Just A Quick One

I'm off to Europe for about 2 weeks. When I get back, I'll have lots of pics and stories, but I'll be offline for most of it. If you're into it, you can follow my randomness on twitter. Just wanted to let everyone know, if I still have readers, that I haven't dropped the ball again, and I'll be back soon!

As always, thanks for hanging out!

Positively Infinite

You'll remember, I have been meaning to write this for a while, but I wasn't sure how to start it. And then something happened. So. This is not a rage post. This is not a Hannah post. This is a post on positive thinking. (Rages and Hannah are a feature of that. You'll see.)

Every once in a while, my day-to-day and my politics collide in a way where I am forced to acknowledge that the world is not really full of shiny happy people who want to do good. Not to say I'm not aware of assholes, their existence in my life, or the fact that they have far more bearing on my life than I have on theirs, and how horribly I despair when I sit and think about that for too long. But what I mean to say is, every once in a while I am forced to acknowledge that in many ways, the world is full of shiny happy people who just want you to get out of their way and leave them alone, kthanx!

I am hopeless, in the figurative sense. I have the worst luck, the worst timing, I am hopelessly clumsy, and I rehash the million ways any undertaking will go wrong. Weirdly, though, I am also painfully optimistic. I am a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other kind of gal (hence the blog name) where the bad stuff goes down, and then you wake up the next morning, and more stuff happens. And always, always, I believe the answer is right around the next corner, even when I'm so far gone I don't even remember what the question was. I mean really, sick, stupid, masochistic, Michael J. Fox levels of optimism*. It's hardwired into me, where, despite neurosis born of years of the aforementioned crap, be it long drawn out recovery after surgery, the hellish nightmare of The College Thing, and the years of aftermath, despite all the random WTFery of stuff that could only happen to me, from bad-idea surgeries to a good decision two days too late, I remain always waiting for my next moment. It is both a gift and a curse. I keep getting hurt, purely because I don't believe it could possibly happen this time. I keep going because what else am I going to do? Because if anything can happen, it could happen to me, right?

I don't see myself as an activist. I am an optimist. I am a hopeful person, and I believe the world is generally decent, and if I talk enough, someone will get this someday. But the trouble is, a lot of people think, because I am a woman who fights, and therefore, feminist purely by default, because I am a person who wants the world to change, that I am unhappy, that I am negative. Some of this is purely sexism, but sometimes, it is genuine concern and fear of the ignorant. So let me please explain, to the friends and family who aren't as familiar with this idea as the feminists and anti-ablists I know. For those of you just learning this, I know you're not going to get it, and I'm going to get arguments, but here goes anyway.


Complacency is not happiness.

I am complacent about my disability. It is something I have to deal with. It is something that colours my decision making, though less than what most people think it does, still enough that it requires a cursory nod every time I make a plan. It is something that changes what I am capable of, and how I handle what I am not capable of. It does not make me happy. It has its good points, and there are things I am that I know come directly or indirectly from being a person with a disability, and some of those things are good things. It is not something I dwell on or waste time giving more credit than it is due, but it is still, by and large, one of the negative forces in my life. I am okay with it. We are not always friends, me and this label of mine, but we peacefully acknowledge each other's existence, and I make allowances and work around it. I did not cultivate and grow this disability. It does not give me a sense of pride or strength the way you might imagine that it does. It does not bring me joy or happiness. Just a different perspective, which I am sometimes grateful for. I am mostly okay with having a disability, and mostly, I do not think it sucks all the time. That is complacency. I am also complacent, sometimes, about my sexuality. I know there is nothing I can do about it. I know there are things in this wide world that I will never experience, or at the very least, never in the way that the rest of the world insists they experience things. I know, sometimes, that I am lonely, and that I cannot express that loneliness without people misunderstanding me. I know that I am different in some fundamental way to the rest of the world, that judgments are made on both sides, and sometimes I am at fault, and sometimes others are at fault. But I still like being asexual. I know I am often happy when I am alone. I am happy not to have to sacrifice my wants for someone else's. I am horrified when I see the emphasis placed on beauty and standards, and relieved that I have no such motivation, and don't cave to the pressures. I'm happy to be in the company of people like J. M. Barrie and Michael Jackson, who were brilliant at what they did in a way I can only dream, and seemed like decent human beings. (Someone told me Salvador Dali was too, but I've never been able to verify.) And I am also comforted that they faced similar accusations and judgments. I'm confident that my asexuality has not damaged me in any way, but the prejudice and peer pressure I have faced because of it certainly have. So the sexuality isn't necessarily a negative force in my life, but I'm not sure it's a positive one either. It just is what it is. I am comfortable with it.

My writing makes me happy. My spirituality make me happy. They are positive, driving forces which challenge and excite me and push me to change: who I am, how I think, what I want, and what I am willing to do to get it, and how much I am willing to let people in. Change is not a negative thing. Change is movement, movement is energy, and energy is used for the good of things. Sometimes, writing is hard. Sometimes, I can't get the words out right, or I can't get the words out at all, or there isn't enough story, and it dies off, or there's a question I haven't asked, a perspective I haven't considered, and everything hinges on this empty hole that I can't seem to spot, let alone fill. It's hard. But it is mine, writing, even though I do believe I was born with it, it is still mine, and when I get it right, I can take pride, not in having worked around a problem, but in having created something which changed, with the writing, which became something outside of what I know and what I think, and I can enjoy that and know that I have changed because of it. Sometimes, my chosen spiritual paths frighten me. Sometimes I am unsure. Sometimes I am weak or believe myself to be weak. But I know in my heart that I am learning. I know I've chosen right, for myself, and that I appreciate the learning, and that it changes me. And it makes me happy, and powerful, to be the force of my own change, to bear witness to my own growth, and to be more awake in the world the more I change. I have more value outside of myself, the happier I am. Pride and accomplishment, growth and change, and discovery and education changes you. And when you change and are happy, you pass on positive energy. Change is good.

Two stories. The first is what happened to kick my butt into writing this thing in the first place. I had a house guest, someone who knows me quite well, and has known me for years. We got to talking about a certain actor, and I mentioned that I was angry because he had played a blind person in a film I saw. My friend shook her head, and said she didn't understand why things like that bothered me, so I explained that of course it bothered me, blind people don't have the opportunities to play sighted. People who use wheelchairs don't get to play people who can walk. And on and on and on. So then she placates me with "Yeah, but _________ is famous, and they needed someone famous." This is a common argument which makes zero sense, and I said, "And why are there no famous blind actors again? Oh, right, because they don't get hired." (Incidentally, my favorite WTF excuse is the one that goes, 'well, we can't be sure that person can do everything the character needs to do.' Uh, writers? That means the character is badly written! That means you're being unrealistic!) So then she backpedals.

"Okay," she says, "I know. I know it's wrong and it's bad, but it's just how things are. It's not going to change. I don't understand why you let yourself get so upset about it."

Take a moment to think about that. Why would I, who have aspirations to write screenplays one day, and would like to write realistic portrayals of people with disabilities, get upset that if I do that, I will likely be the only person who has a disability working on said movie? The only person with any knowledge of my own intended audience, and a pretty unimportant person even so. I know, I'm so sensitive, aren't I?

When people say, "Why do you get so upset about...", what they really mean is, "Why do you expect people to care about..." Sometimes, people is a politically correct "me", as in, "Why should you make me care about things I don't want to. How dare you!" Sometimes, it's a more passive "me", as in, "I already know nothing I do will ever affect anything. I don't have to care about this because it won't matter if I do or not." Which, really, is a lot more negative than insisting on change. (Sometimes it's also, "I actually think you're totally wrong, and I don't want to tell you, so I'll just placate you until this goes away," but I'm not giving that one any credence here because in this instance, it's just flat out wrong. Like, one of those rare and beautiful black and white versions of wrong, where one side is right, and the other is nowhere near where right is.)

People think caring about things, being passionate about social justice, as I am, makes me negative, because I am constantly examining my own behavior, and educating others about theirs, when I can. People think finding fault with large chunks of 'how the world works' makes me perpetually nasty and bitter and angry. Certainly, a large amount of things in the world make me angry, as a woman, a person with a disability, an asexual, a pagan. Certainly, I am frustrated (not bitter, just not happy) that there are less ways the world works for me than for others. But. I am an optimist first. Passion is a good thing. I do not use this fire or frustration inside me to hurt the people I love. I do not use it to hurt other people in similar situations, furthering my own cause, and setting others back. I use it to speak. I use it to write. Blog posts and stories both, to show people that I am part of the real world. That there is a world that exists, within "the world". Where holes still need to be filled in some places, and in others, space needs to be made. Where there is a need for a different kind of "normal", a new version of "acceptable". Being an activist isn't about pointing out the flaws in the system. That's just the first part. The rest is about fixing them. You can't be an activist, without being an optimist. You cannot work every day towards change you don't believe is coming. You cannot live a happy life, believing your perspective is invalid, and just existing is enough to hope for. I am learning one of the most fundamental beliefs belonging to many Pagan groups is that life itself gives you power, and you use that power, ideally, to make the world a better place. I exist, and in recognition and gratitude of the fact that I exist, in this world full of amazing things, to my own mind, I am honor-bound to do good in it. If that means certain things must change, then certain things must change, and I must do my best to see that change. Less than a generation ago, I would have been put in an institution, and see my family on weekends if I was lucky, and never be educated. In some parts of the world, a child like me would be put in a cage, fed just enough, and never talked to or stimulated. That changed, here. Here, now, someone fought for our right to be treated as people. That I am grateful and happy and proud of that change, however it came about, does not mean we're done. And I would certainly feel like an ungrateful little brat, for resting on someone else's laurels, and saying, "Okay, we have enough now." Because I want to be there when they start treating us like people who matter. Somebody could make things better, and it's not conceit to think it might be me, it's self-preservation. I don't do this to prove to you that my life is hard, or that people don't play fair. I do this to remind you it doesn't have to be this way. We are capable of more and better, as we have been through history. That you don't believe it, well. Just shows who's the negative one, doesn't it?

