So a little while ago, I posted about self-promotion and my basic thoughts on same, which boil down to "don't be a dick" and "don't go door-to-door across the internet." Pretty basic, reasonably close to universal (although I don't really believe in universal truths, beyond "don't French kiss a rattlesnake"), generally non-offensive. Which means, of course, that some people took offense.

Sometimes, no matter what you do, you're going to offend people. Sometimes you'll never know why.

Things I have done in the past week that someone has found offensive: listened to loud, "weird" music. Had an opinion about whether or not people who aren't me should be allowed to make decisions about my body. Enjoyed bad science fiction. Had my hair highlighted in preparation for the Hugos. Implied that there's a double standard in how women are expected to dress for the Hugos vs. how men are expected to dress for the Hugos. Implied that it's more expensive to be female. Bought children's toys for myself. Bought children's toys for a child. These are just the things I know about mind you, and I only know because in each case, someone told me. I'm not sure why most of these things were offensive. I don't actually want to know. And that, right there, probably offends someone.

I do my best to Marilyn Munster my way through life, leaving fields of happy zombies and sparkly plagues behind me. Sadly, though, nothing is that inoffensive. Not unless it's, say, a rock, and even that will offend, if it gets into somebody's shoe. There is no way to avoid giving offense. Not if you're a thing that actually exists.

And it can be hard, as someone whose audience is largely online, to deal with the thought that I might accidentally offend someone, lose potential readers, and wind up living in a cardboard box next to the creek. My cats aren't supposed to go outside! (This is the "worst case scenario" mindset. It kicks in when I think I've upset someone. My brain is a theme park that hates me.) Case in point:

A while ago—within the last year, although I couldn't tell you when—someone with whom I had communicated on Twitter, but who I didn't really know, asked me "Why did you kill character X?" I gave the response I always give to that question, which is completely honest, despite having been originally stolen from Stephen King: "I didn't kill them. They just died." I have made the conscious choice to kill very few characters. Most of them are sacrifices to the story, and I'm as surprised as anyone else when I see what's coming. It's an odd answer, but a totally sincere one.

(Example of me killing a character on purpose: I killed Rose. It was sort of essential, since her story hinges on her being, you know. Dead.)

This person did not find my answer sincere. They proceeded to declare on Twitter that I was a horrible person who disrespected her readers and didn't appreciate reader questions and was generally horrid, and then went and amended all their reviews of my books to lower their ratings, so that it would be clear that they did not give good scores to mean authors. So with one statement that I still don't regret making, because it was sincere, I lost a reader, and the aggregate scores of my books went down. And I'm lucky in that this is one of the biggest "bad author, no authorial biscuit" scandals that I've had to deal with so far.

Do I know exactly why my response was offensive? Nope. I've said that to other people without causing offense (that I'm aware of). Did this person explain? Nope. Is that the only time I'm going to cause offense in this world?

Nope.

No matter what you do, you're going to piss people off. Hell, me saying "offense is inevitable" is probably pissing someone off. So take deep breaths, and don't dwell on it too much. As long as we're all doing our best not to be horrible and hurtful, it should be okay, in the long run.

Even if we never know why.

Welcome to the forty-seventh essay in my fifty-essay series on the art, craft, business, and occasional insanity that is writing. All fifty of the essays in this series are based around my original fifty thoughts on writing, which means I only have three essays to go. Hooray! Our thought for today:

Thoughts on Writing #47: Different Strokes.

And now, because context is king, our expanded thought:

It's okay to be silly. It's okay to be serious, too. If a serious writer sniffs at you for writing comedy, or a comic writer tries to call you a stick in the mud, laugh. You're the one who's doing the writing.

There's this amazing tendency among humans to go "what I'm doing is awesome, what you're doing is not." We apply it to everything, from flavors of ice cream to professional callings. The thing is, it's very rarely fair. We're almost never comparing two roller coasters, one of which has a triple inversion and a great storyline, the other of which has gone three days without killing a park guest. Instead, we're comparing kittens and puppies, apples and oranges, and sometimes, kittens and oranges. So how do we handle things with grace?

Today we're going to be talking about apples and oranges, why both are awesome, and why no one gets to tell you which one to put in your lunch box.

Ready? Good. Let's begin.

( My thoughts are not your thoughts; my process is not your process; my ideas are not your ideas; my method is not your method. All these things are totally right for me, and may be just as totally wrong for you. So please don't stress if the things I'm saying don't apply to you -- I promise, there is no One True Way. This way for my thoughts on doing the hard stuff.Collapse )

This morning, I politely removed myself from six new groups that had been created on Facebook while I was sleeping. All six of them were "buy my book" groups, created by people I don't know personally, telling me about the exciting opportunity I have to purchase their brand new book. Four of them were for ebook-only editions (which is relevant because anyone who knows my reading habits knows that I prefer to read physical books). Three were for books in genres that I do not reliably read. One was for a book whose subject matter was something I find actively offensive, and have discussed as offensive in the past.

This morning, I deleted eight emails from people I don't know personally, telling me about the exciting opportunity I have to purchase their brand new book. Five were ebook-only, four were genres I don't follow, two were in genres I explicitly don't read ever (hint: I am not the target market for your "raping serial killer rape-ily rapes his way through Rapetown adventure).

This morning, I received five targeted tweets from people I don't know personally, telling me about the exciting opportunity I have to purchase their brand new book. I don't know the breakdowns there; I don't click unsolicited links.

Look: I understand the excitement of a new book, or even of a not-so-new book. It's your baby, it's your imaginary friend dressed in the very finest clothes you can buy, and it's all alone in an increasingly large and tangled marketplace. We want to give our stories every advantage that we can, and it's pretty clear that "more readers" is a huge advantage. Sometimes I wish I had my mother's blatant salesmanship. She hands out bookmarks advertising my books everywhere she goes. Grocery stores. Funerals. Wherever. But she's not me. When she does it, it's a mother supporting her daughter, and it's harmless enthusiasm. From me, those same actions take on an air of desperation. I have to find a better way. We all do.

The accessibility of readers (and authors) on the internet has changed the shape of the game, and is still changing it, as we try to sort out who stands where. But, well...

Have you ever parked at a supermarket or a movie theater or another place where parking happens, and come back to your care to find like thirty flyers shoved up under the window wipers, waiting for you? They're all advertising services that may have relevance to your life, like pet sitting and yard work and, I don't know, exorcisms. But the odds are good that you don't know, because the odds are good that you, like the rest of us, threw those flyers away. Maybe one of them gave you a paper cut. Maybe that was enough to make you notice what it was advertising. If it did, do you think that became a service you wanted to buy? Or did the negative impression rule the day?

Yeah.

The internet is not a neighborhood in need of door-to-door salesmen. In order to promote books, we need to be engaging and engaged. We need to talk about our lives and our pets and the current season of So You Think You Can Dance (your TV mileage may vary). And then, yes, we can talk about our books. But—and this is the big one—that needs to happen on our space.

If I turn my Twitter feed into the all-my-new-book, all-the-time channel, you can unfollow me. If I @ you constantly, unless you want to block me, you're screwed. If (and when) I turn this blog into the all-my-new-book, all-the-time channel, you can unfriend me. A few people do, every time promo season arrives. Most of them come back when it's over, having safely weathered the storm...but I don't follow them into their own blogs and insist that they listen.

If you want to be seen by more eyes, buy ad space on popular webcomics with a theme similar to yours. See if one of the major book blogs has space for a guest post, or whether you'd qualify for John Scalzi's Big Idea. Or just keep blogging, saying interesting things, and increasing the size of your platform. There are ways. It just takes time.

There is a difference between promotion in our own spaces and promotion in the spaces of others. One is appropriate and necessary. The other is a very fine line, and stepping over it can result in lost readers and hurt sensibilities, and that's never a good thing.

I think everyone is familiar with the Disney princess by now: a collection of boiled sugar girls in sparkly dresses and high heels who happen to resemble the spirited, interesting heroines of the movies we love, all of them posed to perfection in big groups of rainbow loveliness. They stare soullessly from bookstore walls and supermarket shelves, hawking everything from dress-up shoes to fruit snacks. The stories they come from may be exciting, or interesting, or educational, but the Disney princess shows none of those traits when she's on-duty. She's there to be a display, and that's all she's going to be.

(As a total aside, if you want to see these girls when they're off-duty, and hence more fun, check out Amy Mebberson's Tumblr for her Pocket Princesses. They're awesome, and they have the spunk, spirit, and personality that the official Princesses sadly often lack.)

It wasn't until I read the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter that I noticed the creepiest thing about the Disney princesses: they never look at each other. Get six of them in a group, and they will all strike independent poses, they will all gaze at independent points off in the distance. They never make eye contact. They never acknowledge each other in any way. Why?

Because if you're going to be the fairest in the land, you can't ever admit that anyone of comparable fairness even exists. To be the prettiest princess, you must also be the only princess. So all you other princesses can just step off; this is my spotlight.

Creepy.

As most of you probably know, I read a lot of urban fantasy, geared both at adults and the YA market. I enjoy it. It makes me happy. It features, as a genre, a lot of strong female characters doing strong female things. Yes, it has its flaws, because all genres have flaws, but on the whole, it's probably my favorite genre right now.

Only. I noticed a thing. This is a thing that I am not immune to. Nor is it a universal thing (so making long lists of exceptions to this thing is not necessarily helpful, although discussion of specific examples is, as always, awesome). But it's a thing I think we should be thinking about, both as creators and consumers. And it's this:

Urban fantasy heroines have a lot in common with Disney princesses.

The standards for "fairest of them all" are different when your kingdom is a city and your ballgown is a pair of leather pants. You need to be the best ass-kicker, the best snarker, the best crime-solver or magic-user, or whatever. But they're still high standards to live up to, and it's easier to do when there's no one else in your sandbox. If no one else is kicking ass in leather pants, you don't have to try as hard to be the best. Consequentially, we keep seeing urban fantasy heroines with no peers. No other women who kick ass. They might have sidekicks, or even other strong female characters in supporting roles, but it feels like a lot of them...well. Like a lot of them just don't have any friends.

In my daily life, I have a lot of friends who are, well, fairer than me in some ways. Vixy is an amazing lead vocalist. Pretty sure if we were auditioning against each other, she'd get the part. Also, cartoon birdies braid her hair. Cat and Bear and I write very different books, but we're all award-winners and best-sellers and Cat raises chickens and Bear climbs mountains, neither of which I do. Kate is witty and snarky and often faster on her feet than I am, as well as being a thousand times more organized. Meg is a natural redhead who makes her own clothes and bounces back after flying over the handlebars of her bike...and these are only a few of the amazing, incredible, bad-ass women who share my life.

It can be easy, as an author, to smooth and sand the story until all the unnecessary characters are gone, and I can see where that might mean you have to lose a few of the members of the Breakfast Club. At the same time, if that process leaves six male characters and one female, and only one of those male characters is Prince Charming, why are the other five all dudes? Can't we balance things a little? For me, female characters are more believable when they have friends. When there are other women around to talk to, trade tips on wearing leather pants without chafing with, and generally enjoy.

And if someone says that a story containing more than three characters "only needed" one woman, I sort of have issues with that. (In my perfect world, no one would say that about two or three character stories, either. But I'm willing to grant that some stories need two males and one female, if you'll grant that the opposite is also true.) Even Magic Mike, a movie about male strippers, managed to have two female characters with distinct and interesting, if brief, speaking roles.

I don't like that the Disney princesses have been frozen in place, never making eye contact with the only people who could really be their peers and understand the trials of the tiara. I'd hate it for that to happen to our urban fantasy girls, too.

In wandering aimlessly down the primrose paths of the internet, I recently encountered a comment from someone* who found my online persona "grating." Now, no one really likes to be called grating, unless they're in the middle of preparing cheese for the pizza, but they weren't calling me grating, they were calling my online persona grating. Except, of course, for the assumption built into that statement, that the online persona is inherently different from the person behind it.

I think everyone online has an aspect of "persona" to them, if only because ideally, on the internet, you have the opportunity to think before you press "submit." Not everyone does, but the option is still there, for all of us. We filter out certain aspects of ourselves: the faces we present to the world are not exactly one-to-one identical to the faces we present in private. I'm a little wittier on the internet, because I never have to deal with l'esprit d'escalier. On the internet, it doesn't matter that I can't pronounce l'esprit d'escalier (my French pronunciation is so bad it's comical).

I swear a little less on the internet, because I have to think about the process of typing out the word. "Shut your fucking face, you fucking fucker" rolls trippingly off the tongue, but it doesn't fall quite so easy from the fingers. I don't usually document how many times I need to pee. And yeah, since I come from the "do not air your dirty laundry in public" school of thought, I can come off as a bit of a perpetual Marilyn Munster when I really tend to flux between being a Marilyn and being a Wednesday. I let my cynicism off the leash sometimes, but I've found that it's more effective when I don't live and breathe in a haze of grumpy.

Also, I really am inappropriately enthusiastic about everything. Soda. Movies. Commercials that I really like. Street pennies. Peeing. I love peeing! I mean, I don't pee on trees or anything, but I really like it when I go into the bathroom feeling uncomfortable, and come out feeling a-okay. Plus it's an excuse to sit and read, and who doesn't love that? People who are around me in the real world are likely to get treated to a constant stream of alternatingly perky and snarlingly homicidal sound bytes. "Gosh, trees are nice, I like trees I WILL DESTROY ALL WHO THWART ME do you think maybe we should go back to Disneyland in October SOMEONE ON THE INTERNET IS WRONG RARRRRRHGHGHGHGH oh hey juice." Most of these things never make it online, because they're fleeting impulses, or because I don't feel like providing an ocean of context to make them make sense.

I guess that's really where internet persona comes in, at least for me: I make more sense online. I have less visible downtime, I'm a little less random, and I'm a little more measured with my swearing. I'm just as perky, and just as cranky, it's just not a twenty-four/seven thing. It's really important to me that I not be artificial online, because I spend so much time interacting with people offline, and I don't want to be reading from a script every time I do a public appearance. (Although that would be hysterical. I should write a "being Seanan at a book signing script," and start tapping people to stand in for me while I go to get myself another soda.) Filtered doesn't mean shallow, and thoughtful doesn't mean fake.

On the balance of things, I think you can tell whether or not you'd like me in person from listening to me online, as long as you remember that there's a whole third dimension offline, and that I can sometimes use that third dimension to run into traffic after red balloons, or produce seemingly random frogs. And I find that pretty cool.

Thoughts?

(*Who will not be named here, you know the drill, and everyone has the right to an opinion.)

Last night as I was trying to go to sleep—I'm a slow-sleep insomniac, which means that it can sometimes take me upwards of an hour to power all the way down—I found myself wondering, in that half-place that only exists when you're caught between consciousness and Neverland, whether I'm so reluctant to sleep right now because I'm half-convinced that I'm in the middle of the longest, most detailed linear dream I've ever experienced. And that one day, I'm going to open my eyes and it will be December of 2008 all over again, when I was lonely and scared and had no idea what I was going to do about my future.

Anxiety and mild "my series is over, what do I do now" depression aside, I sometimes look at my life and I'm just staggered by the unlikeliness of it all. I had a book come out on Tuesday. Tomorrow, I'm leaving for Disneyland with my mother, my sister, and my best friend. I have cats that can be charitably called large, and uncharitably called props from a horror movie. I have a movie option. I'm reprinting my fourth album, because it's almost sold out. I have some of the most amazing, interesting, articulate friends and fans and readers in the world. I have an agent who, frankly, could not be more perfect for me if I had been allowed to design my own agent in a lab.

Even the little details are too good to be true. There's an immensely popular line of fashion dolls modeled on famous monsters; Fringe got renewed; Doctor Who is back on the air; the X-Men are awesome again; James Gunn has a video game about a chainsaw-wielding blonde cheerleader who fights zombies with high kicks and snark. Basically, it's like the universe has been rearranging itself to suit my deepest desires, and if not everything is perfect, that's because too much perfection is unbelievable. The world is trying to add veracity to my dream.

This is why I don't like to sleep very much.

I'm too afraid of waking up.

Dear girls of the world today;

There is nothing wrong with you.

Everything I see, everything I read, everything I hear, is geared toward telling you that something is wrong with you. You're too fat. You're too thin. Your skin is terrible. You look too young. You look too old. You're too smart, you're too dumb, you talk too much, you don't talk enough, you're broken, you're flawed, you're bad. And all those things are lies. They are exaggerations. They are designed to pick on the things you feel insecure about, and convince you that you will never be happy unless you force yourself into their standards of perfection.

They will tell you that you are weak; that girls can't deal with spiders or do math or love snakes or run nations or be scientists. They will tell you that you must be indecisive, flighty, more interested in the interests that are chosen for you than the ones that you choose for yourself. They will tell you that you have to change yourself to suit them, and then they will keep moving the goalposts, so that you're never done changing, and you're never allowed to be you. And they are wrong. They are so, so wrong, and you are better than the lies they tell you.

If you are a girl, you are a girl. Period, finish, end statement. It doesn't matter what you look like or what you enjoy doing. It doesn't matter what your assigned birth sex is or was. It doesn't matter who or what or why you love. All that matters is that you love, and that you accept that you are you, and you are awesome.

It's okay if you love pink. Some girls genuinely do. I genuinely do. Once, we would all have been viewed as cross-dressing and weird for liking pink, which was a male color. Times change. If you want to own your own pinkness, do, and don't let anyone tell you that makes you less of a feminist.

It's okay if you hate pink. You're not denying your gender or letting down the side, or anything else like that. You're a person, and there are a lot of colors out there to fall in love with. I recommend orange, green, and anything that sears your retinas.

Frills and lace and high heels and makeup are all fine. So are denim and combat boots and tattoos. So is everything between those extremes.

Collect dolls or knives or books or interesting rocks. Watch horror movies or romances or cartoons. Run races; go to spas. Eat cake or lettuce. Buy yourself a toy light saber and make your own wooooom noises while you wave it around; build a cardboard castle and chuck plush mushrooms at your would-be rescuers. Live your life, the way you want to live it, and understand that no one can kick you out of "the girl club" for doing it wrong, because you're not.

You're doing it exactly right, and I love you for that.

Corn maze love,
Me.

First off: my beloved catvalente has written a heartbreaking essay about sexism in geek and science fiction/fantasy culture. You should read it, because it is relevant. Also because it is heartbreaking and true. Having been one of those female fantasy authors threatened with sexual violence because I dared to own cats who came from a breeder, and not a shelter, I can testify that things get really ugly, really fast, on Captain Internet.

And so...

Last weekend at Emerald City, I saw a sign that infuriated me. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. It was a big banner on the front of a self-published* author's booth, reading, "Finally, a book for BOYS that the GIRLS will enjoy reading, too!"

Oh. You mean unlike 90% of the well-regarded "classic" science fiction, fantasy, and young adult genre novels out there? And 98% of the horror? And 99% of the military science fiction? And, let's face it, the majority of anything that's not a romance, a story about princesses, or a horse book? As a girl who grew up reading Bradbury, King, Wyndham, Anthony, Asprin, Piper, Foster, Knight, Shakespeare, Poe, De Lint, Baum, superhero comics, and horror comics, I cry thee foul.

