeply flawed (Derek Jacobi’s noble but often foolish title character and Brian Blessed’s blustering but good-nature Augustus being the most sympathetic), and most of them are downright evil. But the series is so well-acted, and the dialogue so smart and often darkly funny, that I love it anyway. Perhaps I just find grimdark more entertaining on the screen than on the page. After we’d finished the series, Matt showed me Robert Altman’s The Player, a story nearly as cynical and bitter, set in modern-day Hollywood. Though I’ll never love it quite as I do I, Claudius, I found it fascinating.

Now, however, we’ve started binge-watching a series as different as can be imagined: Jim Henson’s Fraggle Rock. I still find it the most delightfully girl-friendly family show of the 1980s, with the absence of gender prejudice in the Fraggle community and the presence of fun characters like the hyper-energetic Red, the dreamy Mokey, the lore-keeping Storyteller, and, perhaps most unique of all, the oracular Marjory the Trash Heap. Marjory is like the Sibyl of Greco-Roman mythology, but she also happens to be a gigantic sentient pile of garbage with a heart of pure gold. She gets some of the best moments in the first few episodes.

And, of course, I have my books.

Two I have recently finished, Alix E. Harrow’s The Ten Thousand Doors of January and Arkady Martine’s A Memory Called Empire, are Hugo nominees for Best Novel, and I can confirm both nominations are richly deserved. I would be happy if either won. January, with its sparking prose, its flawed but smart and imaginative protagonist, and its story of doorways between worlds and a struggle between those who would open the doors and those who would see those doors destroyed, has my heart. Empire, with its more mature and level-headed protagonist trying to navigate a labyrinth of I, Claudius-like politics while remaining true to herself and her mission as Ambassador, has my head. Both have set a high bar for my remaining reads of the year.

Yet all the books I’m currently reading stand a chance of meeting that bar, or at least coming near it. Here’s a run-down:

The Sword of Kaigen (M.L. Wang)

Fantasy readers tired of the same old medieval-European settings should find much to intrigue them here. In Kaigen, we find technology akin to modern- day but cultural mores that resemble medieval Japan. It is, alas, one of those fantasy cultures where simply being born a woman is a great misfortune, and the degrading misogyny to which heroine Misaki is subjected by her repellent husband and even more loathsome father-in-law is quite painful to read about. But Misaki has iron within. Husband and father-in-law don’t succeed in wearing away her sense of self-worth. Just when it seems like they might, help enters the scene in the unlikely form of her cheerful, indomitable sister-in-law, Setsuko. I’m admittedly not far in — around 30%, and it’s a long book — but already Wang has depicted relationships between women as powerful. That, the strong prose, and the protagonist keep me reading, despite my discomfort with the misogyny level.

The Winged Histories (Sofia Samatar)

This is one of those books that envelops a reader slowly. It takes time to figure out just what plotline its characters are moving through. We learn names, but only over time does it become clear how they fit into the larger picture. Samatar’s interest is, first and foremost, character — specifically, four different women affected by a military conflict. Through their voices and their observations, she shows us who they are, employing some of the most exquisite prose I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. I’m taking my time with this one. Samatar’s writing style, much like Patricia McKillip’s, demands an observant, reflective read.

A Brightness Long Ago (Guy Gavriel Kay)

Kay’s prose is not quite as intricate as Samatar’s, but it’s nonetheless beautiful and involving. He takes a broader approach to the military conflict in his story, so that it’s the least intimate of my current reads. Yet I’m intrigued by the canvas he unveils and the characters that move through it. To my satisfaction, Kay has improved at writing female characters since the days of the not-that-great-in-this-regard Fionavar Tapestry trilogy. In one sequence, a female healer saves the life of an injured woman who has just assassinated a perverted, murderous aristocrat. As the recovered patient takes her leave, the healer reflects: “It was a good thing. . . that there were women working to widen the world in different ways. They could nod at each other in passing, in recognition, then carry on expanding what was allowed” (105). It’s one of the most hopeful passages I’ve read from a book set in a society with limiting gender roles.

The Unspoken Name (A.K. Larkwood)


Csorwe is not your usual female protagonist. For one thing, she isn’t exactly human. (She has tusks! Tusks, I tell you!) For another, at the start of her story she’s closer to anti-heroine than heroine: she’s not quite sure what she believes in, and her sole emotional tie is to a mentor of rather dubious character. She works to help him accomplish his goals without bothering to question whether those goals are right or just. But that’s what makes her so intriguing. She has a moral journey to make. In the latest scene I’ve read, she is forced to choose between claiming the object her mentor sent her to retrieve or saving the life of an innocent captive. It’s her “All right, I’ll go to Hell!” (Huckleberry Finn) moment, in which she breaks the code she’s been trained to obey and shows us she has the stuff of heroes in her before she sees it herself. I can’t wait to see where her journey takes her next.

