All posts by Olivia

I Take the Low Road About High Culture: A Rebuttal

Dear Anya, wherever you may be,

Please allow me to express my sincere sympathies for your appearance in this Open Letters Monthly piece by Stephen Akey (via DoNotLink). You had the misfortune of encountering a man who believes that birdwatching in a cemetery is a perfectly cromulent first date — which admittedly it may be, for some people. It certainly seemed to work for Mr. Akey and his now-ex-wife: birdwatching in this very same cemetery was their first date two decades ago, as our author informs us without a trace of self-awareness. I cannot adequately express my horror at someone who deals with the emotional fallout of an ended marriage by attempting to recreate the outward forms of the relationship with a new and unwitting victim — I mean, date.

And then, on this bizarre replica date, our author offers you an unprompted lecture on the semi-obscure architect who designed the cemetery gates. Your response:

“Really? How fascinating! Stephen, how can you know so much?” Such were the words Anya did not speak.

Oh, Anya, of course you didn’t say that. If you’re anything like me, you would rather chew off your own hand than say anything so abjectly fawning — even if you were interested in 19th-century American architecture. I don’t know if you are, you see, because Mr. Akey never sees fit to tell us what your interests are — or what work you do — or anything you may be passionate about. He is too distracted by your “luscious” figure and his own sense of wounded self-superiority.

She didn’t say anything, and didn’t need to. I could read her thoughts all too clearly in the pained silence that followed. And what she thought was this: How could any human being possibly be so boring?

Anya — you may well have thought that. Lord knows I did.

Our author then presents us with Himself, as representative of an earlier generation bastioned by a common body of knowledge and learning, and you, Anya, as representative of a lost generation “educated to believe that everything I held dear was rot.” He then suggests he would have made a self-deprecating remark about resembling George Eliot’s classic pedant Casaubon, but he did not believe you would have recognized the reference.

Anya, I think he was completely wrong about that.

Because Middlemarch has been damn near everywhere lately. That hip young website and cutting-edge font of misandry The Toast hosted a Middlemarch read-through this year, as well as a follow-up read-through of Rebecca Mead’s My Life in Middlemarch. That’s six solid months of discussion! Romance author and certified brilliant person Cecilia Grant is often seen mentioning George Eliot’s influence on her own life and work on Twitter — along with other romance writers, readers, and scholars. Our author wants to make a hilarious Casaubon reference? Many young women will totally be here for that.

At this point, Anya, you disappear from our author’s narrative — you were clearly only an introductory gimmick, a straw Young Millennial on which Mr. Akey could hang his broad and unwarranted generalizations. He devotes one much-welcome paragraph to the idea that “the urge to create endures” — a rather lovely phrase, to give credit where credit is due — but then returns to this imagined division between High Culture and Low Culture. The temptation to pull all the fatuous quotes from this section is irresistible, but I will restrain myself to this one:

Still, no amount of wishful thinking – nor any amount of coolly ironic pop art or postmodern appropriation — can ever overcome basic distinctions of high and low. If you think those distinctions are stuffy Victorian relics, you probably haven’t done jury duty lately. When I last served a few years ago, I learned a lot about Beyoncé, Dancing with the Stars, and Vin Diesel movies. My fellow jurors did not care to discuss that season’s offerings at the Museum of Modern Art or the contents of the latest New York Review of Books

Imagine, Anya — a group pulled from their lives and jobs for a day of often-tedious citizen service did not treat the experience like a literary salon! Our author here has made a fundamental mistake: he has assumed that the importance of High Culture as High means it must be made welcome in any social situation. This is the same mistake he made on your date, in fact. A date is a social outing meant to explore a possible romantic and personal connection between two people; this is not the same thing as an opportunity for one of those two to show off his pet lecture topic and be childishly praised for his ability to memorize trivia. He reports the words he wished you’d said and none of the words you actually said: I would gently suggest that this particular romance may be a non-starter.

Mr. Akey never actually defines what he means by these “basic distinctions of high and low.” He knows what it means, and he guesses we all do as well. But as a critic and feminist, I am inordinately suspicious of anything that is assumed to not need speaking about. Such concepts tend to come with assumptions built-in. For instance, when we use the phrase “high culture,” we could mean any or all of the following:

  • expensive to experience or enjoy
  • enjoyed by rich people, who are by implication smarter/better/more cultured/have better taste
  • a medium or art form that has a lengthy historical tradition
  • enjoyed by white Western people — opera, ballet, and classical music are high art, as opposed to wu-xia films, Bollywood musicals, and K-dramas.
  • concerned with a fundamental or universal aspect of human existence: death, love, war, family, the self, etc.
  • has a great deal of social cachet, but does not tend to make or produce money for itself or its audience/creators; is not “commercial”
  • requires hard work or years of training to appreciate

The idea that High Culture requires years of training — an idea that appears repeatedly throughout Mr. Akey’s piece — means it is necessarily more limited in audience than something that one can engage immediately. Vin Diesel movies, for instance, are a much more likely conversation topic for a jury duty pool not because juries are essentially anti-intellectual, but because there is a greater chance of that being a common experience between jurors than a stroll through MoMA’s current exhibition. Indeed, Mr. Akey reveals he eagerly joined in the Vin Diesel discussion as well.

Despite this populist frosting, our author believes that “basic distinctions of high and low” align perfectly with “basic distinctions of class.” He allies himself specifically with “the slim minority of [the middle] class that genuinely prefers challenging modernist fiction to cookbooks.”

Anya, I admit I frowned at that word, “prefer.” Cookbooks — like dates, or jury duty — have a purpose: they present recipes and techniques so humans can make tasty food. They are in no way competing with challenging modernist fiction, and there’s a whiff of women-in-the-kitchen sexism to imply those categories are mutually exclusive. If I pick up Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams at Home it does not cancel out the parts of my master’s thesis that involved Joyce’s Ulysses.

Having established his anti-populist credentials, Mr. Akey lulls us into somnolence with some more architecture trivia before contradicting himself: architecture “bridges high and low,” you see, because people live in buildings. Therefore architecture is important. Honestly, the less said about this section the better: it is brain-foggingly self-indulgent and tangential. Something something Fallingwater, something something Louis Kahn. A brief reflection on Mr. Akey’s imperfect memory, which puts him firmly in the category “human.” How he is ignorant, because there are subjects he has not mastered. To be frank, Anya, I was starting to skim at this point, because there did not appear to be any larger point to any of these discussions.