And no, this is not a case of me carefully editing out the female authors of my childhood. After wracking my brain, the only ones I could come up with who even managed to compete for my affections—who were writing stories with girls, rather than girl stories, and were thus worth reading in my twelve-year-old estimation—were McCaffrey, Kagan, Tiptree (who wrote as a man), Pini (whose writing still gets credited to her husband by about half the people I talk to), Jones, Duane, and McKinley.

I discovered more female authors as I got older. Emma Bull. Pamela Dean. Jody Lynn Nye. Women who were writing stories with girls, not girl stories; women who were building the foundations of a new genre, filled with interesting, clever, intuitive characters who yes, sometimes happened to have the same plumbing I did. And sometimes they didn't, and that was okay, too. But—and this is where we loop back to the beginning—it didn't matter. If I wanted to read, I needed to read books about boys. Books that were probably intended by their authors as being for boys. If I wanted to enjoy reading, I needed to enjoy books for boys.

If this has changed at all, that change has happened in the last eight to ten years, beginning with the publication of Twilight. People were writing books for girls before that, but there's always a trigger event, and Bella Swan making millions of dollars for her author (and publisher) was the trigger for a veritable flood of "girl books" hitting the shelves. These were books with female leads, with women on the covers, with a stronger romance subplot than had necessarily been required in YA before people figured out that hey, girls read, and maybe some of them will read more if you offer them female characters to read about.

Since then, the number of "girl books" has exploded, and while some of them are girl stories, some of them are also stories with girls. Some of these books are romances. Some of them are not. Some of them are medical thrillers, adventures, war stories, epic fantasies, distopian futures, cyberpunk, steampunk, mythpunk, modern day, anything you can think of. Because they are stories. And yet somehow, the fact that they have girls on the cover makes them not worth reading. The fact that the main characters have to squat when they pee makes them untenable to half the population. The fact that their authors grew up being told that real science fiction, fantasy, horror, and adventure starred men doing manly things in a manly way, and yet grew up to write books about women doing the same things, does not prove that literature can be a gender neutral experience where story matters more than anything else; it proves that we need more books for BOYS that GIRLS will enjoy, too. It means that the girls keep on coming second, that we keep being the deviation, and not the norm.

I do dislike the fact that right now, sexy girls pout at me from the covers of almost every book in the YA section, because I know that culturally, we discourage boys from reading those books, and damn, they are missing out. But I also dislike the fact that I'm expected to be totally a-okay with teenage girls reading books covered in muscular men with giant guns, while sneering at teenage boys reading books with thoughtful-looking women on the covers. We say "don't judge a book by its cover" like it's a Commandment, and then we turn around and tell boys not to read books with girls on them, or books with pink on them, or anything that doesn't look macho enough.

If I could read Little Fuzzy, you can read Partials. If I could read Myth Adventures, you can read The Chemical Garden. There will always be some stories that appeal to us more than others, but when we start saying "this book is for BOYS but don't worry, GIRLS can read it, too" vs. "icky GIRL BOOK is ICKY and NOT FOR BOYS," we create a division in our literature that doesn't need to be there, and frankly, upsets me.

Let's all just read the books we want to read, regardless of covers or the gender of the main characters, okay? Because otherwise, we're missing out on a lot of really great stories. And that would be a shame.

(*This is relevant only because it implies no editorial oversight. If I were to try using a slogan like this, my editors, and my agent, would politely make me stop.)

I was recently talking to a friend* of mine who is also a writer about inclusion and inclusiveness in fiction. He was frustrated. Why did people keep asking him to include a non-heterosexual character in a starring role in his work? After all, he'd said that non-hetero characters existed, and were actually the norm. It was right there, in black and white. So why wasn't that enough?

My first reaction was, naturally, "It's not enough because it's not enough." But at the end of the day, that reaction isn't enough, either. He was trying. He wanted to understand. So I figured I should try, too.

I explained how, when I was a kid, the only smart blondes I could find were Marilyn Munster and Susan Storm. How I wound up identifying with the Midwich Cuckoos, rather than the humans who they were threatening, because the Cuckoos looked like me and were isolated like me and no one understood them. How, as I got older and realized that what I wanted wasn't necessarily the kind of marriage my mother had, every gay character became a magical revelation—even the ones I would look at now and think of as stereotyped and cardboard. It was enough for me that they were there.

I don't think I saw bisexuals in fiction until I encountered ElfQuest. I definitely didn't encounter them in sympathetic roles, where they were allowed to be people first, and define their sexuality second. It was honestly a revelation to me.

I explained how important to me these characters were, first because they looked like me, and then because they were like me, and how it mattered for them to have a bigger part in the story than just "oh, honest, blondes and bisexuals exist, we keep them all in Australia because they really like the tax situation there." It wasn't that I didn't want straight while males having leading roles. I just wanted them to share.

I read three books recently where race and sexuality were just sort of there. They didn't change the shape of the story, although they were treated fairly and reasonably (and awesomely) by the author. One, Black Blade Blues, was an urban fantasy with an awesome blacksmith heroine who just happens to be a lesbian, and have a girlfriend. And while she had some personal issues to work through (which made her a compelling, relatable character), her story was still recognizably an urban fantasy story, with all the tropes and twists of the genre. The second, Storyteller, was science fiction/fantasy in the Pern style, where you have extremely advanced technology and fascinating aliens, but you're spending most of your time on a low-tech planet that might as well be a fantasy world. One of the central characters is gay; so are several secondary characters. None of them are treated in any way as either superior or inferior to the rest of the cast.

The last, The Hum and the Shiver, dealt more with race than sexuality, although it was notable for having a strong female lead who really enjoyed sex, had really enjoyed sex in the past, and was not in any way ashamed of herself for being a sexual being. It's not a sexy book; she actually has no sex during the book, for reasons the plot makes very clear. But she's not punished for who she is. One of the secondary characters is married to a Southern-raised Asian woman. Why? Because that was who she was. It's not a thing. It's never a thing. It's awesome.

He was still a little confused, so I tried another tack: in my Faerie, in Toby's Faerie, as far as I'm concerned, almost everyone immortal is also bisexual. People who are purely straight or purely gay are almost entirely changelings, and young changelings, at that. Out of the entire current cast, the only one I can point to and say "Yup, totally straight" is Toby, who was raised in the mortal 1950s, and never really considered girls as an option. Everyone else is bi. Yes, him. Yes, him, too. Yes, her. I'm not sure it counts in Lily's case, since she's a body of water that enjoys looking like a person, but she doesn't care about the gender of her meat-based lovers. So yes, even her.

Most fae marriages, on the other hand, are male/female, because the main motivator for fae marriage is having kids, and surrogacy isn't really an option when it takes three hundred years of steady marital relations to reliably get someone pregnant. So if you look at the first several books, everyone looks straight. I was too close to the material to realize that. I knew about Amandine's relationship with Lily, the Luidaeg's long-term Selkie lover, and lots of others. No one else did. What was on the page was heteronormative male/female love, over and over again, in all its good and bad forms.

As soon as I recognized that, I started making more of an effort to actually show the non-hetero relationships in the books. Not because I owed anyone anything. Not because I was pressured. Because saying they were there wasn't enough. It's never enough. We need to see those people, in part because for every kid like me, combing the margins for hidden people I could relate to, there are ten kids who just calmly accepted than yes, they were always going to be the protagonist. Mix it up. Make it different. Make us all learn to identify with other people, and take out the shadows. I learned to identify with straight white males because I had to, and I clung to my narrow band of options. How about we widen the spectrum until everybody gets the chance to learn to identify with everybody? Because that would be awesome.

I explained all this to my friend. I think he understood. And even if he didn't, he's thinking about it now, and he's smart; he'll get there.

I'll be waiting for him.

(*I won't name him, because that's not the point, and he's a damn good guy. He just hadn't thought some things through. Everyone has had their instances of not thinking things through, and it's easier when you're a middle-class white male with no particular religious affiliation. Everyone is you unless stated otherwise, in fiction. So please don't ask who my friend was, and I won't be forced to look at you sadly.)

Now that all T-shirts have been packed and sent, and I'm beginning the process of contacting people whose orders had issues (there were very few of them, because the shirt company I used is awesome), it's time to plan batch #2. This is less altruistic than you think: while I really don't make any money on this (mailing is expensive), I want a few more Wicked Girls shirts of my very own. So these are a few conclusions I have come to. Some are for me; some are for you.

1. Order = Pay.
This initially took so long because we had to chase down every person who said they wanted a shirt and get them to pay for it. When we do it again, we say "place your order, pay your total, and you'll get your shirt when we hit the minimum order threshold or run out of time, whichever comes later." Pros, no chasing people. Cons, some people may demand refunds if things take too long. Which brings me to...

2. Print labels.
So every step of this process was manual, including addressing the envelopes. And yeah, that added a hell of a lot of time to things. If we print off mailing labels at the local Staples and stick them on, it'll be easier to see how many envelopes we have left to go, and also easier to fill them without worrying about whether you can read the zip code. This one simple thing should reduce mailing time by 1/3rd. You know what else will help?

3. Order mailing supplies when I send in the shirt order.
Again, it seems like a no-brainer, but I was honestly surprised when I ran out of envelopes the first time. And the second time. And the third time. This time, I will count orders, figure out how many envelopes I need, and order them all from the company that sells me mailing supplies. I can be taught!

4. Make it clear that the choices offered are the only ones.
One of the issues we had in the first batch had to do with people going "I want shirt style A, but this color from shirt style B." This, well, wasn't possible, because the shirts didn't exist, but we didn't catch that until Deborah was in the final review of the list. So if we do this again, we need to be very clear on the "what you can get is what we have said was available" issue. This will also streamline shipping, by reducing the number of possibilities.

5. Set a maximum threshold.
This was a super-large order, which also slowed things down a lot. So there needs to be a "no fewer than X, but no more than Y" point.

6. Up the price for 3XL and up.
I hate this. I tried so hard not to reach this conclusion. But...it costs more to print a shirt that's between 3XL and 6XL, and we had a lot of those. I was never expecting to make money on this, and I figured, "well, if someone who orders a S is paying the same as someone who orders a 5XL, it all comes out in the wash." And it did, as far as printing costs was concerned. What I didn't do was calculate for mailing costs. It's about three dollars more to ship a larger shirt, especially if that shirt is not being mailed alone. If I want to be able to afford to print the shirts, and mail the shirts, I need to charge more for the larger ones. I'm so sorry. It's purely financial, and it annoys me deeply.

7. Print more extras.
This time, I ordered three extra shirts, and Amy, who is smart, ordered eight for her bookstore. Amy then did a brisk business selling shirts to filkers who missed the original order, and is a happy little clam. More extras would mean a happier answer to "do you have one you can sell me?" inquires.

Some of these you may have seen before, but now that I'm actually preparing for batch #2, those items bore repeating. Also, these are the three questions I got asked most during this whole process:

1. Why is this taking so long?
See above.

2. Why did you underestimate everything?
Honestly, I was hoping for the twenty-four shirts needed to hit the shirt printer's minimum order. I was overwhelmed, and stayed overwhelmed, after that. I have a nasty tendency to underestimate my own popularity. I'm working on it. Just not very hard, because I'd rather be surprised once in a while than egotistical all the time.

3. Why don't you just use CafePress?
You know what I have? Boobs. You know what lots of other people have? Boobs. Even the "girl cut" shirts on the "print your own" shirt sites tend to be small and unforgiving of boobs. Plus their sizes and colors are very limited, and their print quality isn't as good. If I'm basically "putting my name" on these shirts by using a graphic people associate with me, I'm going to make them the best shirts they can be. That's worth a little trouble.

That's all for now.

Fanfic has come up several times in the past few days. People I know have been talking about it, either in the context of "is fanfic okay?" or "this piece of fanfic is awesome!" And with The Hunger Games about to appear on the big screen, we're standing on the precipice of a vast flood of fic, some based on the movie, some based on the original books, and some trying to reconcile the inevitable differences between the two. Oh, and there will be banging. So. Much. Banging. Because regardless of the source material, that's what roughly fifty percent of fanfic is for. And because of all this, I've been thinking about fanfic.

Not that it's hard to make me think about fanfic. Yesterday, for example, I spent a relaxing hour during my "lunch break" (a nebulous concept on a Sunday, admittedly, but since I worked all damn day, I wanted a lunch break) reading Glee fanfic. Most of it was Rachel/Quinn, which is not a 'ship I necessarily endorse on the show itself, but which has attracted some really awesome authors whose work I hugely enjoy. I became a professional author largely because I had been writing fanfic for so many years that I was eventually able to level up and start playing in my own sandboxes. I love fanfic. I love it. And because I've been thinking about fanfic, I wanted to make a few statements about fanfic.

Fanfic can teach you how to write.

I'm serious. If you have a good critique group, usually referred to as "beta readers," to go over your work before you post it, fanfic can be a great tool for learning how to put together a good sentence, a good paragraph, and a good overall narrative. You have to be ready to hear criticism, because the fanfic community is also a great place to go for unrelenting praise, but if you're ready, the tools for improvement are there. Playing in someone else's world is an excellent way to dodge the initial world building step, and get straight to dialog, composition, and the all-important "building a good story." It lets you hone your tools in a safe place, and that's incredibly helpful.

I didn't learn how to build good worlds from fanfic; I had to start doing my own thing before I could learn, and apply, that lesson. But I learned to write good dialog from fanfic, and I learned how to make people care. The fanfic community was hugely important to, and influential toward, my development as a writer.

Again, there are some pitfalls to this approach. Fanfic can easily become a closed circuit of production and praise, where people who want to read exactly what you're writing tell you how awesome you are, so you write the same thing over and over again, without any growth. Fanfic can seem like an excuse to be sloppy. But if you're approaching it seriously, which many really good fanfic authors do, it can teach you an incredible amount about writing, about receiving critique, and about taking editorial feedback. The first really thorough editorial feedback I ever received was on a piece of fanfic, and I have held those lessons dear to my heart since I was sixteen years old. Fanfic is an awesome learning lab, and the only credentials you need to enter are a knowledge of a fandom you'd like to write in, and the willingness to be told when you're terrible.

Fanfic gives you the freedom to do things that are difficult to do in more traditional fiction.

Some of my favorite things to both read and write in fanfic are "mood pieces," little meandering stories that don't do anything but paint a picture of a moment, or look at an event from a different direction. They're all about introspection and re-framing, and when they're good, they're amazing. But they're not the sort of thing that sells. I can (and do) write them about my published series, but they're not the sort of thing that generally winds up finding a very wide audience. And in fanfic, that doesn't matter. I've written stories with a projected audience of three. All three people were happy, and I was content.

I love AU fanfic—alternate universe stories where things went a little different, someone died or didn't die or married their season one sweetheart or it's a Shakespearean tragedy or or or. And AU is hard in traditional fiction. I've managed to play around with it a bit in "Velveteen vs.", where I have the superhero framework as an excuse, but I doubt Toby will ever meet her cross-dimensional counterpart (which is a pity, because I bet it would be fascinating). I like having the option to twist things and see how everything unfolds from a new starting point.

Fanfic can help you find your voice.

I know people who say "why don't all those fanfic writers just play in their own worlds?" And the thing is, some of them will, some of them do. People don't have to choose one or the other, absolutely, no mixing or matching. A lot of fanfic authors go on to become professional authors, and keep on writing fanfic in whatever spare time they have. I am not a special snowflake in this regard. I belong to a blizzard. There are a lot of reasons that people write fanfic. Sometimes we do it because we're in love with a setting that someone else has created. Sometimes we do it because we want to fix what we view as flaws, or create a more balanced back story for a character we feel has gotten short shift, or just because we feel like it. Sometimes we do it because we're bored.

But every time we do it, even when we're trying to sound like the original creator, we're getting a little more solid in our own voices, in the ways that we shape and approach narratives. We find ourselves in the space between someone else's story. At the end of the day, is learning to write by producing reams of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fanfiction any less legit than retelling "Snow White" eighty-seven times? I don't think so. It's less commercial, since you can't (and shouldn't) sell your fanfic, but it's still a natural part of figuring out who you are as a writer.

Not every writer will write fanfic. Not every writer needs to, or wants to. But for those of us who do, it helps us find ourselves. And that's important.

Fanfic is just plain fun.

I wrote a Josie and the Pussycats/Veronica Mars crossover fic once.

I think that sort of says it all.

Fanfic can change the way you think about a story.

I've heard a few people say that everyone who writes fanfic is a spoiling spoiler who spoils, throwing mud and slime all over something beautiful. And everyone has a right to an opinion. But while I have never had a piece of fanfic change my opinion of a story negatively, I have had pieces of fanfic make me look at the original work in a new, and much more open-minded, way. Because fanfic shows love, and love means there's something there for me to care about.

I've never read a piece of fic and thought "ew, I'm never reading/watching the source material." The opposite is very much true. Good fanfic, inspired fanfic, brings new eyes to the table, and new eyes are never a bad thing. Having my view of the story transformed makes me more willing to accept where the original narrative goes, and more likely to stick around for the ride. I've never dropped out of a fandom where I was actively invested in the fanfic. Again, the opposite is very much true.

And now, the big thing...

I cannot officially know about fanfic based on my work, but that doesn't mean I hate it.

Like many authors, I find myself in an awkward position regarding fanfic based on my own work. So here is my official stance on the subject:

Don't tell me.

I have Google spiders; it's entirely possible that I will unofficially find out about your epic Toby/Tybalt Candyland slash party. But I promise to delete that notification without clicking through if you promise not to push the story in my face. If I officially know about it, I officially have to ask you to take it down, because there's no way to prove I didn't read it if it turns out that, say, Toby and Tybalt really are going to have a threeway with the Luidaeg on the top of Candy Mountain. So just don't officially tell me about it. If you write a lot, the odds are good that you and I could end up in the same archive. That's cool. I won't fuss about it if you don't.

I love fanfic for everything it does for writers, and for readers, and if in ten years, the author of the hot new urban fantasy series shyly tells me that she got her start writing Quentin/Raj sexy boys' adventure fic, I will applaud, hug her, and probably buy her dinner. I want fanfic to thrive forever and forever, and keep producing amazing stuff for me to read. And the day the very last Toby book is published, I am doing a huge fanfic websearch, diving into some archives, and reading myself sick.

This is a topic that's been sitting in my rolling note file for a while, waiting both for the sting of the event that triggered it to fade, and for the actual event to recede far enough into the past that even a vague description wouldn't trigger a big red SPOILERS sign. So you know, it took more than two years. That's a long time, even for me.

I watch a lot of television, read a lot of books, and buy a lot of comics. I am a huge consumer of media of all types. And, like many consumers of media, I'm looking for characters I can relate to. For me, yes, that usually means the females* (although not always). And yeah, it bothers me that in a narrative with eight males and one female, it's frequently the female who will be the target of violence or killed off to make a point.

