reading

Perfection

It’s raining, yesterday was A Day, and I’m exhausted. So instead of doing what I should—writing any of my WIPs or doing book reviews—I’m here drinking my coffee and blogging.

This is hard to admit, but when it comes to my writing, my perfectionism kicks into high gear. That is not to say I’m a “perfect” writer; far from it. What I mean is that I have a tendency to cave to my anxieties and believe that absolutely nothing, no matter how hard I try, will be good enough on an interpersonal level.

It’s never about the actual words on the page or the characters or the plot. It’s always, always, always about whether or not I’ve “perfectly” represented some particular thing. Sometimes this isn’t even a large part of the story. Most often, it’s an aspect of a character’s identity.

There is no such thing as a perfect novel or perfect representation. Almost no matter what we do, someone will have issue with it. I’ve seen people criticized for writing about their real-life experiences, both because someone felt that narrative was “overdone” and because they felt it was “incorrect.”

There will always be people on both sides of any situation, with nearly anything for which a person can be marginalized in our society. It’s unnecessary (and I would argue does more harm than good) to self-righteously insist one’s personal preference be the yardstick.

That’s not to say there can’t be terrible representation or wonderful representation. Only that most falls somewhere in the middle, and we need to be careful when addressing it that we aren’t invalidating someone’s lived experience or need for validation in their books in the process. This is different from when people who are part of a marginalized group repeatedly explain to those who are not that what they’re doing is harmful. I’m specifically talking about #OwnVoices work here and whose narrative is allowed to be put forth.

When I read the “you should always/you should never/you should stop doing XYZ,” it flips a switch in me. I go from feeling like I can put myself into my work to believing that my experiences are “incorrect” and not worthy of appearing on page because they fit too neatly into a “problematic” narrative. Instead of being allowed to explore healing through my art, I feel as though I have to quite literally change who I am in order to be accepted—to pretend these are not parts of my life.

To be honest, it’s also reminiscent of the type of interpersonal perfectionism which is rampant in evangelical Christianity, too, only they usually call that “sin.” It’s a level of nit-picking which is really more about personal preference than anything which does actual damage. This is the voice of my trauma, the way in which I was led to believe that who I am is so broken that I’m lucky “God” was willing to glance my way.

I’m trying to let go of that type of perfectionism. Of course I’ll still work to listen and understand, particularly when it comes to identities apart from my own. However, I also need to give myself permission to write about my life and feelings, free of “thou shalt nots.” I think in leaving the door open, I will also be able to extend more grace to others about their work.

Gatekeeping and the Priority of Own Voices Books

Books, Fiction, LGBTQ+, Social Justice, Writing

It’s been a while since I blogged any truly personal thoughts on a subject. These days, I mostly review books, so today I’m appealing as a reader rather than an author. I’ve sat on this for some time, wondering how I could capture it without sounding angry or like a whiny, entitled author. I’m still not sure there’s a way to do it, and there is no way I could summarize the entirety of the problem in a single blog post.

I’m going to address gatekeeping in queer lit and the way LGBTQ+ people are frequently locked out of telling our own stories.

The reason I’m doing this now is a recent kerfuffle involving VOYA (Voices of Youth Advocacy), a journal for librarians working young adult literature. I won’t get into the particulars here; you can read some of it at this link, and there are others in the article.

This is not VOYA’s first bungle. I became aware of what happened because I’m a book blogger involved in bisexual advocacy. However, while sifting through the mess, I came across this piece, written regarding a dreadful, clueless piece previously appearing in VOYA.

To sum up, a white man made noises about how hard it is to represent youth of color. Where he failed—and where that intersects with me as an author and book blogger—is that he also claimed he was doing his best in a field it’s difficult for writers of color to break into. He was only doing what they could not.

Well.

That all sounds horribly, painfully familiar.