I perked up briefly with alarm at the mention of Bayard’s How to Talk About Books You Haven’t Read, because suddenly it occurred to me that one could, if one was inclined, use this book as a how-to for the kind of mansplaining that makes my life and the lives of other women occasionally and vividly unbearable. (Honorable mention here for the gentleman at a recent party who told me he didn’t know anything about feminism, then proceeded to tell me all about feminism.) And indeed, our author finds this kind of un-expertise a laudable trait in himself: “I find that I can talk to almost anyone about almost anything because I generally know just enough about any topic (theology, linguistics, the life cycle of the horseshoe crab, you name it) to be able to bullshit convincingly…” It does not occur to him that “able to bullshit convincingly” may not be the most desirable quality in one’s conversational partner. Especially since what he wanted from you, Anya, was undiluted admiration, not a well-faked false erudition.

And then, my dear Anya, we get your male counterpart: Alistair. A friend of Mr. Akey’s who was decidedly and determinedly lowbrow — and who appears to have led an unsatisfactory life. According to Mr. Akey, that is. This is, we hear, because he does not have access to the high culture that sustains our author:

No stranger to loneliness or depression myself, I at least had the consolation when times got hard of knowing that the world didn’t begin and end with my sorrows. Culture is a river that binds me to the living and the dead. Yes, I’d rather have a beautiful woman to dally with, but in the meantime there are some Jane Austen novels I’d love to reread. When Alistair needed to escape from himself, he had nowhere to go.  In terms of emotional damage suffered or caused, we were just about neck and neck, but he had one monster to wrestle with that I didn’t: He was bored. I wasn’t.

Culture is a river that binds me to the living and the dead. Again — such a well-turned phrase! But you know what else binds Mr. Akey to the living? Being alive. Being present, in the same place, in the same moment. As with you, Anya, Mr. Akey tells us what he and Alistair did not talk about — “Johannes Vermeer or Willa Cather or the Mughal Empire” — and glosses over what they did discuss. (Rock music, one presumes? Alistair liked Guns N’ Roses, our author is a fan of ZZ Top. But one has to arrive at this conclusion on one’s own.) Faced with a friend who was apparently restless, lonely, and dissatisfied, Mr. Akey appears not to have offered help or sympathy or anything else; instead, he seems to have retreated into self-satisfaction that he himself would never be so bereft. Alistair, meanwhile, falls prey to … nothing. We don’t know what happens to Alistair. We can presume it’s bad, because he has no Culture to rescue him, but Mr. Akey verbally wanders away before he can finish the anecdote. This fails rather spectacularly to demonstrate the consequences of a Life Without High Culture.

Our author cannot grasp the idea that people can participate simultaneously in so-called high and low culture, even as he gives himself free license to do so. This is allowed, presumably, because he does so while knowing that High Culture is superior. When in fact, most people I know alternate between so-called high and so-called low culture, fitting the medium to the mood. Thrillers in the summer, art films in the fall; cartoons when we’re sick, opera when we’re feeling fancy. As an author of commercial romance who also does her own Latin translations for fun, I have a vested interest in high-versus-low culture debates. I could no more choose between low and high than I could choose between my right and left hands.

What Mr. Akey has built instead is a wall between Culture on the one hand, and People on the other. Culture is where you go when People disappoint you — when they misunderstand you, when they ignore you, when they decline to allow you to do sex with them. Yet if you pointed out the basic escapism of this, Mr. Akey would probably be affronted. He envisions himself as an absorber of Culture — but the problem with the culture-as-river metaphor, despite the prettiness, is this: unlike a river, culture is not unidirectional. Culture informs people, but people also inform culture. Mr. Akey has proven that he can take in the elements of the culture he admires, but his treatment of Alistair and Anya — his inability to connect with them on a human level, not simply an intellectual one — shows that he is not turning this cultural education to any emotional or spiritual purpose. Mr. Akey’s deeper mistake is this: he mistakes learning for thought, and facts for feelings.

From a feminist and intersectional standpoint, I must point out that our author does briefly acknowledge that the traditional high culture he so admires has a habit of erasing groups traditionally considered less-than. For instance, he mentions Zora Neale Hurston as missing from all his college syllabi. He enjoys Zora Neale Hurston, and regrets she was left out.

Yep, that’s it. That’s the sum total of his thoughts on systemic racial prejudice in ‘high’ art and literature: a recognition that he could have been reading Zora Neale Hurston earlier, if only he’d known. Notice how that thought immediately circles back to focus on Mr. Akey — as did his discussions of Anya and Alistair before.

Even on the internet, which sometimes feels like a machine created specifically to increase the world supply of self-indulgence, this kind of overbearing smugness stands out. Our author closes his opus with this rallying cry: “Plenty of people think I’m pretentious. I don’t mind. I know how to think, I know how to talk, and I’m not bored.” As though the lasting achievements of human art and creativity are nothing more than great ways to while away the time before death. As though “how to think” and “how to talk” are the sum of potential human connection and contribution. 

Mr. Akey is welcome to his High Culture: it sounds terribly lonely to me.

Regards,

Olivia

This post brought to you entirely by Open Letters Monthly’s breathtaking condescension to me on Twitter, both under my pen name …

Link to a condescending tweet.

… and under my day name:

Link to a snarky tweet.

In the interest of complete disclosure, I should mention that I once pitched something to Open Letters Monthly and was rejected. It was many years ago, before I was published. Like many authors, I have been rejected by the best and brightest: Harlequin, The Stranger, Tor, Entangled, Carina Press, McSweeney’s. Rejection of a submission is part of the business; archly questioning my reading acumen on social media, however, deserves a sharp rebuttal.

Post to Twitter

Viscounts and Vorkosigans: For the Love of Lit Crit

Welcome to the inaugural post in my new once-monthly series, For the Love of Lit Crit, where we treat romance novels like the deliberately composed texts they are. Posts will be tagged as such and collected on their very own page. Spoilers generally abound. Suggestions for a better series title (and books to analyze) will be eagerly entertained.

In Jo Walton’s review of A Civil Campaign for Tor.com, she states that aside from the title she finds this book has more in common with The Grand Sophy than with Heyer’s A Civil Contract. As far as plot structure and character are concerned, she’s probably right — I’ve never read The Grand Sophy myself so I’m leaving that one out of this analysis. But thematically, I feel like the Vorkosigan book is a direct response to the themes of Heyer’s text. A Civil Contract is essentially about the social self, how to define it and how it can or cannot be changed; A Civil Campaign takes these fundamental questions and very forthrightly rebuts Heyer’s conservative theses.