I’ll let A.K. Larkwood herself have the final word.




Who Loves the Creative Woman?

One of my favorite animated features, Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride, opens with its hero, Victor, sketching a butterfly and then setting it free from the elegant glass dome that imprisons it. We see his pen sweeping over the paper, bringing the work of art into the world with soulful concentration. Later he watches as his subject takes wing and disappears, and he’s left with the memory he created. This establishes his character from the get-go, a gentle, awkward, introspective artist. A couple of scenes later, when he goes with his parents to meet his future in-laws, we learn that in matters artistic, Victor is twice blessed: he also plays the piano, and brilliantly too.

It’s here that we meet his love interest, Victoria, whose name suggests she is (or should be) his female counterpart. In some respects, she is. Like him, she’s shy and awkward. Like him, she doesn’t feel valued by those who should be closest to her. She also shares at least some degree of his soulfulness, as she’s drawn to the beauty of the music he’s playing. What she does not share, alas, is his creative ability. She doesn’t play the piano, her mother having deemed music “too passionate” for a young lady. It’s a safe bet she doesn’t sketch butterflies, either; the most “creative” thing we see her do is mend a blanket, which is framed as more like 19th century housework than art. Here, the ability to make art is a guy thing, something Victoria will love her husband for but never do herself.

This movie offers one of the more palatable (for me, anyway) examples of the Creative Man/Commonplace Woman trope, seen everywhere from Big Fish to Phantom Thread to Coco, in which making art is coded as male, particularly when it’s said to rise to the level of genius. Some of the women in this trope, like Victoria and the wife in Big Fish who is so colorless and underwritten that her name escapes me, find a measure of happiness with their artists. Others, like the “Muse” in Phantom Thread, suffer for loving the art-obsessed genius. But in all cases, we see the women drawn to the creative greatness of their men while aspiring to nothing similar in themselves. And for the most part, their men like them just as they are, simple and ordinary.

So what happens to the creative woman? A few of her are sprinkled here and there among the many men whose burning desire to create will not be squelched. The titular Corpse Bride does play the piano, and even duets with Victor in a delightful scene. But even though she’s drawn so that we like and sympathize with her, she can’t emerge the winner in the love triangle. For obvious reasons, the girl with the spark of creativity must give way to her ordinary rival.

Creative women, when they do appear in film and television, don’t tend to win romantic happily-ever-afters. The story of Emily Dickinson is already known; as told in A Quiet Passion, she secludes herself, suffering from an illness that grows steadily worse over the course of the film. The titular folk artist of Maudie does have a husband, but their relationship is problematic; he’s more hostile toward her art than supportive of it. In Crimson Peak, for aspiring novelist Edith, romance turns out to be a trap from which she barely escapes with her life. Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, in a show of appeasement to editors and readers of its day, marries its creative spirit Jo March to an older man who doesn’t think much of her writing, and in the 2019 film adaptation, “Under the Umbrella” becomes Under the Question Mark, leading us to assume that like Alcott herself, Jo will go it alone. Meanwhile, her sister Amy, an ambitious painter, gets to marry the man she loves only after she has renounced her art.

For women on screen, are love and art incompatible? The 1980s miniseries Anne of Green Gables offers a counter-example, to a degree, but even there, the boy isn’t specifically won by the girl’s creativity. The only example I can think of in which a man is attracted to a woman’s art is 1954’s A Star Is Born, in which James Mason watches and listens to Judy Garland sing and both falls in love and perceives her genius — and that story ends in tragedy. For the most part, men aren’t shown to be drawn to creative greatness in women.

So it shouldn’t surprise me that my favorite movie about love and art doesn’t involve a man at all.

The 2019 French film Portrait of a Lady on Fire tells the story of Marianne, who comes to a remote island chateau to paint a portrait of a young aristocrat, Heloise, who has been called home from a convent following her sister’s death and now must marry to preserve her family’s fortunes. The portrait is meant to attract a husband, but Heloise, still shunning marriage, refuses to sit for it. Marianne must spend her days serving as Heloise’s walking companion and observing her in minute detail, and then commit all that she observes to canvas at night. It’s a job that, given the story’s late eighteenth century setting, only a female artist could do.