Now, I'm not saying that female characters should have a "get out of mortal injury free" card, nor that they should be immortal. But there's "everyone in this story gets the crap kicked out of them on a regular basis, it was Karen's turn," and then there's "mysteriously, every male character survives the explosion unscathed, again, but Karen is in the hospital, again." Or, even worse, "all the guys are fine, Karen's dead, meet Katie." Karen, in this scenario, was probably a replacement for Kelly, who replaced Kendra back in season one. And the beat rolls on.

I am not saying that all things must have absolute gender equality. Big Bang Theory was a primarily male cast for the first several seasons, and that was fine. H2O: Just Add Water was a primarily female cast for its entire run, and that was fine, too. Sometimes, there are situations where it makes sense for it to be mostly one gender or the other. But this is a "sometimes" thing, not a "four times out of five" thing. If there's no pressing reason for a character to be one gender or the other, why not try striking a balance? One of the only things that's ever disappointed me about Leverage is the way that the "evil doubles" of all the main characters have been male. Male thief, male hitter, male hacker, male mastermind. When your core cast is so well-balanced, why not make your Mirror Universe equally well-balanced?

(Yes, we have seen another female grifter, but as she was brought in to essentially be a replacement Sophie while Gina Bellman was pregnant, she's a bit of a different duck, and she wasn't brought in when they needed an alternate team. Which is too bad, because she's awesome.)

And now to the event that caused me to start thinking these things so critically:

Once upon a time there was a show, and it was made for me. It could not have been better tailored to my tastes if the producers had been bugging my phone. I loved it without reservation, even though the cast was almost purely male, and I defended it from accusations of misogyny. It was my show.

Time passed, and more female characters were introduced. They didn't become core cast, but that was okay; there were natural limits on the number of core cast members, and I was happy with the expanded universe. It made things more realistic. And then things started getting bad in that expanded universe. How could they make us, the viewers, understand how bad things were?

By killing all the female characters who had appeared in more than one episode, naturally. And by doing it in a way that was meant to be "heroic," but involved them failing to navigate a scenario that left the male characters entirely untouched.

I cried until I was sick after that episode. I turned off the show. I never went back. Literally never; I haven't watched so much as a preview since that narrative decision was made. Was I overreacting? Maybe. But there is so much media out there these days, so many stories, that once you make me cry for reasons that are not "this is so moving and tragic," but are instead, "this is so unfair and infuriating," we're over, you and I.

And that, right there, is when a story loses me. When they use the female characters as a shortcut to emotional anguish; when they kill or maim the women because that's easier than setting up a genuinely and realistically painful scenario. Especially since we almost always start out with a severe gender imbalance in genre or action shows, and that means that killing the token woman can leave us with an all-male cast.

Bones, which I adore, has a rotating cast of interns, only one of whom is female. When they had to kill an intern last season, it wasn't her. I cried like a baby over the death they chose; the intern they killed was my second favorite among the available choices. But it didn't make me angry the way it would have if they'd chosen Daisy. Why? Because killing the woman is so often viewed as the "cheap and easy" choice that I wouldn't have been able to focus on the tragedy through my anger.

Again, I am not saying "never kill the woman." Veronica Mars is one of my favorite shows ever, and they started off by killing Lilly Kane. NCIS, which I also adore, killed off a central female character very early in their run. But both shows killed their characters in a way that made sense for the show, and did not reduce her to an emotional red stamp. "We need this to hurt, so kill the girl." You need to kill the character, not "kill the girl." If you can do that, you'll keep me. If you can't, you'll lose me. And I am not the only one you'll lose.

I find it a little fascinating that women make up such a large percentage of the audience for these stories, but we're still the ones who die when the monster comes, to prove that the threat is real. I'd like to see it change.

And I still miss Lilly.

(*I don't say "women" because I watch a lot of science fiction, and a lot of cartoons and teen dramas. So "girls" is often accurate, as is "blue lizard people of the egg-laying gender.")

"Can I promise you that I'm going to get better? No. This is what you get, you know. This incomplete person, with toothbrushes, and with rubber gloves, and with so much love for you. But if that's not what you want, then you need to be honest with me, and with yourself. And the sooner the better." —Emma Pillsbury, Glee.

"When I was a kid, I always imagined I'd be normal by now." —Hannelore, Questionable Content.

Before I begin, I want to make it clear that this is not the first time I have talked about my OCD, and the way it impacts my life. I don't talk about it in depth all that often, because it's a daily thing for me. I'm not "normal" five days out of the week, and OCD on Mondays and Thursdays. I'm not cyclical. I am programmed in a way that doesn't quite fit the currently defined human median, and that's how I function all the time.

I started displaying signs of OCD when I was nine, although I didn't get formally diagnosed until I was nineteen. Because I'm not germaphobic (if anything, I'm virophillic) or a "cleaner," it was easy to write my insistence on following patterns and maintaining routines off as just one more aspect of me being a weird kid. And I was a weird kid, with or without the OCD. It's impossible for me to know who I would have been with a differently wired brain, but I like to think that I would have been a version of the self I am now. Just maybe one with a little less stuff, and a little less esoteric knowledge about bad B-grade horror movies.

My diagnosis was almost accidental. I was depressed; I went to see a doctor about my depression; one thing led to another; we arrived at a place that we both agreed matched up with the contents of my brain. (OCD is sometimes connected to depression. Hell, OCD sometimes causes depression, either because you can't keep up with your obsessions, or because your compulsions make you sad. I've had both these experiences. Neither is particularly fun.) I promptly told absolutely no one, because the OCD jokes were already common within my social circle, and I didn't want to deal. But I did start putting some basic coping strategies in place, and things got better. I didn't fly into a towering rage over people being late if we didn't set a start time. I learned to eat food without mashing it into an indistinguishable slurry. The beat went on.

As I've gotten older, my symptoms have matured with the rest of me, as have my coping strategies. I've finally reached the point where I can be less than two hours early for my flight, providing I have a printed boarding pass and priority boarding. I can travel with people who are more laid back than I am (although, to be fair, that's everyone). I can even go for dinner without having a pre-memorized menu (I don't get credit for this one; it turns out you can, with time, memorize a wide enough range of food combinations to be safe within a number of specific cuisines). And I mostly don't take it out on other people when things go wrong.

One in fifty Americans lives with OCD. I won't say "suffers from," because not all of us are suffering; I am not suffering. I am no more or less normal than anyone else. It's just that I start from a different position on the field. Some people with OCD do suffer, because it can be a crippling condition. It's the luck of the draw, the same as anything else.

The dominant idea of OCD is still Adrian Monk or Hannelore, or Emma from Glee. I've been in tears over her twice this season, because it breaks my heart a little when I see her struggling to control something she never asked for, never did anything to earn, and has to deal with all the same. Most people with OCD aren't these stereotypes. They're your friend who always has hand sanitizer, or your cousin who never leaves the house until seven minutes after the hour. They're the guy you went to college with who has a collection of lawn gnomes in his bathroom, and buys a new one every six months. They're your favorite football player. They're that composer you like.

They're me.

I made a comment on Twitter earlier today that I was an "odd duck," because I wanted to dance to a Ludo song at my wedding (no, one isn't planned, I just like to plan ahead). Celticora replied, "You're not an odd duck, you're a normal platypus." I think I'm going to roll with that. So the next time someone wants to be early, or can't leave the house without checking that the toaster is unplugged, or does something else you can't understand but that doesn't actually hurt you, remember, it's a big ecosystem. We have room for ducks and platypi.

Everybody loves a semi-aquatic egg-laying mammal of action, right?

I've had a few people emailing me recently, asking questions I can't answer, over and over again. Not "what is the solution to the Riemann Hypothesis?", which is a question I can't answer because I'm not a math genius. Questions like "How long has Tybalt been in love with Toby? Why isn't he courting her?" and "Who are Quentin's parents?" Questions that relate to my books, but are not about things that have yet happened in my books, or about the background of the world. I can explain Cait Sidhe biology until the cows come home. I cannot, at this time, tell you who Amandine's mother is.

And this is a problem for me.

I like answering mail. I'm incredibly slow about it, because I have a thousand other things I need to be doing at the same time, and a message that just says "thanks for writing books" but isn't from a teenager or asking questions may just be smiled at and tucked into my files. At the same time, these questions make me dread opening my inbox.

How do I say "no" without coming off as an arrogant bitch? How do I explain that these are questions I can't answer, because it isn't fair to all the readers who didn't ask me? And most of all, how do I explain that I can't answer because I don't want to lie to you?

Things change. As far as I'm concerned, if something isn't in a book that you can buy on the shelf, it isn't set in stone. I mean that literally: while there have been very, very few last-minute changes, there have been at least two instances where the ARC came out, I did my ceremonial "I will now read the ARC to see how it feels as a book," and have then called my publisher in tears, begging that something be fixed. Even the ARCs can change. If you had asked me who the important characters in the Toby series were going to be before the first book came out, my list would not have included Quentin, Raj, April, Walther, Etienne, or Danny. Danny actually didn't exist until after Rosemary and Rue had been purchased by DAW.

If I say "oh, don't worry, X is happening in book Y," there's a good chance I'm wrong. The original villain of One Salt Sea isn't in the book. At all. The original first chapter of An Artificial Night didn't even make it to my publisher. And those are just the examples I can give that don't come with associated spoilers.

It's really difficult. I have a lot of trouble navigating these questions, and no matter what I say, I wind up feeling like I'm being mean. I'm not, really. I just don't want to spoil any surprises, and I definitely don't want to tell any accidental lies. So please, don't ask those questions. I can't answer them, and it makes me want to cry when they just keep coming.

Bah. Writing is hard.

The time has come for the forty-sixth essay in my fifty-essay series on the art, craft, and barely controlled interpretive mosh pit that is writing. I know, it's been a little while. Blame my deadlines. All fifty of the essays in this series are based around my original fifty thoughts on writing, meaning that I'm nearly done. Yay!

Now, to the essay itself. Our thought for today:

Thoughts on Writing #46: "Easy" Is For Other People.

That's a little hard to follow. Here's today's expanded thought:

Not everything you write is going to be easy, and not everything you write is going to be fun, and if you think "easy" and "fun" are your rights as a writer, please go find something else to do. Every book has a chapter you don't want to finish. Every story has a connective segment you just want to be done with already. It's going to happen. Acknowledge it now, and when it hits, you won't be so surprised. But you'll still be a little surprised. The painful parts of a project are like ninjas, and they sneak up on you.

Writing a book is a lot like cleaning a house. For every counter you de-clutter or deliciously sweet-smelling sheet you tuck into place, there's a toilet to be cleaned, a stove to be scrubbed, and a distressing stain to be attacked with baking soda and prayer. If you only take care of the easy, fun parts, you're going to wind up with a house that's one part showroom, one part disaster...and the disaster will spread. The hard parts are often the important ones, even if they're the parts that no one appreciates but you.

Today we're going to be talking about the hard parts, why they matter, the forms that they take, and why you can't avoid them, no matter how hard you may try.

Ready? Good. Let's begin.

( My thoughts are not your thoughts; my process is not your process; my ideas are not your ideas; my method is not your method. All these things are totally right for me, and may be just as totally wrong for you. So please don't stress if the things I'm saying don't apply to you -- I promise, there is no One True Way. This way for my thoughts on doing the hard stuff.Collapse )

I will now reveal a little secret: I don't like numeric rating systems. Actually, let me rephrase that: I hate numeric ranking systems. Unless we're talking about something completely objective, like "did 2 + 2 = 4 in this equation" or "did this wolverine do a satisfactory job of clawing off your face," they lose a major component of any rating: a view of the person who's doing the ranking.

These are things I really, really like: studying viruses. Horror movies. Collecting weird old knives I bought at flea markets. Monster High dolls. X-Men comics. Candy corn. My Little Ponies. Talking about dead stuff. Snakes. Octopi. Coyotes. Watching television.

These are things I really, really dislike: sports. Serious romances, the kind where someone gets hit by a car or catches a wasting disease and I wind up sobbing into my ice cream. Shopping for shoes. Bratz dolls. High heels on small children. Coconut. Mango. Bell peppers. Going to the dentist. Dishes. Leeches. Clowns. Most shoes that are considered "fashionable." Watching the news.

Now here's the thing. None of the things I like are inherently better or morally superior to the things I dislike. Nor is the opposite true. My little sister loves shoes (although we both hate and fear clowns). Her room is a shrine to shoes. She finds the fact that I own between two and four pairs of shoes at any given time faintly horrifying, although not as horrifying as the fact that I wear them until they are literally falling apart before I'm willing to break down and buy more. If my sister and I were asked to give a one-to-five ranking to the same shoe store, you'd see one of the two following combinations:

Seanan: "This store carried one style of shoe! It was so easy! 5 of 5 stars!"
Seanan's sister: "This store had no selection and no style. 1 of 5 stars."

...or...

Seanan: "Oh Great Pumpkin it was huge and confusing and I was there for hours and I HATED IT. 0 of 5 stars."
Seanan's sister: "So many shoes! So many styles! Best shoe store ever! 5 of 5 stars."

It's the same store in both cases. It's not changing to suit our rankings. It's either a store that sells one kind of functional shoe (my ideal), or a great many kinds of fashionable shoe (her ideal). The problem is that we wandered into the wrong stores, and our current critical dialogue only seems to have two settings: "it was good" and "it was bad." "It wasn't right for me" is nowhere in the equation, and that's sort of a problem for me.

What does "3 of 5 stars" mean, anyway?

Also—and this is, I fear, unfixable, because the internet is big, and we're all coming from different social and educational backgrounds—we have no common understanding of what "good" means. For me, ranking something 3 of 5 should mean "it was good, I liked it, I will keep the book/may watch the movie again/enjoyed the meal." For some others, ranking something 3 of 5 means "it failed in every substantial way, but the words didn't slide off the page when I shook it, so I guess I may as well give it something."

For some people, 1 of 5 means "it wasn't available in the exact format and language I wanted it to be in, exactly when I wanted it," or "the main character didn't get with the guy I liked in the last chapter, so even though I liked the rest of the book, it sucks." It means too much sex, too little sex, and, in the case of one review that made me want to throw the website across the room, not enough rape (thankfully, this review was not of one of my books). For others, anything below 4 of 5 means "this book is not worth my time."

This lack of standards is why I had to stop keeping up my Goodreads page. I found myself giving inflated scores to everything, because I had no way of explaining that from me, 3 of 5 was a really good rating, and I didn't want to be the one who hurt the ranking of a book I really loved. When I realized I was giving dishonest 4s and 5s, I walked away. It wasn't fair...and yet, giving 3s, when most people seem to view anything below an aggregate 4 as a bad book, also seemed unfair. I had given up context for convenience, and that didn't work for me at all.

The problem with "it's not for me" becoming "it's not for you."

"I bet you'd love to criticize that, wouldn't you, you critics! But you can't."
"It's not for you."

—Penny Arcade.*

One of the issues with saying "I don't like a numeric rating system, it's too arbitrary because it doesn't tell you anything about the people spitting out the numbers" is that sometimes, people hear that as "you can't criticize this because I didn't write it for you." That's bull. I can criticize my sister's taste in shoe shops as much as I want, and I can tell you for a fact that they didn't build that shoe store for me, or for the other people like me in this world. They built it for her, and for the people like her. And yet, at the same time...

There's a book I really love called Parasite Rex: Inside the Bizarre World of Nature's Most Dangerous Creatures. The word "gross" is used in the cover text of the edition I have, several times. The cover shows a super-magnified blood-sucking mite, staring at you, thinking about whether you might have some blood available for sucking. It is not a book that drapes itself in pastel colors and tries to trick you into thinking it's about unicorns. And if you go and read the reviews on the various numeric review sites (Amazon, Goodreads, etc.), the low reviews are almost universally going either "it was icky" or "it was full of science and also icky."

It's a book about parasites, written by a scientist, as part of a popular science series. If you don't like a) parasites, b) being a little grossed out in the pursuit of knowledge, and c) science, it's sadly a fair bet that this book? Isn't for you. Even if you're a critic, it's not for you. It's for the people who like parasites, being a little grossed out, and learning about science. Does this mean you can't criticize it? No. But it does mean that I wish there were some option for saying "this book was not my cup of tea, I made a mistake when I picked it up" that was not "1 of 5 stars icky book is icky."

Why book bloggers counter this trend.

Part of why I love book bloggers is the meatiness of their reviews, even the terse ones. When someone says "I didn't like this book, 1 of 5," they follow it up with a substantial why. They let me see their love of shoes, dislike of bell peppers, and love of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. They show me their biases, and by doing so, their review becomes relevant to me. Yes, even when it's of one of my own books, and even when it's negative. Because nothing in this world is perfect for absolutely everyone. Some of the best reviews I've read, of both my own books and the books of others, have been negative. It's seeing why that matters, and seeing what else the reviewer has listed in their like/dislike column.

Because that's the other thing: a lot of the time "it's not my cup of tea" becomes "I won't give bad reviews, and you shouldn't, either." When I see a horror movie that's a bad horror movie, I say so. I just don't review it the way I would review a comedy, just like I don't review a comedy the way I would review a musical. I would never call Glee a bad show because people break randomly into song—it's a musical! But I've been calling some episodes bad episodes, because the character choices don't make sense, and the entire current season is based around something that isn't supported by the show's canon. If something is bad, say so. But we need to say why it's bad...and admit that sometimes, the problem isn't the thing we're reviewing, it's us.

I do think we need to remember that "this isn't my thing" is a column on the good/bad metric. I am currently slogging through—and yes, I mean that—the latest Stephen King novel, 11/22/63. If you know my tastes at all, you know that he's my favorite author. I'd read his laundry list. And that's why I'm still reading this book, rather than chucking it across the room. It's a time travel story about trying to prevent the JFK assassination, and I. Don't. Care. That happened so long before I was born that I can't imagine what the world would be like if JFK hadn't died, and thus basing an entire doorstop of a novel around trying to keep him alive just doesn't do it for me. Is it a good book? Objectively, it's written with the same style and skill that King brings to all his books. All the reviews I can find are fantastic.

And I still don't care. This book is a good book. It is well-written and well-researched. It is not for me. Something I love very much—maybe even something I've written—probably isn't for you. And that's okay.

It'd be a boring world if we were all of us the same.

(*Yes, I love supporting my points with old Penny Arcade strips. Around here, that's just how we roll.)

I read what could charitably be referred to as "a lot" of YA. And by "a lot," we mean "essentially a metric fuck-ton," sometimes with an assload or two on the side. I have favorite authors, I have favorite series, I love the drama and the craziness and the sheer freedom of it all. Despite my occasional threats to write a book about sexy teenage wendigo living in Key West (YOU KNOW IT WOULD BE AWESOME), I seriously want to break into YA, and have finished several YA books.

This means I also read a lot of discussion of YA literature, because you can't have fandom without fanatical dissection of the meaning and motives behind every little thing. It's fun!

And sometimes it's also troubling.

Rachel Stark wrote a fascinating, and chilling, article about a current cover trend in YA fiction. Why chilling? Because, as she says, "The trend is dead girls." And she's right. Even more than the girls in wafting gowns, or the girls without heads, we've been seeing lots and lots and lots of girls who look like they've already shuffled off this mortal coil. I've read several of these books. Putting a wilted waif in a beautiful bower on the cover is the equivalent of putting a wilted waif in a beautiful bower on the cover of Sparrow Hill Road. Yeah, Rose is long dead when the series starts, but why is that the image we need to focus on? Why is that the moment that sells the book?