In A Civil Contract, hero Adam starts the book by being thrown out of his accustomed orbit. He has inherited his late father’s title, he has become the legal head of his family, he has been injured in battle and has a permanent limp, and now he must cash out his captaincy and abandon his military career. The previous viscount ran in the highest social circles but was financially profligate and reckless; much of Adam’s journey over the course of the book deals with him trying to find a different mode of aristocracy more suited to his personal inclinations. He does so by following the example of the elderly gentlemen-farmers and learning how best to improve his ancestral lands, thus satisfying his class pride while also gaining scope for his energy and individual drive. It is a personal decision, but it also means Adam never really questions his position as an aristocrat. He simply finds a more personally palatable form of aristocracy, without rejecting the class hierarchy’s fundamental assumptions.

This is not the only time Adam inhabits a ready-made social role. His romance with Julia is obviously a classic example of the Wounded Hero romance, a connection between two types rather than two individuals and explicitly described as such:

It was not wonderful that he should have alleviated the pain and the weariness of the months he had spent in and out of the surgeons’ hands with a flirtation with the lovely Miss Oversley; still less wonderful that a romantic girl should have encouraged the gallantry of a hero of Salamanca. (A Civil Contract, Kindle location 150)

Julia is less a character than a symbol in this novel: she exists to embody the most rarefied type of nobility. And while Adam found this charming before, he comes to a different opinion after her marriage to the Marquis of Rockhill: “when he looked at Julia, and listened to her, she seemed to be almost a stranger. Even her appearance had altered. She had always been charmingly dressed, but in a style suited to her maiden status; he had never seen her attired in the silks, the velvets, and the jewels of matronhood” (Kindle location 4975). This is the glittering and useless aristocracy of Adam’s father, against which our hero has been struggling over the course of the whole novel.

I have said before that I often try to root for the Other Woman as a habit of feminist praxis, and Julia is such a quintessential Other Woman that empathizing with her feels like real resistance to patriarchy. The more the text tries to make her unsympathetic — to make her spoiled, or histrionic, or casually adulterous — the more I want to champion her. Yes, she’s impractical and sheltered — not hard, when her attempts to be practical are roundly mocked and everyone goes out of their way to shelter her. I can’t find it in me to blame her for what has obviously been done to her by her family (and the author). Adam’s gradual rejection of Julia and what she represents reads to me less like a character coming into emotional maturity and more like a man who slowly comes to believe himself a superior kind of person. His preference for the maiden over the matron ties in with his protectiveness of Fontley and his resistance to Mr. Chawleigh’s wealth: there’s something about purity in there that I would tease out if I could stand to spend so much time talking about Adam. (Confession: I’m one of those readers who remains unconvinced by this book’s happy ending).

I must also disagree with Jo Walton’s assertion that there’s “none of Heyer’s weirdly vile racism here, because we don’t see anyone to provoke it.” (Also: weirdly vile? As opposed to commonly vile?) Here’s an early passage describing Mr. Chawleigh’s reception by his new in-laws: “With every will in the world to talk pleasantly to him, an over-delicate refinement made [Adam's sister] Charlotte regard him with much the same nervous surprise as she would have felt at being addressed by an aboriginal” (1376). Racism and colonialism underscore the inherent class bias in the text: Mr. Chawleigh is as far removed from the world of Adam’s titled English family as a brown- or black-skinned native of some far-flung imperial wilderness. It’s a little moment, but a telling one: that’s a lot of power systems to invoke in one throwaway simile.

Despite the narrative’s attempts to make him overbearing, Mr. Chawleigh is an incredibly likeable character, even if I did hear his dialogue in the voice of Mr. Hardwood from this episode of Blackadder (video link: relevant bit starts at 11:04). His rampant generosity and earnest desire to make his new in-laws happy are touching and empathetic. But to Adam’s high-born eyes his greatest virtue is his refusal to mix with those above his social station. Adam is similarly grateful for Jenny’s reticence to make changes at Fontley, even when those changes are necessary maintenance and repair. As the romance progresses, the story asks the question: How permeable are the barriers between Adam and Jenny? How much can they transcend their social selves to make a sincere connection separate from class and status?

Not that much, as it turns out. They can essentially hold hands through the chain-link fence, but they will never be the same category of person. Jenny is much more attuned to this than Adam, which makes sense as the marginalized are always much more attuned to the workings of privilege than the privileged are. (See: rape culture, institutional racism, accessibility for disabled people, etc.) Upon her first much-postponed arrival at Fontley — her husband’s home! which her father’s money helped save! — Adam tells her she can do as she pleases and Jenny has the following heartbreaking insight: “She did not say: I am only a guest in your house, but it was what she thought, for he uttered the speech just stiltedly enough to betray that it had been rehearsed” (3473). This same assumption of difference underlies Julia’s suggestion to Adam that they enjoy a discreet sexual liaison (it’s couched as ‘friendship,’ but come on): “Cannot something be left to us? … Jenny could not be hurt by anything that passed between you and me, Adam” (3830). Nor will I be the first person to point out that Jenny’s lack of beauty reads as a function of class, even though there’s no statistical reason to suppose a commoner is likely to be less pretty than a lord’s daughter. Moreover, while Jenny gives birth to a son with a great deal of bodily risk and effort, Julia becomes a stepmother to two girls already half-grown. It’s hard not to see this as a class distinction as well: the common folk’s messy struggle, the upper classes’ aloofness and untouchability. I found myself wanting to read more about Julia and her stepdaughters; it felt as though there was a whole book there waiting to be explored, more nuanced than the usual stepmother tropes allow. Again: official Olivia Waite stance is Team Julia.

And Team Jenny — because Jenny broke my heart and she deserves better than what she gets in this book. Here is Adam’s ultimate confession of love: “‘I do love you, Jenny,’ he said gently. ‘Very much indeed — and I couldn’t do without you. You are a part of my life'” (6006). Jenny has one of her quiet, unspoken revelations: “Probably Adam would always carry Julia in some corner of his heart … although he might no longer yearn to possess her she would remain nostalgically dear to him while life endured.”

This is a hell of a thing for a romance heroine to think at the emotional climax of the book.

Look, I get it: the chemistry of lust can be blinding, and a quieter, less dashing partner can nevertheless be wonderfully romantic (e.g. Alan Rickman’s Colonel Brandon, be still my swooning heart). And we should definitely resist the urge to define love as a thing earned through effort, because that way lie the hellish gates of the Friendzone and favor sharking and Bruno Mars’ “Grenade,” where unasked-for sacrifices by manipulative partners lead to an obligation for love, for sex, and for attention and power in ways that are clearly misogynistic. (Thanks to Cecilia Grant for reminding me about “Grenade!” That song is the catchiest and the worst.)

