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Our Dear Author

Here’s a fun set of facts:

  • I am an Ellora’s Cave author who donated to Jane Litte’s defense fund.
  • I am an author who writes reviews (more like critiques/analysis really) and sometimes those reviews are negative. Like: really, really negative. Sometimes they’re ecstatic! But: you know.
  • A lot of my (long and thinky) analysis posts have cited Dear Author, because they’re a known and important voice in the romance industry.
  • I use the same pen name and website for both my books and my reviews.
  • Before I was published, and had no pen name, I wrote a few sharp reviews under my dayname, on Goodreads. They’re still out there: I stand by them. One of the authors I know for a fact has gone on to write a series that won a Rita, so clearly I’ve sunk nobody’s career.

So. Now you know where I’m coming from at the start. This is important. Nothing we write comes without baggage: the best you can do is be clear what baggage you carry, so people can take the necessary grains of salt. <– Probably a hint about where we’re going to go, so buckle up.

Here is the baldest, boldest fact I keep coming back to: Dear Author used to be a reader space, and now it’s not.

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Die Hard, Jupiter Jones, Cinderella, and Character Agency

When I’m talking narrative and I want someone’s eyes to light up, I just tell them this: Die Hard is one of my favorite Cinderella stories.

I cannot take credit for making the connection myself. It was at a conference. An editor from a well-known publishing house was defining an elevator pitch for the benefit of a new writer. “It’s like: Cinderella meets Die Hard,” he said. The audience laughed, and the editor with them. “I know,” he continued. “What would that even look like?”

Reader, I was shaking. Instantly abuzz. If I hadn’t been conspicuously seated in the second row at this panel, I’d have run straight out of the room and started writing.

OF COURSE Die Hard is Cinderella. A mysterious stranger crashes a party he wasn’t officially invited to. His feet are covered in glass. Later he is pursued by people who are desperate to uncover his real identity. He ends up reunited with the person he went to the party to see. Holly is the prince. Al is the fairy godmother. Argyle’s limo is the pumpkin carriage. And Hans Gruber, naturally, is the wicked stepmother.

John McClane sits by the sink and picks glass shards out of his bloody, injured feet.
Blood and glass and missing shoes.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this in context of a recent NPR story by the ever-revelatory Linda Holmes — this paragraph in particular:

[Cinderella is] partly a fantasy about simplifying the relationships between social standing and coupling — one that makes the most sense in a world in which class differences are an accepted barrier to a good man choosing to marry a woman. If the prince is a man who believes from the outset that love conquers all, the story doesn’t really make any sense. It would be hard to set Cinderella on a properly functioning egalitarian collective.

The gender-flip in Die Hard turns the prince into a princess — but the class chasm stays the same. Bonnie Bedelia’s Holly is a corporate ladder-climber, an executive at a Japanese company that occupies an entire LA skyscraper. Her job is far more high-status than that of her scruffy blue-collar cop husband. But where the original Cinderella is about elevating the low-born heroine to the prince’s aristocratic level, Die Hard’s perfect, meticulously constructed plot inexorably undermines the foundation of Holly’s higher status.

Imagine Cinderella blowing up the palace.

Continue reading Die Hard, Jupiter Jones, Cinderella, and Character Agency

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