Things Like Mythical Unicorns: Female Comic Book Readers?
The title is intentionally provocative. Why? Because I think it is utterly ridiculous that an organization claiming to be about “the news” needs to do a story about a guy who threw a party to prove female comic book geeks exist in order to put this whole B.S. argument to rest. And here’s why I think that: It was all of the hubub on the Internet about women not being part of the hobby at all. Day in and day out, I can see that’s an utter lie. I see customers walking in my door who are female and of different ages every single day — everyone from women in their 60s to teenagers. I see lots of daughters coming in with their moms and dads, and they love the stuff. The above, by the way, is Brian Jacoby’s response to the first question. Perhaps I’m being unfair to CNN, but it seems to me that this whole story could have been avoided if someone had simply walked into a comic book shop, spent more than three seconds inside during “rush hour,” and then went home to report, “Women enter comic book shops. Myth busted. Goodbye.” Of course, CNN’s correspondent (Erika D. Peterman this time around) had to ask this question: Why do you think the idea that women don’t read comics persists? Jacoby responds by referring to the lack of demographic studies on the comic book industry. I think that has something to do with it, but I also think it has a lot to do with the fact that comics have been and continue to be seen as the “domain of men.” By saying that, I in no way think such opinions are accurate. In fact, any assumption that a “thing” can be the “domain of men” should be taken with a grain of salt (or as patriarchy trying to announce its existence the same way a racist announces him or herself by saying “I’m not a racist, but”). The point is this: anyone who goes to comic book shops knows that there are, in fact, plenty of women who read comics. And we know this in part because there are comics written specifically for the female market. Comic book companies are in it for the profit just like other publishers. And they’re not going to create comics for women if they don’t think there are women there to read them. But women are there. Plenty of them. They read Buffy and Twilight comics. They read X-Men and Iron Man and The Avengers and Batman and indie comics and violent comics and comics with bunnies. Because women like stuff. Go figure. They like lots of stuff. So now that this stupid myth is put to rest, can we move on to more important discussions? Such as: What is the demographic makeup of creators vs. readers in the comic book industry? What kinds of things most appeal to women in comic form? What do women think of their position in the comic book community? Do they feel included? Do they feel excluded? And what comics are out there for all readers that don’t resort to stereotypical images of women? That’s what I want to know. How about you?
The Arts Are Amazing — And Here’s Why
I thought I’d share a little something I posted on the Google+ page for The Skiffy and Fanty Show. Why? Because I love the arts and the impassioned mini-rant I posted sums up how I feel about literature and film and music and other art forms. Before you read it, though, ask yourself why you think the arts are so important. What about reading books or listening to music or watching movies (etc.) makes the experience more than simple consumption? Now here’s my mini-rant: Bear McCreary is one hell of a composer. I think his work on Battlestar Galactica is a masterpiece on par with Howard Shore’s Lord of the Rings symphony (yes, I’m calling it a symphony). The song below, for example, guts me every freaking time. And I love it. I love how music (or literature) can make me feel things. That, to me, is what makes art amazing. If you open yourself up to it, the experience is rewarding. It reminds you why you’re human. It reminds you why existence is so grand and wonderful and that we should wake up every day and say “I’m alive” as our first optimistic thought. So when people suggest cutting liberal arts programs, it always feels to me like they’re trying to cut the soul out of humanity. Forget that English teachers are the glue of civilized society because they are the arbiters of language. Forget that liberal arts programs are incredibly dedicated to research, to cross-disciplinary practices, and so on. Forget that humanities professors take their teaching more seriously than most any other academic department. What matters about the arts is what it does for and to us as human beings. Open yourself up to an experience. Feel it. Breathe it. And remember that every day someone tries to remove a book from a library or cut funding from liberal arts programs, etc. etc. etc…every day those things happen is a day finding your humanity or soul or whatever you want to call it is that much harder. The sciences are our gateway to the future, but the arts are our gateway to what makes us human. You can’t live without both and still call yourself Homo Sapiens sapiens.