As the film progresses, Marianne and Heloise discover a spiritual kinship as well as sexual attraction; these are two women who genuinely enjoy each other’s company, and eventually, Heloise does consent to sit for Marianne. The screenplay rejects swoony romantic cliches in favor of realistic dialogue, as the women first feel each other out and then come to admire and love each other. The aura of romance isn’t conveyed by a musical score — the film doesn’t have one — but by the camera and lighting. The soft- focus beauty of each shot makes it clear we’re seeing a story of love, not mere lust. And all the while, art is being created, as we see the paintbrush stroke the canvas.

Of course, the 1780s having been what they were, we can’t expect happily ever after. Yet the tragic ending we might have thought was coming is avoided in favor of a realistic conclusion that feels almost happy by comparison. I won’t give too many details, as I want you, my readers, to see the movie. But overall, Marianne and Heloise lift each other up. Each is better for having known the other.

Now I’m left to see just how long I’ll have to wait for the next good movie that shows a woman artist at work.


The Most Frustrating Time of the Year

After Monday, January 13, a friend of mine posted a Tweet that the most wonderful time of the year had arrived — the time to complain about the Academy Award nominations for 2019’s crop of films. The complaints have hit so hard and fast that much of what I have to say on the subject may seem redundant.

But I can’t help myself. This year I really thought things would change, as I noted the release of a number of strong, well-reviewed movies with female characters at their center — The Farewell (98% on Rotten Tomatoes), Booksmart (97%), Little Women (95%), Knives Out (97%), and some I’ve yet to see, Us (93%), The Souvenir (90%), and Portrait of a Lady on Fire (97%). I couldn’t stop myself from hoping that scores like this would make these movies impossible for Oscar to ignore; surely, even given their long history of honoring man-centered movies, the voters might find just a little love in their hearts for high-quality stories about women.

They didn’t.

Of all the movies nominated for Best Picture, only Little Women focuses on female characters. The rest are about men. Some, like 1917, are simply about men — that is, male-character focused, but made without a specific demographic appeal in mind (e.g. The Shawshank Redemption, Schindler’s List, and 90% of all war movies, good and bad). Others, like Joker, The Irishman, and Once upon a Time in Hollywood, are not only about men but for men, designed specifically with a male audience in mind. Movies that are about men may exclude women from major roles due to the practicalities of their settings. In movies about men, for men, the exclusion, marginalization, or shallow/stereotypical characterization of women is part of the point. Obviously I’m not going to favor the latter type of movie with my time or money, so this may be a year in which the Best Picture Oscar goes to a movie I have no intention of seeing, ever. Since Little Women‘s chances are slim, Greta Gerwig having been denied a Best Director nomination, I now feel obliged to root for either 1917 or Parasite, both of which I will eventually see.

The all-male slate of Best Director nominees has already been discussed quite a bit, so I’ll keep it brief on that point, and only mention that when protests of the exclusion of women like Gerwig and The Farewell‘s Lulu Wang appeared on Twitter, they were shouted down by Tweets (mostly but not all from men) claiming that the nominees were chosen because they were the best, and quality matters more than diversity, and those of us who thought Gerwig or Wang deserving of Oscar’s attention are just loony leftists who need to “get over it.” I couldn’t help remembering a discussion that had gone on on Reddit Fantasy just a day or two earlier, concerning why so many women have been winning Hugo Awards of late. Quite a few posters suggested the choices were politically motivated, a reaction against the notorious “Sad Puppies” campaign a few years back. So if I understand this correctly–

Only men are nominated for, and have a chance to win, Best Director Oscars for 2019: It’s because they’re the best!

Mostly women have been nominated for, and won, recent Hugo Awards: It’s political.

Maybe that latter view isn’t altogether wrong. Perhaps all tastes, all preferences, have a touch of politics about them. My own preference for a story of a Chinese-American woman confronting cultural differences within her own family as well as the impending loss of a loved one over a fresh serving of Charles-Mansonia may be motivated on a certain level by politics. But if that’s the case, might the nominations for Best Director, as well as the omissions, be political as well?

Take, for instance, one of the most puzzling snubs: the absence of Knives Out from the Best Picture and Best Director categories. Rian Johnson is a man, after all; why isn’t he up there with Martin Scorcese and Quentin Tarantino? The popularity of Knives Out with audiences as well as critics — an original story, not a sequel, remake, or part of a franchise — has surprised and delighted many. Its success shows people do indeed want to see such films, as long as they’re well-made and entertaining. Besides, I have yet to hear a negative word about this movie from anyone whose opinion I have reason to trust. I thought it was a shoo-in. But no.