Time and again, I have seen LGBTQ+ authors struggle to break into the largest genre of queer lit: namely, MM romance. Now, you could argue that there are already plenty of LGBTQ+ authors in the genre, and that would be true to an extent (self included). But reality is that we do not own the genre. The bulk of it is not written by or for us in any sense.

I’m not writing about it to complain that I’m not getting my due or that I personally have been slighted in some way. I write because I like to, and it’s not my primary income. I’m thrilled when I sell copies. Is it painful to get a negative review? Yes, but only because it is for all of us.

What bothers me far more is so-called “LGBT” review mills which consistently provide the most negative reviews for:

LGBTQ+ non-romance, particularly gay literary work
Most lesbian fiction
Books with “het sex” (even when the romance is MM)
Polyamory that isn’t menage
Trans characters
Femme men
YA novels without romance
Books with the label bisexual (regardless of the relationships)
Books by and about people of color

Not surprisingly, a lot of those books are the ones written by and for LGBTQ+ people.

Even more disturbing, when called on it, some writers claim that they are writing about us because for unspecified reasons, we somehow “can’t.” Just like Patrick Jones failed to understand that the lack of representation is not because white folks didn’t step up to the plate, cisgender straight people do not seem to understand that the lack of representation is not because we “can’t” write our own stories—it’s because when we do, they are too queer for mainstream readers, and we are consistently locked out of our own genre.

In the last several months, I’ve begun to speak up when I see straight people going after LGBTQ+ writers. In particular, this is often cisgender straight women going after gay men and then accusing them of misogyny or cisgender people going after trans folk in aggressive or pitying ways. The result has been an outpouring of private messages, emails, and comments from other LGBTQ+ people saying they feel uncomfortable speaking up for fear of being alienated.

This bothers me a lot more than when I get a negative book review. It’s upsetting, for sure. Some days, it makes me think about quitting. But it makes me a lot angrier as a book reviewer myself. How dare a straight person review a book by and for the LGBTQ+ community and tell us what it should have been or how it failed to be their version of queer?

I review a lot of books by all kinds of writers. It would make me a terrible reviewer (and probably a terrible human being) if I read a book by someone in a community I am not part of and then shredded it for not meeting my stereotyped expectations.

This isn’t acceptable in any other genre except MM romance. Even lesbian romance has been largely reclaimed—at least in a mainstream sense—from the jaws of straight male writers. And the excuses for perpetuating it in MM are so thin. No one would accept a large body of white people claiming to read books about people of color, written mainly by white folks, on the grounds that they are tired of whiteness. Most people should then turn to books by people of color to meet the need for diversity. (I realize that some don’t, but we rightly go after them, as people did with Patrick Jones.)

You cannot expect me to take you seriously if you say in the same breath that you read MM novels to escape the dynamics of heterosexual relationships while also complaining about queer lit that doesn’t imitate it. You also can’t expect me to take you seriously when you say you read MM novels to avoid heteronormativity but then complain about books written by actual LGBTQ+ people who have families and children, and write about them, claiming they have failed to capture “real” queerness.

Bisexual cisgender women*, you do not get even one pass on this either. Saying you read or write MM romance to find the “representation” you didn’t get when you were coming out is the pinnacle of bizarre, since there are many fine lesbian and bisexual women writing high-quality FF. Erasing women who love women from the equation is not a path toward representation.

So why do we allow the unchecked internalized misogyny, the objectification of queer lives and bodies, and the gatekeeping and policing of LGBTQ+ authors? There are no reasons on the planet, in my opinion, which are good enough to make me think this is acceptable. Not even the claim of gay men having male privilege over straight women holds water when for the most part, there’s blatant disregard of the ways in which gay and bisexual men have been brutalized.

Before someone voices outrage and says I’m shutting down their free speech, hear me out. I’m not looking for straight women to stop reading or writing MM romance. I certainly don’t advocate for some of the vile misogyny and biphobia which shows up in both some gay literature and in some MM romance written by men (and, let’s be honest, plenty of women). I’m not suggesting that readers need to stop loving romance or that they shouldn’t have preferences for what stories they like. Heck, when it comes to erotica, I figure whatever turns you on is fair game because that’s the nature of the beast.