(And in case you're thinking that Rachel has just combed a huge stack of books and pulled out the only possible examples, here's Allison, a teen services librarian, with even more dead girls on book covers waiting to stare at you with their dead but pretty eyes. It's like a corpse-themed episode of America's Next Top Model around here.)

I love a good YA romance, but a lot of the time, we seem to focus on the "boy wants girl, girl isn't sure she wants boy, boy makes damn sure girl wants boy, boy gets girl" arc, rather than "boy meets girl, girl and boy actually have interests in common, girl makes an informed decision, boy gets girl." And yes, I made bad dating choices in high school, including one guy who thought he was a werewolf, so there's my "maybe you shouldn't date the crazy" moment. But there's a difference between "bad choices" and "every girl, ever, makes the bad choice, because it's also the exciting one." I've had this fascinating, and troubling, essay on misogyny and rape culture in YA bookmarked for a while. Warning: it may be triggery for some people, and while I disagree with the conclusions drawn about at least one series, the points are valid and interesting.

Meanwhile, In Which A Girl Reads has summarized her thoughts on YA romance, and some of the ways in which it needs to change, better than I ever could. This bit, especially, got to me:

"And from all the books I'm reading, I'm getting this from YA romance:
1) Girls should judge guys off of their looks
2) Lust equals love
3) It doesn't matter if a guy is rude to you, it just means he likes you
4) At the tender age of 16, 17, 18, your boyfriend is your undying, forever, and ever SOUL MATE.
6) If you're a girl with problems, make sure to find a guy who will solve them for you
7) Guys in a relationship should push you around
8)etc. etc. [insert bad messages about relationships here, I'm sure some book in YA will glorify them at some point]"

Pulling pigtails and frogs in desks. I guess some things never change. She also made a followup post, to clarify a few of her statements; I seriously recommend reading both.

And so it's said, because both of these links have been specifically critical of certain books, some of which I haven't read: I don't think any one book is a problem. IT didn't make me spend all my time in a sewer hunting killer clowns, and the endless stack of Lurlene McDaniel books that I read as a teenager—you know, those "inspirational" ones with titles like She Died Too Young, and Mother, Help Me Live—didn't make me pray for a wasting disease so that I could find true love. The issue is wide-ranging trends, because those can become a serious problem in the way we look at things, both individually and as a society. If every hot boy worth loving is abusive, and every parent is neglectful, we're going to start having issues.

(Oh, and as a side note, I found a blog totally devoted to recapping Lurlene McDaniel books. You're welcome.)

I think these are things we should be thinking about, as readers of YA, as writers of YA, and as people who wind up recommending YA to others. We need the Edwards and Bellas; there's clearly a market for them, and they just as clearly strike a deep chord with some readers. But we need other models for relationships, too.

And maybe a few more living girls on book covers would be nice.

ETA: Here are some more thoughts on the subject by the lovely glitter_n_gore.

So a few days ago, I posted a relative rarity—a song about a Toby book—and stated that I don't write or post many of these, on account of the inevitability of spoilers. A lot of people commented on how much they enjoyed the lyrics, which was lovely. Several of them then told me either a) that the song wasn't what they would consider a spoiler, b) that the statute of limitations was up, or c) that they liked spoilers. These are all absolutely valid perspectives, and I was glad to hear them.

And yet, as is always the danger, they got me thinking.

My position on spoilers for my own work is that, as the author, I have to be scrupulously careful, both because it's not fair of me to take the experience of reading something for the first time away from someone, and because sometimes, I can spoil things which haven't happened yet, which means that sometimes, my spoilers can change. Merav was one of my first Machete Squad members. She and I have talked through at least three different iterations of the timeline, including characters who wound up never existing, and excluding characters who wound up being very important. So there are times when she'll say "but you can't do _____, it contradicts _____," and _____ is something that not only hasn't happened yet, it's never going to happen. I didn't mean to confuse her, it just happened.

There's also the question of authorial deceit. A few years ago, people in the fandom of a TV show I watched—and I honestly don't remember which show it was, that's sort of beside the point—were furious because, at the end of the season, what happened didn't match the spoilers they'd received from the showrunner at the start of the season. He had lied to them. He had intentionally deceived them. And oh, were they pissed. But as a writer, I can see where maybe he didn't lie. Stories twist and change. Characters I thought would be totally essential disappear, and new characters wander onto the scene. When I told Jennifer how Sparrow Hill Road was going to play out, I wasn't lying, even though things didn't end that way. The story changed in my hands. I don't ever want my readers to feel like I lied to them because of spoilers. I try to play fair, and that's important to me.

Some people find that spoilers enhance their enjoyment of the work. I know that sometimes, when I'm really excited about something, or really anxious about it, I'll seek out spoilers just to brace myself better. I'm currently looking for anything that can confirm certain upcoming X-Men storylines. There's a key phrase there: "seek out spoilers."

When I get accidentally spoiled for something, I am pissed, and depending on the magnitude of the spoiler, I may cross the work off my list of things to do. I've never seen The Sixth Sense because of a careless spoiler. I decided not to see Serenity when every major event and plot twist of the movie was spoiled by enthusiastic fans. I think you should absolutely have the freedom to choose to be spoiled, but I don't think I should be spoiling people without warning them, or without their consent.

Sometimes knowing a thing is coming really does enhance the story, or at least change it. Writing stories about Jonathan and Frances Healy is oddly bittersweet for me, because I know how they both die—and that isn't a spoiler, since they're Verity's great-grandparents, and cryptozoology isn't a career that comes with a guarantee of a long life. It's not a spoiler to say that Alice and Thomas will eventually get married, that Rose dies alone by the side of the road, or that science accidentally makes zombies. These are background statements, and even if I later go back and write stories set before those things happened, they don't turn into spoilers.

I wish I loved John and Fran a little less. It would make what's coming a lot less hard.

I guess what it comes down to is that I don't want to spoil the experience of the person who doesn't like spoilers, and that means maintaining a strict policy of self-censorship outside of venues where I've posted thorough spoiler warnings. It also means that occasionally, if something is very new or the spoiler is very large, I may screen or remove comments containing spoilers from posts that aren't marked "spoilers here." That way, everyone gets a little closer to what they want, and life is good.

Make sense?

Officially, for the current dominant culture of the country where I live, the new year begins on January 1st. I don't really remember when I started celebrating the new year on November 1st, as dictated by the Wiccan calendar; it's just the time that feels right to me. Harvest is ending. We're sliding into the long winter, time for contemplation, renewal, and preparing to face the spring. I like the idea that we can start the year with a nice, long, blanket-swaddled nap. So happy new year, from my calendar to yours.

This past year has been absolutely insane. High points have included doing the San Diego International Comic Convention with my two best girls, publishing not one, but three books, under two different names, trips to Georgia, New York, Ohio, Michigan, Washington, and other places too numerous to name, winning two Pegasus awards, and finishing two more books. It's a good thing I don't like holding still when I don't have to, I guess. Low points have included exhaustion, travel woes, illness, and throwing my back out. On the balance, I'm calling it a win.

Whether today is the beginning of your year, the beginning of your holiday season, or just another Tuesday, I wish all the best to you and yours. May your days be sweet, your fires be warm, and your skies be filled with stars.

Happy New Year.

As I slowly package the still-pending shirt orders (about half have been mailed out or hand-delivered, with about half remaining), I find myself inundated with email from people asking if I have any extras. Which, naturally, has me pondering what I've learned from this batch, and what to do differently if I print another run. I've come to the following five conclusions.

1. Order = Pay.
This took so long because we had to chase down every person who said they wanted a shirt and get them to pay for it. If we do it again, we say "place your order, pay your total, and you'll get your shirt when we hit the minimum order threshold or run out of time, whichever comes later." Pros, no chasing people. Cons, some people may demand refunds if things take too long.

2. Make it clear that the choices offered are the only ones.
We also had issues with a few people going "I want shirt style A, but this color from shirt style B." This, well, wasn't possible, because the shirts didn't exist, but we didn't catch that until Deborah was in the final review of the list. So if we do this again, we need to be very clear on the "what you can get is what's on that specific page" issue.

3. Set a maximum threshold.
This was a super-large order, which also slowed things down a lot. So there needs to be a "no fewer than X, but no more than Y" point.

4. Up the price for 3XL and up.
I hate this. I tried so hard not to reach this conclusion. But...it costs more to print a shirt that's between 3XL and 6XL, and we had a lot of those. I was never expecting to make money on this, and I figured, "well, if someone who orders a S is paying the same as someone who orders a 5XL, it all comes out in the wash." And it did, as far as printing costs was concerned. What I didn't do was calculate for mailing costs. It's about three dollars more to ship a larger shirt, especially if that shirt is not being mailed alone. If I want to be able to afford to print the shirts, and mail the shirts, I need to charge more for the larger ones. I'm so sorry. It's purely financial, and it annoys me deeply.

5. Print more extras.
This time, I ordered three extra shirts, and Amy, who is smart, ordered eight for her bookstore. Amy has been doing a brisk business selling shirts to filkers who missed the original order, and is a happy little clam. I still don't know which shirts are mine, because I'm in the shipping process. More extras would mean a happier answer to "do you have one you can sell me?" inquires.

...of course, all this is academic until I finish mailing. Still, that's where I'm at right now, and sometimes it's nice to think aloud.

Everyone has what my friends and I refer to as "narrative kinks": those storylines, themes, tropes, and motifs that really get you cooking as a reader, a writer, or both. (Note: despite my use of the word "kink" here, there is nothing inherently sexual about a narrative kink. Ask any small child what kind of story he or she likes, and you'll get a much clearer, more honest picture of what they want out of a story than you will from most adults. We start forming these tastes from the second we understand what stories are, and while they may shift, refine, and totally change over the course of our lifetimes, we always have them.) Mine are pretty straightforward; years of writing fanfic helped me hone in on them like a mosquito going for the one inch of skin that doesn't have bug spray on it, and now I know exactly what they are, where they are, and how to spot them when they come into play.

A few of my preferences:

* Mermaids! I love mermaids. I've been thrilled by everyone enjoying the glimpse of the Undersea in One Salt Sea, because wow did those chapters feel self-indulgent. I could have written a whole book just explaining how the social structure of the Undersea functions. Someday, if I get a good enough excuse, maybe I will.

* Evil twins. Yeah, I know, it's a Patty Duke cliche, and I don't care. I love me some evil twin action. Blame my early exposure to All My Children and move on.

* Mathematicians and scientists in leading rolls. I think math is sexy. Science is basically my favorite thing that isn't the Great Pumpkin or my cats. It's pretty rare to find a book of mine that doesn't have at least one of these character types represented. (Ironically, Feed didn't need a scientist because I was the scientist, with all that delicious virology kicking around.)

* Alternate universes and timelines. Yes, I love breaking continuity and seeing what happens when it's put together in a new shape. Enough so that sometimes people have to hold me down and take the hammer away, since otherwise, I'll just keep smashing things. My one regret about prose as a primary medium is that it's hard to pull off alt-universes in most prose settings.

* The malleability of death. Look, I grew up on X-Men comics, soap operas, and horror movies. I enjoy playing with the elasticity of mortality, and finding ways around things that seem permanent. You can't cheat, but watching your dead girlfriend's robot replacement come to terms with the fact that she's really a brain in a jar delights me.

...there are more, but you get the idea.

One of the interesting things about knowing and being at peace with my narrative kinks is that I get much, much pickier about how they're used. You can't just raise the dead and expect me to be happy; I want it to make sense within the rules of your universe, hang together internally, and be fair to the character you've just brought back. If you're going to have a lead scientist, they'd better be a scientist, and not a magical knows-everything widget that can somehow apply every field of science KNOWN TO MAN to whatever situation they happen to be in (Winnifred Burkle, I'm sorry, but I'm looking at you).

If you're going to do an alternate universe, I expect you to think it all the way through. Yes, all the way through. One of my favorite shows rebooted their continuity two seasons ago, and while they made the usual assortment of flashy surface changes, they didn't consider all the ramifications of those changes. The fact that at least two of the characters involved didn't tear down heaven and earth looking for a way back to the original timeline was incredibly disappointing to me. (Shawn says this is because I over think these things. I point you, again, to my list of narrative kinks. These are the things I am programmed to over think!) Basically, I want stories that will give me what I want, but really commit to giving it, not tap-dance around going all the way.

Also, often, narrative kinks are a lot like salt or bacon: a little can go a long way. I adored Marvel's House of M alt-universe, but I would have been annoyed if it had replaced the main Marvel Universe completely (even though it was an awesome setting, and I want them to do more with it). I'm enjoying the current season of Fringe, with its re-imagined continuity...and at the same time, I find myself restlessly demanding the original timeline back, because I invested a lot of time and emotional attachment in those characters, those relationships, and every delighted "oh, it went like that over here" is followed by a "...wait, does that mean that this other thing didn't happen?" So sometimes, getting what you think you want out of a story isn't ideal.

And this is why I have proofreaders and editors who don't share my narrative kinks. They may encourage me to put more foxes, or talking animals in silly hats, into the narrative, but they'll help me avoid the story turning into a stew of "things Seanan wants to play with."

What are your narrative kinks? How do you feel about their use, and how do you react when they get overused? What narrative toys would you rather never came off the shelf again? Enlighten me!

Let's talk about Mary Sue.

We've all met her. She's the violet-eyed, crimson-haired, secret daughter of Amadala and Obi Wan, sent to be raised on the hidden planet where the last Jedi ran to escape the war, and she has just emerged back into the universe with her spinning light saber batons to save her half-brother Luke from falling to the Dark Side. She's the missing Winchester sister with the two magic guns, one for shooting angels, one for shooting demons, who just fought her way out of Purgatory to rejoin her family. She's smarter than you, she's prettier than you, she's more competent than you, her milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and the odds are good that she doesn't even notice, because she's just existing in her happy little cloud cuckoo land of sunshine and zombie puppies. Mary Sue, like mistletoe, is a parasitic growth, only she grows on stories, and not on trees.

Mary Sue is misunderstood. She's a cuckoo egg left in a starling's nest, hatching into something big and bright and demanding that doesn't belong where it is. In her own story, she would be something else altogether: she would be a protagonist, she would be the biggest, brightest thing in the room because that's what a protagonist is. But because she's trying to be a starling instead of a cuckoo, she's out of place. She doesn't work. That doesn't make her welcome where she is...but it does mean that maybe all Mary really needs to do is fly away home.

Meeting Mary Sue.

In fanfiction, Mary Sue was used specifically for an original character, often closely resembling an idealized version of the writer, who was inserted into a world and caused the world turn upside down and reconfigure itself around her center...The problem with using this term outside of fanfiction is simple: the world of a novel has always configured around main characters. They are at its center and, often, they are the best at stuff.

—Holly Black, Ladies Ladies Ladies.

Mary Sue, like mistletoe, like cuckoos, has a natural habitat, and that habitat is fan fiction. She is the character who steps in and warps the story beyond all recognition.

Can she exist in original fiction? Yes, but it's harder. Usually, she'll be the minor character who somehow winds up rising from spear-carrier to scene-stealer to magical-perfect-solution-to-everything. Can a central character be unlikeably perfect, never challenged by anything, and all too ready to solve every situation with a wave of her perfect hand and a flick of her perfect hair? Yes, but that isn't the same thing as being a Mary Sue.

Not all Mary Sues are author self-insert, although the majority will have some aspects of self-insertion. Really, what makes Mary Sue Mary Sue is this:

Mary Sue breaks the story.

Mary Sue arrives on the scene and everyone loves her, instantly and without question. Mary Sue is adorably insecure, but only so she can be even more perfect. Mary Sue has a unicorn in a science fiction universe, and a robot butler in a fantasy universe. Mary Sue either gets the hero, or heroically arranges for him to be with the heroine, because she's too good and nice and wonderful to stand in the way of destiny. Mary Sue changes the game...and she is able to do so because the game isn't hers. If Mary Sue owns the game, then her name changes, and she gets to be something other than a concept.

She gets to be a person.

Eves and Apples.

When I read reviews, I see the term Mary-Sue used to mean:

1) A female character who is too perfect
2) A female character who kicks too much butt
3) A female character who gets her way too easily
4) A female character who is too powerful
5) A female character who has too many flaws
6) A female character who has the wrong flaws
7) A female character who has no flaws
8) A female character who is annoying or obnoxious
9) A female character who is one dimensional or badly written
10) A female character who is too passive or boring

—Zoë Marriott, You Can Stuff Your Mary Sue Where the Sun Don't Shine.

The definitions of Mary Sue are often contradictory, as are the definitions of her male counterpart, Gary Stu. That being said, I have seen many, many female protagonists accused of Mary Sue-ism, but have very rarely seen the opposite accusation leveled at male protagonists, even when the weight of the definition seems to point much more firmly at the males in the situation. Harry Potter is the son of two incredibly beloved, talented, respected wizards; he's never been exposed to the wizard world before the start of the series, yet is instantly one of the most skilled Seekers the Quiddich Team has ever seen; all his flaws turn out to be advantages; everyone loves him, or is instantly branded a villain for ever and ever and ever. Hermione Granger has worked hard for everything she has. She's the smartest girl in Gryffindor, but that's about it; she isn't naturally incredibly magically talented, or handed all her advantages for nothing. Yet I see her accused of Mary Sue-ism way more often than I see him accused of Gary Stu-ism.

Half the time, "Mary Sue" seems to mean "female character." And that doesn't work for me, for a lot of reasons, including "I write female characters who aren't Mary Sues," and also, "if all women are Mary Sues, why does my hair get frizzy when it rains?" (I would totally be willing to be a Mary Sue if it meant my hair was always perfect and I could go to sleep wearing eyeliner without waking up the next morning looking like a raccoon.) Male characters get to be competent or obnoxious, skilled or clumsy, intelligent or ignorant, without being accused of being Mary Sues. Shouldn't female characters have the same luxury?

An example:

I love Kelley Armstrong's Women of the Otherworld books. In the very first volume, Bitten, we meet Elena, the world's only female werewolf, and Jeremy, the current leader of the North American Pack. Both Elena and Jeremy are physically stronger than humans, with super-fast healing, severely slowed aging, and supernaturally good looks. Both of them turn into giant wolves who can eat your face. Elena, despite being the only female werewolf, is a pretty standard werewolf. Jeremy is the only non-bruiser Pack leader ever; is psychic; is rich and artistically talented and smart and his mother wasn't a werewolf at all, but a super-secret special non-werewolf supernatural and also the hottest necromancer ever loves him and and and...

Now, I think both these characters are well-written, well-rounded, and equally plausible within the setting, even if Jeremy is a bit more over-the-top than Elena is. But I've only heard the term "Mary Sue" applied to one of them. And it wasn't Jeremy. His spectacular special snowflake awesomeness is viewed as only right and fair, while her only unusual attribute—"female werewolf"—makes her, not the protagonist, but the obnoxious self-insert parasite who won't go away.