Instead, Academy voters chose to nominate the highly polarizing Joker and its even more polarizing director, Todd Phillips, who has made a whole career out of making movies about men, for men, and who not long ago claimed that he made a drama largely because he felt his bro-tastic comedies (e.g. Old School, the Hangover series) were no longer welcome in our current “woke” culture. Phillips’ name alone would suffice to keep me away from Joker, since all his movies have one notable thing in common: the view that women exist to make men miserable, either by cheating on them or nagging them or threatening to break up their Bro Gangs or simply expecting love and commitment. In the Phillips-verse, the only tolerable women are prostitutes, since they’ll give men the only thing men truly desire from women — sex — and will expect neither respect nor affection in return. As a review of Old School put it, “women are, if not the enemy, at least the mystery meat.” Based on what I’ve been able to ascertain from both reviews and word of mouth, Joker doesn’t depart from this: the driven-mad protagonist’s evil mother is the root of all his woes.

Why, then, did the voters choose Joker when Knives Out was right there? I have a theory I pray isn’t true. Knives Out exposes the poisonous hypocrisy of a super-rich family as the protagonist, a young working-class woman of color, is forced to deal with them in very dire circumstances. The voters themselves are super-rich, and it may be they saw themselves not in the put-upon, kind-hearted Marta but in the horrible Thromby family. Joker, on the other hand, especially considering Phillips’ “woke culture” complaints, could be seen as a finger in the eye of the #MeToo Movement that has shaken Hollywood to its core. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if at least some voters’ support of it weren’t a teensy bit political.

Whatever the case, I won’t feel the same surge of hope this year if high-quality woman-centered movies appear. It seems clear that the Oscar voters won’t be opening their hearts to films that tell women’s stories anytime soon, no matter how good those films happen to be.

Here’s a relevant video:


My Year in Review, Part 2


Aside from writing — because for me, the two can’t be separated — reading is my favorite activity. As long as there’s one good story I have yet to discover, I’ll always have something to look forward to.

But I don’t read very fast. Not only are the Internet and current affairs a distraction, but the reading I have to do, to prepare for classes, often supersedes the reading I want to do. Those who have managed to read a hundred or more books this year must forgive: I’ve only finished twenty-six, not counting a couple I didn’t manage to get through. But despite the lack of quantity, I call this a good reading year. Here are some of the reasons why:

I’ve discovered new favorites. This year, Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree takes my top prize, with Kate Forsyth’s Beauty in Thorns a near photo-finish second. Other standouts include Tasha Suri’s Empire of Sand, Jen Williams’ The Ninth Rain, Curtis Craddock’s A Labyrinth of Scions and Sorcery (why the heck are fantasy fans sleeping on this Risen Kingdoms series?), Robert Jackson Bennett’s City of Blades, and Kate Elliott’s King’s Dragon.

I’ve been exploring some older fantasy works by women. It turns out that the ’80s, ’90s, and ’00s produced quite a few epic fantasy series that have been unjustly neglected or forgotten, much of it written by and starring women. This past year I’ve set out on a mission to find them and give them a read. I started out with King’s Dragon, the first book in Elliott’s Crown of Stars series, since I already knew and admired Elliott’s later work. Afterward I gave Rowena Cory Daniells’ Beseiged and Jude Fisher’s Sorcery Rising a try, and finished up this year with Katya Reimann’s A Tremor in the Bitter Earth. I found all to be compelling, and I look forward to finishing their series. Just now I’m in the midst of Diana L. Paxson’s The White Raven, a stand-alone retelling of the Tristan/Isolde legend from the point of view of Isolde’s lady-in-waiting, and in the coming year I plan to make the acquaintance of Paula Volsky via her French Revolution tale Illusion, as well as dive into Katherine Kerr’s Daggerspell.

In one respect, the older books I read this year show their age; with the exception of King’s Dragon (which may be why it’s my favorite), they all lean heavily into the theme of misogyny, in both world-building and characterization. Beseiged introduces us to three races — human, half-human, nonhuman — each with their own religions and cultures, yet they all have one thing in common: men hate and fear women. Sorcery Rising seeks to contrast two societies, one where women are kept under strict confinement and another where they have considerably more freedom of movement, but even in the latter society, the heroine is nagged by her father and brothers to give up her dreams of exploring, get married, and start having babies. In A Tremor in the Bitter Earth, the protagonist, in order to rescue the man she loves, must travel from her home, where she has the freedom to be herself, to a country where women have no value at all, must like those “Planet of the Taliban” episodes that get on my last nerve in science fiction TV shows. I still found the books well worth reading and the series worth pursuing, but continued heavy emphasis on the misogyny theme is wearying for me, and I feel a deep sense of relief to see, in works like The Priory of the Orange Tree and Sam Hawke’s City of Lies and Melissa Caruso’s The Unbound Empire, that the epic fantasy genre may at last be starting to move away from it.