The other story: When I was a kid, I saw Peter Pan. Then I read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Then I heard David Copperfield and Oliver Twist. And I began to wonder what went into the water in London, and decided I must go there and see for myself. At around ten years old, I said to my mother, "One day, I am going to live in London, England," and she said, "Okay." And after the disastrous College Thing happened, and after I had woken myself out of my shell shock, I said, "Now. I am going to London now." And I did. I got a passport and what was left of my student loan, and I went to London, for a week. I had a ball, fell in love with the city, and came home, and warned my mother, "Next time I go, it's permanent," and began to plan. It took two years of working part time and living like a monk and carefully planning, and arguing with my mother/sister/therapist/various people that I was serious, and getting my visa, and a mix up with my passport, before getting the go-ahead. Along the way, the biggest snag I hit was that the people who said, "Oh, sure," when I was ten or fifteen had a lot more to say when I was twenty-four. Much of it along the lines of, "It's well and good to have dreams, but you need to have a real life, and be serious. This isn't going to happen. People don't just do this. Get a job, settle in, focus on building your life." And for the first time, it wasn't, "you can't do this." It was, "I can't do this, so how could you?"

It wasn't permanent. I had a two year visa, and I lasted three months. Couldn't find work. But it was three months. Three months living in London. And for the first time in my life, I had done something important, not to someone else, but to me. I had done something that wasn't amazing because I had done it, but because it had been done. I am going back in the summer, for a week and a half. Because I can. Because I am careful with money, and more importantly, because it is something I knew all along I would have. You can't have one without the other. Belief doesn't mean you can sit back and things will come to you, and there's no point in working for something you don't believe you're ever going to have, because even if, by some strange twist of fate, you get what you want, you'll waste it. I advocate for change because change is coming, and I want to make sure it's change I need to see, to keep going, to keep making gains in my life and the world, for myself when I need to, for others when I can. I may not make a difference, but I gain another drop of power each time I open my mouth when someone wants me to keep quiet. And that means something to me, whether it means anything to anyone else.

I have been in writing classes where I was the only person not writing a tragedy or drama. I have been in writing classes where, if I was not writing a tragedy or drama, I was mocked. If I wrote a happy ending, it was seen as 'taking the easy way out.' I don't know where we got this idea that being unhappy meant something more than being happy, but next to The Dreaded Mary Sue, it is my least-favorite myth about writing, and art in general. I hate the glorification of Misery and Dissatisfaction almost as much as I hate the glorification of Home and Family. I suffered, for much of my formative years, from what was quite literally a crippling form of depression and social anxiety, from the time I was eleven. It was so bad, I quite honestly saw my CP as the more manageable of the two conditions. When I woke up, went on meds and into therapy at the age of seventeen, my mother stared at me, after two weeks in treatment, and said, "Where have you been?" And that was enough to keep going. I'm off meds now, but still in counseling. My happiness is hard fought and hard won, and I will not let anyone tell me it means less or is less real, just because we suffer from a peculiar sense of ourselves, where we imagine that our lives aren't supposed to be really great and we should settle for "not lousy" whenever we manage to find it. I have had a life that is not lousy. It's not enough.

When I went to London, the common question, for some reason, was not "How?" but "Why?" and my answer was, "I want to, and I can." It's as simple as that. If you're able, do it. If you're not able, find a way. If there's no way, find another way. Again, I realize I'm luckier than most. I have a nice part time job I really like, I have goals, and, as I am not hindered by many visible signs of disability, I am, sometimes, afforded more humanity than others I know. But then again, I have able-bodied friends with full time jobs who were able to get their education, and who have dreams that go unfulfilled because those dreams are for other people. I have this theory that, since I am a person with a disability, I was spared all the awful socialization that taught us that there are Things which constitute a Real Life (since it was never expected that I would have any of them anyway.) so now, I go around foolishly believing that a Real Life is what I am doing, as I am living. This is why it's so important to me that people understand that a person with a disability does not want to be treated like an "ordinary" person. Because one thing I've learned is that "ordinary people" the way that you mean it, with Jobs and Spouses and Responsibilities, can be really really unhappy. They feel ripped off, because they were told what would make them happy, and they went out and did that, and it didn't make them happy, and now what? Who wants that? I am complacent as a person with a disability, but as a person with a life, it's pretty decent, and I'm pretty happy. I'm not flat broke anymore, I belong to a group of people who listen when I talk, I tell stories about people I will never be, when I have the time and energy, I have two precious furbabies who love me. Sometimes I do cool stuff like go to Europe in the summer, or set about self-publishing a book. Those things are possible, and for the things that aren't? Yeah, that hurts. That really sucks, actually, but there's always another direction to move in. I'm not stupid, I'm not naive, and I'm not trying to be completely unaware of whatever narrow grasp of privilege I have. It's not the life I wanted at ten, it's not the life I want at twenty-five, but I'm getting there. And I will get there, at thirty, forty, or fifty, maybe, but I will. And because I know that, I can share my happiness. I can spare a drop or two of my energy telling the people in my life that if things were different, I might be capable of more, if things were different, the fact that I am capable of anything would not be such a shock. I can spare my time and energy to tell people that one day, things will be different, things will be easier, for me, and others like me, and still, we will keep working, and moving forward. Because it's not about what is or what should be. It's about what is possible. And the answer to that is always, always anything.

People spend a lot of time telling me the things I should be grateful for, because they are grateful they are not me, or they are grateful they do not have to deal with anything worse than me. The truth is, I am more grateful than I could ever appropriately express. That doesn't mean I don't deserve more. There, I think, is the crux of the matter. There's a certain level of narcissism in advocating for change, in your own life, or the world at large. There is a point at which you demand it be acknowledged that you're important, and because of that, you are owed, in that you have the right to expect the amount of effort you put into something should match the value of the result. And I have reached that point, and the people who haven't are angry because how could I possibly think I should have more than they should?

One day, I will have more, and because I do, someone will start where I finish, and have more than that. I believe it is important that that happens, and I believe that it will not happen unless I make it happen, and certainly, it will not happen in a vacuum. So I do what I can every day, paying in advance, fighting for a better life for me, and a better world for everyone else, for the same reason I fought to go to London, and the same reason I fight for this book, now. Because it's important and it will make things better, and it will make me happy. But mostly because I want to. And I can. That should be enough reason for anything.

So. I do wholeheartedly apologize to the people who feel I am negative. Clearly, nobody has convinced you what you're worth, and you have no idea what the world is capable of. My condolences to you, and the people who have to put up with you, while you are putting up with life.


*Read it. I'm not kidding. One day, my little optimist heart tells me I will be given the opportunity to thank that man, for his awesome work, his awesome writing, and his general all-round awesome. I even forgive him for converting to American, because he is made of that much awesome. In case this is that chance, thank you sir, you are appreciated.

Ally Does Product Placement

I'm not getting paid for this, so you know.

Now that that's safely behind me, I can tell you I had a birthday recently. I'm twenty-six now. Yikes. One of my gifts was the Kamenstein salt & pepper grinder. Now, I'm not a home decor kind of person, when it comes to gifts. More a music, DVD, video games and books kind of gal. But I have to tell you, I'm a bit of a sucker for kitchen gadgets. As a clumsy, absent-minded, easily distracted person with no hand-eye coordination who also loves food, kitchen gadgets are awesome to me. Have a sung any love songs about my Magic Bullet yet? Seriously, guys, I know the infomercials are annoying as all hell, but they work! And my Tea Master? Oh, how do I love my Tea Master. No more leaves!