But does Jenny not deserve one goddamn moment where it’s all about her? Where her thoughts, needs, feelings, and existence as a human being come first? Just one would be nice. But there’s nothing in Adam’s confession of love that even comes close to Mr. Chawleigh’s quietly heartrending, “She’s all I’ve got, you see” (4848). The problem is not that Adam and Jenny’s relationship is different in kind than Adam and Julia’s: the problem is that Adam and Jenny’s relationship will always come second to Adam’s relationship with Adam. Jenny becomes part of his life, but she never really becomes part of his self, and her own self disappears in consideration of his aristocratic priorities.

This is not merely a romantic failure in our hero, I would argue, but a larger failure of empathy across class boundaries. Contrast Mr. Chawleigh’s open and earnest affection for his daughter with Adam’s feelings upon seeing his newborn son for the first time: “He thought he had never seen anything less beautiful than the red and crumpled countenance of his son” (6006). Father of the Year, that one. He only waxes enthusiastic when he sees that this noble-born future viscount is equally scornful of his lowborn antecedents: “I left [Mr. Chawleigh] making the most peculiar noises to his grandson, who treated them with utter contempt — very understandably, I thought!” (6006). He’s pleased to see his baby son self-ally with the proper class by scorning Mr. Chawleigh. Blood will tell, as so often happens in Heyer. Class is changeless. It’s an essentially conservative thesis.

It’s also rejected in every possible way by Bujold’s A Civil Campaign.

First, a few disclaimers: I’ve been hopping around the Vorkosiverse rather than reading the series straight through, which means there’s a lot I’ve missed so any comments and clarifications from those in the know would be most welcome. Also, if anyone wants to put together a movie version of any of these books and cast Gwendolyn Christie (aka Brienne of Tarth, aka She Who Should Be Queen In Westeros) as Drou, I would be eternally grateful and see said movie seventeen times at non-matinee prices.

It’s a truism that Heyer’s book is about class — but saying this obscures the fact that class, of course, is not one homogenous and indivisible thing. Class is a cake we make out of money, race, manners, education, family, and gender. A Civil Campaign explores each one of these in ways that could really only happen in a space Regency, where futuristic technology and antique social systems can smash productively up against one another.

It’s also not going to be possible for me to talk as much about all this as I would like — especially not when I’ve got edits to be working on! — but I’ll try and hit some of the highlights before my brain dissolves in the heat.

When these books are read back-to-back, Miles reads as an utter rejection of all things Adam: he’s a successful soldier, his family members are strong and independent and happy (for the most part), he’s got a sense of humor about his own failings, his disability is not made conveniently invisible in the way Adam’s is (oh noes, I has a limp that’s noticeable enough to get me sympathy laid but doesn’t stop me from tramping around making pretend I am a farmer God I just hate Adam more and more). But the greatest difference is that Miles is adept at passing through the membranes of class and station that Heyer’s book would have us treat as permanent barriers. His undercover identity as Admiral Naismith is a ghost that haunts the narrative, showing even to readers like me unfamiliar with prior books that Miles’ identity is fluid and variable, Odyssean rather than Achillean. In fact, this becomes the very problem between him and Ekaterina: Miles chooses the wrong self to show her at first, hiding his true intentions in ways that remind her traumatically of her first husband’s manipulations. The idea of being one solid knowable self frightens Miles a little, in fact: “Someday, if things went well, he must stand before her in his skin, in this very room and place, with no disguise at all” (Kindle location 7964). Imagine Adam feeling this self-conscious in front of, well, anyone. Miles is well aware that there is a secret kernel of self not defined by terms like Vor or ImpSec or even mutie: he hesitates to show it to Ekaterin because his shifting selves have successfully kept him alive for so many years.

And oh, Ekaterin — I must really go back and read Komarr because I definitely want more time with Ekaterin. I also feel like she’s a mirror version of Jenny, with Tien as another mirror-Adam — a cold husband who’s convinced his wife she’s a mere accessory, who has a truncated military career, who’s made a great financial gamble (Adam’s is successful, but I still think it was a pretty self-serving move). It’s an unsettlingly short leap of imagination from Adam’s benevolent neglect to Tien’s emotional manipulation and abuse. Ekaterin lost sight of who she was as a person during those terrible years, and on Barrayar she’s trying to assert a self long-suppressed:

Every night now, lying down alone without Tien, was like a taste of some solitary heaven. She could stretch her arms and legs out all the way to the sides of the bed, reveling in the smooth space, free of compromise, confusion, oppression, negotiation, deference, placation. Free of Tien. Through the long years of their marriage she had become almost numb to the ties that had bound her to him, the promises and the fear, his desperate needs, his secrets and lies. When the straps of her vows had been released at last by his death, it was as if her whole soul had come awake, tingling painfully, like a limb when circulation was restored. (1183)

There’s a whole spectrum of understood social roles for Ekaterin (mother, Vor, grieving widow considering remarriage) but no sense of her true individual self; this is what she is seeking over the course of the plot. The true self is here separate from class, rather than nourished by it as in Heyer’s text — yes, designing gardens is a pretty upper-class thing to do, but designing a prettier butterbug is a much more democratic, business-oriented move. It’s also something that is uniquely her — and she needs that, so desperately. It’s only when she has her self again that she really begins to think about having someone else as well: the romance arc follows the swell of Ekaterin’s growing strength and confidence — even when the person she’s at odds with is Miles himself. This is one of those romances that definitely keeps the characters apart to better effect — something refreshing in a sea of fuck-til-we’re-in-love erotic romances.

If you’ll allow me a brief metatextual tangent, it seems that social class is a little like genre, in that both operate on a set of shared but mostly unspoken assumptions. Both are accumulations of similarities rather than hard-and-fast categories. (And genres, like classes, come with various levels of social prestige.) In her review of the Bujold text, Jo Walton states that the narrative moves of the romance genre are “as stylized as a Noh play.” Romance does have codes and conventions but many of these are very opaque to outsiders or readers new to the genre. For instance, the Hardass Police Captain (video at the link) is an oft-cited cultural touchstone even among people who don’t watch a lot of buddy cop movies, but things like TSTL and Secret Babies and the No Other Woman Bed are far less frequently referenced outside of romance blogs and reviews. In regard to Ekaterin, little moments like suddenly noticing how Miles’ scent turns her on or keeping his apology letter tucked in the bodice of her gown for rereading are as good as an I love you to romance fans, but might not stand out to readers who lack the awareness of those tropes’ repetition. Similarly, class markers are often codes, and often inherited, and rarely talked about openly: for instance, when you bring food to a potluck, what kind of food do you bring? (And all my super-upper-class readers just looked at each other in horror at the word ‘potluck.’) Or when an invitation specifies BYOB, do you bring a mid-range white Burgundy or a case of Natty Ice? (Everyone with working tastebuds just looked at each other in horror at the words ‘Natty Ice.’)