I got acquainted with some fun and fascinating people. I don’t think you’re ever too old to learn from fictional characters. This year I learned from Turyin Mulaghesh (City of Blades) that sometimes the best way to defeat evil is to tap into the darkness within oneself. I learned from Vintage de Grazon (The Ninth Rain) that it’s never too late to travel, explore, and discover. I learned from Nona Grey (Grey Sister) that kindness that can be a strong offense as well as a solid defense. I learned from Ead Duryan (The Priory of the Orange Tree) that compassion and the willingness to help should never be kept confined within a single insular group. And I learned from Mehr (Empire of Sand) that nothing is more powerful than a woman who knows the steps to the Dance of Life. Even if the lessons aren’t new — even if they’re driving home what life has already taught me — I love discovering what characters like this have to teach me, and I look forward to what I’ll learn in the new year.

I look ahead to 2020Among the books I got for Christmas are A Memory Called Empire (Arkady Martine), Gods of Jade and Shadow (Silvia Moreno-Garcia), The Ten Thousand Doors of January (Alix E. Harrow), Realm of Ash (Tasha Suri), Ships of Smoke and Steel (Django Wexler), Starsight (Brandon Sanderson), The Red-Stained Wings (Elizabeth Bear), Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Tomi Adeyemi), and The Deepest Blue (Sarah Beth Durst). These and more will keep me happy, engaged, and ready to create.

Happy New Year!


My Year in Review, 2019 — Part 1


2019 has been a game-changing year for me in two vital ways.

First, when the graduates of Life University’s College of Graduate and Undergraduate Studies flipped their tassels from one side of the cap to the other at the December ceremony, it marked the finish of my first year as a full-time Life U employee. I’ve taught English there since 2009, mostly Composition and Public Speaking with the occasional Literature class thrown in. But toward the end of last year, when the opportunity for promotion came, I leaped. Now I no longer have to worry from one quarter to the next if I’ll be assigned enough classes to earn a decent paycheck; I have a regular salary and schedule. I have my own office. I get more chances to be social with my colleagues, a great bunch of people. In every way, it’s better.

Well, except one — but that problem has been solved.

A ninety-minute commute between Gainesville and Marietta, GA is tolerable when you only work two or three days per week, but not so much when you have to make that long drive every day. Thankfully, my husband and I got the opportunity to move to Woodstock, GA in early October. Moves always bring stress, but by now we’re more or less settled in, and my commute time has been slashed by two-thirds. Our new house is also much closer than our old one to all the stores, shops, and restaurants we need and want. And did I mention we now live within walking distance of a sixteen-screen movie theater? Once again, it’s better in all the ways I can imagine.

Only one thing has caused me disappointment this year (aside of course from social and political matters, which continue to emit the tincture of despair): with everything that’s been going on, I’ve had less time to write, which explains why I’ve been blogging much less regularly. But now that our situation has leveled off somewhat, I have every hope this will change. I still have a major novel project in the wind, an expansion on a script of mine the Atlanta Radio Theatre Company produced in 2018. I’ve also drafted a new play for ARTC, which I hope to workshop into a production-worthy state in the coming year. In addition, one of the company’s founding members has approached me with a suggestion of adapting Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s classic short story “The Yellow Wallpaper” into an audio drama. At first I thought it couldn’t be done — after all, the whole thing consists of the internal monologue of a woman succumbing to madness — but the more I think about it, the more possibilities I see.

In other news:

After about a week-long adjustment period, our cats have been thriving in the new house, as loving and mischievous as ever.

The books I’m reading now are Steel Crow Saga (Paul Krueger), The White Raven (Diana L. Paxson), Jim Henson: A Biography (Brian Jay Jones), and News of the World (Paulette Jiles). All of them include plenty of elements to love, and I’m confident this Christmas, like the Christmases before it, will bring more literary joys.

Come January 2020, I’ll be teaching a course in “Studies in Science Fiction and Fantasy.” It’s the first time this course will be taught at Life University. I designed it myself. I’m excited, and I’m praying I don’t screw it up.