I love fresh ground pepper. I will not eat pepper, if it is not fresh ground pepper. And that kind of sucks, when you have dexterity issues. I grind the pepper, and if the grinder is of the small and cheap variety, it still takes me a few minutes, and most of the pepper winds up on my hands. I have allergies. Or on the floor, where it waits until my mother comes in to vacuum that week. If it's the big expensive kind, it's unwieldy, and too heavy for me to turn properly at all, all the pepper goes into one spot, if it even comes out. This Kamenstein grinder is amazing. It comes apart in two pieces if I need it to, it closes up on its own, and I can put it back together easily, even with my bad hands, and it will stay where I put it. Its little squeeze handle thing is way easier for my stupid hand than the typical grinder. For people for whom strength is the issue, not so much dexterity, I tried the squeeze handle with my weak hand, and the spices still came out. They were a bit less fine than with my strong hand, but it worked. The only tricky part is refilling it, which involves screwing things off and slotting things back in place, and some extra time and dexterity. But even the little plastic thing you have to slot back in place is made of soft plastic that is flexible, not hard and unforgiving plastic you have to get just right. Honestly, it's the least pain-in-the-ass grinder I've ever used, seeing as I'll only be refilling it once every couple months. I love it. I love it so much, I am sending a letter to the company.

I always have to be careful with this kind of thing, being of the more 'mild' disabilities. I know your results are obviously going to vary, depending on your individual physical situation. And I know this is a bit of a departure from the usual stuff in this blog, but I feel like something so disability-friendly should get a nod, so do check it out if you're picky like me and need your fresh ground pepper. And feel free, in the comments, to fill me in on the most user-friendly kitchen gadgets you've found.

Thanks for indulging me.

Just When I Think She's Done Surprising Me

So. I've basically been sitting around the last few weeks, staring at the screen, and nothing's been happening, and that doesn't make sense, because I know this story like the back of my hand, right?

Well. Today, I was sitting in the laundromat, and I had one of Those Moments. You know those moments, right? If you're a writer or other artist, you have Those Moments at least some of the time, if you wish you were a writer or artist, those are the moments you're looking for. It's the stuff of legend, you're sitting around, because you're tired of staring at the screen, the house is a mess and you haven't eaten anything but instant mac and cheese for three days because you feel guilty every time you leave your house because you've only written three pages today, oh gods. And then something shifts, a veil lifts, a bolt of lightning strikes, the ground moves under you, and something changes inexplicably, suddenly, perfectly.

I have a hard time with scheduling writing time. Some days, it's five or six hours, some days it's thirty minutes. Too many days, it's nothing. Ten minutes or less. I'm working on fixing that. For those of you who do not understand this yet, we are not actually at the mercy of the almighty Inspiration. We need the inspiration, to find the stories at all, and there are small moments of inspiration in the writing process. And there are large earth-moving cracks of inspiration. Usually, I get the first one when the idea hits, then I have to squish it down, because some ideas are, well, stupid. And some ideas are amazing, but they're intimidating and all-encompassing, and I don't have the mental capacity or fortitude to focus on it, and it sits and stews for a few months (or on memorable occasions, a few years, coupled with a few false starts. Hello, Gerard, you blood-sucking pain in my ass). I am saying this, rather condescendingly too, because it still shocks me how many people think words will get written, if you're not writing. Seriously, I know I have time management issues. This is not because I lack inspiration. This is because I am neurotic and therefore easily distracted. I am not a morning person, so morning is when I write, because I know I am of no use to anyone besides myself. If I sleep in, usually, because I did not sleep well the previous night, or I overextended myself the previous day, I hate myself. Hating myself takes a lot of mental energy. You can see where this is going. I'm not making excuses. I'm a flawed writer who badly needs to work on self-discipline.

When I was in London, there was a guy. He was in TV, I don't know exactly what he did, some desk job, but it was in television. He worked part time as an extra. When I told him what I did with my spare time, he told me about a screenplay he really wanted to write. When I asked him what was stopping him writing it, he said time. He assured me he had it all mapped out and knew exactly what would happen, but he was waiting for the right time. When I asked how long he'd been waiting, he said ten years. I tried not to judge. I asked him how much he had written.

"Weeeelllll... you see, I haven't, really. But I know exactly how it's going to go, so once the inspiration strikes, I'll be able to jump right on it." So I said, you should make it a habit, to write every day. "Weeeelllll.... I just, I don't feel inspired to do it." I walked away trying to hide the smirk because we both knew it wasn't ever going to get done, but really, there was no need to rub it in.

Seriously, I don't know about anyone else, but my muse is a grade-A asshole. On the good days, I feel like I've got this person whispering in my ear that if I do not get this out as quickly as possible, it could blow my head off, I will explode in a shower of guts and grey matter and all the wrong words, and on the bad days I'm stranded in a desert and he's five feet away with a cup of water, yanking it an inch further away every time I take a step. The thing is though, words can actually come out whether you're inspired or not. I am not yet immune to how crap the words are, but I'm at the stage now where at least I know crap is a perfectly normal thing and I just have to suck it up and deal, or in theory, anyway. Because then there's the second kind of inspiration. Where you've spent like, two or three (or in my case, four or five) drafts on this stupid thing, and the tone's not right, and the timing's all off, but the story is there and you're doing a whole lot of telling people what's happening, instead of just having it happen and then something, some inexplicable THING happens, you ask the right question to an empty room, a typo leads you to an adjective which leads you to an idea you never would have thought up on your own, and then it all kind of fuses together.

Like my friend, I had Hannah mapped out. So there was no need to write with any real urgency. Everything has been fits and starts and me screaming at my laptop, and erasing huge chunks of pages. But the map was wrong. After all this time, I didn't imagine that could be true. Of course, the writing of Hannah is still moving at a somewhat steady pace, but a slow steady pace, so much so that I've had to extend the original deadline to the end of October. I had the brainwave yesterday, that maybe I was wrong, maybe the plot was a little thin. So I had the idea, as I had had before, that maybe I could smush all three stories together. Which caused a panic attack because, a) I tried to do that before and it didn't go down so well, b) even if the first novel comes in half the length I had planned, that still makes the book almost 500 pages, and too expensive to self-publish, and c) I hadn't planned that far ahead yet. So there I am, at the laundromat, in utter despair as only a writer can be in utter despair, and trying to sort out what I'm going to do, and telling myself I am not going to start spinning around the floor in front of innocent bystanders. You see, I have a stim. I pace. I pace a lot, particularly when I am imagining all the places I would rather be, like at my computer writing a best-seller that will make me a gazillionaire, instead of alternating between the clock, the spin cycle, and my empty notebook. I try hard not to do it in public, except at work, when I am required to stand in one place for a long time. So I stared at said notebook, and started mapping out the second Hannah book just in case, you know, as a fail-safe. And I realized something. There was a slight incongruity between *spoiler alert* Hannah as a teenager, as she is in book 2, and Hannah as a small child, as she is now. Nothing huge, she hasn't all of a sudden become a completely different person, but there's a distinct change in her motivation that I can't account for. This leads me, like a PI following a gut instinct in an old movie, to thinking, "Hm. Something happened in book one that is not there. I don't know what that is. What is that?"

That was all it took, you guys. WHAM. Hit me like a freight train. I knew exactly what happened, I knew exactly what it was I had been intimidated by in the first place. And just as I thought to myself, "How am I going to pull that off?" I knew the answer to that, too. When you write, you give characters traits and habits and personalities, and you know you're only going to use pieces. The rest is extra, stuff you use in your head, to solidify the characters so you can keep writing them, so you can get to know them. Sometimes, you don't know which extras you're going to end up using, and sometimes, in those extras, there are answers. I thought by now, after all this time, Hannah had finished surprising me in the big ways, and everything from here on out was extra. But oh boy, that last step was a doozy. It was glorious. Beautiful. CRACK!CRACK!BOOM! then all the little pieces, snapsnapsnap as if it was always meant to be exactly that, as if at fourteen, I saw a picture in front of me and fell in love with it, and suddenly, eleven years later, I just noticed the picture is a mosiac, made up of dozens of little pictures that fit with the big picture so perfectly you can't notice them, until you do. I was wrong, and it cost me time and effort and energy and blood and sweat and tears. And I don't care, because when it comes out, it's going to come out amazing. We're still moving. But it's a whole new game.  For the first time since this last leg of the journey began, she is running ahead of me. I don't know where we're going. It's gorgeous.

I am not destined to be a great writer. At best, I will be a good storyteller. I am not trying to change the world, only trying to believe that I could. Most times, I think I really suck at this, that I've always sucked, and that's why it gets harder as it goes on, not easier. And that's why stuff hasn't worked out, and that's why what happened in college happened, and that's why I chose self-publishing over the traditional methods. When I get comments on this blog, or when I get to talk shop with other writers, or I help people, I sometimes think I am good at this thing that I do so compulsively, but even that, sometimes, is empty and hollow because after all this time, I had better at least be good. There are people in my life who rather foolishly think that if I am to set out, to do this job, and the job of being read, I will change the world, I will do Great Things. I will be a Great Talent. Most of the time, I believe it comes from love. Some of the time, I believe it comes from ignorance. Today, only for today, I think I just believe it.

xfingers

* to my knowledge, 'stim' is a medical term for self-stimulatory behavior. Please do let me know if is derogatory in any way.