And now we’re at 3k words — is your attention span as strained as mine? And I’m writing all this! It’s summer — we all deserve a break. Let’s hit the rest in bullet-point form.

  • Mark: Miles’ clone, so the two men are genetically identical. But physically and intellectually vastly different — Mark was raised in an abusive, horrifying situation, trained as a living weapon of assassination for his clone-brother. He’s been accepted into the Vorkosigan family (!) and is trying to figure out what his role is there, including getting treatment for mental health issues that manifest as a set of alternate selves known as the Black Gang. This was super-interesting to me, so again, going to dive heavily into the earlier books. Again: class is not destiny, family is not destiny, upbringing is not destiny.
  • Kareen Koudelka: Barrayar-born but coming back from a year’s education on Beta. Her sexual activities with Mark are gratifying to both her and him, and immensely helpful in his therapy — which would be creepier if Kareen weren’t so obviously into Mark and vice versa — but open pre-marital sex doesn’t jive with Barrayar standards of behavior, particularly the narrow standards for young unmarried women of high status. Kareen and Mark fight against the objections of her parents to their relationship, since she’s grown to enjoy the greater freedom and lack of disapproving supervision she found off-world. The pair also find satisfaction in borrowing economic terms with which to define the terms of their affair. This works because both Mark and Kareen place personal value (rather than class-specific value) on business and entrepreneurship.
  • Lord Dono: Betan medical technology allows a female character, Donna, to switch gender entirely for the purposes of inheriting a countship and thwarting her asshole cousin. There’s an unfortunate equivalence here between biology and gender — Dono has a penis, therefore Dono is a man — which prevents me from labeling this as a depiction of a trans character. Let us say instead that it is trans-adjacent. For instance, after the biological change, plot protagonists express varying levels of surprise and approval, but plot antagonists react with revulsion, misgendering, and even attempted mutilation. Dono himself is a wonderful character, charismatic and compelling with an edge of wit and cunning. The Donna/Dono plotline also exposes the way Betan habits and technology are starting to be used as loopholes for the narrow constraints of Barrayaran tradition, and not just by progressives — see also the rather horrifying plotline of the old Vor count and his hundreds of artificially created daughters, which I can’t even begin to take apart without a few more read-throughs and several stiff drinks.

The more I think about it, the more I feel that the Beta-versus-Barrayar framework established in Shards of Honor and Barrayar (god, those books, so good!) exists to topple one by one many of the foundational pillars of Regency society as established in fiction like Heyer’s. (Hence this book’s dedication, obvs.) Primogeniture, ableism, women’s role as primarily one of motherhood and childrearing, etc. It’s not perfect — it’s very white and there’s a distinct preponderance of happy heterosexual couples, though let’s talk sometime about Aral Vorkosigan’s youthful flirtation with bisexuality — but it’s an interesting and vastly explorable series. One which I hope to explore more fully once the temperature goes down and stops boiling my brain. (Seriously, my recent forebears were from Finland: I’m like Pratchett’s Detritus in anything over 85 degrees.)

Thanks for listening, everyone, and happy summer!

___

Speaking of Tor.com, their series on Post Binary Gender in SF is well worth the reading; start here with the introduction.

Merrian Oliver-Weymouth curates the wonderful Pinterest board Barrayar Dreaming, using real-world images and artifacts to visualize the imaginary world of Barrayar. There’s also The Vor, curated by Pinterest user fajrdrako. Both are utterly enchanting.

Someone somewhere has to be writing a thesis or dissertation on the Vorkosiverse and reproductive health choices, right? Abortion, surrogacy, pre-birth disability diagnoses, cloning — it’s all in there. Hard SF doesn’t often get to be this messy about the body, nor so inclined to consider a woman’s perspective on such technologies. I’m going to keep an eye on this as I keep reading. 

___

Bujold, Lois McMaster. A Civil Campaign. Amazon Digital Services, 2011. Kindle edition.

Heyer, Georgette. A Civil Contract. Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks Casablanca, 2011. Kindle edition.

Post to Twitter

Announcing: At His Countess’ Pleasure

Did you enjoy Color Me Bad? You’ll be glad to hear there’s going to be a sequel! It’s an angsty little gem of a novelette and I’m absurdly delighted with it. Here is the blurb!

Scandal has a long life, and Miss Anne Pym is running out of patience. Her cousin’s shocking marriage to the Earl of Underwood’s brother and their subsequent entrance into trade is still a burden Anne and her sister Evangeline must bear. Their own social standing is not enough to repair the damage, so Anne boldly seeks restitution from the earl himself, whom she holds partially responsible for the disaster.
 
To her shock, the earl not only agrees he’s partly to blame, but offers to make Anne his countess. The title and the wealth that comes with it will help her mend the shattered reputation of her family — and marriage will also provide Anne with the children she desperately wants. Simon needs an heir, and for that he needs a wife, and Anne’s practicality and courage strike him as useful traits for a countess to have.
 
But marriage is a beginning rather than an ending, and Anne and Simon have much to learn about each other — and about their pasts. Old hurts and new scandals alike threaten their burgeoning passion, even as Simon finds himself more and more eager to obey his strong-willed wife’s every carnal command. When Anne’s bitterest secret emerges, destroying their hopes for the future, Simon must learn whether or not he himself is enough for a lifetime of happiness — and just how completely he is willing to submit.

Post to Twitter

Gendered Violence, Annotated

Content note: the following post discusses rape, domestic violence, and sexual/reproductive coercion. The instances are numerous, but not graphic.

All I wanted to do was get some pointers on revising a novel: the next thing I know it’s rape and domestic abuse all the way down.

Let me make two things clear at the outset. One: I had done most of the note-taking work for this post before the recent shooting at UCSB took place, before #YesAllWomen and the inevitable douchebag pushback against the many women describing the pervasive fears they deal with on the daily. What was intended as a light, comically astonished post with a tone of See, even here! has taken on a new tenor in light of these events.