All in all, life is good.

Oscar Dreaming, 2019 Edition

I’m getting tired of blockbusters.

I don’t mean in a Martin Scorcese “Marvel movies aren’t cinema” kind of way. I can still enjoy the movies themselves. I found Captain Marvel tons of fun despite its flaws. I’m still thrilled Black Panther was nominated for Best Picture this past year, even though it had little hope of winning. And I hope that somehow the Black Widow movie promised us in the near future will turn out to be so good it will overcome my reluctance to invest emotionally in a character I’ve already seen die.

It’s not the movies I find so wearying, but rather the verbal diarrhea that all too often surrounds them, the inevitable junk talk that surfaces every time a big-budget SFF or action-adventure movie showcases a hero who isn’t a white man. Let the lead of such a project be a woman or anyone of color, and at once the movie becomes “too political,” or it suddenly has an “agenda,” or it’s fresh evidence of “political correctness run amok.” The guys who spout this talk — yes, it’s almost always guys — are quick to point out they don’t have anything against a women being action or SFF heroes, since after all they loved Ellen Ripley and Sarah Connor (until Terminator: Dark Fate, at least). It’s telling that they have to reach all the way back to the early ’90s to find the last female hero they approved of.

This kind of talk makes it hard for me to look forward to Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker with unalloyed pleasure, even though I still want to see it. What I find myself looking forward to instead is Greta Gerwig’s upcoming adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s children’s-lit classic Little Women, which has garnered quite a bit of positive early buzz. It’s a bit hard to accuse a story that has centered on women for over a hundred years of being “PC culture run amok.”

The toxic noise that attends so many blockbusters makes me all the more grateful for the non-blockbuster films in my life. This year I’ve had the chance to see a number of movies, ranging from good to wonderful, that feature messy, complicated female leads, some brilliant, some defiant, some confused, but all interesting: Kasi Lemmons’ Harriet (good); British import Wild Rose (good); Gloria Bell, starring Julianne Moore (very good); Olivia Wilde’s directorial debut Booksmart (wonderful); and Lulu Wang’s The Farewell and Rian Johnson’s Knives Out, among the best-reviewed movies of the year (phenomenal). (Still on my need-to-see list: Fast Color and The Souvenir.) The women in these movies can exist, in their complex ways, without a legion of loudmouths crying foul. And what a relief that is.

This year I have Oscar hopes — more than I had this time last year, when I knew Black Panther was unlikely to win and I hadn’t seen The Favourite yet. Not all of them are, or are from, woman-centric movies, but they have all delighted me in one way or another.

Best Picture: Knives Out; A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood; The Farewell.

Best Director: Lulu Wang (The Farewell); Rian Johnson (Knives Out); Olivia Wilde (Booksmart)

Best Actor: Daniel Craig (Knives Out); Tom Hanks (A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood); Willem Dafoe (The Lighthouse)

Best Actress: Awkwafina (The Farewell); Ana de Armas (Knives Out); Cynthia Erivo (Harriet); Jessie Buckley (Wild Rose); Julianne Moore (Gloria Bell)

Best Screenplay: Knives Out; The Farewell; Booksmart

Best Animated Feature (and Least Ulcer-Inducing Blockbuster): Toy Story 4

Movies That May Be a Factor, but I’m Not Interested In: The Irishman; Richard Jewell; Uncut Gems; Dark Waters; Cats; Ford vs. Ferrari

Movies That May Be a Factor, and I’m Curious About (besides Little Women): Portrait of a Lady on Fire; 1917; Clemency; Just Mercy; The Parasite; Waves


“Beauty in Thorns” and the Tragedy of Georgiana Burne-Jones

“If you eliminated all the works created by women throughout history, the impact on our culture would be negligible.” So runs the argument that women, by nature, are less equipped than men to be great artists, writers, poets, composers, filmmakers, etc. In the eyes of misogynist critics, if women do manage to make great art, it’s by accident; Joanna Russ, in her essay “How to Suppress Women’s Writing,” shows how any impulse to give women the credit they deserve for their creative efforts may be stifled.