What I want is an end to reviewing all queer lit like it should be MM romance (and a particularly narrow subset of the genre at that). I would like to see transparency in who is on review panels. Most of all, I want to see my fellow rainbow writers being unafraid to voice their concerns. It’s become too many of us, and we’re being kept from finding each other and standing up against the gatekeeping by way of negative reviews, blacklisting, and bullying on social media. That has to end.

Finally, I’d like to see cisgender straight women—and cis women of other orientations—examine carefully the motivations for reading and writing exclusively MM romance. Ask yourselves why you don’t think lesbian romance meets the criteria of “removing the power imbalance.” Ask why you think LGBTQ+ people cannot tell our own stories. Ask why, outside of erotica, you see the need for gay and bisexual stories to be sexy or romantic in order to be valid.

Here’s a challenge for you: If you really, truly are an ally, then find it in yourself to listen to us. Read books by us. Evaluate them on the strength of the story or the writing, not whether it fits neatly into a genre. Hear us when we say what you’re writing about us isn’t reality. Then do as you will, but don’t harm us in the process.

*I rarely feel the need to assert this, but I’m not a cisgender woman. Just making that clear before accusations fly.

Some Bookish Thoughts: Writing and Reading

Books, Writing

Usually, I wouldn’t bother with a whole blog post in response to someone else’s blog post. It’s enough to share it on my social media and leave it at that. But these two posts have captured things I haven’t quite known how to express, and I wanted to say something about them. I didn’t want to leave random comments on their blogs because that made me feel slightly like a stalker or maybe just a super socially awkward person with boundary issues. Anyway, that aside, these are both terrific writers, and if you’re not reading them already, what the heck are you doing here on my blog instead? Shoo, shoo! Go read!

First up: Heidi Belleau on writing bisexual characters. Do Bi People Need You (Yes You!) To Write Us?

This is a great summary of my own current feelings on the matter. I’m really not bothered by non-bi-identified writers including bisexual characters. I think it’s great, when it’s done well. Heidi touches on some of my bigger issues (chiefly gatekeeping of bisexual characters and where they “belong” in m/m). But she really nails it with the tropes and the need to actively understand bisexuality and bi-identified people.

I sometimes worry that being bi, I have to “perfectly” represent us. Which is frigging hard. Like…I have to avoid any and all appearance of tropes or stereotypes or just plain “bad bi” characters because if I don’t, then I have no right to call out non-bi authors doing a cruddy job of it. I’ve seen us get blasted for things, like the reviewer who referred to one of my characters as a “perfectly PC feminist bisexual.” One of my own favorite authors had a review which suggested her bisexual character was a gay man with a “boob fetish,” and lots and lots of my fellow bi writers have had vile things thrown at them the minute they dare have on-page “heterosexual” sex. Meanwhile, non-bi-identified writers spew tropey garbage and get cheered for “representing” the B in LGBT. Thanks but no thanks.

Anyway, read all the way to the end to check out Heidi’s AWESOME list of bi writers. You can follow them on Twitter, and I will vouch personally for a good number of them as a reader.

Next: Hans Hirschi on his reading preferences. Books, books, books: what I read and why.

You really need to read the post before you read my response to it, but I’ll sum up: Basically it’s like he read my mind. I’m completely in favor of a good love story, and there are marvelous examples of well-written books that fall strictly along genre lines. But I, too, am looking for something different. I might not fall quite in parallel with Hans here—I don’t mind a sad ending, probably in part because I didn’t grow up looking for queer lit and only finding the depressing stuff, and in part because while I lived through the 1980s and 1990s, that era looked pretty different for me.