Two, James Scott Bell, the author of Revisions and Self-Editingis clearly doing his best to put together a useful writing handbook for any writer of commercial fiction. He takes care to vary the gender of his pronouns very thoughtfully throughout the text. It’s a nice touch and I didn’t want it to go unmentioned — but this is a surface-level thoughtfulness, easy to implement. Much harder to root out are the deeper biases the author may not realize he’s prone to, most prominently fridging/damselling, domestic violence, and rape/attempted rape as a narrative shortcut to reader sympathy. These things come up again and again, recommended by the author as exemplary plot devices. Because I am a huge dork, I went through with a pen and post-its and marked the following things: rape, domestic abuse, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Scarlet O’Hara, and instances of possible bias against female authors versus male authors. Afterward, the book looked like this:

A book whose pages are bursting with post-it notes.

That … is a lot more than I was expecting, honestly. Here’s the list, with commentary:

  • p. 3: “See Watchers by Koontz … See The Dead Zone by King…”

Koontz and King are James Scott Bell’s go-to authors. They are mentioned so many times that the index doesn’t even cover all their appearances (page 3, for instance, is not listed in the index under King, though it does appear under Koontz). I don’t object to using either author as an example on principle — they’re both hugely successful and famous for the kind of hooky commercial fiction this book is designed to help with — but it sets a certain dudely-horror tone for the rest of the text. Dudely-horror is my second-least favorite genre of anything (only beaten by dudely literary fiction that revolves around suburban middle-aged adultery), so this is definitely a part where my own biases come in to play.

  • p. 9: Proust’s most famous work is a “masterpiece.”

Again, I agree with this as a fact. Proust’s  À la recherche du temps perdu is a masterpiece. Also notoriously long-winded and overwritten. We will have cause to revisit this page later on in these notes.

  • p. 13: “Petey is gone again. And this time, he’s taken Brad’s wife and child with him.”

Our first damselling! I thought nothing of this on my first read-through. But I definitely marked it when going through with my post-its, because the idea of putting a male lead’s wife/female relative/love interest in peril to raise the narrative stakes comes up over and over again.

  • p. 19: Scarlett O’Hara

Scarlett appears here first as an example of a complex lead character. Which: sure. But she’s also notably sexually assaulted at one point in the novel and oh yes, her book is nearly ninety years old. Plus, Scarlett is deeply and aggressively sexualized, not only by Margaret Mitchell but also by James Scott Bell. Perhaps I have my own reasons for marking down Gone With the Wind references as red flags, but it seemed … odd.

  • p. 20: Scarlett O’Hara again; Stephen King’s Rose Madder.

This is the section on GRIT, a quality your lead character must have. The rule — verbatim — is: “No wimps!” (Emphasis original.) Scarlett is described as someone who “overplays the coquette” but who is otherwise brave. Which: sure, though I’m not sure Melanie’s the best person to cite as someone Scarlett is brave for, as JSB does here.

Meanwhile, we get the first of many mentions of Rose Madder, Stephen King’s story of a battered wife trying to escape her abusive cop husband. Bell lingers to describe the physical effects of abuse and how it has also made Rose unfit for the wider world, therefore her every little step forward feels like a triumph. He sees this as an excellent way for an author to get a reader to connect with a character; I feel a little queasy watching this realistic misery served up as exemplary entertainment. Telltale quote: ” It would have been easy for King to spend ten chapters detailing the abuse Rose took from her husband. But being a master of the craft, he knew that would have been too much ‘taking it.'”

I cannot give enough side-eye to the phrase “taking it” when used in the context of domestic violence.

  • p. 22: Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler

Another Scarlett mention — but the character whose lines are excerpted on the page is not Scarlett, but Rhett. Again, Scarlett is shown flirting aggressively.

  • p. 23: Scarlett O’Hara the vamp

Scarlett’s behavior and physical charms are detailed for about half a page, with an excerpt. The language is active, which is nice — Scarlett is clearly in control — but it’s highly sexualized and vampish.

  • p. 29: Roberta from Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy

I admit, this is a book I’m not deeply familiar with (Dreiser? Really? In this day and age?) so I am limited to Bell’s description of Clyde Griffiths’ actions: “He seduces the tragic Roberta, consents to marry her (to save his own rep) when she conceives, then lets her drown so he can be free to pursue another woman.” Gosh, why aren’t they still teaching this in the academy? This is in the section about honor as a means of driving conflict: admittedly, Clyde is presented as a negative example, but a successful negative example. And it’s still his perspective that is centered, not poor doomed Roberta’s.

  • p. 36: Stephen King, The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon

Young Trisha is lost in the woods, thinking about how her mother is bound to be worried. Another female character in peril, though without the sexualized component of many of the others.

  • p. 38: Stephen King, Carrie

An abused young woman uses telekinetic powers to gain revenge — the full plot is not detailed, and the excerpt here shows young Carrie knocking over the tricycle of a boy who calls her names. I don’t think it’s going too far to say that unlike Dreiser’s novel Carrie is still high-trading cultural capital, and that the gendered aspects of the story (menstruation/the female body and socio-sexual competition) are invoked by the reference. Also, we have the abuse-victim-gains-superpowers trope: always a classic!

  • p. 42: Dean Koontz, Midnight

The first of many, many references to this book. This section is about creating complex villains rather than mustache-twirling caricatures. Yet Koontz’s villain Thomas Shadduck has the most cliché villain trait of all: eeevil lust: “When we first meet Shadduck, he’s floating in a sensory deprivation chamber in the grip of a weird vision: his desire to meld man and machine into cybernetic organisms. It’s literally an erotic experience for him … Shadduck’s motivation is visionary — perverse though it may be.” I’m not convinced this is as creative and revolutionary as JSB seems to think: sexualized evil is pretty well-worn villain territory. Hell, I’ve done it myself.

  • p. 46: Stephen King, Rose Madder

Rose is presented as an example of creating sympathy through vulnerability: “Without real-world experience or skills because her psycho husband has kept her a virtual prisoner for years, Rose must figure out how to survive on her own, get a job, and most of all keep from being found by her policeman husband, who knows how to track.” Rose does indeed excite my sympathy — but, again, I am more than a little squicked out at the commercial exploitation by a male author of a real-world danger that mostly affects women.