Literary Space Opera: Does it or can it exist?
I’ve been mulling over the idea of writing a space opera, tentatively titled The Reorientation War. One of the things that strikes me about space operas is the epic scope; much like epic fantasies, space opera offers an immense field in which to play. For me, that means a lot of people, a lot of places, a lot of social, political, and physical conflict, and a lot of action. And with The Reorientation War, I’m hoping to sidestep the hero paradigm and opt instead for a more brutal, realistic vision of how an interstellar human empire might function. But through the course of considering space opera as a genre, I’ve started to wonder about form. Is there such a thing as literary space opera? Or do writers of space opera adopt the adventurous landscape established by early SO writers, and, thus, take on its contemporary “popular prose” style? The reason I ask these question is because I consider literary fiction to be more formally oriented than other genres. That is that literary fiction, for me, places an extraordinary amount of attention on the language and the interrelationship of parts, which may or may not leave room for a linear plot. Since much of space opera seems oriented towards plot-oriented conflict, it seems to me that much of the SO genre is potentially antithetical to the “literary.” A great deal of what we associated with SO borrows liberally from the same sources as Star Wars and Star Trek. Traditional hero models. Traditional plots. That’s not to say that these are uninteresting or uninspiring elements — heroes, to me, are valuable commodities in literature. Rather, what I’m trying to suggest is that the distinction between literary and non-literary is utterly formal, in which non-literary work tends to borrow from those mythical sources we’ve come to know and love. This is precisely because those forms — the hero and his journey — work. We love heroes. We love quests and journeys and excitement, and we equally love galactic empires and space battles and the intrigue that SO has tended to offer. But can you still write an SO novel if you’re missing some of these elements? If you’re not telling a story about heroes, per se, but about complex human relationships in a setting of empire a la Star Wars, can the story you are writing still be considered SO, or does it become something else entirely? Honestly, I think it remains SO, but only because I think what I am associating with SO here is inaccurate, in part because there is this thing called New Space Opera and in part because SO is a complex genre. But I still can’t think of any SOs which one might call literary. Perhaps I missed them. If so, let me know in the comments. Because now I’m throwing the question at all of you… ————————————————— To clarify some of the above: I am not talking about literary as “respectable.” I think that’s a bogus and elitist definition of any genre, popular or otherwise. Non-literary fiction — that is, fiction which is more plot oriented and pays less attention to the language and interconnected structures via metaphor, etc. — is just as valuable and fascinating as literary fiction. I would not call Tobias S. Buckell or Nalo Hopkinson “literary writers,” but I would consider their works just as, if not more, valuable as/than anything written in any other genre. (I blame Adam Callaway for all of the above.)
Replacing Your Favorites: How Do You Survive When the Series Ends?
I recently had a brief, but amusing discussion with one of my friends in my graduate program about surviving the end of a series. I’ve probably noted something like this before, but the completion (or cancellation) of some of my favorite series (books, TV shows, and movies) has left an endless void in my life. It’s like getting excited about going to Disneyland, finally going, and then having to cope with the knowledge that the event is over when you come home. But you can re-experience Disneyland in a variety of ways (returning to it when you’re older, taking your children there, etc.). Yet, the same could be said of creative series. I can still re-experience Battlestar Galactica, and just as Disneyland can change when they add new rides, so too can BSG when the producers add new material (Caprica and Blood and Chrome, for example — though the former wasn’t all that great). The same is perhaps less true for book series. Though J. K. Rowling can certainly return to her world, it’s not as likely that she will, or that her return will garner the same attention as before. We are notoriously overly critical of authors who return to their favorite worlds and try to tell new stories within them. The completion of Harry Potter, sadly, puts Rowling in a strange position as a writer: on the one hand, she wants to please her fans, who are clambering for more HP, but on the other hand, she wants to move away from that to new things (to make a new “name” for herself). But even if you can re-experience BSG or HP or Star Wars or Star Trek or whatever else you became obsessed with in your youth (or middle age, as the case may be), it’s not the same as experiencing the anticipation and love in the moment. So the question is this: how do you move on when your favorite series ends? How do you find something to fill the void? If you loved BSG, what did you replace it with when the show ended (the same goes for HP or Star Wars or whatever other thing you fell in love with)? I suppose another way to put it is to ask: how do you survive series withdrawal?