Something More About Mary (Alternatively: The Damn Twilight Post)

Wow, it's been a while. Hannah's going really good, so I haven't had a second to turn away from it. I scrapped the fifty or so pages I had, and restarted, I'm already further along than I was when I restarted, so, yeah, busy. Also, I've taken to writing a couple posts at once, because there has been a lot going on with everybody these days, on a lot of different fronts, and it helps to cycle through and figure out what goes where and how to make everything fit together. Anyway, sorry for the huge delay, and thanks for another great month! Onward!

The Mary Sue post has apparently gotten me a lot of attention. Colour me surprised. Apparently I have excellent timing, since there's a lot of talk going on. That is awesome, because when I reached the "Mary Sue is bull" epiphany, I got a great big, "WTF" from even the most feminist of readers. There's been some really good discussion about Mary Sue, about why it is sexist, and why it isn't sexist, why it is useless bullying, and why it isn't. There's also been a whole lot of noise, and a whole lot of excuses for bad behavior, fem-hating, and why we need to be able to call out Mary Sue. And there have been some good constructive criticism on my post, and some really pointless noise on my post too. I'm not the kind of person to keep rehashing old arguments, but Twilight turns up a hell of a lot in these conversations. I assume because it's badly written, so very hard to defend. I feel like there's some confusion about my earlier post. And I'm being hassled by certain readers (I'm glaring, so you know) to write about it again. So. You will remember the post where I said I have issues with Twilight I'd rather not discuss? And of course, I mentioned in the Mary Sue post that I had issues with Twilight, but was going to stick to just talking about Mary-Sueisms, and not picking on Twilight? Well.

The time has come to pick on Twilight. And I didn't want to have to write this, not because of Twilight's popularity, or because I would have to admit that I read the entire series, mainly as background reading while planning The Damn Vampire Novel. Or even because I feel a bit petulant about this whole thing, and I don't like being petulant. I didn't want to write it because I am sick and tired of hardcore haters. No really, I am sick and tired of hardcore haters defending their hatred more than I'm sick and tired of hardcore fans defending their love. Admitting your disappointment in Twilight is opening the floodgates to a whole lot of fem-hate and a whole lot of "all ________ are _______" talk, and, while I am about to tear holes all through Twilight, there are some things I just don't want to hear anymore because it takes away from what is actually wrong with the series. And I believe I mentioned, I am a fan of constructive discussion.

A list, then, of things I am not blaming on Twilight.

1. Bella really is a Mary Sue. Yeah. I know. I don't care. Read if you need clarification on this point, and let me just say, Bella is not the problem. Okay? I will be clarifying that later.
2. Rob Pattinson is not that good looking. And hadn't even read the books before getting that role, so where you think he has anything to do with them I will never understand. He's also mentioned his own so-so appearance several times. Which is pretty much enough to make me like him, at least a little bit.
3. Teenage girls only read those books because "omg edward is so hot!!!!"/ Teenage girls are idiots and I'm tired of listening to them go on and on about Team Edward vs Team Jacob - Wow, ageism and sexism all wrapped up in a neat little package. Do I really need to tell you what's wrong with this one?
4. Bella is not good looking enough to get the attention that she gets. Again, I'll be going over this later, but seriously, what? Are you saying Kirsten Stewart, the actress who plays Bella in a series that was written before she was cast to play in it, hi, isn't good looking enough, or are you saying that because Meyer didn't spend pages and pages extolling on her beauty like she did with Edward, Bella can't possibly be that good looking? Or maybe you're just saying, "only Sues have more than one boy, and we hate them so nyeh."
5. Bella's parents don't punish her enough - Okay, that's not a character flaw. Meyer is not a good writer but, alternatively, Bella's parents are idiots. They married too young and have no responsibility for themselves, let alone their offspring. That's pretty established, whether because Meyer actually happened to put some thought into that one, or because it mirrors her own experiences. It happens in real life too. Look it up. Also, please remember, JKR has admitted the reason HP takes place at a boarding school is the lack of adult interference. Clearly, Meyer didn't have that out, and couldn't think of a better one. Which brings us back to yes, okay, the books are badly written!
6. I could write better than that/Meyer's not a real writer - Neither am I. Neither were a lot of first timers. Just because they did better than she did, doesn't make her any less real, nor any less a writer. I know, I'm mad this slipped through the slush pile too, but seriously? There's a lot we can hold her responsible for, but it's not her fault they published the damn thing, and this happened. Somebody, somewhere should have stopped her, and nobody did.
7. I have nothing against Twilight, I'm just tired of seeing it everywhere. Oh whine whine whine. This usually comes from one of those people who likes things that are unpopular on purpose. Liking something because it's unpopular, or trashing it because it's popular, is pretty much the same as liking something because it's popular. You're still being a disingenuous ass, you just get to do so with a smattering of hipster cred. Congrats. You hang on to that.
8. Meyer has ruined vampires forever - Uh. no. Meyer's publishers have ruined vampires for the moment. Because now they've let that through, publishing companies are hungry for more sparkly vampire stories, and Meyer is, for the moment at least, done. (You are free to cheer, I won't hold it against you.) And by the way, vampires have been going the way of the unicorn since Anne Rice. Get over it, or do like you keep insinuating you can, and write something better.
9. They sparkle. That's pathetic - Okay, from a practical standpoint, Meyer was just dealing with a plot hole. It was a stupid way to deal with a plot hole, but compared to the rest of the stupidity, it was positively brilliant, in that she actually went, "hmm, I'm going to have to deal with the whole, 'vampires burn up in the sun' thing." And then, y'know. Dealt with it. Stupidly, yes, but it still counts as a tiny inkling of foresight in the direction of people might not buy this. Also, before anyone brings it up, I get that stupid sparkly vampires is just shorthand for badly written vampire novel. Uh-huh. And you know what? Mary Sue is just shorthand for badly written female character by a female author. Only stupid sparkly vampires has morphed to mean Vampire book marketed at teenage girls, which is probably inherently bad due to subject matter and intended audience. Much in the same way that Mary Sue has morphed to mean there's a girl in that fic that someone just made up! Get her out! That's pathetic and obviously about you because only sexually frustrated hetero teenage girls write fanfic! 

There. If any of your complaints sound anything like that, you are as free to make them as I am to delete them from my comments because that is so not the point. Yes, I admit, I am also frustrated that the quality of adult or YA fairytales has gone down in a hurry, as I have previously mentioned. Which is why I am writing my own, and will publish it independently, since publishers seem intent on pushing this crap at us. I'm not defending it. I know it's badly written. I know it sucks. I know you're sick of it. I'm sick of it. What I am saying is the books have zero plot, and a whole lot of creepy sexist BS, and a huge following of kids who now believe the creepy sexist BS, and we ignore that because it's easier to just pick on Bella Swan. This is why Mary Sue is dangerous.

For people who still don't see Mary Sue as a misogynist tactic, let me lay it down for you. First off, you are wrong. I don't know how much clearer I can make it than to say we have a word designed to make girls who dare to believe that they are, or can be, smart, attractive, successful and impressive, feel immature and ridiculous. But I am damn sure going to try, because this is not ridiculous, it is not frivolous, it is important, and affects how women and girls view themselves and their experiences, as artists and as women, and it also affects how the artistic community views women. So here we go again.
  
What is wrong with Twilight, and why "Bella is a Mary Sue" is just adding to the problem.

Consider that even hardcore Twilight haters have almost nothing to say about Edward. Many times, Edward does not factor in at all. There's been talk about Edward being creepy and way beyond 'bad boy.' But it gets buried a lot of times in the "Bella's not that pretty. Why does everybody like her?" noise. So, let's just clarify. A bloodsucking monster who admits he has no soul, and every time he kisses his girlfriend, he has to fight the urge to kill her, gets more sympathy from readers than a teenage girl with low self-esteem who is used to not living up to the standards of beauty, and possibly doesn't understand that she's as appealing as she is? And what about Jacob? The perfect sweetest best friend in the world who has made it known to Bella that he's not okay with just being a friend, and is, in fact, only biding his time until she comes to her senses... Or has a child, who he can fall hopelessly in love with, and patiently wait til she is an acceptable age to have? (Which is made easier by the fact that she ages really really fast.) Because in his tribe, that's what you do. You wear women down with your affection! (There's probably some racial appropriation in there too, come to that. The whole thing gives me squickies, but like I said, I don't like to dissect marginalized groups that I'm not part of. Someone want to take over that side of the discussion for me?)  He gets no mentions whatsoever, and we have Bella, who can't decide whether to fall for the Nice Guy routine, or get the bad boy because she makes him a better person, which by the way, is the same tired plot line played out on highly rated TV shows all the time. This one bad character in a sea of bad character cliches gets canonized, called names. Well gee, where do you think that comes from? Not girl-hate, surely. Not sexism.