  • p. 47: Romance

We are discussing character objectives and their importance, and JSB opines: “A romance is about the characters trying to get love.” Which, the first time I read, nearly made me heave the book out the study window. “Trying to get love” is not at all how I would describe most romances. Love in the romance genre tends to be a thing that happens while the protagonists are trying to get other things. Jane Eyre, for example, wants a job that is not as depressing as teaching at Lowood. Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice actively resists love for more than half the book, as does Darcy himself. Even Scarlett, who more than anyone else I can think of is trying to “get love,” has other things on her mind — Tara, for instance, or preserving her own social privilege. (One could argue that even her quest to “get love” is in service of maintaining this privilege. She’s acquisitive, even in her affections.) Even books I can think of where there is a deliberate pursuit (such as Sherry Thomas’ Not Quite a Husband), it’s only on the part of one character, never both at once. I’m quite hard-pressed to think of a romance where both leads are gunning for each other but only held back by circumstances. Love appears in the genre most often as a complication of other goals — such as the classic HP hero who intends to get revenge on a former business partner by seducing his virginal daughter but oh no now he has feelings for her. And this error is fundamental enough to make me question JSB’s credibility in other things — not least because his schedule shows he’s speaking at a couple romance conventions this summer. I have a great many more thoughts on how love functions as a goal (or not) in the romance genre; this may become a whole separate post at some point in the future.

What’s more, the whole “get love” thing is part of the idea of sex/romance as a commodity that may be purchased, earned, or stolen — which is one of the biggest elements of patriarchy that #YesAllWomen was created to critique. Love is not an object, but presenting it as such is pretty directly correlated with all kinds of misogyny.

  • p. 48: Stephen King, Rose Madder

This section is about ‘adhesive’ — that is, the thing that keeps your protagonist and antagonist fighting, the reason neither can just walk away from the conflict. Rose Madder is cited as an example where “the adhesive is psychopathology. The husband is pyscho.” This is not only a pretty shallow reading of psychopathology (and starkly ableist in its approach to mental illness), but also a pretty shallow motivation. Why does my character do what he does? Because he’s crazy, man! I will allow that this may be merely a reductive paraphrase on JSB’s part rather than an accurate description of the character motivation in King’s novel.

Besides, plenty of men terrorize their spouses without qualifying as ‘psychopaths.’ Domestic abuse is sadly not as unpopular among humans as we could wish.

  • p. 49: Stephen King, The Shining

Briefly mentioned as a great use of setting. But this is another King novel featuring domestic abuse, where a mother and her child are terrorized by a ‘psycho’ husband/father.

  • p. 55: The Big Heat (film)

Another fridging: “Glenn Ford plays a cop whose wife is murdered by thugs working for a crime boss.”

Also mentioned on this page: It Happened One NightRomeo and Juliet, and two Doris Day/Rock Hudson movies. Because nothing about romance has changed in fifty years or more.

  • p. 56: The Fugitive (film) and Stephen King, Rose Madder

Fridging and domestic abuse: Richard Kimball is on the run because he’s been framed for the murder of his wife. Rose “has to stay on the run or she’ll be murdered by her husband.”

  • p. 72: Stephen King, Storm of the Century

“Don’t ever get stuck on an island off the coast of Maine in winter if King is writing the story. He’s liable to drop a pathological killer in there.” Good advice, albeit impractical.

  • p. 75: Evan Hunter, The Moment She Was Gone

Fridging: main male character’s schizophrenic twin sister (!) has gone missing.

  • p. 83: Stephen King, Christine

Citations from the novel include this line: “I heard some kid’s rod peeling rubber — it made a sound in the night like a hysterical woman’s desperate laughter.”

  • p. 90: rape scene

To demonstrate the technique of weaving backstory into the main narrative, JSB shows a rape victim being triggered by seeing a spider. The rape is included on-page in the excerpt: “Lester made his move in the back of the car. Wendy was helpless. It was all over in five minutes. The spider was at the web now…”

  • p.99: Stephen King

Stephen King uses Maine slang.

  • p. 101: sexual coercion and damselling

Another twofer! First we get an excerpt from the Dreiser novel that takes up most of the page. In this passage, Clyde is quite deliberately ignoring Roberta’s attempts at deflection while trying to isolate her for sexual purposes. It’s a textbook example of rape culture/PUA-style pressure, and it’s pretty uncomfortable reading.

Immediately following is a passage where a male main character is talking on the phone to his wife and daughter, who are being held hostage.

  • p. 125: Dean Koontz, domestic abuse

Koontz opening line analyzed/explained. There is also an opening line from Anna Quindlen’s Black and Blue: “The first time my husband hit me I was nineteen years old.” Again, this in itself is very small — but these citations are beginning to accumulate. This was roughly the point where I initially reached for my stack of post-its and turned back to the first page to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

  • p. 130-131: Dean Koontz, Midnight

Koontz begins the book with a woman jogging at night. The woman is then killed for shock value. JSB cites this as an effective entry point for a story: sensory details bring us into sympathy with Janice Capshaw, and we readers are then shocked at her death. I don’t know why we should be: this the oldest tactic in the book. See also: Psycho, George R. R. Martin, Law & Order, all the CSIs, and every mystery series ever in the history of television. Even the really good ones, like Foyle’s War.

  • p. 133: Stephen King, The Dead Zone; Dean Koontz, Whispers

King is cited for sly use of backstory. With Koontz, JSB tells us in awed tones: “Whispers has one of the most famous, chilling action scenes in suspense fiction — the attempted rape of Hilary Thomas by Bruno Frye. He attacks and chases her in her house, from pages 24 to 41!” That exclamation point gives me the willies. A seventeen-page rape scene! it says. How fun!

  • p. 140 – 141: George Eliot, Middlemarch

Remember when I mentioned Proust, earlier? Gosh, that was a long time ago. Remember how Proust’s multi-volume work of impressive self-involvement was described as “a masterpiece?” Well here we have Eliot’s Middlemarch, a lengthy book but not a damn patch on A la recherche, quoted at length as an example of how 19th-century fiction was more about telling than showing. (Which: someday I’m going to debate this, but not now.) Middlemarch does not get to be a masterpiece. In fact, JSB goes so far as to rewrite the cited passage as he would imagine George Eliot might have done if she was writing in the 1940s.

The rewritten passage is terrible, and terribly dull. I can feel your shock all the way on the other side of the internet.

Proust, Dickens, Melville — these are held up more than once as positive examples. Only George Eliot gets singled out for the dubious honor of having her lengthy clauses (appropriate for the period in which she was living and writing!) chopped and sliced and simplified.