There's a problem here.

Playing Like A Girl.

Nobody has to like a girl, fictional or otherwise. But words like "annoying" or "Mary Sue" are both used as shorthand for "girl I want to dismiss." We've all read about characters who seemed overly perfect, or who had flaws the narrative wouldn't admit were flaws, and those characters are irritating. But I've seen just as many fictional boys like that as fictional girls (with the caveat that boys tend to get more pagetime, so they get more explored) and those boys don't get seen in the same way. As I was saying on twitter a couple days ago, I want characters to be flawed and awesome: I want them to be flawesome.

—Sarah Rees Brennan, Ladies, Don't Let Anyone Tell You You're Not Awesome.

So here's the thing.

When a female character is awesome, when she's the star, when she's the one the story is about, she runs the risk of being called a Mary Sue. I've had people call several of my characters Mary Sues, sometimes following it up with the all-condemning statement that clearly, these characters represent my ideal self. So you know? Toby is not my ideal self. Neither is George, or Velma, or Rose (or Sally, who you'll meet soon). Even the romantic comedy I wrote based entirely around a real trip I took to real England doesn't have a self-insert version of me as the main character; instead, it has a neurotic tech writer named Margary who likes far more adventurous food (and far more adventurous shoes). If any of my characters represents my "ideal self," it's probably Angela Baker in InCryptid, who is one of the only characters who never stars in her own book. Instead, she stays home, watches a lot of television, and does math. Heaven.

Mary Sue is a problem in a piece of fanfic. But if she's in her own story, if she's on her own stage, she can still be implausible, overly perfect, annoying, and unlikeable. What she isn't is an actual Mary Sue; what she isn't doing is warping the story to suit herself. She is the story, and that changes everything.

If you think a character in a work of original fiction is overly-perfect, say so. If you think they're overly-lucky, or overly-loved, or overly-cutesy, say so. But don't call that character a Mary Sue, or a Gary Stu, unless he or she is coming into someone else's story and warping it all out of shape (and even then, look at the context; Elphaba would be a Mary Sue in a piece of Wizard of Oz fiction, but wow is she a protagonist given her own stage in Wicked). Saying "This character is just a Mary Sue" is a way of dismissing them that isn't fair to reader, writer, or character. We can do better. We can write better. We just need to know how.

And give Mary Sue a break. I think the girl's earned it.

Recently, I got to meet An Author* who was hugely important to me as a child and young teen. The Author was settling in for a signing, which is, in my admittedly skewed little mind, the only time when it's totally appropriate to go "OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN IT'S YOU OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN I LOVE YOUR WORK OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN YOU MOLDED MY BRAIN AND NOW I AM A GROWNUP ADULT WHO WRITES THE BOOKS AND TELLS THE STORIES AND IT'S PARTIALLY BECAUSE OF YOU OH MY GREAT PUMPKIN." (This is accompanied by vibrating and doleful resistance of the urge to make with the flappy hands.)

I waited until The Author was properly settled, and then went up, introduced myself, flailed a bit, and said, with deep sincerity, "I've read everything."

Without missing a beat, and without laughing or otherwise tempering the statement, The Author replied, "No, you haven't."

It wasn't nicely said. It wasn't kindly said. It was just said, flatly and declaratively, like I would tell you to remove the dead rat from my kitchen table.

I was, to be absolutely honest, floored. The rest of the interaction was awkward and strained, and I walked away feeling utterly dismissed. I had been looking for a moment of connection with someone whose work had been enormously important to my life. I wound up wondering if I should have apologized for my enthusiasm, like I had somehow broken a rule. And that isn't how it's supposed to be.

I've been on both sides of this table. I've done signings where I was tired, where I had a headache, where my feet hurt so badly from pounding pavement all day that I just wanted to crawl back to my hotel room and die (guess which of these was at the San Diego Comic Convention). I know that sometimes, the last thing in the world you want is icepick enthusiasm drilling another hole in your head.

But.

If you have come to see me, unless I am so sick that you're getting hand sanitizer with your signature, I feel that I should answer your enthusiasm with a smile, and say "thank you" until I turn blue in the face. I am my own person when I'm not behind an autographing table. I have likes and dislikes and opinions, and even my best friends in the whole world sometimes make me want to hit them with a shoe. I get grumpy, I get crabby, I threaten to ignite the biosphere. If you accost me on my way to the bathroom, I probably won't be all that charming. I'm a human being, not whatever creator/author construct you may have in your head. When I sit down behind a table and pick up a pen, that changes.

When I am seated behind an autographing table, you get to expect my attention (although how focused it is will be heavily influenced by how hard it is to spell your name). You get to tell me how much you loved (or hated) my most recent book, how much you loved (or hated) that plot twist, whatever it is you want. And yeah, if you tell me you're planning to murder me in an alley, I'll holler for security so fast that you'll believe my teenage scream queen dreams came true, but that's an extreme case.

I'm sure that I, and every author, will eventually cause a fan to walk around feeling the way I felt when I met one of my childhood idols. Sometimes the tired gets through; sometimes the cranky shows. But I am going to hold fast to that feeling, and do my best to remember that graciousness counts, especially when I'm behind that table. Because one harsh word changes everything.

(*Names withheld to protect the innocent, and because "oh oh oh it was THIS PERSON OVER HERE" is sort of counter to the point.)

So I am considering—not yet wedded to, but considering—re-releasing Stars Fall Home, since it's currently all out of print and stuff, and that's no fun. But being me, I'm not willing to do this if I don't feel that I am in some way improving things with a re-release. This means a) that I will probably re-record "Sycamore Tree," to resolve some issues I have with the vocals, and b) include at least one new song, for the sake of, you know, making my lizard brain not freak out about spending time on something I've already done.

This is the link to my songbook. Yes, this link, right here.

If I were to record one song that had not previously been recorded, what would you want it to be? Defend your choice! With two caveats:

* No parodies.
* Nothing mad science or horror. That will eventually be a second theme album.

Tell me what to do!

Moshe posted his review of Deadline. He didn't like it very much, which is absolutely his right as a reader, and some of his points as to why he disliked the book are interesting and thought-provoking for me. Most of the time, I don't link to the negative reviews, both because I try to be fairly positive (biosphere ignition and all), and because I don't want to risk accidentally sending a swarm of people over to yell at a reviewer* for being wrong.

(*All reviews are matters of opinion. One man's trash is another man's treasure is a third man's raw materials for their planet-buster earthquake machine. Please do not yell at reviewers, unless the reviewers are saying things like "and this book is so bad that it proves the author likes to microwave kittens." If I am accused of being a kitten microwaving fiend, feel free to step in.)

I did not meet this reviewer's expectations, and my ending did not meet his standards for "this is how a book should end." That is fair, and I am sorry, although I stand by the shape of the story. I do find it interesting that there's often this assumption that a) things are artificially inflated into trilogies, and b) my publisher forced me to end Deadline the way that I did. So I wanted to state two things, for people who may have been wondering:

This was always a trilogy. It's a trilogy not because people expected it to be, but because that was the shape the story took. I started writing Feed (then Newsflesh) as a stand-alone book, and watched as it turned into something longer, a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Acts one, two, and three. We went to Orbit with three books, one finished, one half-finished, and one heavily outlined. The next project I'm planning to undertake as Mira Grant is a duology, rather than the admittedly more marketable trilogy. Why? Because that's the shape of the story.

The ending of Deadline (then The Mourning Edition) was always exactly as written. Why the stress? Because when you read the book, I want you to understand that the book's last line was in the original pitch package. Orbit had absolutely nothing to do with that ending. If anything, they might have encouraged me to provide something a little more concrete, and a little less "now is the time that the house lights come up and we all go to intermission."

The Newsflesh trilogy is a Schwartz musical, not a Sondheim; it's a 1980s horror film, not a 1950s monster mash. That's just how the story is shaped. I'm really sorry if I let any of you down, or if you don't like this shape. But it was my choice, not my publisher's, and it was dictated to me by the way the story needed to go. I will always go the way the story needs to go, even if that way isn't the one that's guaranteed to make the most people happy.

Treasure, trash, or death ray. It's all in the eye of the beholder.

Let's talk about poverty.

I'll start with the clinical: according to the dictionary (and Wikipedia), poverty is "the state of one who lacks a usual or socially acceptable amount of money or material possessions." So if you don't have as much as everyone around you, you're poor.

I'll move on to the personal. Poverty is the state of waking up freezing in the middle of the night because it's a waste of money to run the heat when everyone is sleeping anyway, and you need that money to buy lunch meat from the "eat it tomorrow or it will kill you" clearance bin. Poverty is the state of making that lunch meat last a week and a half, even after the edges have started turning green. Poverty is sending your little sisters to beg staples off the people in the crap-ass apartments surrounding yours, because everyone is poor, and everyone is hungry, and cute little girls stand a better chance of success than anybody else. That's poverty.

The U.S. Census Bureau said that 43.6 million (14.3%) Americans were living in absolute poverty in 2009. According to the report they released this past Tuesday, the national poverty rate rose to 15.1% in 2010...and we still don't know what 2011 is going to look like.

This is the "official" poverty level, by the way; there are a lot of sociologists who think that the actual poverty level is much higher, since we calculate using a "socially acceptable miniumum standard of living" that was last updated in 1955. To quote Wikipedia again: "The current poverty line only takes goods into account that were common more than 50 years ago, updating their cost using the Consumer Price Index. Mollie Orshansky, who devised the original goods basket and methodology to measure poverty, used by the U.S. government, in 1963-65, updated the goods basket in 2000, finding that the actual poverty threshold, i.e. the point where a person is excluded from the nation's prevailing consumption patterns, is at roughly 170% of the official poverty threshold."

Things that did not exist in 1955: home computers. The internet. Ebook readers.

It is sometimes difficult for me to truly articulate my reaction to people saying that print is dead. I don't want to be labeled a luddite, or anti-ebook; I love my computer, I love my smartphone, and I love the fact that I have the internet in my pocket. The existence of ebooks means that people who can't store physical books can have more to read. It means that hard-to-find and out of print material is becoming accessible again. I means that people who have arthritis, or weak wrists, or other physical disabilities that make reading physical books difficult, can read again, without worrying about physical pain. I love that ebooks exist.

This doesn't change the part where, every time a discussion of ebooks turns, seemingly inevitably, to "Print is dead, traditional publishing is dead, all smart authors should be bailing to the brave new electronic frontier," what I hear, however unintentionally, is "Poor people don't deserve to read."

I don't think this is malicious, and I don't think it's something we're doing on purpose. I just think it's difficult for us, on this side of the digital divide, to remember that there are people standing on the other side of what can seem like an impassable gorge, wondering if they're going to be left behind. Right now, more than 20% of Americans do not have access to the internet. In case that seems like a low number, consider this: That's one person in five. One person in five doesn't have access to the internet. Of those who do have access, many have it via shared computers, or via public places like libraries, which allow public use of their machines. Not all of these people are living below the poverty line; some have voluntarily simplified their lives, and don't see the need to add internet into the mix. But those people are not likely to be the majority.

Now. How many of these people do you think have access to an ebook reader?

I grew up so far below the poverty line that you couldn't see it from my window, no matter how clear the day was. My bedroom was an ocean of books. Almost all of them were acquired second-hand, through used bookstores, garage sales, flea markets, and library booksales, which I viewed as being just this side of Heaven itself. There are still used book dealers in the Bay Area who remember me patiently paying off a tattered paperback a nickel at a time, because that was what I could afford. If books had required having access to a piece of technology—even a "cheap" piece of technology—I would never have been able to get them. That up-front cost would have put them out of my reach forever.

Some people have proposed a free reader program aimed at low-income families, to try to get the technology out there. Unfortunately, this doesn't account for the secondary costs. Can you guarantee reliable internet? Can you find a way to let people afford what will always be, essentially, brand new books, rather that second- or even third-hand books, reduced in price after being worn to the point of nearly falling apart? And can you find a way to completely destroy—I mean, destroy—the resale market for those devices?

Do I sound pessimistic? That's because I am. When I was a kid with nothing, any nice thing I had the audacity to have would be quickly stolen, either by people just as poor as I was, or by richer kids who wanted me to know that I wasn't allowed to put on airs like that. If my books had been virtual, then those people would have been stealing my entire world. They would have been stealing my exit. And I don't think I would have survived.

We need paper books to endure. Every one of us, if we can log onto this site and look at this entry, is a "have" from the perspective of a kid living in an apartment with cockroaches in the walls and junkies in the unit beneath them. A lot of the time, the arguments about the coming ebook revolution forget that the "have nots" also exist, and that we need to take care of them, even if it means we can't force our technological advancement as fast as we might want to. I need to take care of them, because I was a little girl who only grew up to be me through the narrowest of circumstances...and most of those circumstances were words on paper.

Libraries are losing funding by the day. Schools are having their budgets slashed. Poor kids are getting poorer, and if we don't make those books available to them now, they won't know to want them tomorrow.

We cannot forget the digital divide. And we can't—we just can't—be so excited over something new and shiny that we walk away and knowingly leave people on the other side.

We can't.

Authors Rachel Manija Brown and Sherwood Smith have written a very brave, very straightforward article about being asked to remove homosexual characters from dystopian YA. Check it out. It's a fascinating read, all the more because it's so topical.

I have never been asked to turn a gay character straight; I'm very thankful for that. I have also, as yet, not been working all that extensively in YA (although I hope that will change in the future). So who knows what's going to happen? I have faith in The Agent, however, and I truly believe that she will fight for me, and for the integrity of my work. Both my houses (both adult houses) have been fabulous about my having gay, lesbian, and bisexual characters in my books; I do not yet have any explicitly transgender characters in published work, but I have absolute faith that when those characters appear, both DAW and Orbit will treat them with the same respect that they show to all my other characters.

That being said, I'm noticing one disturbing trend in certain replies/rebuttals* to this entry. Specifically, I've seen several people saying "There are absolutely gay characters in YA. What about ________?" and naming specific examples. Tom and Carl in the Diane Duane books. The protagonists of Annie On My Mind. Pretty much anything by Francesca Lia Block. And, well...

To me, this is the same as saying "Of course there are female leads in the movies! Didn't you see Bridesmaids?" or "Of course there are female protagonists in cartoons! Don't you watch My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic?"

Yes, those stories exist. But they exist in the context of "chick flick" (how I hate you, rhyming label), or "girl's cartoon." If you omit "chick flicks" and action movies involving Mila Jovavich or Angelina Jolie, both of whom are basically playing video game heroines most of the time, it's really hard to find a female lead. We get romances and we get to fight evil in our skivvies. We don't get to have stories that are essentially gender-neutral. If you take out the cartoons where pink is the primary color of the universe, it's really hard to find a cartoon that has gender balance, much less a female in a leadership role.

When I talk about wanting diversity in my YA, I'm not asking for more specifically "queer YA." I love it, I want to see it keep getting published, I think it's important, and I think it's not the point of this particular sword. What I want is paranormal romance where the lead is in love with the head cheerleader, not the head jock. What I want is heist books and con men where it's Mike and Dan, not Mike and Dawn. I want gay best friends and gay parents and sisters who were born brothers but got that fixed. I want books that are sold as being normal, everyday, perfectly ordinary books, that just happen to have gay people in them, not the next! Big! QUEER ADVENTUUUUUUUUURE! I have plenty of queer adventures. What I want is gay men doing laundry, lesbians chasing werewolves, and transgender superheroes fighting to save Metro City. What I want is books where the story matters more than the sexual orientation of the characters it contains.

Saying "queer YA exists" distracts from the issue at hand: there is very little in the way of YA with queer characters, as opposed to queer YA. And that's something we should be aware of, and something we should be working to fix. My sexual orientation did not somehow change the stories that I was interested in, or the adventures I was able to have as a human being. It was just one factor, amongst a whole lot of other factors. We need explicitly queer YA the way we need sports books and horse books and The Babysitter's Club and every other niche story: to tell us that this is okay, that this is an option. But characters in apocalypse YA ride horses, play sports, and babysit for children. So why can't they date whoever they want, without being changed into something they're not?

It matters.

(*I don't really understand how you can present a rebuttal to something that happened. The surrounding circumstances can be argued, but if a dog bites me, you can't present an argument for why the dog didn't bite me. I'm bleeding, I was bitten. This does not stop people from trying.)

Every time I confirm a publication date, I write it in my dayplanner. This is both because my planner is my secondary brain (I would be lost without it, and probably homicidal), and because that way, I never forget to post when something new hits shelves. I don't like going "buy buy buy" all the time, but a certain amount of promotion comes with the job, and I like letting people know when things are available.

When I opened my planner to today, I found a note from myself, written months upon months ago, letting me know that today was the release date for Wicked Pretty Things.

Well, damn.

For those of you who may have missed the whole sordid mess, Wicked Pretty Things was a YA paranormal romance anthology in which I was supposed to have a story. I withdrew my story, as did many other authors. You can see my original post on the situation here, which includes links to various other posts on the topic. As you can probably guess (if you don't already know), it was a big mess. Eventually, so many people pulled out of the book that it was canceled. It's not coming out today; it's not coming out ever.

I hate that this book had to die. I hate that withdrawing my story was necessary. I am so very proud of our community of authors and readers and bloggers for standing up and saying "no, this is not okay; no, this is not that time; no, this is not that place; no, we will not say that we're against bullying and discrimination, and then sit passively by while we bully through exclusion, while we discriminate against teens who need literary escape as much, if not more, than anyone." We said no. We said no, and because of that, things changed, even if it was only a very little bit.

I'm sorry that I'm not celebrating this book's release day today. I'm sorry that I'm not running a contest and babbling about how wonderful it all is. But I am very, very proud of everyone who was involved with this project and stood up for what they thought and knew and believed was right. Things are getting better.

We're making them a little bit better every single day.

As most of you are probably aware by now, I collect generation one My Little Ponies from the 1980s. I have something on the order of two hundred plastic horses, a bunch of the playsets, and an open door policy toward boxes of Ponies found in attics of childhood homes. (Seriously. It's amazing how often people write me and go "I found this box, do you want it?" I have several Ponies I love very much that I acquired in this manner.)

As I slowly prepare to move, I've been sorting, indexing, and packing large portions of my Pony collection. I don't actually have a comprehensive list of what I do or don't have; a lot of my Ponies came from eBay job lots, or from the aforementioned attic finds, so there are duplicates, and Ponies whose names I don't know.

I mentioned on Twitter that I was doing this. And one of my Tweeps, a very lovely paranormal romance writer named Delilah, asked if I had her favorite, a yellow Rainbow Pony Pegasus named Skydancer. She lost her Skydancer in a fire when she was a kid. I understand losing Ponies. Part of why I collect is because I lost my childhood collection before I was ready to part with it. I affirmed that I did have Skydancer, and more, that I had a duplicate, and would she like her?

She would like her.

Skydancer has reached Delilah, and is finally home. I have reunited someone with their favorite Pony. And it strikes me that this is the thing we often don't want to understand about fear, or pain, or grief, or loss. Sometimes, we need to focus on the little things to survive the big ones. When a house burns down, we mourn a toy. When a grandparent dies, we get upset about missing a TV show. It's not being petty. It's coping with small so the big doesn't break you.