I want you to do something for me, before we start arguing. (Oh noes! More homework!) For just a second, replace the word Mary Sue, with the word "slut." I know, for all intents and purposes, it doesn't actually mean the same, but, humor me. So now, if in your head you're thinking, "Bella is a Mary Sue," you are now thinking, "Bella is a slut." If in your head, you're thinking, "But some characters are Mary Sues. It's okay to hate them." You are now thinking, "But some characters are sluts, it's okay to hate them!" If you're thinking, "Meyer writes Mary Sues and gets published, and that makes her a bad writer, because now everybody thinks they can write a Mary Sue and Mary Sue is bad!", you are now thinking... Well, you get the idea. It's not that I believe Mary Sue is synonymous with slut, or even that I believe that a lot of people do, (though you can see the corollary, can't you, between Bella Swan getting 'unwarranted' male attention, and how much people dislike her for it?) What I'm saying is, like with the word 'slut' we assume everybody knows what Mary Sue means, and that it means the same to everyone.

When you call someone a slut, you're saying, "you are having lots and lots and lots (and lots) of really, really, really inappropriate sex. I am not, therefore, I have a right to disapprove of you. You make my sex less meaningful and important." Except for the times you're just saying, "I don't like you. I don't like what you do or how you do it, or who you are, or that you don't hate you as much as I do. You need to hate yourself in order to make up for how awful you really are." Using that word means you get to make assumptions of how much and what kind of sex is bad. How those people dress, how they act, how they might redeem themselves, and why they need to. You make assumptions that either they are fundamentally broken, or they are just selfish and stupid and nobody needed to break them to make them into the horrible people they are. Most importantly, though, you make the assumption that healthy, normal people agree with you, that everybody knows, instinctively, how much sex is bad, that there are bad reasons for sex, and what those reasons are, and how to present yourself as the kind of person who is a slut, or the kind of person who is not. When you use that word, you claim your own rules as finite, and are free to assume, then, that everyone breaking them is doing so with full knowledge of the rules. Which makes them bad people. You forget that there is no way to tell the difference between the 'slut' you disapprove of based on her actually doing things you just don't like (which really isn't your damn business, but that's just a niggly little detail, isn't it?) or the 'slut' you just dislike, as a general rule. That doesn't matter, they need to fix their behavior to your standards, or at the very least, be appropriately shamed.


Allow me to perform a little translation: When you accuse someone of writing a Mary Sue, you subscribe to similar universalities. You assume that everyone feels the way about Mary Sue that you do, that is, a Mary Sue is universally bad, and everybody agrees with you as to what way and by what degree of bad it is. There are certainly things that all Mary Sues have in common, ie, they're all women or girls, they're written by women or girls, they're not well-written, and the assumption is, they are completely unnecessary and totally unrealistic. But the good ol' Mary Sue Litmus Test, in trying to rid the world of the horrors of unrealistically cool and unique female characters, has proven that it is pretty much impossible for Mary Sue to be a universal anything. Therefore, we should play it safe and avoid anything that makes our girls and women interesting, unique, memorable, strong, independent, and, in fact, necessary to the story. You forget that sometimes, Mary Sue doesn't mean 'badly written', and the only real, solid, all-across-the-board trait of a 'Mary-Sue' is that she is female, and so is her author. Sometimes, that's enough, in both original and fanfic, to make her unnecessary, to some readers. Why write a woman if you don't have to? What kind of person would do that? (A bad, bad person.) Which is sort of like what happens in real life, to girls and women everywhere. Except we're allowed to do it when discussing fiction, because those girls aren't real, and nobody's feelings get hurt, and we have to be allowed to hate them somewhere, in some abstract way, right? Except fem-hate is not abstract. It affects a lot of people in very real ways, from the amount of opportunities an actress is afforded, if she's willing to do a nude scene, and the backlash she deals with after the fact, to the amount of books sold by a YA author who dares use a female protagonist without having a boy in there for potential readers to 'identify' with, to the recent climb in the popularity of unisex baby names, as parents decide they want people to not judge their children by the name provided on a job or loan application. I'm not going to tell you what fandoms I hail from myself, (that would be overshare) but if I read one more RPF disclaimer that uses a real-life gf as an antagonist, (I really really like her, honest. *eyeroll*) or one more slash reader who apologizes for writing a heterosexual scene, I am going to go absolutely bats.

And yes, I did actually read that cute little disclaimer on the bottom, where it promises that sometimes, some things, you can get away with, maybe. I also noticed they were a lot less thorough on when, how, or why, it was okay to 'break the rules' than on when it wasn't. Or the clear tone of, "Okay, yeah, this happens, but you're probably a novice because talented people wouldn't write fan fiction at all, would they? And talented people wouldn't put their original fiction on the Internet, because they would be able to get paid for what they do, wouldn't they? So you should stick to the rules, you n00b." (-Side note, there's a post coming about why talented people might write fanfic, blogs, and online fiction, rather than risk the publishing process.)

Face it. Your fandom is not girl- or woman-friendly. My fandom is not girl- or woman-friendly. It is assumed that fandom is composed mainly of heterosexual young girls and young women, therefore, sexism goes unchecked. But, from the assumption that we're all teenage girls (and the ageism and sexism that go along with that), that we are only in it for the pretty, that the writers who write, say, slash, should be taken more seriously, given more cred, than the ones who write about icky girls, to the prevalence, even among slash writers, to lean towards relationship roles and portrayals that are staunchly heteronormative and incredibly sexist (genderswap* fics where a male character magically grows long hair over night, as if that is just as clear a marker of femininity as breasts and a vagina**, slash pairings where it's practically canon that one character takes on the 'feminine' roles and traits and the other the more 'masculine' with annoying consistency.) ...You know the fem-hate is there, and you know, in some small part, you subscribe to it. Even I'm guilty of rolling my eyes and thinking 'teenage girl' if something's spelled poorly, or if it's poorly written. Despite the fact that, as I have mentioned, at twenty-five, and with quite a few years of practice, I can't spell. Even I'm shocked to find a straight boy who writes fan fiction, despite the fact that I stumbled upon some of my nearest and dearest, both male and female, and every sexuality in the spectrum, in that way. I'm learning, and improving. I'm trying.

Back to Twilight, then. Twilight is very obviously very poorly written. I won't go as far as to say it has no plot, because if Meyer had stuck to one novel, and done that whole star-crossed lovers thing, and let it go, probably, I would be complaining much less than I am. I do know even the first novel was problematic. I'll get to that. I know Twilight reads like a Harlequin, but I'm not going to complain about that again, because you know what? A hell of a lot of Harlequin women have PhDs. That means they are not the stereotype of bored housewife you may see them as, nor are they necessarily bad writers. And there's nothing wrong with healthy escapism. That is not my kind of escapism, but really? Who am I to judge? I'm asexual, can you imagine what would happen if I tried to impose the goals I set for myself on other people? That would be utterly ridiculous.

What happened was Meyer didn't have enough plot for the characters and world she created. It happens to me, usually at about 4 in the morning, and 70 pages in I'll realize I like the characters way more than I like writing about them. Difference is, and I don't like to toot my own horn, but I usually realize that is the point at which we put the work down. (Usually. Not always. Oh, Jack.) Meyer didn't. In fact, she kept going for four whole books! It must be said, truthfully, she turns a pretty phrase. People will be using those books to create IM handles, MSN names, and Cafe Press products for at least the next five years. But her concept of plot progression and character growth is virtually nonexistent. Her characters are wooden and they are predictable and they are cliche, and they don't even follow the flimsy rules that she herself has created for the purpose of her own story. I can acknowledge the boldness in my previous statement, that is, Mary Sue is a myth. Because there are badly written female characters, yes. But a Mary Sue is a badly written female character that does not fit into the world she inhabits, and is, therefore, not necessary. Since all of Meyers characters are ridiculous and pathetic, it's really no surprise Bella is similarly two-dimensional. And yes, she is more talented and meant to be more interesting than all the others, and clearly, we are expected to keel over this girl and worship her the same way her author does. So in that sense, I suppose, it counts as Mary Sueism. But ask yourself, honestly, if the story would be that much improved if Bella was slightly more realistic? More than likely, we would look at Bella, amongst all these other flimsy characters, and still yell Mary-Sue, because if Bella was more realistic, she would stand out amongst all of the characters that aren't realistic! I'm not saying Bella Swan is not a problem. Bad writing is still bad writing. I am saying that Bella is not the problem. And the fact that so many people find it easier to shortcut their hatred of Twilight into their hatred of its female protagonist, well, that is the problem. It comes from years of burying female protagonists into this or that type or this or that role, because people will believe those types, those roles. It comes from young writers learning from an early age that girls don't like reading about girls, because all girls are naturally jealous and possessive, and boys need to read about boys, or they'll come out backwards. It comes from sexism. And it lends to the idea that if Bella were just a different kind of girl, or, hey, not a girl at all, the story would be that much better. And it just wouldn't. (Okay, well, honestly, a high school love story featuring gay vampires would be pretty awesome, but I really don't think Meyer could pull that off either, so you understand my point.)