  • p. 142: Iazy writing

JSB gives us “an example of lazy telling from a best-selling writer.” As if we are not living in the age of Google where such evasions are easily unmasked. I plugged in the first few lines, and ta-da!

Screencap of the first result from a Google search: the best-selling writer is revealed to be Danielle Steele.

Not as sly as you think, sir. Also, “best-selling writer.” Not author. Writer. Koontz and King categorically are brilliant masters of the craft; Danielle Steel is lazy.

  •  p. 146: Hemingway, “Hills Like White Elephants”

Here is an on-page passage where a man is trying to convince his pregnant girlfriend to have an abortion. Because nothing says ‘literary classic’ like reproductive coercion.

  • p. 149: voice

JSB says: “You’re never going to mistake a Faulkner for a Koontz, or a Hemingway for a Danielle Steel.” I think the first comparison holds much more water than the second; it feels like JSB is commenting more upon content than upon voice/diction/sentence length. Also, I am reminded of this Guardian quiz about gender and narrative voice.

  • p. 161: Dean Koontz, Sole Survivor

Fridging in a Koontz citation: “At two-thirty Saturday morning, in Los Angeles, Joe Carpenter woke, clutching a pillow to his chest, calling his lost wife’s name in the darkness. The anguished and haunted quality of his own voice had shaken him from sleep.” This in a list of examples of distinctive narrative voices — every single one of which is a dude.

  • p. 162: Stephen King, The Shining

Again the Overlook Hotel is cited as an exemplary use of setting.

  • p. 169: Dean Koontz, Midnight; Stephen King, “Home Delivery”

Again a lengthy excerpt from the death scene of Janice Capshaw, with the explanation: “She’s not going to make it out alive. In fact, she’s going to become a treat for a horrible thing that chases her.” A treat.

The King excerpt shows a woman worrying about what two men (a reverend, her fiancé) think of her.

  • p. 183: Stephen King, On Writing

Brief snip from King’s book of craft advice.

  • p. 199: Stephen King, On Writing

Completely unnecessary sniping by JSB: “In his book On Writing, he talks about the boys in the basement, his metaphor for the subconscious writer’s mind. When you write, and when you revise, you ought to get the boys working. If you’re a woman and you don’t like the idea of boys in your basement, feel free to come up with your own metaphor.”

Fuck. You.

  • p. 230: fridging: Robert Crais, Hostage

Another mention of the hostage negotiator whose own wife has been taken hostage (ooh, irony!).

  • p. 232-233: fridging

Another hat-tip to The Fugitive, plus a second fridging: “the thugs plant a car bomb. It blows up the wrong person — Bannion’s wife. Now it’s personal.”

  • p. 234: Stephen King

Brief piece of writing advice.

  • p. 236: Dean Koontz, The Key to Midnight

Unrelated to Midnight above, apparently. A Western white man writes a book set in Japan even though he has never been there. Part of his research involved reading Shogun, another Japan-set novel by a Western white man.

  • p. 238: Dean Koontz, Midnight

A father and son reconcile. Much less awful, and much briefer, than the other citations of this book.

  • p. 240: fridging: Lawrence Block, “A Candle for the Bag Lady”

A lengthy passage where a killer explains his motivation for killing a homeless woman. We learn nothing else about the woman: this scene is all about the murderer’s perspective. The woman herself is apparently disposable.

  • p. 241: rape: Dean Koontz, Whispers

Again JSB is thrilled to mention the seventeen-page rape scene, with this command: “Read it and learn.” I find this language much, much creepier on my second read-through.

And there we are. Done. Finally. Did that feel like a grind? It was certainly exhausting for me.

In reference to The Shining, I realized at one point I was drawing much more from the Kubrick film (which I have seen and admire) than from the book (which I have not read). I immediately found the Tor.com reread post for the book (their reread series is the best! I want to do a Discworld reread for them, honest! email me!) which contains this stunning passage:

King has talked before about the rage he felt in his years of struggle, commenting that there were times when he felt real anger towards his children. It all comes pouring out in Jack Torrance, a bad dad who breaks his son’s arm while drunk (a condition King was later to admit he was in most of the time). All those years of guilt, of fearing that he couldn’t support his family, of feeling like they were a millstone around his neck, he finally shakes it off thanks to his success, and then he puts on a fiction suit and dives right back in again. He even gives Torrance his own bad habits, like chewing aspirin when hung over.

I’ve talked before (and more recently tweeted) about the fuzzy border between fiction and real life because it’s a constant preoccupation of mine. I think one of the things I do as an author, and which King appears to be doing here as well, is taking a seed of a real-life feeling (something primal and often unspeakable) and letting it flower in fiction’s fertile soil. This kind of inward-outward exploration may even be one of the greatest reasons for fiction’s very existence. But even here, wallowing in his own deepest anxieties and childhood/parenthood traumas, King has limits: “To King, losing sympathy for his characters is the sign of a rotten imagination.”

I believe authors have the right to do whatever the hell they want in their fiction. But I also believe there can be consequences, significant ones, to the choices we make in building stories. We don’t revise novels in a vacuum, and our own cultural baggage inevitably comes in to play. The benefit of writing fiction is that we do get chances to fix our initial, thoughtless impulses — but only if we’re thinking very critically about the stories we’re telling and the frameworks we’re helping to shore up. (Especially if we expect to be paid for our work.) One instance of dameseling or fridging or rape-for-sympathy is a blip; a thousand of them, a million, so many that they become the default way to treat female characters in multiple media … Well, that’s a problem. It’s a question of scale.

As authors, we have control over which characters we choose to harm, and which ones we put in a position to act. Over and over again, JSB shows us women/girls in peril, passively reacting or dead and men/boys in a dilemma, poised to act. This recent piece on similar trends in video games sums it up rather nicely: “It seems that when you want to make a woman into a hero, you hurt her first. When you want to make a man into a hero, you hurt… also a woman first.” 

The takeaway of fridging and damselling in narrative: Women are only truly important when they’re dead. This is not only repellent to me as a romance author: it’s repellent to me as a woman, and as a human being.

___

This piece from The F Word reviews Stieg Larsson in the context of violence against women in the novels of James Patterson and Dean Koontz.

Questions about Stephen King and feminism are discussed by Grady Hendrix here in a different post for Tor.com.

As always, Anita Sarkeesian’s videos at Feminist Frequency are a great example of just how prevalent such clichés are — her posts are specific to video games, but it’s not a great leap to extrapolate her analysis in regard to fiction, film, and television.

 

Post to Twitter