Perhaps if you count all the art created down the centuries, men’s work will outnumber women’s — at least concerning the works that have been preserved, celebrated, and labeled “art.” Yet the misogynists want us to believe that this dominance is a sign of women’s natural inferiority. This assumes that men and women, over the course of history, have been given the same tools they may use to make art — tools such as education, encouragement, exposure, and economic independence. It assumes the playing field has been level, when it should be obvious that it hasn’t been. Kate Forsyth’s novel Beauty in Thorns, which tells the story of the 19th century “pre-Raphaelite” community of artists, sheds a bright and often painful light on the ways in which women’s efforts to produce meaningful art may be diminished and dismissed, causing us to wonder just how many women, over many long, long years, have had their creative aspirations starved out of them.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Morris, and Edward Burne-Jones may be the artists whose work we remember and revere, but Forsyth’s narrative is told from the perspective of the women in their lives: Elizabeth Siddal, Gabriel’s tormented, tempestuous muse, longing to make her own artistic mark but defeated by self-doubts and lack of encouragement, as well as a wasting illness that saps her physical and mental strength; Jane Burden, a working-class beauty whose imagination buds when she becomes a model for Edward and Gabriel and, eventually, William’s wife and Gabriel’s lover; and Georgiana Macdonald, a respectable middle-class girl who yearns for a life more passionate and creative than her strict Methodist upbringing would allow, but who, as Edward’s wife, soon finds herself caged by Victorian domesticity. All three women are beautifully drawn and developed, with all their flaws and frustration, but Georgiana’s story, a tragedy of gradual wearing-away, haunts me most.

In the book’s first chapter, Georgiana, or Georgie, is introduced as a bright and curious girl constrained by the expectations of others: “Georgie’s whole life was bent and shaped to appease her mother’s God” (7). In young Ned Burne-Jones, whom she loves from the start, she sees the promise of a more expansive life, one that just might give her own imagination room to breathe and move. When she becomes his wife, for a while she finds married life suits her wonderfully: “Someone gave her a piano for a wedding present, and she was able to sing whatever songs she liked. . . When [Ned] was busy, she practiced drawing in her sketchbook. . . There was no one to frown at her and tell her such pastimes were a waste of time” (178). She may not hunger for renown, as Lizzie Siddal does, but she values her accomplishments, her efforts in music and art. Such “dabblings” may have made life bearable for many a middle-class Victorian woman with a creative spirit.

Sadly, while for Georgie Ned may represent freedom and art, Ned seems to look to Georgie to provide domestic stability and little else. Aware of her feelings for him, he knows she’ll be the worshipful and dutiful wife, mother, and caregiver, just what he needs to keep his life in order and make it possible for him to create. Once the children start coming, the romance goes out of their marriage, and he takes a dazzling, neurotic mistress — the kind of woman Georgie could never be — as an outlet for his passions. Georgie, meanwhile, finds her domestic duties leave her no time for the accomplishments she loves, as neither husband nor friends are willing to relieve her burdens. Forsyth explains, in perhaps the novel’s most painful sentence, “Georgie’s world narrowed down to a pinprick” (268).

Even after her children are grown, Georgie doesn’t really reclaim her life, though as Forsyth paints her, her strength of endurance is much to be admired. She survives her reverses with her dignity intact, which is more than can be said for her husband’s mistress. As I read, because I liked her, I kept waiting for a moment near the end when she would pick up a paintbrush once again — and that moment never comes. She does write a biography of her genius husband after he has died, but that seems less an expression of her own creativity than a tending of the Great Man’s flame. He’s the one who matters, the one whose thoughtless eccentricities must be humored and enabled in life an whose story must be told after death.

Yet in giving us Georgie’s perspective, in bringing her to life as an individual, Forsyth’s novel subverts this idea. Georgie does matter. It matters that her husband overlooks her needs while insisting she cater to his own. It matters that as a caregiver she is left without help, with no one to talk to. Georgie’s story is a tragedy of lost potential, and echoes of her sad story may be found in scores of overlooked women whose perspectives have yet to gain a hearing. I think of all the underdeveloped wife/mother and girlfriend characters in movies about men struggling to Achieve Great Things — characters like those played by Jessica Lange in Big Fish and Anne Hathaway in Dark Water — and I see the ghost of Georgiana Burne-Jones hovering behind them. What’s your story? What hopes do you cherish? What daydreams dance through your mind? What do you have, what do you cling to, that is absolutely yours?

The world Georgie knew is past, thank God, yet her tragedy may still be all too common. The story of #MeToo in Hollywood is, to a great degree, about stories never told, visions never shared, voices never heard, because they weren’t thought valuable enough in an industry that profits heavily from stories about men and their deeds. And even in this more enlightened day and age, mothers often still struggle without the help and support they need. Many of them must think, as Georgie did, that their worlds have shrunk to a pinprick. We’ve made progress, but we’re still pushing back against the habits of centuries.