To quote Delilah: "I have Skydancer again. It's like a tiny little wound in my soul healed, risen like a rainbow-haired phoenix. What is lost can be found."

I feel like the world is going to be okay today.

I was asked recently if I would be willing to make a list of some of my favorite urban fantasies and paranormal romances. Because I am an amiable blonde, I am doing so. In the case of series, I will list the series name and first book, so you know where I at least think you should start. Format is as follows:

The Toby Daye Series, Rosemary and Rue, Seanan McGuire.
Half-fae private investigator-slash-knight errant October Daye tries to solve magical murders and prevent more than the usual amount of chaos in the San Francisco Bay Area. Ongoing series, sequential, told in the first person. Five books currently available, two more confirmed.

Genre: Pretty unadulterated urban fantasy.
Recommended for: People who like my books, since I wrote them.
Romance level: Low so far. Sex not shown onscreen. Safe for teenagers and your mother.

For this list, "favorite" is defined as "I enjoy reading them, and am actively pleased to see another book in the series or by the same author," rather than "this is the highest quality that the genre has to offer." My books, my biases. This is by no means a comprehensive list, since my attention span is not that great right now.

With me? Awesome. Let's rock.

( Click here for some of Seanan's favorite urban fantasy and paranormal romance reads.Collapse )

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I read a lot of urban fantasy/paranormal romance. I mean a lot. Given that I read fast enough to get through a 300-page novel in a day, easily, and am currently trying to race through my to-be-read shelf like I'm being pursued by wolves, I'm basically binging on the stuff. I'm going to need to spend six months on Urban Fantasy Weight Watchers after I finish my current read-through, during which I'll be allowed nothing but bad mystery novels and non-fiction about things that make you die (diseases, parasites, Australia). This means that I am sensitive to tropes in UF/PR the way I'm sensitive to tropes in lousy horror movies.*

The majority of urban fantasy is written in the first person. I fight the monster, I open the door to the creepy crypt at the bottom of the hill, I try not to summon a snake god to Thanksgiving dinner. This creates a feeling of absolute immediacy, while also creating a feeling of safety, since most first person narrators are reasonably guaranteed to survive their stories. (I consider, say, Rose Marshall an exception, since she's already dead. Maybe this explains why she gets shot so much.) It also limits the perspective of the books. When you're reading a Toby book, the only information you'll get is what Toby has to give, and that information will always be filtered through her particularly Toby-esque way of seeing the world.

Third person gives you more leeway on the will she/won't she question where surviving is concerned, and also creates the option to provide the reader with additional information. Sure, the protagonist is bound by their own perceptions, but the author gets to play with omniscience. This is both good and bad, and the varying degrees of third person omniscience is a topic for another day. Suffice to say that sometimes this distancing serves the story very, very well.

I have just finished reading two third person urban fantasies, neither of which will be named here, because I'm looking critically at structure, not trying to compare-and-contrast their plots or the quality of their writing. In the first, the author took advantage of the third person structure and hopped from place to place, now following the villain, now following a secondary character, now returning to the primary protagonist. The omniscience was kept to a minimum, since otherwise, the plot would have turned boring for the reader; this is obviously pretty tricky, but the writer handled it well. I don't think this book could have been written in first person, and the tense never bothered me. It was a third person book because it needed to be.

The second third person urban fantasy stuck to an extremely limited perspective, following the protagonist at the exclusion of all else. At no point, did we get information that she didn't have, which made waiting for her to catch up occasionally a lot more frustrating than I expected it to be. I'm used to being forgiving when my UF/PR protagonists are a little slow, because I'm used to being so deep in their heads that I can see why they're not making the intuitive jumps that I can make. I know how they think. In the absence of that knowledge, I kept waiting for the heroine to be smarter than I was, and I kept being disappointed. It honestly left me wondering why the author didn't stick with the first person perspective that's standard in the genre. It would have been the same story; it would even have been a stronger story, because the immersion in the heroine would have made it much more urgent.

Choosing a story's point of view can be difficult, but I find that usually, I can tell which they need to be by looking at whether the story would even be possible in a tighter perspective. And I try to keep things as tight as possible, for the immediacy. Your mileage may, and probably will, vary.

So how do you feel about perspective? Does first person keep it tight and immersive, or is it off-putting and overly familiar? Does third person make things mysterious and flexible, or is it distancing and remote? Or does it even matter if the story's good?

Thoughts?

(*If the movie starts with people in the water, it's either an evil sharks movie, an evil alligator movie, or a sea monster movie. If you see a shark within the first five minutes, it's not an evil sharks movie. Etc.)

I received an email this morning that said, very politely, that while the writer loved my books and had enjoyed them greatly, they were no longer a fan and would not be buying any of my work in the future. Okay, fair enough. Why?

Because Deadline doesn't have a proper ending, and they don't want to encourage this behavior from publishers.

Okay. Look: if your definition of "proper ending" is "the story is over, and I can walk away satisfied and never need to read another volume," then no, Deadline doesn't have a proper ending. I have often said that the only time it's appropriate to end on a cliffhanger is in the second book of a trilogy, and Deadline ends on a pretty major cliffhanger. I can't apologize for that. It's the nature of the trilogy structure that part two will often end on a cliffhanger, and is allowed to do so. I don't end series books on cliffhangers; the Toby books, and the InCryptid books, all have solid, closed endings. I try to make sure there's always more story, but you can still walk away if you need to. This book is not those books.

Let me be clear: Deadline has an ending. There is a point where it ceases to be Deadline, and becomes Blackout, and that point is where the book ends. The Newsflesh trilogy is three books long, and those books are intrinsically linked, but each of them begins, and ends, at a certain place. The thrust and mood and structure of each volume is different, and when you pick up Blackout, you'll be reading a very different book, even if Deadline ended with some pretty major questions unanswered. I didn't pick that end point arbitrarily. I picked it because that was where the story of Deadline ended, and the story of Blackout began.

I completely understand and appreciate frustration over unanswered questions, unfinished measures, and endings that don't appear to end. And I also understand why some people have chosen to buy Deadline and put it on the shelf to wait for Blackout. I wrote back to the person who emailed me and said that I was sorry, I hadn't done it to increase sales or because my publisher made me; I ended the story where I did because that was where the story ended. And I stand by that.

Deadline may not have a "proper" ending.

But it has the right one.

Once upon a time there was a girl who...no. Wait.

That isn't how this goes.

Once upon a time there were a great many girls, and they did and were and knew and learned and loved and lost a great many things. Some of them were good girls and some of them were bad girls, some of them were nice girls and some of them were naughty girls, but most of them were a little bit of each kind of girl, beautiful patchwork people. Some of them were princesses and some of them were pirates. They were charmaids and scullery maids, ladies maids and goosegirls. They were ladies of good standing. They had dangerous reputations. They were fox girls and phoenix girls, autumn girls and summer girls, coyote girls and mermaid girls and every combination and everything in-between, and they were wonderful.

Some of those girls loved each other and some of those girls lost each other and some of those girls gave up on each other and some of those girls never found anyone at all. Some of them were loved and some of them were lonely. Some of them were happy on their own.

But sometimes, sometimes...sometimes, one of those girls would be walking in the wood, or on the beach, or in the pumpkin patch, or through the garden, and she would see someone up ahead, through the trees, through the seagrass, through the roses—someone who looked familiar, even though they'd never met before. And she would go running, that girl, our girl, with her bare feet in the sand or her high heeled slippers on the palace floor, running like her life depended on it. Sometimes the other girl would hear her coming, would stop, and turn, and wait. And when they met, they would look at each other, and ask a question. Always the same question, even if they didn't realize that they were asking it.

Now, do not think that they always loved each other. Some of them were too much alike, and hated each other on sight, or were even more alike than that, and cleaved together like two petals on a primrose. Some of them were indifferent to each other, too different to repel, too similar to attract. Many went their separate ways. But still, they asked their questions first, and had their answers.

"What took you so long?"

I am an autumn girl. I am a coyote girl. I am a pumpkin girl. I love crow girls and summer girls and fox girls and phoenix girls, mermaid girls and autumn girls and wild girls and lost girls, ocean girls and desert girls and fiddler girls and girls who sing like mockingbirds and laugh like falling leaves. I love my sailing ship girls who leave, and my lighthouse girls who stand to guide them home. And every time I have met one of them, one of my girls, I have asked her a question, even if I didn't know that I was asking it, and I have given her an answer, even if I didn't know that it was given.

"What took you so long?"
"I'm here now."

Love the ones you love. Count your crows and your comets and your lucky coins.

Live your fairy tale today.

I've been thinking a lot about book covers recently. It started when I saw the concept art for the fifth October Daye book, One Salt Sea, which is a big departure, color-wise, from the rest of the series. (One reader actually commented on this, saying they couldn't decide whether they liked it or not, because it was so different.) This, oddly, made me really look at the series covers as a whole. Then I started looking at the covers of other urban fantasies that I've very much enjoyed, and finally realized what it was that made my covers seem so unusual to me. Aside from the part where they're, you know, mine, and hence I emotionally regard them as practically perfect in every way.

The Toby Daye books are getting gender neutral/male covers.

Picture a generic urban fantasy cover. The odds are good, unless you were thinking of the Dresden Files or the Simon Canderous books, that you pictured a woman in tight pants and a skimpy top, probably looking exotic and dangerous at the same time. She may or may not be holding a knife. If she is, it doesn't really look like it would do all that much damage when used to stab someone, although it might use all of its extra flourishes and points to get stuck on their clothing. Despite being in mortal peril, her hair is perfect, and her makeup is expertly applied. She may or may not bear any resemblance to the woman on the other side of that cover, but by the Great Pumpkin, she is Urban Fantasy Babe, and she will cut you with her richly saturated color palette.

(To be clear, I don't think there's anything wrong with these covers, and I'm sort of hoping to get one for Discount Armageddon, since Verity does wear impractical shoes, skimpy clothes, and makeup. Although she wouldn't be caught dead with a knife that couldn't be used to gut a rhino, should the need arise. She is a deeply practical impractical girl.)

Now picture an urban fantasy cover for a book with a male lead. Again, the odds are good that what you're seeing is a man dressed in dark clothing, against a moody, atmospheric background. There is no random lightning; nothing is inexplicably on fire; he's probably not wearing any makeup, and his hair may very well look like he forgot to brush it last Tuesday and hasn't remembered to catch up since. If he has weapons, they're practical ones. Ditto his shoes.

Now take a look at the five currently available Toby covers. In all five, she's wearing dark clothes, including a leather jacket that, while comfortable, doesn't exactly make her look like a bad-ass leather biker babe; more like a girl raiding her boyfriend's closet because it's cold outside. On three of the five, she's wearing jeans. On one, she's wearing a dress that leaves absolutely everything to the imagination, since it's basically full medieval formal gown. On another, she has no jeans because she has no legs, but does have a black top and, again, a leather jacket. In three of the five, she's visibly, and accurately, armed. There are no poses; there are no seductive looks; there's definitely no makeup. If you ignore the fact that Toby is female, they're the kind of covers that usually go on urban fantasies with male leads.

This could not delight me more.

Toby's covers are an accurate portrayal of what you're going to find between them. If she was posed more like our friend, Urban Fantasy Babe, people would be justified in getting annoyed when Toby didn't act like her. Instead, she's posed the way the men of urban fantasy are normally posed, and she acts a lot like them, too. There may be some people who don't pick up the books because they want something sexier, but I think the people who do pick them up get what they're expecting, and I think that helps, in the long run. Truth in advertising is fun!

Thoughts?

What's happening in Wisconsin right now scares the hell out of me.

I won't pretend to have an absolutely perfect view of the political situation; most of the information I'm getting is either from Internet news articles (which slant very pro-union, pro-education, and pro-not being total assholes) or from people who are actually in Wisconsin. But from where I'm sitting, it looks like the new Governor of the state took a budget surplus, turned it into a budget deficit by granting tax breaks to corporations and extremely rich people, and is now trying to take the balance out of the public school system. And maybe succeeding.

I keep hearing the phrase "personal responsibility" being thrown around in discussions of Why This Is The Right Thing To Do. We need lower government spending, including lower educational spending, and if you don't like it, that's what private schools and home schooling were invented for. Um. Okay. You know who doesn't have much personal responsibility? A kindergartner. When I was in kindergarten, my idea of "personal responsibility" pretty much began and ended with remembering to leave room for lunch in my schoolbag, which was otherwise packed with My Little Ponies. I wasn't very consistent about this. Does that mean I shouldn't have been allowed to go to a decent school?

Little kids don't know rich from poor. They don't learn racism, or sexism, or religious intolerance until we teach it to them. They just know that when they go to school, they want the teacher to be fun to learn from, the crayons in the art cabinet to be unbroken, and the library to have books worth reading. They want to learn. Bad schools beat that desire out of them, and underfunded schools, unfortunately, often turn into bad schools. Not because the teachers don't care. Not because the parents don't care. Because the resources aren't there to do anything more than just get by.

I grew up in California, so far below the poverty level that sometimes, there was no heat in our apartment. We moved at least once a year, because that was what the eviction notices required, and every time we moved, we wound up somewhere smaller, and uglier, and scarier than the place before. And through it all? Through it all, I went to great schools. I attended Sequoia Middle School, a magnet school for college prep kids. It was Nerd Prep, and I loved it there. I took Drama and Art and Computers, and I got the exact same classes as the kids whose parents made six figures a year. I attended College Park High School, the college prep high school, and I took Drama and Ceramics and Art and AP English, and I learned.

Did I get picked on for being poor? Yeah. My clothes were old and often ugly, my haircuts were unfashionable, when my glasses got broken, I glued them back together and wore them for another year. But I got to learn. I had access to teachers and books and librarians who knew what they were doing. If I had been forced into an underfunded school with teachers who had to work a second job at night to keep their own heat on (and teachers are already pretty poorly paid, especially when you consider that they're educators, role models, mentors, impromptu counselors, and half a dozen other things besides), that wouldn't have happened, and the person I am today wouldn't be here.

People like me cannot exist if we stop prioritizing universal access to good schools, good teachers, and classes that do more than force every student through the same cookie cutter curriculum—something that becomes necessary when you have more than thirty students to a teacher. If we start making education a matter of "personal responsibility," then we're really saying that poor children should have one more disadvantage added to the heaping tower of things already stacked against them. Not every parent can home school. Not every smart child can afford tuition, or be the one to win the scholarship. Not every child has choices.

My tax dollars fund schools. If I were allowed to decide where my tax dollars went, all the dollars currently funding guns would fund schools. But I don't get to do that, so all I can do is hope that people who benefited from our public school system, or have ever known anyone who benefited from our public school system, will say "You know what? I don't need another tax break on my five billion dollars a year. Let's buy some desks."

What's happening to the Wisconsin school system is wrong. And I'm terrified that it's going to work, and the people who think it's a good idea will start trying to do it everywhere else in the country. Children don't need personal responsibility.

Children need to learn.

Common wisdom among authorial circles says "do not respond to reviews." I consider this a mantra, and practically have it cross-stitched on my living room wall. Good review? Happiness. Bad review? Sadness. Review which bears no resemblance whatsoever to the book I wrote, leading me to wonder where the reviewer gets their books, since if they have a dimensional portal, I want to borrow it? Bewilderment. But nowhere in there do you find a class of review that comes with "engage reviewer and either look smug or bitch about how they don't understand your genius."

I will respond to reviewers, if we have a relationship, however casual it may be. The majority of the reviews I link to are found by my helpful Google spiders, which skitter around the Internet bringing me things without concern for my feelings. I tell them they're good and feed them lots of flies. Some reviews, however, come to me because the reviewer emails me directly to say "I reviewed your book." In those cases, I feel entirely justified in replying, privately, with "Wow, I'm glad you liked it," or "I'm sorry this wasn't your cup of tea, hopefully the next book will suit you better." Because we're in a private setting, interacting like people, as long as I'm polite, I'm okay.

The lines start to get a little blurry when newer forms of social media come into play. Like Twitter. If someone @'s me, they know I'm going to see their Tweet the next time I check my @replies. That's the culture of the system, which is built on the expectation of/hope for interaction. I don't answer every @reply, but I make an effort to read them all, and answer the majority. So am I responding to a review, or am I sticking to the dominant culture of the platform? What about on Facebook, where people tag to your profile? They know that doing so will send you a notification. Is that an invitation to interact, or is it a sad reality of the system?

Miss Manners never had to deal with being a polite, professional working author in the Internet Age. I think that's why she doesn't have any pointers for certain kinds of behavior, and why she never considers "get a baseball bat" to be the appropriate beginning to a polite response.

So where are the lines for you? What do you think is the boundary for "polite" authorial behavior—and from the other side, what's the boundary for behaving politely toward authors? Inquiring minds want to know.

We are now nine days from the release of Late Eclipses [Amazon]|[Mysterious Galaxy]. I've been talking a lot about books and reading and stuff, but I haven't been talking all that much about what makes me write. Since inspiration and ideas are an integral part of the writing process, I figured that today would be a good day to post about nine things that inspire my writing.

9. Music. I have an entire YA series that was inspired, without irony, by listening to the Counting Crows song "Have You Seen Me Lately?" while half-asleep. I hit the line "I was out on the radio, starting to change/Somewhere out in America, it's starting to rain," and suddenly I had this whole complicated story in my head. It was pretty awesome.

8. Biology. I like to read books about parasites and diseases and the weird new discoveries we're making in the cloud forests of Borneo, and all these things lead to new concepts that will inevitably appear in my writing. Almost all the cryptid biology you're going to encounter in InCryptid comes from this particular exercise.

7. Travel. I love finding new places and new environments to set things in. It's a rare trip where I don't come away with at least one new concept gnawing on the back of my brain, going "oh, oh, no, really, come on, let's destroy Melbourne!" Or, you know. Something like that. Travel broadens your list of available things to smash.

6. Listening to my friends talk to each other. If I have a conversation with Kate, barring unexpected disconnects, I know roughly how we'll both react. If I listen while Kate has a conversation with Vixy, anything goes. I find that listening to conflicting viewpoints from people I know well can make me write a lot of interesting things.

5. Movies. No, I'm not saying "I go see a movie about robots and then I write a robot book." I'm saying "I go see a movie about robots, and there's this interesting moment in the middle where someone wants some pudding, and I start thinking about it, and then it's twenty minutes later and something's exploding and I have no idea what's going on."

4. Sociological constructs. I often think "wouldn't it be nice if society did..." for values of "did" that can involve damn near anything. And then I construct worlds to justify society doing whatever it is I've said "wouldn't it be nice" about. Sometimes this requires trilogies.

3. Dreams. Like almost every other author I've ever met, sometimes things come to me in dreams. I am not ashamed of this. My dreams kick ass.

2. Irritation. Haven't we all thought "sure, but I could do it better" about something? With me, the "something" is often a story or a concept or even a real-world event, and the result is often unnerving.