Still, I’m most drawn to books about interwoven relationships: family (by blood or by choosing), friendship, long-term partnership, parenting. I like authors who rebel against genre mandates and do their own thing. I like complex situations and stories which speak to social issues. I love when there’s more going on than what’s on the surface of the story. And yeah, I’ll admit that I like when things aren’t tied up in a neat little bow and everyone’s problems are solved on page—a hopeful ending more than a happy ending (though I’ll take the happily ever afters, too!).

A dear friend told me once that the best love stories start in the middle, and I think they’re right. I don’t mind the meet-cutes and the falling in love and the sweeping each other off their feet, but I want more out of my books. I want to know what happens when the fairy tale is over and patience wears thin and endless days of work and diapers and carpools and medical bills take a toll on a pair of no-longer-youthful lovers. Dear authors: if you write it, I’ll read it.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on one or both of these topics. Leave a comment, and let’s see where the discussion leads us!

Meanwhile, don’t forget to stop by next week for my book launch party. I’ve got some fabulous guest posts and book reviews lined up as well as a giveaway linked to my virtual book tour. If you’re in the mood to join in with a guest post or author interview of your own, I still have some spaces. Hit me up in the “talk to me” tab above. You can pre-order An Act of Devotion below by clicking on the picture.

Adam Lansing has always relied on his charm to get by. Sure, he’s starting over—new school, new graduate assistant position—but he knows he won’t have any trouble working his magic on anyone he chooses.

Antonio “AJ” Mancuso is deep inside his own head. He’s cool, calm, and confident. But despite all the friends around him, he often feels like he straddles two worlds. Is there anyone who could love him for everything that defines him—past and present?

From the first time they meet, Adam is determined to get gorgeous AJ to notice him. But just as the heat is cranking up between them, Adam spots AJ with another man. Adam strikes back through a fling with an ex. But when he discovers the truth behind AJ’s behavior, he realizes that his magic won’t clean up for him this time.

Notable News: Week of July 6-12, 2013

Books, Links

It’s going to be a short one today. I have far too much going on this week, including my son’s saxophone lesson and going early to my kids’ dance camp to see their mini-performance. Still, there’s some good stuff in here.

1. To read or not to read?

Why do people stop reading books? This is an interesting summary of the books people abandoned and why. I admit to having read most of the books mentioned, and I felt pretty much the same as the people who didn’t finish them (except for Lord of the Rings). Most of the time, if I don’t finish a book, it’s because it’s so dull I can’t keep my eyes open, I’ve gotten distracted by another book, or I’m having a particularly busy season and I’m not reading much. Otherwise, if I start it, I finish it.

2. Speaking of reading…

Here’s an interview with author Adrian J. Smith. I’ve had the privilege to work with her as a beta reader, and I love her first novel. Her greatest strength as an author is creating memorable characters to whom readers can relate.

3. More on being “deeply broken”

I still disagree with the theology behind the concept of “brokenness”; it’s far too close to the Calvinist doctrine of total depravity for my liking. But it’s true that existing among humans is a messy proposition, so I understand where Zach Hoag is coming from on this one. If this post helps further the dialogue about sin, grace, and how we navigate this thing called faith, then so much the better.

4. On a lighter note regarding brokenness

Turnabout’s fair play; David linked to my post, so I’m linking to his cartoon. I did tell him I think maybe my daughter really did come out this way, but I believe that to be a good thing. It just means she’s not going to take crap from anyone.

Have a great weekend, everyone. I’m off to finish some editing and get ready to record my kids’ dance performance this afternoon. Catch you all next week!

Barnes & Noble, Harry Potter, and the Smurfette Principle: Part 3

Books, Feminism, Social Justice, Writing

This is the last part of the series on using men/boys as the default for readership. Read the first two parts here and here. Today, I’m offering some solutions. We can’t solve everything, but this might be a start.

Time for the Big Question: What if Harry Potter had been a girl? (TRUTH)

I don’t just mean would we have read the books or would she have become a cultural icon. I’m asking what would have changed if the story had been about a girl.