Dear Publishers: I Want to Read Stories With LGBTQ, “Colored,” and Minority Characters
If you’ve been living under a rock today, then you might have missed this disturbing news from Publishers Weekly (the Genreville blog): The agent offered to sign us on the condition that we make the gay character straight, or else remove his viewpoint and all references to his sexual orientation. Rachel replied, “Making a gay character straight is a line in the sand which I will not cross. That is a moral issue. I work with teenagers, and some of them are gay. They never get to read fantasy novels where people like them are the heroes, and that’s not right.” The agent suggested that perhaps, if the book was very popular and sequels were demanded, Yuki could be revealed to be gay in later books, when readers were already invested in the series. We knew this was a pie-in-the-sky offer—who knew if there would even be sequels?—and didn’t solve the moral issue. When you refuse to allow major characters in YA novels to be gay, you are telling gay teenagers that they are so utterly horrible that people like them can’t even be allowed to exist in fiction. There’s much more at the link, but that little bit is the core of the problem (and not the only incidence where an agent or editor told someone to change a character from gay to straight, etc.). But Rachel Manija Brown and Sherwood Smith didn’t set out to make agents look bad. Rather, they wrote that post in order to get us to speak up. And that’s precisely what I’m going to do here. I’m a reader, reviewer, writer, and academic. All four of these deserve little sections of their own: As an Academic: I’m a postcolonial theorist, which means that much of what I am interested in academically are issues of representation. In particular, I am focused on minority groups in the West, such as Caribbean peoples, Native Americans, and other peoples of color. But I’m also generally fascinated by stories which look at issues of identity. While such stories can be told without LGBTQ or other minorities, having such characters presents new perspectives — especially ones which have been marginalized by western civilization for one reason or another. And if we need anything in academia, it’s more diversity — especially via YA books. As a Writer: Some of my fiction features women, gay, non-white, and other non-standard (straight white male) characters. I enjoy writing these characters, in part because it’s different from writing people I identify with. But Ms. Brown and Ms. Smith have pointed out that there are barriers for writers who want to present these characters in their fiction. Those barriers need to go away. If OSC can publish a rip-off of Shakespeare with heavy doses of homophobic drivel, then it seems only fitting that others can publish stories that fairly represent gay people, etc., even in the YA section. As a Reviewer: I don’t receive enough books with non-white, non-male characters as protagonists. This surprises me because I read science fiction and fantasy, the community for which, at least until recently, seemed quite open to the idea of including new perspectives into the mix. Outside of the various small, specialty presses, I have received few books which have a gay person, African American, non-American, woman, etc. as a protagonist. I want to see those books at the big presses too. You know why? Because a lot of people who live in this country are gay, lesbian, African American, women, Native American, and so on and so forth. And as much as I like reading about people who are like me (white, male, and straight), I also really enjoy reading about people who are not like me. As a Reader: Everything I could write here has already been said elsewhere. I like reading about straight white males just fine, but I want new perspectives too. And I want to read about people who are like my mom (lesbian and white) or like people I’ve yet to meet. More importantly, when I was a kid, I didn’t spend a lot of time with people outside of my standard demographic (straight and white). Why? Because there weren’t a lot of non-straight or non-white people around, and I was an idiot anti-gay child who might have benefited from YA books about people who aren’t like me. Diversity is good for us. It really is. But now I’m an adult and I love reading these kinds of stories. What kinds of stuff have I read and enjoyed? Wicked Gentlemen by Ginn Hale, One For Sorrow by Christopher Barzak, Carnival by Elizabeth Bear, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Zoo City by Lauren Beukes, and many many others, from small and large presses (granted, most aren’t YA). And I want more. Lots more. I want publishers sending them to me knowing I’m part of the target audience (i.e., folks who like reading about LGBTQ, “colored,” and minority characters). But they also should know that I’m not part of such a small group after all. More of us should be speaking up! For those interested in stories that are already out there, Ms. Brown and Ms. Sherwood provided a few fantastic lists of books which feature minority characters: SF/F YA Novels w/ Major LGBTQ Characters SF/F YA Novels w/ Protagonists of Color (Part One) SF/F YA Novels w/ Protagonists of Color (Part Two) So — Dear publishers: give me these stories. I want them!