1. Paying attention. I walk a lot. I look around me a lot while I walk. The number of stories this has caused is legion.

It's a Wicked Girls day here in sunny California, where I've just received the confirmation that Wicked Girls is now available for order on CDBaby.com. If you missed the pre-order period, or just need another copy, this is your chance! We're probably going to sell out their available stock pretty quickly, but that's okay; they'll ask me for more, which I will dispatch promptly, and showing them the level of demand will help to set the tempo of their restock requests.

Theodora Goss has written a beautiful contemplation on what it is to be a wicked girl. People I've never met are taking this up as a rallying cry, and that warms my heart and gives me hope.

Emily Gilman has also posted her contemplations on being wicked and lovely, and not living in fear, and these are two brave, bold women I've never met, talking about what it takes to fly.

Be brave. Be true. Fly.

That's all I'll ever ask of you.

ETA: CDBaby now says "out of stock," but will take requests anyway. That's fine. Go ahead and place your order now, and I should have a restock request from them by Monday, at which point they'll have more CDs, and I'll have less.

I was bored, I remembered catvalente's list of things to do before she died, and so I decided to write my own list of things to do before I died. Because that's just the way we roll around here. Also, a bored blonde is a dangerous blonde.

25 Things I Want Deeply Enough to Put Them On a List of Things to Do Before I Die, Assuming My Life Doesn't End With Cackling, a Flaming Biosphere, and Joyous Shouts of "I Showed You, You Fools! I Showed You All!":

1. Tour a Level-4 biohazard safety area

Look, I never claimed that I was going to be reasonable, safe, or sane in the things I wanted to accomplish before shuffling off this mortal coil, and at the end of the day, if said shuffling occurs because I was exposed to smallpox while touring a CDC lab, I can't say anyone's going to be overly surprised. I want to actually experience the moon-suit and the tugging from negative-pressure airflow. It's something that part of me really feels I need to do.

Necessary objects not currently owned: access to a Level-4 biohazard lab, understanding lab technicians who don't mind civilians in their workspace, possibly some sort of government clearance.

2. Have a display area suitable for my dolls and Ponies

This is one of those wishes that's sort of wrapped up in a bunch of other wishes, since having a display area suitable for my toy collection basically means having a larger house. The place I live right now doesn't have any room left for a series of proper glass-fronted cabinets, and that's what it would take to really set my My Little Pony collection up properly, to say nothing of my Monster High dolls and assorted other toys. Am I a massive nerd? Yes. Yes, I am. I embrace my nerdhood, and dream of proper shelving.

Necessary objects not currently owned: several nice glass-fronted display cabinets, a room where they would fit without my needing to sleep on an inflatable mattress or something.

3. Visit Maine

Maine is something akin to Fairyland in my heart: this strange, impossible place where mysterious things happen, like ice falling from the sky, or killer clowns dragging your little brother down into the sewer to eat his heart. I've been dreaming of Maine since I was seven years old. There's no possible way for the state to live up to everything that I hope it's going to be, but that doesn't stop me from wanting to go there and see it for myself.

Necessary objects not currently owned: a block of vacation time without any other commitments. Ha. Ha. Ha.

4. Become functionally fluent in American Sign Language

I've been learning ASL out of books and off of webpages and from friends for the last few years, and I've reached the point where I can sign along with Journey songs without really dropping words. My finger-spelling is still terrible, but it's getting better. I think it's just shy of magic that we can have a language that doesn't require spoken words, but exists somewhere between the realm of the written and the spoken. Besides which...I go through life expecting that since I live in a country where the dominant language is English, everyone will understand me. I'd like to be able to assist in making that true for other people. And the sign for "science" is just plain fun.

Necessary objects not currently owned: a good ASL class. I'm going to be looking into one during the upcoming semester.

5. Take a ludicrously long walk to nowhere of any specific use to anyone else

I love taking long walks. Like, really, really, REALLY long walks. We are talking "bring a tent"-length long walks. And I love stories about people who walked to Mordor, or Oregon, or just about anyplace that is, like, crazy far away and means sleeping on the ground or at weird slightly creepy motels with broken neon signs out front. I want to take an epic walk. I want to take a "bring a tent" walk. I'd really like to take it either alone or with a large dog, which probably means having someone who follows me in a car about ten miles back, just in case I run into issues with being female and alone by the side of the road. But this is something I really, really want to do.

Necessary objects not currently owned: a destination, time to get there, a large dog, an escort.

( Twenty more odd wishes after the break.Collapse )

I thought fairly hard about whether or not to make this post, as I generally try not to say negative things that can't be veiled behind a lovely shimmering curtain of "no details here." In the end, I decided that the details I had were vague enough to be borderline-generic, with a few careful omissions. And this is an important "please don't be this guy."

On Sunday at Arisia, I was on a panel called "Fanfic As Writer's Workshop," for discussion of how the skills and techniques learned from writing fanfiction can be applied to writing original fiction. (Yes, Virginia, you can learn how to write by writing fanfic. But that is another post for another day.) I was, at the time, incredibly sick, due to exposure to mango (which I am highly allergic to), but I was determined to soldier through. It's probably a good thing that I was as sick as I was, since it prevented my becoming annoyed enough to shout. See? Vomiting has value!

The panel consisted entirely of women (myself, three other writers, and Diana). The room, while small, was quite well-filled, with a nice mix of people who wanted to discuss learning about writing through, well, actually writing. And, in the front row, was That Guy. He was fairly large; fairly unkempt; had not brushed his hair; appeared to be wearing basic black for its stain-concealing properties, rather than out of any goth sympathies; and was, when first sighted, vigorously picking at his teeth.

Please don't be That Guy, part one: If you're sitting in the front row of a panel, in full view of the panelists, please don't pick your teeth. If you must pick your teeth, please use a toothpick, or something, rather than using your fingers. We'd really rather not watch.

The panel began with enthusiasm, as each panelist explained their views on our topic, and we began taking questions from the attendees. That Guy stopped picking his teeth, which was a mercy, and began, instead, picking his ear. With the same finger.

Please don't be That Guy, part two: Sometimes we have itches. I get that. I, too, am an itchy person. But if you're sitting in the front row of a panel, and have already been seen to be picking your teeth, please do not stick the same finger in your ear. It makes the panelists very uncomfortable.

More questions from the audience. This is the point at which That Guy began truly interacting. "How do I get more readers for my fanfic?" he asked. "I wrote an alternate universe [SHOW] [SEASON], where instead of [MAN] killing [WOMAN], he rapes her."

Cue horrified silence. The fanfic community is largely female, for better or for worse, and that sort of statement is rarely going to go over well in mixed company. Diana, who was by that point far more diplomatic than I, tried pointing this out, along with the note that maybe, if he wanted people to trust him writing about rape, he needed to get them to trust him writing about other things, first. He countered with the fact that he had received good feedback from women. We moved on as quickly as possible.

Later in the panel, the topic of porn came up. Porn is, after all, the stereotypical reason people write fanfic, and that's not entirely a bad thing. So all of these women are now saying the word "porn," with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Please don't be That Guy, part three: If you think there is ANY CHANCE that you might become visibly aroused by live women saying the word "porn," please DO NOT sit in the front row at a panel on fanfiction. They're going to say it, and what's going to happen is going to happen, and then I'm going to have to fight the urge to eject you from the room.

That Guy attempted to drag the panel back to a recounting of the plot of his fanfic several times, to the point where I actually asked him "How is this relevant?" (If you've ever been on a panel with me, or attended a panel with me, you'll know that I'm not opposed to topic drift, so long as it remains interesting and vaguely tangential. If I'm the one shutting you down, it's because you're so far off topic that you're no longer even in the topic's time zone.)

So please. This is a plea for everyone, male and female, who attends conventions and goes to panels: Please don't be That Guy. Don't sit to take up three chairs, sticking fingers in your facial orifices, and try to engage women in discussions on how rape in literature is awesome and not inappropriate in the least. Don't look offended when the panelists don't want to hand the panel to you, so that you can tell us about your magnum opus and why we all need to read it. And please, please, don't be creepy. For the rest of the weekend, if I saw That Guy, I moved to another elevator.

Let's play nicely with the other fans, and only creep them out with their permission, okay? I've done my best to be general here, but this one specific incident really drove home why this is something that needs to be said. No one was touched, cornered, or specifically harassed, but I had three people who attended that panel tell me how uncomfortable That Guy made them. Beyond that, I know how uncomfortable he made me.

I'm just saying.

ETA: Because this has come up twice, and is hence distracting: "please don't take up three chairs" does NOT mean "please don't be fat at a panel." You may be as fat as you do or do not wish to be, and as long as you're happy and healthy, I'm happy for you. But as I say on a regular basis, your backpack does not deserve a chair of its own. Neither does your leg, unless you are injured and require elevation. Neither does your arm. And if you're taking a chair each for your leg, torso, and arm, you have perhaps crossed a line.

There's something magical about airport departure lounges. They're these strange, impossible liminal spaces, where the world is infinite just because it's so limited. I spend a lot of time in them these days, what with the conventions and the work and everything else. The TSA at San Francisco is starting to know me by name.

I am heading home from Boston, where I just spent a wonderful, terrible, magical, mundane, perfect, flawed, absolutely incredible weekend as a Special Guest of Arisia 2010. The convention was warm and welcoming and filled with people who hugged me and were happy I was there. I had a terrible allergic reaction Sunday morning and spent most of the day sick even unto death. I sat on a stage with Cat and talked about gulper eels and Lord Byron's penis. I tried to make the hotel internet work, to mixed results. I curled up in a warm bed with two of my favorite people sitting nearby, and watched great television. I wandered around unfed and confused.

I had a fantastic convention. I am glad to know that someday, I will go back there. I am so very glad to be going home. And that, really, is the convention experience. You go to a strange place, you enter the airport departure lounge of your soul, and you do your best to fall in love with the people you meet there. And then you all get on planes and go home to your separate places, and you wonder whether you'll ever fly that route again.

My bags are packed. I'm ready to go. The city streets are filled with snow. I hate to wake you up to say goodbye...

But I will. And soon, Great Pumpkin willing, I'll say hello.

Thank you for everything.

So I was talking to Cat, and we somehow got onto the topic of Candy Land (I think I'd been complaining about the infantalization of the third generation of My Little Ponies, who went from kicking Satan's ass to sharing fashion tips about butterflies). This triggered a rather impressive amount of ranting about the transformation of Queen Frostine from a blue-haired, strong female character* in a full-length gown to a blonde Barbie-girl figure skater. Oh, also? She's not a Queen anymore. She's a Princess.

This sort of gave me pause. Because, see, I got the new My Little Pony Friendship Is Magic gift set for Christmas (and I love it very, very much), and it included the current ruler of Ponyland, Princess Celestine. Now, Princess Celestine does all the things one associates with a ruler. She rules, for one thing. She also controls the magic of the day (her sister gets the magic of night, and since My Little Ponies are primarily diurnal, she's kinda pissy about that). She makes laws, passes judgments, and generally keeps things functional. Not easy! But she, and her sister, remain princesses. Meanwhile, back in the generation one Dream Castle, Queen Majesty is laughing her blue-spangled ass off.

(Interestingly enough, one of the unicorns in the new line, Rarity, looks almost exactly like Majesty. Only she's not even a princess. But I digress.)

Where have all the queens gone? Ozma was never Princess of Oz; she was always Empress. Alice didn't become a Princess of Wonderland; she became a genuine Queen. "Princess" was never a career aspiration, not like it is now. There were princesses, but they were almost always presented as being prissy and overly-concerned with their own appearance or dignity. The Princess Ponies freaked out when they got dirty, while most of the other Ponies just said "Whatever" and got back to work. That recurred throughout a lot of children's media. If you were a princess, you didn't do a damn thing. You let other people do it for you.

Most of the early Disney girls found their stories ending as soon as they became/were revealed as princesses. Sleeping Beauty liked living in the woods with her animal friends. Cinderella and Snow White both had lives before their princes came along. They weren't necessarily good lives, what with the homicidal mother figures and all, but they got to do things, beyond getting married and swanning off into an endless world of merchandising.

Now there are no queens. When Disney makes a sequel, it's almost always set either before the first film ended (as with the two Aladdin followups), or the now-married original princess is still a princess, even if the king and queen are never shown (Prince Eric is still credited as such in The Little Mermaid II, implying that Ariel remains a princess). The only confirmed crownings I can find are Kida of Atlantis, who is queen in her direct-to-DVD sequel, and Rapunzel, although they haven't had time to make a still-the-princess sequel to Tangled. Characters with no visible claim to a throne are turned into princesses constantly, like Barbie and Dora the Explorer will be happier now that they have to wear (mor) uncomfortable shoes. It's like the ultimate goal has become "all the bling, none of the legislating."

I don't get it. When did we decide we'd rather have prettiness and pearls than power? When did we decide that our little girls needed to be put in holding patterns, unable to take the throne of self-determination, but too elevated to play in the mud and get their hands dirty? I mean, I call myself a pretty pink princess. I don't think there's anything wrong with aspiring to princess-dom. But...it seems really strange to me that no one's looking past that to the throne, or encouraging it in little girls. Majesty and Frostine were quite happy as queens. I bet Celestine and her sister would be, too.

Just a thought.

(*Some people will say that you can't have a strong female character in a board game. But as someone who was a little girl and played Candy Land? I always saw Queen Frostine as being pretty much in charge. Remember, kids narrate games to themselves, and when Frostine was on the board, there was no question about who was the boss. The boss was the blue-haired lady who would kick your ass if you crossed her.)

At last we have reached the forty-fifth essay in my series of fifty essays on the artistic masochism that is the act of writing. Considering this whole thing was an accident, I think I'm going rather well. All fifty of these essays are based around my original fifty thoughts on writing, which means I am blessedly, mercifully, almost done. And there was much rejoicing.

Now, to the essay itself. Our thought for today:

Thoughts on Writing #45: You Brilliant Hack You.

Exposition is part of both these roles, so here's today's expanded thought:

You are brilliant and you are a hack. Sometimes you're going to be both in the same day. Embrace these two sides of your soul. Then bash their heads together until they start playing nice with each other, because nobody likes the golden goddess whose every word is a honeyed pearl, and nobody likes that other girl, either.

One truly of the fascinating things about the writing process is the self-contradictory nature of it all. You have to have enough faith in your skills and your ideas to sit down and put them on paper, where anyone can see them. And then, if you want to be a professional writer—if you want to actually do this for a living, rather than as a form of private catharsis—you have to find a way to let people see them. Critique groups. First readers. Eventually, if you're lucky and determined, an agent or an editor. All those people are going to poke holes in your work. And this is going to suck.

So how do you balance the ego needed to write with the humility needed to take critique? How do you walk the line between ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIR and "screw it, rocks fall, everybody dies is a valid plot choice"? It's time to talk about the angel and the ape, and how we are supposed to balance ourselves between the two. Also, about why being a hack isn't always a bad thing.

Ready? Good. Let's begin.

( My thoughts are not your thoughts; my process is not your process; my ideas are not your ideas; my method is not your method. All these things are totally right for me, and may be just as totally wrong for you. So please don't stress if the things I'm saying don't apply to you -- I promise, there is no One True Way. This way for my thoughts on being a brilliant hack.Collapse )

Let me tell you about Rose Marshall—
Might be the last thing you’ll ever see.
They say some stories will never die,
Well, she died back in fifty-three,
Kept her prom night date with the cemetery.

—"Pretty Little Dead Girl."

"Have you ever heard the story of the woman at the diner?"

—Rose Marshall, "Good Girls Go to Heaven."

Sparrow Hill Road is finished now. Twelve stories, twelve stops along a single stretch of highway. We didn't blow a tire or take any unexpected detours along the way, and that's good. And now here we are, and it's time to get out and stretch our legs, at least for a little while. The first part of the story's done.

I knew when I agreed to do Sparrow Hill that it was going to be a one-year commitment. Not only was I not sure how much of the story I'd be able to get through in a year—there was a very real chance that I'd finish the setting completely, leaving nothing untold—but I knew that 2011 would be extremely busy, which would make agreeing to a two-year tenure suicidal for me, and dangerous for Jennifer. A year looked just about perfect. That didn't stop it from being nerve-wracking at times. A few of the stories were turned in just as the ragged edge of my deadline was approaching, and the schedule I was on didn't really give me time to say "you know what? This story needs to be benched, let's do something else." But I never missed a deadline, and I never turned in a story I thought was bad. I can look back on the year with a sort of smug pride. I did that. I turned in one complete narrative a month, every month, for a year. And now I'm finished.

If you know me through filk, you may have met Rose as far back as 2004, when I wrote the song "Pretty Little Dead Girl," although most people didn't "meet" her until I was the OVFF Toastmistress in 2005, and did the song, along with my Rosettes, in a bright pink prom dress on the convention's main stage. I went on to write a bunch of songs about Rose, showing different sides of her story. I always knew I wanted to write the "what really happened" version, eventually, but it seemed too complex for lyrics.

Then Jennifer asked if I wanted to be one of the 2010 Universe Authors, and everything started falling together.

Sparrow Hill Road was challenging, exciting, and complicated in a way that neither novels nor short stories tend to be complicated. It was, essentially, my Green Mile: a serial novel told in strange installments. And like The Green Mile, I'm planning to revise it, turn it into a coherent whole, and see about finding a publisher. But that's going to need to wait a little while.

My big, big thanks go to Jennifer, for being the best editor I could have had on this crazy project; Amber, for taking amazing pictures; Torrey, for being Rose Marshall (and doing a bang-up job of it); Vixy, Amy, Brooke, Kate, Rebecca, and others, for editorial, copy-edits, and letting me talk things through with them; and Phil, always Phil, without whom none of this would have happened.

It was a good ride. It's over now, and there were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys I sent away, but it was a good ride.

Thank you for taking it with me.

When I first "became" an author—which makes it sound sort of like a Pokemon evolutionary step; "Apsirasaurus has become Professiosaur!"—I viewed the tangled world of online writing communities and book reviewers with trepidation, like I was about to discover a whole new world. One filled with dangers unknown and hardships unknowable (but hopefully equipped with a hot Goblin King waiting for me in skin-tight pants). I was an idealist, and I admit it; I really expected that everyone was going to play nicely with everyone else. Or maybe I was an idiot. I don't really know. Anyway, I was armed with a few simple rules that I intended to stick by if they killed me:

1. Don't read reviews.

2. Who am I kidding? You're going to read reviews even if someone holds a gun to your head. So go ahead and read reviews, but don't reply to reviews, and especially don't argue with reviews.

3. The Internet is forever, and there is no privacy lock so secure that it can't be broken. If you need to vent, do it off-line, with close friends, not in a forum where you could later be forced to eat your words.

4. Don't be Princess Demandy-Pants. If you want something, ask nicely. If you're told "no," accept nicely. If you stomp your feet and scream, people will laugh at you.