As written, the whole point of the story is The Boy Who Lived. My guess is that if the protagonist were a girl, even though the story would have remained the same, in our cultural consciousness it would have become about The Girl Who Lived. That is to say, suddenly it would have been about her femaleness rather than her spirit or her heart or her resolve. (I like to give J. K. Rowling credit that this would not have been her doing, but that of cultural constructs that dictate male as neutral, objective, and default.) The books would have been marketed toward girls, with a whole line of pink merchandise.

Because boy wizards are for everyone; girl witches are for girls.

(Interestingly, StoryNory has subverted this quite nicely. You can listen to the original stories about Katie the Witch here.)

We could actually ask this question in a whole host of different ways, because the problem of the default is not limited to simply being male. It’s also about being white, straight, neurotypical, able-bodied, and cisgender. The moment a main character is not all of those things, it becomes all about being whatever else they might be. (For example, if Harry had fallen in love with Dean or Neville instead of Ginny, it would have become a Coming Out story instead of a Defeating Voldemort story.)

The whole point of speculative fiction (which covers a pretty broad range–fantasy, science fiction, distopian, urban fantasy) is to leave our world and enter another. Too often, those stories feature either a male main character or a character for whom their not-maleness (or not-straightness or not-whiteness or not-able-bodiedness or not cis-ness or whatever) becomes a key point in the plot. You could have a story about a kid from the 25th century who travels back in time with a laser sword and a trusty sidekick to battle pirates in the 18th century. Make the kid a girl and suddenly it’s all about how she has to “prove” herself among men or how she’s “atypical” in her culture for wanting to battle pirates. You can swap out the girl for pretty much anyone who isn’t a white, straight, cis dude and the same thing happens.

That is not to say that there shouldn’t be anything different between the laser sword-wielding boy and the laser sword-wielding girl. I’m not advocating for some unknown ideal of gender-neutrality. I’m just explaining that when it comes to what’s on the book shelves, anyone who isn’t in the Approved Default Category gets a specially roped off section devoted to People Like That–which means that the story is often about dealing with both pirates and being a girl (or whatever) instead of just being about Saving the World From Pirates.

So what the heck do we do with that? Let me give some completely unsolicited advice.

For writers:

Be conscious of what you’re doing. If you write a character that is Not You, please don’t make it all about how that person is Not You. It might help to actually talk to (or better yet be friends with) people who are Not You so that you know what people might appreciate. For example, I am done with princesses who rebel against expectations in order to go battle dragons.
Discussing cultural norms works fine in historical/realistic fiction (when done well, mind you), but it doesn’t work well in fantasy. Part of the appeal of speculative fiction is that these issues can be addressed sideways (as in Harry Potter with pureblood supremacy). A girl dealing with sexism in her school election when she’s supposed to be dealing with sexism is great; a girl dealing with sexism on an alien planet when she’s supposed to be Saving the World is not.
Be mindful of tropes. Not all of them are bad, but racist, sexist, homophobic, ableist, and transphobic tropes are NOT EVER OKAY.
Don’t make assumptions about what people will or won’t read. Boys do, in fact, want to read about girls. Not just adventuresome girls, either; boys do not naturally come with a setting that says, “Girls are boring.” You can have an entire book that has mostly girls in it and guess what? Boys will still read it! Amazing, that.
Stop limiting girls in “realistic” fiction to domesticity and relational drama. Sometimes, girls have to deal with the death of a parent or a move to a new city or nerves about being the trombone soloist in the band concert–oddly, much like boys do.
Same thing goes for any other characters that are not white, straight, cis boys. It’s true that there are experiences unique to people who haven’t been considered the default, so those issues may come up in realistic fiction as things characters have to deal with. But this can be done in a way that every kid can understand. A good example of this is James Howe’s The Misfits and its companion books. The kids in the books are dealing with things specific to them, but it’s done in the context of bullying–which makes it relatable regardless of the particulars.
Most importantly, tell the story you have to tell. Don’t stress about making your story an issues story, just make it a good story.