Meyer clearly has issues with man/woman dynamics that I'm not even going to speculate on. I don't date, I have no interest in sex, so I don't know exactly what normal and healthy is. I just know that's not it. I was confused when someone first brought to my attention the inherent sexism within the book, because like I said, Bella cooking for her father because he's an irresponsible mopey asshole doesn't seem that far-fetched to me. Then I read book two. Wherein Bella tries to kill herself because her boyfriend breaks up with her, falls in with the ultimate Nice Guy, and becomes an irresponsible adrenaline junkie who alienates her friends because none of them are worth anything to her. Then she goes off and becomes a vampire, because her mother who she loves and has protected her whole life, now has a man to do that. There's a scene in the fourth book, where Bella marvels, "Maybe I just have no imagination. I couldn't imagine I would enjoy marriage, until I actually was married. I couldn't imagine I would want a child, until I was pregnant." At that point, I literally had to put the book down for several minutes and calm down, because the message was clearly that women need to be forced into a life of domesticated bliss, but once they're there, their women-hormones take over, and everything just turns out peachy, and you know what? If I hear about how I just need to find the right guy one more fucking time, I am just going to start screaming and not stop. That's at least three rage posts right there. And you're probably going to get stuck reading them, at some point.

There's an idea that teenagers are naturally stupid. Science supports this idea, by telling us that it is our ability to be rational that develops last, when puberty sets in. Socialization teaches us that women are helpless, women need guidance, that women want to be helpers, and nurturers, that they have no desire to express any kind of selfishness, up to and including leading our own lives, being responsible for our own sense of self rather than having someone decide what we should be and do, and finding peace and success on our own. Socialization is wrong, and scientific study is imperfect, and it doesn't matter. These two things band together to form the idea that teenage girls are stupid and simple, and will follow every whim that they get in their flighty little imperfect girl-heads. And because girls are emotional, a girl's feelings should be held in even less account than an adult woman's, because science says that teenagers can't be rational, and of course, feelings is a girl thing, ergo, a girl's feelings are irrational, and not worth anything, and not real, and she must be trained to understand the difference between herself and real people, and live within those boundaries, and be an adorable little stupid, until such time where she is required to be an adult, and thus, give all her time and attention to everyone besides herself. If she dares to be involved in her life for her own sake, she is selfish, and immature. So the self-indulgence of writing in a way that validates her existence, experience, and feelings, is obviously a mark of stupidity and immaturity. She must be mocked, until she grows up, and agrees to spend her life making others happy.

Some of you will remind me at this point, that a lot of things written for or by teenage girls are ridiculous. And there are a lot of ridiculous teenage girls. And you're right. But there is a machine at work here. I talked, before, about how part of ablism is convincing us to subscribe to the ideas that we are here to educate others about disability, inspire others to greatness or kindness, or teach others to value themselves more, by reminding them they are not yet as bad as they can be (because we are). They do this by making those roles the only ones we are ever visible in. If one of us should happen to break out of those roles, the people running the machine can use that to pat themselves on the back, to remind us, you, and themselves, that the machine is working. And we are the proof. So there are scores of people with disabilities who believe that they are not meant for anything special, they really do want to be treated like everyone else (because really, who'd want to be them, if they could be anyone else?), and that if someone is an ablist asshole, it really is because they don't know any better, and we really don't have anything better to do than teach. The same principle is at work here. Teenage girls are taught what they're supposed to have, what they're supposed to expect, what they're supposed to want, and how ridiculously important stupid vapid things are supposed to be. How they're not supposed to focus on 'real' things, and they're supposed to accept and understand that the things they do like, want, or find value in, are then, stupid and unimportant, by virtue of their nature. And that's okay! They can't help it! Science says we're not meant to be smart or important.

So, we learn to not trust how we feel about things, we learn to be easily manipulated and easily fooled, and learn how easily not being manipulated and fooled can pick you off from the herd and make you *gulp* Unlikeable. Likeable is what people want, but most especially a girl, who, in order to continually to be comfortable in her own skin, would have to find people to take responsibility for her, since it is Bad to do that for herself. When we see the same goddamn thing over and over, eventually, at some point, some reach the mistaken conclusion, "yeah, okay, it can't suck that bad, if it's everywhere." Because it is the only real option we have. Then stuff like this becomes popular, as it is meant to, and people go, "God, if teenage girls weren't so stupid we wouldn't have to put up with this!" Teenage girls are not stupid. Teenage girls are people who are treated a certain way based on their age, sex, and importance in society. Same as everybody else, but different, simply because, as a society, we decide that teenagers, particularly teenage girls have no real value, and their hierarchy is separate from the real world, since they only matter amongst each other. We pass that knowledge on to them, and they use it, even within their own safe space. Thus, we get things like Mary Sue, created to keep girls and women in a certain space and mind. We get jealousy, hatred and distrust of all things girl and woman. Of all things that suggest a power, strength, and originality, we are not supposed to have. That will not get us where we apparently want to be.

There are a lot of things wrong with Twilight. It glorifies a coercive relationship that is very clearly not between equals by a long shot. It underlines the idea that the formation of a young woman's identity lies not with her independence, or her decisions about her future, and how she copes with those responsibilities, but with, more specifically, her choices about boys and men, who she chooses to be with, and why, and how she handles herself while in a relationship, out of a relationship, or even looking for a relationship. The idea that she might not be looking for a relationship is seldom acknowledged, except as a character flaw or reaction to male influence. Incidentally, this happens both in fiction, and in real life. (Trust me, I know.)

One of the characters I actually liked in the series was Leah Clearwater, the lone she-wolf in Jacob's pack. She talks about her confusion as to why she is the only woman in the pack, her pain at being spurned by the man she loves, and having to acknowledge that he loves this other woman more than her, while forced to remain in her family unit, a constant witness to the betrayal, and constantly ostracized simply because she is female, and shouldn't be there. She talks openly about fear of infertility and being unlovable, but still has the strength to stand up to the (literal) alpha males in her life. I have to wonder if Meyer was trying to make some point about sexuality and certain kinds of girls, and their ability and right to attract mates, and to expect male affection. I don't like thinking it, but with everything else wrong with the series, it wouldn't surprise me.

The books describe sex as something where it's forgiven and expected that it will hurt, something that can be dangerous to your health and life, and something in which the rights to decisions should be given to the man. It describes marriage and babies as a forgone conclusion, and parents and friends as necessary only in the absence of your real connection, that is, with a man. It is repulsively racist towards people of First Nation descent, and casually talks about grooming young children for marriage, and the fact that all women are helpless in the face of any and all male affection. It makes stalking look romantic, cool detachment look heroic, and non-consensual acts, such as Jacob kissing Bella when she clearly doesn't want him to and has no real way to fight him off, look forgivable. The fact that this is being fed, with mass success, to a group of people trained to believe it's better to want what people tell you to want, is, yes, frightening. The fact that it is badly written, is, I can admit, insulting.

I probably forgot a whole lot of things that are wrong with the series, but the one thing I do know is this: Bella Swan is a badly written character in a series of badly written novels. That Meyer wrote a character that so embodies her own sexist ideology is certainly revolting, but hardly surprising. My distaste has more to do with the ideology than with who or what Meyer modeled her after. That Bella is used as a short-hand for everything that is wrong with those books, is, in itself, sexist. That we hate her because we can, because it makes sense that we would, is sexist. That we hate her because she appeals to teenage girls is sexist. That we hate her because we know she is modeled after Meyer is also sexist. With all the problems, that Bella is a Mary Sue is the most easily understood complaint, is simply a product of how natural, understandable, and forgivable, hatred, distrust, and disbelief of women and girls in the world of fiction really is. Which translates, with horrible ease, to how naturally understandable and forgivable it is to hate, distrust, and disbelieve women and girls outside of fiction, even, and sometimes especially, among other girls and women. It is a mark of sexism, however you excuse it.

And if you still don't understand that, I urge you to reexamine your prejudices, because you are, in all likelihood, sexist. I don't want to hear how Bella Swan is proof that you have the reasons and the right to hate female characters because they are probably 'Mary Sue'. That both the badly written character and the questionably talented author are female is not the problem. Meyer, as a woman, has every damn right to write a girl character, to the best of her ability, if she chooses to do so. Yes, even if her abilities are on the 'yikes' side of questionable. Writing a woman or girl because you are a woman or girl is not some kind of weakness. It does not, on its own, denote a lack of originality. We have the right to find value in our own experiences. Even if we're absolutely useless at expressing them in the medium we'd like, or those experiences are really very harmful, and lead to some serious backward thinking. Like you, Twilight haters, I don't feel Meyer's creation deserves the attention it gets. I wish young girls and young women were not exposed to this backward thinking. I believe it is dangerous and harmful. But unlike you, I will not be part of it. You cannot fight sexism with sexism. Bad writing, and the use of cliche, is not a girl thing.

*Genderswap fics, if we are to be accurate, should really be labeled sex-swap fics, as my dear love so kindly pointed out to me. Sex and gender are not the same thing.
**There are other female body parts, btw. Just a note. There are many parts to the vulva.