It’s Still Not New (Literary Genre Fiction — Pah!)
Kim Wright has an interesting article on The Million about why literary writers going out to write genre fiction. Here’s a rather amusing set of paragraphs: It will probably always be open to debate whether these innovations are the result of writers seeking creative expression and wider audiences or a calculated move on the part of publishers who are simply trying to sell more product, even if it means slightly misrepresenting a book to its potential audience. But either way, the future seems to be stories which combine the pacing and plots of genre with the themes and style of literary writing. In other words, this crappy market may actually end up producing better books. Because hybrids, bastards, and half-breeds tend to be heartier than those delicate offspring that result from too much careful inbreeding. Just ask the Tudors. The best commercial writers were moving toward this anyway, creating highly metaphorical fantasy works and socially-conscious mysteries, expanding the definition of their genres even before the ex-pat literary crew jumped on the bandwagon. “We’re going to see more blending as everyone attempts to grab a larger audience,” predicts Patriarche, “and the literary snobs are going to have to stop looking down on genre.” Overall, the article is sound, but it does fall pray to an argument I’ve refuted before. Namely, that the whole cross-genre literary-genre fiction, and the literary authors who have crossed over to write the stuff, is new. But it’s been going on for a while. The only new thing is that people are starting to pay attention to it. And the sad truth Wright reveals is that people are paying attention because of the money: Scott Spencer, who has published ten novels dating back to the mid-1970s, was once able to live exclusively on the income from his books and “make this kind of old-fashioned writer’s life work.” But, noting the inherent contradiction between the ups and downs and further downs of literary writing and his need to make a living, he is publishing Breed There are other examples in the article, including a moment when Wright points out that many literary authors are turning to commercial forms of writing, all of which seems to contradict a statement made by a quoted publisher in the article about how writers just want to write. I don’t want to suggest that wanting to make a living as a writer is a bad thing. In fact, it’s quite awesome to make a living doing what you love. Rather, my issue is the continued colonization of genre history for the purposes of the literary elite. All these literary genre books are following a tradition that has been around for nearly a hundred years, if not longer (though SF doesn’t get codified as a genre as we understand it until the 1920s or so). Literary writers who claim that switching to genre or including “literary tropes” into a work of genre is somehow “new” or part of an “emerging trend” are people who simply don’t know the history of the genre they’re appropriating in order to fill their pockets (though not all literary writers are like this, if we’re being fair). And quite honestly, this all tells me that some folks are doing a piss poor job of learning their literary history. I am a genre writer, reader, critic, and academic. But I’ve taken the time to learn non-genre literary history precisely because I understand that the two forms inform one another. SF/F does not exist without modernism, postmodernism, and the various literary movements that followed, preceded, or lived within those movements. Maybe I’m just rambling and acting the fool here, but it’s high time people start acknowledging that genre has been an active participant in the development of our literary and general culture since its inception. That’s not me saying that science fiction deserves to be loved by everyone. Rather, it’s me saying that genre forms are inseparable from the cultural history in which we live, in which writers write, and so forth. The same is true of non-genre forms too.