For readers (especially parents giving books to their kids):

Don’t limit yourself. If you can’t find the book at Barnes & Noble in-store, then look online. Ask friends to recommend books. Check with a librarian at your local branch. There’s more than what’s on those store shelves.
Make sure you give both boys and girls a wide variety from which to choose. Read the back cover and the first chapter before handing something to your child–don’t just look at the cover and make assumptions.
If you have a boy, don’t pass up books about girls because you think he won’t be interested. The American Girl stories are really good (stupid, expensive product line aside). The stories are not about “girlhood”; they are about friendship and family and kids experiencing changes in their lives, all within a historical context.
A great way to find books for your child is to check out lexile.com. If you know your child’s actual lexile, you can find books based on that. If not, take a look at the last thing your child read. Type the title into the search engine and you’ll come up with a lexile number for it. If your child says that book is what my own son calls a “just right” read, you can enter the lexile number into the search to find similarly leveled books. You can search by genre as well, including non-fiction.
When you read, set the example by reading a broad range of books. Interestingly, in the “new fiction” section of B&N, I found a completely different story from the kids’ section. There were books by and about both men and women in approximately equal numbers. The stories were varied–memoir, action, drama, romance, horror, mystery. Take a chance on a new author!

Finally, I want to briefly touch on how this relates in particular to people of faith. As a Christian, I take it seriously when the Bible says that in Christ there is no male or female. For me that means that I need to work toward ending the injustice toward women, including the view that men are the default. It’s important to me that my kids grow up knowing that real freedom, spiritually speaking, means being true to themselves and having the expectation that others will do likewise. My daughter should not grow up believing the only thing God made special about her is that she’s a girl; my son should not grow up thinking that God put the burden of being the measuring stick upon him because he’s a boy.

Thanks for coming along for the ride this week, everyone. Happy reading and writing–now go, change the world!

What Boys Can’t Do

Books, Parenting

This morning, S and I took a break from school to just read together. We cuddled up in what the kids call the “hot corner” in our living room. (It’s a space between our sofa and love seat where the heating vent is. The kids have it set up with a blanket and a large floor pillow.) We read one of the American Girl books, the first one I’ve read to her. She picked the one about the girl living during the Great Depression.

I have to admit, I think I enjoyed the story as much as she did. We talked about how Kit, the main character, is a bit of a tomboy. She doesn’t like anything pink or frilly, and she loves sports. S told me about the things she has in common with Kit and the ways she is different. We also had the chance to talk about the history, what it was like for many families in the 1930s.

It was such an engaging story that I wanted to find out if there was anything similar for boys. J has read the My America books, but there are only two boy characters, and the stories cover a limited time period. The American Girl books span most of United States history. Sadly, there isn’t anything else like the AG books for boys.

As I pondered what I should do, I realized that I was doing exactly what I’ve said I wouldn’t do. I was creating a literary box for my kids, and placing them in it. I had decided that J needed “boy” books, as he couldn’t possibly read books about girls. Right then, I made a decision.

I said, screw this.

Just why, again, can’t a boy read the AG series? They aren’t especially girly, they just feature female lead characters. But even if they were, why can’t boys enjoy them?

We don’t bat an eye at girls who want to read about Tom Sawyer or Jim Hawkins or Harry Potter or Frodo Baggins. I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and all the Bunnicula books with both my kids, and didn’t concern myself with whether my daughter could relate to the male characters. I even read the Ramona books with J, and we’ve enjoyed other books with strong female characters. The other day, J was looking with interest at The Long Winter, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I told him we could read the series, but if he wanted to, he could read that one. They don’t have to be read in order.

How are the AG books any different? Why shouldn’t J read them?

I can’t think of even one reason not to let him.

Perfection

Some Bookish Thoughts: Writing and Reading

Notable News: Week of July 6-12, 2013

What Boys Can’t Do

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