AN: I don't mean to disappear anyone who isn't a young girl or woman in fandom. I just wanted to address the fact that being a girl or a young woman is not deserving of the scorn it tends to generate. If anyone has another perspective on the sexism in zir fandom, I would love to hear it.

AN2: To Riley and Claire: I went there. Are we happy now?

In Which I Try Not To Make A Point

So, a few days ago, I got into a discussion with a good friend and avid reader of mine *waves* wherein we discussed her desire for a boyfriend, and where this came from, and how she might approach this from a healthy perspective. This happens a lot. People come to me for romantic advice, sometimes because they just want to be able to disregard everything I say if they don't like it, but also because a lot of the time, in order to recognize how backwards your own behavior is, you really need to find someone who you literally cannot justify it to. And I'm very good at making o.O? faces when the subject of wanting a boyfriend comes up.

For background info, I identify as an asexual aromantic, which are two imperfect terms that imperfectly define what was, for many years, utterly indefinable. They are, essentially, the lesser of two evils (the more evil is me having to explain that in my case, no means never, and no, I don't have a reason for that, beyond it's what I want. Which you would think would be absolutely fine, but has netted me a few thousand o.O? faces over time, and a lot of really disgusting, invasive questions that people actually feel the right to expect answers to.) Of the two of them, asexual is most apt, as I do not now, nor have I ever, to my knowledge, had any real desire for sex. I don't actually believe sexuality is finite, but nor do I believe, at this age and stage, that my own feelings will change. So there's always that thought in the back of my head, "yes this could change, but it probably won't." Really, it's easier keep the label that says it won't because, well, people don't take it well, to be honest, and I don't need everybody hanging on so tightly to that 'maybe.' Aromantic is an unfair term, I think. I am not aromantic. I am a total romantic sap, I just don't want that for myself. I build strong friendships, without which I would be a sour and dried up corn husk doll, and my dear love and I share a wonderful connection without which my world would be, let's say, less than what it is now. But I do not fall in romantic love, or desire whatever that next level is. My feelings have always been that being in love is when you are attracted to your best friend in the world. I'm sure in many ways, I have it wrong, and invite more romantic asexuals than I to explain this, because, as I recently uncovered, I really don't get it. So my friend and I discussed, and since neither of us could pinpoint what she wanted a boyfriend for, exactly, I advised her to think more about the kind of boy she wanted, rather than where she might find one available to her. So then I got all thinky, and went to another friend, who also wanted a boyfriend.

The conversation from there played out a bit like when my six-year-old nephew tried to explain to me what his Bakugan toys were for. He put the little toys on the cards, and when they opened, he announced we were battling. At which point, I, trying to indulge him, said, "Okay, what do I do?"
"Do? You do just like that. They battle now."
"Okay." I move to pick it up.
"No! Don't move it! They have to battle."
"Okay, so what do we do?"
"Don't do anything."
"Okay? So what are they for?"
"This is what they're for."
"Okay. But what do they do?"
"Well, they're for battling."
"Okay. But what are we doing with them?"
At which point he threw up his hands and announced, "You don't do anything with them! They just do that!" And me saying,
"I don't think I'm very good at this."
"No. You don't know how to play this, do you?" Out of the mouths of babes.

This, was kind of like that. I kept saying over and over, "What is a boyfriend for?" And my friend would list several things that a hypothetical boyfriend does, or that she believes he would do. And I would ask how it was different, when hypothetical boy does it, versus when other friends or family do. And she would be unable to explain. And there would be much head-scratching on my end. Occasionally, I would attempt to reconcile what I was hearing with what was happening in my head. I would ask what a boyfriend did differently, and she would say, "It feels different, when a boyfriend does it." and I would say, "Because you're attracted to him?" and she would say, "Not just that." And then, more head-scratching. Which culminated in the twenty-something's version of my six-year-old nephew, where she finally suggested that perhaps it was harsh of me to be all, "Pfft who needs it?" when some people did feel they needed it. At which point I began the same explanations I have given since puberty, when people started looking at me funny every time I dared say no:

I'm not all, 'pfft, who needs it?' Really. I am a very romantic person. I'm just not sure what it's for. If you have feelings for someone and you act on them, that's awesome. If there's only potentials, right and left, or not enough potentials, and you keep waiting for the potentials to show up, that's where I get confused. And part of me wants to take the easy road and just say it's socialization, that we're just led to believe that there are certain things we're supposed to have, and that's one of them. But that is just so narrow-minded and unfair, and people keep insisting there's more to it than that. So, if you're an asexual who is not currently in a relationship, but wants to be in one, could you please explain how this works? Because I keep coming up empty.

 I do not want to alienate my friends, and I also don't want to be throwing psychobabble at them all the time. I know that I'm the one who's different, and I'm not asking people to prove how they feel, but I feel that I am missing something important from the equation here, and I would hate to see it giving me some prejudices of my own. I have mentioned my dislike for both of Hannah's mothers. Well... Not so much dislike. Marissa, Hannah's biomom, gets pregnant as a teenager. She is irresponsible and silly as both a teenage almost-parent, and as an adult in an established relationship with a child she is actually raising. Because that doesn't change much, I don't feel guilty about the whole teenage mom = irresponsible thing, because I think it's pretty clear that the character herself is flawed in that way, not so much her circumstances. But then, after the whole Amanda Palmer hipster racism thing, I certainly don't want to be a hypocrite.

Jane, Hannah's mom, is, by contrast, a smart and well-educated woman, moderately successful and comfortable in her own skin, but she is deeply damaged by grief, and pressured by her well-meaning friends to move on with her life, ie, find someone else, after the death of her husband. Coupling that with her overprotectiveness around Hannah, who is not quite the child she appears, and does not need her mother as much as Jane wishes she was needed, and Jane is also a very flawed character. I know these flaws are necessary, that they fit with the story, but I'm not sure Jane is weak or damaged enough to have a serious relationship with the kind of man she winds up with. And therein lies the guilt. Because, while I am not stupid enough, nor enough of a victim-blaming asshole, to believe that is only the weak and vulnerable (read: desperate) women who fall for that kind of man, I know what the rest of the world expects to see. And I need to make this fit, and I need it to work in a story, and I need it to make sense to other people. And that really sucks. Because everybody believes that women just need men, or just desperately want men, and therefore, that should be answer enough. And I don't believe that, and I'm not sure how to write like I do, and still be honest.

I can admit I'm not always a good feminist. I listen to music and watch movies that many would consider problematic. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt more often than they deserve it. I let things go because I know there are people with more of a stake in it than I, who are fighting, and quite frankly, sometimes, I've got enough to fight for, and I only have so many spoons to hand out on any given day. (Yes, I know, you'd never know it from the rage posts, would you?) Though I try to use correct language whenever I can, and accept criticism when it is warranted and constructive, I am sometimes ridiculously clueless about what is wrong about what and why. I don't want to be saying, "Teenage mothers are silly and irresponsible." My mother, and several other members of my family, were or are teenage parents. Not all of them, but many of them have done wonderful jobs, and were or are much better at being mothers than they were at being teenagers. But I am not going to take it for granted that people might make that leap, and it might be me showing up in somebody's rage post as a hypocrite, someday. (Oh, Goddess, if I ever become that important to somebody, I promise I will stay as receptive to criticism as my fragile self-esteem allows.) I don't want to say, "If a woman wasn't so desperate to be in a relationship, she would have more sense, and not pick that guy." Because that is both nonsensical, and totally not my area. Also not at all what I want to say. But I can't be sure that it won't be taken that way. So I get nervous and paralyzed, and don't write, and hate myself. And then I choose between hating myself for not writing, or hating myself for writing something that is absolute crap. Or, hating myself because I'm writing something I have absolutely no right to be writing. Far be it from me to add to the slew of 'evidence' of things that are not actually true. But. I've never claimed to be a political person. This is a recent discovery, and I make fumbling attempts to learn, and try to do what is right. Whereas, I am, as I mentioned, first and foremost, a teller of stories. If the story says we go left, then we go left.

*fretfretfret* <--- are you tired of me yet?

So, recently, I've been reading this book. I won't give you the name or author just yet, I haven't finished it and don't know if it's one I want people to read. It's one of those 'devil's spawn' books, you know the kind I mean, where there's this otherwise cherubic and adorable child, who happens to be 'evil' and the 'evil' is explained away by some kind of demon parentage. It's an older book, I think 70s or 80s, around the time that sort of thing was popular and still really scary. And while I'm reading it just for fun, I can't help but notice some things. There's a lot of religion, for one thing, which, duh, is kind of expected. But there's also a lot of cliche. The mother of this demon child is a single, younger women, who became pregnant 'young' (the book assumes we know what 'young' is) and then married an older man who is overcome with both lust, and the desire to take care of her. (These things apparently go hand in hand) And I'm really hoping he is murdered in some grisly way, but I'm pretty sure it's the mother who's going to get it. And I'm really annoyed that I know that.