Every story that brings creative women into focus is a step in the right direction. Beauty in Thorns is one such story, well worth reading.

Joyous Reading: The Priory of the Orange Tree

How lovely it’s been over the past year to encounter books that proved to be precisely what I needed when I needed them, as if they’d been designed for me. Naomi Novik’s Spinning Silver and Juliet Marillier’s Den of Wolves suited my ever-greedy taste for resourceful female protagonists in vividly detailed fairytale settings. Tasha Suri’s Empire of Sand satisfied my longing for unique magic systems, magical female leads, and slow-burn romance. Just after I turned fifty, Robert Jackson’s City of Blades introduced me to Turyin Mulaghesh, a tough-as-nails, take-no-crap fiftysomething protagonist. And Justina Ireland’s Dread Nation and Margaret Rogerson’s Sorcery of Thorns have reminded me why I still enjoy reading YA — because a well-told story is always worth reading, regardless of the age of its target audience.

Yet I do believe Samantha Shannon’s The Priory of the Orange Tree tops them all, since within its 800+ pages it manages to include nearly everything I love to see in fantasy. If it isn’t a part of next year’s Hugo Awards conversation, I’ll be most displeased.

Shannon’s epic tale takes us into a world divided by dragons. In the West, dragons are chaotic evil, fire-breathing destroyers, the worst of which is prophesied to emerge soon from his thousand-year imprisonment to put an end to all humankind. In the East, dragons are benevolent water-creatures who interact with humans and are worshiped as gods. West and East do not trade or negotiate with each other or even interact at all, as Westerners see the Easterners’ dragon-worship as anathema. (“Wyrm-lover” is a favorite slur.) Yet the Easterners and their dragons may be all that stands between the Westerners and their destruction at the claws of the terrible “Nameless One” once he rises again. At the heart of this story is the growth of understanding and acceptance among different peoples with different beliefs.

The narrative centers on four point-of-view characters, all complex and notably flawed. There is Niclays Roos, a disgraced alchemist exiled to the East; a bitter man whose great love is long dead, he thinks first and foremost of himself. There is Tane’ Miduchi, a lower-class Eastern woman determined to rise to the rank of dragonrider, whose ambition leads her to make a mistake that costs her dear. There is Arteloth Beck, a sunny-natured Western nobleman who discovers over the course of the story that everything he’s been taught to believe is wrong. And there is my favorite, Ead Duryan, a magically gifted priestess of the South, sent to guard and spy on the monarch of the Western nation of Inys, Queen Sabran. Ead’s religious faith is at odds with the dominant religion of Inys, and she’s forced to pretend to be a “convert” to win and maintain her position at court. But while she holds true to her beliefs, she finds herself falling in love with the beautiful Queen and challenging the isolationist outlook of her order, the titular Priory.

Slow-burn romance? Check. Ead and Sabran move toward each other gradually, and their growing attraction is effectively detailed. Yet the romance plot doesn’t swallow either character whole, and their goals do not begin and end with winning each other’s love. Another check.

Female friendships? Check. Here you’ll find nary a trace of girl-on-girl hate. Ead may be an outsider, but she forges lasting friendships with other women at Sabran’s court, particularly Arteloth’s sister Margret.

Male-female friendships? Check. Ead and Arteloth are close — he’s also a good friend to Sabran — and one of the few people Niclays Roos comes to care about is Laya, his fellow captive on a pirate ship. (A note on Laya: she’s the only sympathetic portrayal of an older woman in the novel. I hate to nitpick about my favorite book of the year, but the one thing that bothered me was that there are four irredeemable major human villains in the cast, and every one is an older woman.)

Female power presented sympathetically? Check. Female leaders are both good (not only Sabran but other female monarchs in the West) and evil (a pirate queen, a vengeful witch, a bigoted Duchess, and the current Prioress of the Orange Tree, who’s willing to let the world burn if her corner of it can remain safe). But whether they prove good or evil, their right to lead is never questioned on the basis of gender.

Female heroes? Check, in a big way. Ead and Tane’ consistently get back on their feet when they’re knocked down, and both are vital at the climax.

Detailed world-building? Check, with landscapes, customs, and religion coming to vivid life.

Diversity? Check, with a variety of races (don’t assume everyone, or anyone, is white), and sexual orientations represented. Best of all, the usual racial and gender divisions don’t feature in the story’s conflicts. Shannon finds new and different ways to put her characters and their countries at odds.

In your reading this year, please don’t miss this one.