5. Don't be a dick.

I have done my best to live by these rules, even when it's hard. Sometimes, yeah, I want to reply to reviewers. Sometimes, yeah, I want to yell at people, or go "but that's not what I meant," or ask them if they even read the books. Sometimes I want to stomp my feet and scream, and at those moments, I don't really care if people will laugh at me. Most of the time, I think I succeed in playing nicely with the other children, and when I don't think I can do it anymore, I'm pretty good about getting the hell away from the keyboard before I say something that I'm going to regret later. Do I fuck up? Yeah. Only human, table for one! But I try.

calico_reaction recently posted a very thorough and thoughtful consideration of appropriate authorial behavior on the Internet, especially as regards interacting with reviewers and review blogs. "But wait!" cries Annie Author. "Isn't everyone equal on the Internet? Can't I say what I want, when I want, where I want to say it?" Well, sure, Annie. Just remember as you do that people will judge your work, for better or for worse, through the lens of your actions. So if you argue every time you get a negative review, shove your way into discussions of your books, and generally act like a brat, some people will say "No, I don't want to read that book, the author sucks." That's just the way the world works.

I try to think of other people's blogs as their homes, or, at worst, as panel rooms at a large, exceedingly eclectic convention. I may be allowed to visit, join in conversations, and even disagree with things that are said to me, but if I act like a total jerk, I should expect to be kicked out on my little blonde butt. And yes, this also means accepting that there are some conversations where I am genuinely not welcome, and would genuinely not add anything to the proceedings. Is it hard? Sometimes. Is it essential? Absolutely.

There's this phrase that gets bandied around a lot: "authorial intent." Even if you're not a writer, you've experienced authorial intent. Authorial intent is where you tell someone that you love the way she's wearing her hair, and she jumps straight to "OH GOD YOU THINK MY FACE IS HIDEOUS." Wait...what? No, no, that was a compliment on your hair...only it doesn't matter what you meant, because the interpretation of your statement is a personal thing. No matter how careful or precise you are, there's going to be somebody who reads your beautiful story of true love between a plush bear and a wooden toy rabbit and interpret it as a socio-political commentary on why baking kittens is bad (PS: baking kittens is bad). It can't be helped. But you know what? Correcting the people who believe that doesn't change their minds. It just makes you look like a jerk.

On the flip side of the coin, Presenting Lenore did a really fantastic post about appropriate behavior for book bloggers. Many of her tips apply to writers and reviewers alike, as they are frequently of the "don't be a Princess Demandy-Pants" variety.

We all occasionally need a little time to sit in the corner and think about what we've done, or just to stalk away and cool off. It's always nice to see more coherent heads than mine putting this into words that make sense. Hooray for playing nice!

I am about to preach to the choir, because I have no idea what else to do, and frankly, I am at a loss for other options.

I am a professional author. I have worked a very long time to reach a place in my life where I could make that statement and not feel like a fake. I have written books; publishers have judged them commercially viable and worthy of publication; my books can thus be purchased from bookstores and online retailers everywhere. Please note the word "purchased." My books, which cost me time and sanity, and cost my publisher time and money, can be purchased from bookstores and online retailers everywhere.

Or, if you'd prefer, they can be illegally downloaded from the Internet. Mind you, this will eventually lead to my being unable to justify the time it takes me to write them, since an author who cannot make a living through writing must make a living through other means. My cats don't understand "Mommy can't feed you because people don't believe she should be compensated for her work." They also don't understand "People say they like the things I write, but they'd rather steal them than make sure I can keep writing."

To be honest, I don't understand it either.

"See! Piracy is a serious problem." —Penny Arcade.

When I first started publishing, I had no real clue how big the book piracy problem was becoming (and it's continued to grow since then; the number of available torrents increases every day). I was honestly stunned when I got the first Google alert notifying me of an illegal download of Rosemary and Rue. Now, it's a rare day—and for "rare" read "non-existent," now that I have four books in print—that doesn't come with at least one torrent notification. Normally, it's more like four or five, and sometimes more, when some new site discovers my work and gets excited about the possibility of stealing it. Yes, stealing it.

Look: when you calculate the average author's royalties on a mass-market paperback, it comes to approximately fifty cents per copy. Let's assume I got paid $5,000 for Rosemary and Rue. I didn't just pull that figure out of my ass—that's the standard first advance for a genre novel, although very few people will get that exact number. Still, it's nice and round. Now, part of the standard publishing model says that I won't get any additional money for the book until it has managed to earn back the advance, which is done solely from the percentage of the cover price that "belongs" to me. So an author with a $5,000 advance must sell ten thousand copies of their book before they "earn out" and start making additional money. Authors who regularly fail to "earn out" will find themselves with decreasing advances, until the day that the number hits zero, and the party is over.

"Internet piracy isn't that big a deal," people say. "It can't hurt your sales that badly." Oh, really? Well, if I get one notification of an illegal torrent per day...let's assume that each torrent is downloaded three times at most. Okay? One torrent per day is 365 torrents per year, or 1,095 illegal downloads per book per year. This is a conservative estimate of downloads; most torrents will be downloaded more like ten times each. Gosh, I feel popular now! Or maybe violated, it's hard to say.

Returning to our $5,000 advance, I must sell—actually sell, from actual stores—10,000 books before my publisher realizes a profit and says "Yeah, okay, let's keep buying your stuff." Let's assume, this time optimistically, that all 1,095 people who illegally downloaded my book were originally planning to buy it new, before they found this awesome new way to save money and get the book magically delivered to their computer. So unless my book was guaranteed to appeal to 11,095 people, I may have just dipped below the magical 10,000 person mark. Goodie for me.

"Dear person online begging someone to upload an illegal copy of my book because you LOVE me SO MUCH: you don't love me. You love stealing." —Ally Carter, author of Heist Society.

I made the following statement in a relatively recent post:

"Why do book series end in the middle? Because not enough people bought the books. Sometimes they can live on, as with Tim Pratt's online serialization of his fabulous Marla Mason stories, but for the majority of authors, if the sales aren't there, the story's over. Why do midlist authors disappear? Because their sales weren't good enough to justify their continued publication. Why are TV shows canceled? Because not enough people gave money to their advertisers. All entertainment is profit-driven. We pay to play, and when we stop paying, they stop playing."

Several people promptly told me that I was wrong, and that authors who really want to continue their series can do so whether they have a publisher or not. My addiction to professional editing services and distribution is clearly a personal failing, and I should embrace this brave new world of working forty hours a week to pay for cat food, and then going home and working forty hours a week to Stick It To The Man by continuing my canceled series. Sadly, this isn't going to work. When I'm writing books for money, I go through a rigorous internal editing and proofreading process before anyone sees my work. When not writing books for money, I write for my own pleasure, and if there are a few typos or logical failings, whatever. That doesn't pay my bills.

I love my books. I love my art. If I were only in it for the money, I would be doing something else for a living, like selling my kidneys. But at the end of the day, if a series can't pay, I can't afford the hundreds of hours required to write the average book. It's just not feasible. Note the number of unpublished "first in series" books I have sitting around. Until they sell, I can't afford to write the sequels. No matter how much I want to.

"People will spend fifteen bucks on an ironic shirt." —Penny Arcade.

A paperback book costs ten dollars, retail, and less if bought at a discount or with a coupon. This is about the same as a ticket to the movies. Even if you read fast, it will probably take you a minimum of three hours to finish said paperback, and then it's yours to keep. The movie is over faster, and also not yours at the end of the evening. (This is not to say that people don't pirate movies, and that said piracy isn't a huge concern. They do, and it is. But that isn't my department, as yet. Believe me, I'll start researching film piracy the day that Feed is optioned for the big screen.) People are constantly willing to pay for things that are more transitory than books, yet seem to blank out when asked why stealing books is still theft.

"I'll buy it later." Really? "I just want to see if I like it." Okay, how about you download the free chapters from the author's website, and then go to a bookstore? "I want to see if the author has improved since the last one." See above. "I disagree with the author's moral or ethical stance, so I'm voting with my dollars." Okay. You're also voting through theft. Why not get the book from a library or support your local used bookstore instead? It would be a lot less sketchy.

I know plenty of people who would never dream of walking into my house and stealing a book off my shelf, but have talked themselves around to the point where downloading books illegally is just not the same thing, not the same thing at all. It's the same thing. Don't believe me? Ask Paul Cornell (taken from Twitter):

"Just saw download site with 2356 illegal downloads of Knight and Squire. You have no idea how angry that makes me. Bloody thieves."
"Thanks everyone who's said they're buying it. No thanks to: 'well, if it was legally downloadable...' Like they're forced to steal it."
"Just heard: average number of illegal downloads = four times legal sales. That's why your favorite title got canceled. No margin left."

The margin is what makes it profitable for publishers to keep publishing. The margin keeps their lights on, and keeps the creators receiving royalty checks, and now we're back to feeding my cats, which is a topic I think about a great deal. The cats don't give me a choice.

I leave you with this grim thought. Yesterday, I was sitting around, minding my own business, when a friend of mine (name redacted as it was a private conversation) messaged me with:

"Somebody went to the trouble to photocopy all of [upcoming, not yet released book] and put it up online."

This sort of thing tightens control over ARCs, which reduces their distribution to book bloggers, which makes it harder for you to find well-informed early reviews. It potentially hurts my friend's sales, which may result, long-term, in her being dropped from her publisher, which means no more books for her fans. So who does Internet piracy hurt?

It hurts you.

Officially, for the current dominant culture of the country where I live, the new year begins on January 1st. I don't really remember when I started celebrating the new year on November 1st, as dictated by the Wiccan calendar; it's just the time that feels right to me. Harvest is ending. We're sliding into the long winter, time for contemplation, renewal, and preparing to face the spring. I like the idea that we can start the year with a nice, long, blanket-swaddled nap. So happy new year, from my calendar to yours.

This past year has been an absolute roller coaster ride. High points have included my first-ever visit to Australia (and winning the CAMPBELL AWARD OMG), publishing not one, but three books, under two different names, a good half-dozen conventions, ranging from the massive (San Diego forever!) to the small and intimate (Spocon rules!), winning my third Pegasus Award, and finishing three more books. I never said I was all that fond of sleep. Low points have included exhaustion, travel woes, illness, and throwing my back out. On the balance, I'm calling it a win.

Whether today is the beginning of your year, the beginning of your holiday season, or just another Monday, I wish all the best to you and yours. May your days be sweet, your fires be warm, and your skies be filled with stars.

Happy New Year.

The first time I remember seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I was twelve years old. We had successfully managed to beg, whine, cajole, and generally be annoying little brats, and Lucy's mom had agreed to rent it for us—a movie that had already taken on truly cult status in the hearts and minds of middle school girls everywhere. We'd heard older teens talk about it, and now, at long last, we were going to see it.

If you ever want to make absolutely sure a movie lives up to the hype, make sure you show it to a group of twelve-year-olds after they've spent the entire afternoon gorging themselves on pizza and sugar. Seriously. Every line was poetry, every song was the music of the spheres, and every fishnet-covered body part was a revelation (I hadn't even known you could put fishnets on some of those body parts). I walked away obsessed with all things Rocky. I acquired the photo "novelization" of the movie, a book on the history of Rocky Horror, and a copy of the score. I begged until my grandmother bought me the soundtrack from the stage show. I developed a real fondness for fishnets.

As the years stacked up and I plummeted into my teens, I began going to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show almost every Saturday night at the UC Theater in Berkeley, where Indecent Exposure was the standing cast. I dutifully learned all the call-backs and dance routines. I bought cast T-shirts and learned to put on pancake makeup. I even started making my own sequined applique patterns, and designed my own Transylvanian costume* from scratch. I pan-handled for quarters to pay my admission. I dragged my friends. I sat up all night in IHOP, talking about this movie which was a shared experience and a shared community for all of us.

If you've never been a Rocky fan, it was sort of like being a Browncoat, only sluttier and with more sing-alongs.

I'm older now than I was then; I no longer have the time to devote three nights a week to being part of a specific fandom. But I miss it. I really do. I miss the feeling of community, the in-jokes that we were happy to explain to anyone who said they wanted to join, the ticket stubs and the smell of damp velvet and the after-movie donuts at the cheapo donut stand down the block. I miss sewing canvas backing into my lingerie and calling it "outerwear." But most of all, I miss the moment when the whole theater would be chanting "LIPS! LIPS! LIPS! LIPS!" and the lights would go down, and for two sweet hours, the world would start making sense.

Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change ready. This moment of nostalgia brought to you by tonight's Rocky-themed episode of Glee, which will be watched by twelve-year-olds, and which brings my world full-circle.

Let's do the Time Warp again.

(*My hand-sequined tuxedo coat was one of the things I lost when we lost our entire storage unit the year I turned seventeen. I scoured yard sales and flea markets for years, hoping it would show up. It had a sequined applique of a teddy bear dressed as a Transylvanian on one sleeve, and one of a doll whose hair matched the way I always styled mine on the other, and it was battered and odd and I loved it. I still miss that jacket, even if I don't do Rocky anymore.)

Welcome to the forty-fourth essay in my fifty-essay series on the art, craft, and occasional mild psychosis that is writing. For a series that started entirely by accident, it sure has lasted a long way. All fifty of these essays are based around my original fifty thoughts on writing, which were written in no particular order.

This explains a lot. Thanks for sticking it out this far. Our thought for today:

Thoughts on Writing #44: I Don't Gotta Like You To Love You.

Context is also love. Bearing that in mind, here's today's expanded thought:

You don't have to like your characters. You just have to stay true to your characters. I may not appreciate the fact that Shaun insults Mahir's wife on a daily basis, but it's what the character would do, and I'm not going to change him just because I don't approve of his behavior. Some people will assume you approve of everything your characters do. Try to learn tolerance. Also, don't punch them.

In the course of writing a story or book, authors will very often need to write about people they don't particularly like. Sometimes those people will be the heroes, sometimes they'll be the villains, and sometimes they'll just be spear-carriers, but they're going to exist. So how do we handle it? More, how do we handle the real people who assume that, just because we wrote about something, we must believe it/agree with it/support it in real life? It's time to talk about the times we clash with the people in our heads, and how we deal with all the consequences that come after.

Ready? Good. Let's begin.

( My thoughts are not your thoughts; my process is not your process; my ideas are not your ideas; my method is not your method. All these things are totally right for me, and may be just as totally wrong for you. So please don't stress if the things I'm saying don't apply to you -- I promise, there is no One True Way. This way for my thoughts on fighting with your imaginary friends.Collapse )

My heart hurts.

To begin with, please go read Kate Harding's excellent post on childhood bullying. A lot of it applies universally. The part about people being willing to say "but he/she's really a good kid" about bullies especially speaks to me, because I heard that when I was younger. I heard that a lot.

So here, full disclosure time: I was a weird kid. I was too smart for my classmates and too socially inept for my teachers. I was years behind in the areas of "giving things up," clinging to My Little Ponies and imaginary friends long past the point where it was "cool." My family was poor. I didn't have fashionable clothes or lunch sacks full of things to trade. I couldn't throw birthday parties, and when it was my turn to bring things to share with the class, they were always homemade—not the best way to look cool when the other students could afford fancy things from fancy bakeries. I liked books better than I liked boys. I watched cartoons. I sang in public. I wrote weird stories for class assignments. I came from a single-parent household. I stood out, no matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to be "normal." "Normal" wasn't in my skill set.

The kids I went to school with were exactly as understanding of all this concentrated weirdness as you'd expect them to be. They pushed me around, made fun of me, stole my homework; they ripped my books in half, shoved me into closets, knocked my lunches out of my hands. I can't stand the thought of getting a library card, because they stole my library books, leaving me with a fine my family's welfare-level budget couldn't pay. I was from a family so poor that ketchup really was considered a vegetable, and the little creeps I went to school with stole my library books. Not because I fought back, because I didn't. Not because I'd done anything to them, because I hadn't. Because they thought it was funny.

I listened to the adults when they told me it was my fault for being different. That if I just ignored the bullies, they'd go away and find an easier target. That if I was willing to change, to conform, that the bullies would be my friends, and not my tormentors. Why I would want to befriend people who once pushed me into traffic because, again, they thought it was funny...that part was never explained. I ate a lot of lunches in the office or the library. I got better about keeping my head down, about not crying where anyone could see me, and about answering "How was your day?" with the obligatory lie.

Fine. My day was fine. I had a lot of "fine" days back then. It's amazing how often "fine" meant "horrible, terrible, mortifying, humiliating, dehumanizing, brutal." All I ever had to say was "fine."

By the time I was fifteen, I had attempted suicide multiple times. Luckily for me, the Internet wasn't around to make it easier, and I had to rely on (often inaccurate) second-hand information. Right around the time I started to fully understand what it would take for me to kill myself, I started meeting people who understood what it was like to be different, who didn't make fun of me for being myself. It helped that my high school was across the street from a junior college, giving me easy access to a whole new social circle. There are times when I honestly believe that if I'd gone to a different school, I wouldn't have survived to graduate.

In a way, I was one of the lucky ones. I was a member of my school's dominant racial group. It was a college prep school, and most of the students were too focused on scholarships and golden tickets to make hounding me their life's goal—I was a hobby, not a vocation. I was rarely the target of violence. When I came out of the closet, I got some additional mockery, but not much; not enough to truly make things worse than they already were. My life could have been much, much harder...and I say that as someone who literally developed stress headaches and ulcers by the age of seventeen, from the strain of coping with the bullying.

It didn't help that for decades—and I do mean decades—I blamed myself. There had to be something inherently wrong with me, right? Otherwise, the bullies would leave me alone. Especially since so many of the bullies had friends, had favorite teachers, were golden children who could do no wrong. I was convinced that I was somehow flawed, and that I was just too stupid to see it. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Only it turns out that there's no explanation. Some bullies come from broken homes, or have low self-esteem, or need to prove themselves on the pecking order. Others...don't. Some bullies are wealthy, smart, attractive, and have everything in the world going for them. Some bullies do it because they can. Oh, I'm sure that every bully has a root cause, but at the end of the day, you bully, or you don't. One choice is right, one choice is wrong. And way too many people make the wrong choice, because it's easy, because it gives them power, because it's fun to kick the people that nobody will defend. Most bullies seem to learn early that their victims have been trained to "be the bigger person" and "turn the other cheek." You know what? Ignoring a bully just makes it more fun to torment you, because then, if they get you to react, they know they've won.

We've known for a long time that school bullying was out of control, but every time it gets "uncovered" again, people react like it's some sort of shock. Kids can be mean? HORRORS! Kids bully other kids? HORRORS!

Bullshit.

Everyone at my high school knew that bullying happened. If you were a bully, you knew. If you were bullied, you knew. If you were neither of the above, you tried not to align yourself too closely with the bullied, because there was a chance the big red target we all had painted on our backs might rub off. No one in the American school system is ignorant of bullying. But still, we take the word of the bullies over the word of the bullied. Still, we allow for the mistreatment and marginalization of anyone labeled "different."

And still, kids are dying over it.

This whole situation hurts my heart. Please, please, speak out against bullying. Break the cycle. Humanity will always have the potential to be cruel, but isn't the world already difficult enough? No one should die for the crime of being different. No one should learn the lessons so many of us were forced to learn.

No one else should die because we didn't stand up and say "enough" to the bullies of the world. The fact that I have to write "no one else," and not "no one," just shows how bad the situation has become.

Please. Break the cycle, before it's too late for someone else.

Please.