The stuff I think and feel and believe worms its way in my writing. That's a huge part of the reason I have this blog. Before, I used to put it in notebooks, kind of siphon off the stuff that was just brain fodder from the stuff that was actually part of the story. Sometimes, the fodder works its way in the story. In the first installment of Hannah, I mention a story I once read in a Bruce Coville anthology, something to do with dolphins, and their immense brain power, and the effects it might have on a person, or lesser being. So in the second book, I continued on with dolphins. The third book never came to fruition, aside from a few lists and notes, my favorite of which reads simply, what to do with the damn dolphins? My more deeply held beliefs are also prominent. Hannah's mother Jane is a choice mom, which is something I hope to be myself someday. The entire concept of the character herself lies in the fact that children and their experiences and intuition is often overlooked and discounted, a feeling that, as a person with a disability, as well as an asexual, both things which many people think denote a lack of maturation, has followed me from childhood, through adolescence, to adulthood. You would think this translates to me telling you that maybe, deep down I do believe in those cliches, but I sort of feel like the opposite is true. Like Hannah's appearance, I think I sort of just assumed that if I wrote it that way, if I wrote a strong woman with one case of bad judgment, managed to be fooled by someone charming and interested in her who also happened to be an abusive asshole, people would believe it. And now, that shrewd editor is kicking in again, and it's just not enough.

In the Mary Sue post, I mentioned that a good writer can make even the most unbelievable characters make sense. So in theory, I can make this work. In theory, there was some reason my fourteen-year-old self chose that as a catalyst, and my eighteen year old self didn't see enough wrong with it to go a different way. In theory, it was more than just laziness and working with a cliche I could not have even known existed then. (I was just as O.o? about relationships as a teenager, only with a lot less experience, and therefore unable distinguish what my hormonal and insecure friends thought was normal, and what was actually me genuinely missing something other people had.) In theory, I should be able to pin this down, and spread it out like a butterfly on a cork board, so that it looks like exactly what it is, one person, in one circumstance, that, in context, makes perfect sense. Of course, said theory also depends on me being a good writer. So. We've come back to that. The truth is, like I said, the stuff we think and believe will worm its way in there, and if I'm a good writer, the stuff I think and believe will too, and people will know better. I'll maybe get some people calling me on it, but I will at least be able to explain how it is what it is.

I still really hate how tempting it is to take the easy road.

x fingers for me

Cross-Section of Self-Esteem

Observe:

This is a small sample of what goes on in my head, while writing, say, the average Hannah pages. In no particular order:

1. Oh, I hope I can get more writing done today than yesterday.
2. How do I spell that again?
3. Shoot. I've mentioned this person before. What was his name again? *roots around to find it*
4. Four hours writing? pfft. Easy. I'll do five hours tomorrow *A.N: this doesn't work. don't do it!*
5. Wow. That was actually really good. Celebratory tea break!

This is a small sample of what goes on in my head, while editing, say, the last screenplay I completed.

1. What? (sometimes I throw scenes in just to hit the page requirement. Sometimes I can't decipher my own shorthand. Sometimes I don't realize how much time I have spent on useless exposition, or how little exposition I've actually written.)
2. Y'know, for a writer, I am actually crap with words.
3. Oh my God. I am capable of so much better than this!
4. THERE IS A PLOTHOLE YOU COULD DRIVE A TRUCK THROUGH 70 PAGES IN WTF WAS I THINKING?
5. ...This is still not as bad as that thing in '07. We have hope.

This, dear readers, is a small sample of what goes on before I hit the "publish post" button on this blog.

1. I'm stupid.
2. Nobody cares what I think.
3. Other people are so much better at this than I am. (In my defense, this is actually true. True, but irrelevant.)
4. I can't even spell. (Very true. Seriously. Thank Goddess I have such lovely people in my life, who can actually do this for me.)
5. It's not that I don't deserve to have an opinion. It's that it's a stupid one, and people shouldn't be forced to listen to it.

You see the problem, yes? There is a slight disconnect between what is going on in my brain, and what I think is going on in my brain. Sadly, I do not know which is accurate. It terrifies me to think I could write something really good, and hate it, just because I wrote it. Because Due Date is coming up fast, and, without a traditional publisher, editor, or marketing team, my success depends on how good I think I am, because it's up to me to convince other people. And I get really nervous when I think about that, because I don't know if I'm going to be able to do it.

Logically, I know that I have readers. People read this blog and like it, and link it in places I never expected them to. I thank you for that, by the way. I also know that self-loathing is the cornerstone to any artistic pursuit, and that part of the reason this blog is so nerve-wracking is because it is true. It isn't things wrapped up in story form that are meant to entertain, it's who I am and what I think. Seriously, you should see the anxiety-ridden nightmares after each rage post. As I discussed in my earlier posts, oftentimes, even among friends and family, who, regardless of my many and varied issues with them, are not such terrible people, generally speaking, I am seen as far too Other to have a valid opinion on anything. I am too different for my thoughts and feelings on any particular thing to have any bearing on anyone else's life. I know that is not true, but subconsciously I seem to have accepted this as truth. It does make writing difficult, as we are supposed to 'write what we know' and I certainly can't make the worlds I invite you into any more 'normal' than the one I inhabit. Perhaps this is my failing as a writer.

It has taken me years to get to this point, but honestly? I love editing and rewriting. I do. I love it because that is the point where I look at what I've done and I go, "oh hell, this sucks." And then I fix it, until it stops sucking. My dear love asked me recently, as I was whining and complaining about first drafts, as I am wont to do, (as we have clearly seen) how did I know when it was worth saving? Why continue on if it's going to be this hard? It's not something I can explain. I get through the first draft, and then I know. In the end, the finished products are mine, but the stories come from in the ether, and they are gifts. When I'm finished the first draft, I can see whether I'm going to be able to use the gift I've been given the way it's intended to be used. That's the best way I know to explain it. Hannah has been through enough incarnations, and each incarnation improves, and I know the story is there. The story is not the problem, it's my ability to write it that waxes and wanes. So I don't know, until that first draft is done, and I can see what sort of thing I'm working with. There've been scripts and novels where I get through three or so drafts and go, "I have no idea what I'm saying." And I have to put it down. Sometimes twenty or thirty, sometimes a hundred to a hundred and fifty pages in, I have to go, "Whatever this is, I'm not up for it." That sucks. Anyone who's been through that, you know. Anyone who hasn't, go pat yourself on the back for your brilliance. I am in awe of you, fortunate one.

There's a quote in one of the most amazing books on writing in my possession, Elizabeth Ayers' Writing The Wave. I'm serious, pick it up, wherever you can, and do everything this woman tells you to do. It's that good. Anyway, at one point, she quotes Michaelangelo, who said, when someone asked him if carving the statue David was hard, that it wasn't. He just carved everywhere the statue wasn't. Ayers says, as writers, we have the harder job. First, we make the marble. Then we carve it. So I always need to see what manner of marble I am working with. And Hannah has already been made in so many versions and shaped so carefully over time, and I understand it, and I know that it's worth something, so I keep going. And I can't wait til I can look at this latest incarnation and go, "That goes out, that stays in." It's exciting. Like having a baby when you get those charts like they have at a hospital, and you go, "and now its eyelids are forming, and now you can see its fingers and toes..."

A couple summers ago, I was putting the finishing touches on a script that I had been tinkering with for omgtwoyears. For Hannah, that's young, but for a screenplay, it was astronomical. And my dear love was feeling anxious and uncertain, because he had the arduous task of telling me when it sucks. It could have destroyed our relationship (this job has, in fact, destroyed relationships in the past), but after much hand-wringing, he was suitably honest, and told me where I was messing up, where I was not being enough, where I was being less than I was capable of being. And thus, he commenced in fretting, and reminding me that he actually had no idea how I do what I do, and I was obviously not required to listen to him. And I thanked him profusely, and then I got better. It's very rare to find a draft-reader who can help me to get better, as most are intent on reassuring me I don't suck. Which, come to think of it, is kind of like how, when I present my asexual, non-relationship-seeking self, people hurry to inform me, and others around me, that I absolutely could get a boyfriend, if I wanted one. In case I didn't already know that. Whatever, it's rude and unhelpful, and I have made mistakes and people have not been right for the job, but I'm fortunate now, and worry about that less. Fortunate, and doomed to rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.

I keep going because I can't not do it, but not because I have any particular faith in myself that it will pan out. I'm a stubborn fool. This is just how it is, just what I do, and I don't know if I can make that worth somebody else's while or not. So I really want to take a second to, again, thank any readers I happen to have, for listening, for wanting to listen, for helping me to improve, and for knowing what I talk about, when I need to be introspective and talk about The Artist's Journey for a second. I know I don't suck as much as I think I do, sometimes, but the only reason I know when I'm actually good is when somebody else says so. So, thanks. And while I have you, um.

Is there a point at which the intense self-loathing goes away? Or is this just one of those, "square your shoulders, learn to deal with it" kinda things? Because this is really getting old.