Feminism in my Romance Novel: Finding a Balance

Recently, I wrote a Romance novel. Well, Romance-ish. It is also a mystery/thriller. It also deals with psychic powers. But there's a lot of naked and a cool love story involved and so by entirely unscientific calculations, it counts as Romance. When I endeavored to write this novel, I was determined that the main character, Alex, was not going to turn into an Anastasia Steele or a Bella Swan. While I found it easy to write a strong female lead, I was surprised at how often I found myself falling into the trap of inherent sexism. It is easy to do in a genre that often revolves around romantic love being the end all, be all. However, especially in the age of #metoo and a growing awareness of the need for women's empowerment, I felt it was what I needed to do.  Here are the ways in which I feel like I succeeded.

1. Alex is very aware of how her body works.

Alex is a psychic whose powers are activated by arousal. As such, she has become keenly aware of what turns her on, and what does not. She is also very in-tune with the long-documented concept of "thought orgasms." This is shown in a scene in which she pleasures herself.

"Years of unofficial research had led Alex to believe that men were primarily concerned with the cleanliness of a woman’s breasts. At least, when showering with a man her breasts received special and extensive attention. When Alex wanted to prepare herself, however, she focused on other areas, running her hands in slow circles behind her knees, languorous strokes up the insides of her thighs or along the delicate planes of her neck. Her painted toes turned the faucet on again and again, refilling the hot water. She didn’t have to bother with shaving, at least, Pasha, her brilliant Rumanian accountant, had showed her how to make trips to the salon, the gym, and the dermatologist business expenses, bless him, and so her time was true luxury. She checked the time again. Neil wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. She slid her hand below the water. Self-care, as Selah often reminded her, was very important. "

2. Alex is unashamed of how she makes her living.

Alex has built a career around her powers. She has made herself a name is a private investigator. While most clients are grateful, some are jerks, and she is not standing for that.

“So,” he boomed, “this is our little detective.” Alex felt the muscles in her jaw tighten, but forced her mouth into a smile. “Indeed,” she said, extending her hand and grasping it. She could feel his eyes crawling over her like bugs. She sighed inwardly. Inevitably, it came to this; the man who saw her only for the sex and not her expertise. She would make this report as brief of possible.

Turning away from the Neanderthal, she handed the file to Richard. His smile seemed apologetic. “Everything is here,” she said, “bank accounts, the affected clients, approximate dates and amounts.”

“Thank y- “ Richard began. His courtesy was cut off by an indulgent chuckle.

“Forgive me for asking,” he said, in a way that made it clear that he was not, in the least, apologetic, “but how can we possibly tell if this information is reliable.”

“Ms. Campbell has completed satisfactory inves- “

“Well, even a broken clock is right twice a day,” he said with a simian grin. He turned to Alex, who could feel her blood pumping in her temples. “What guarantee can you give that your . . . unconventional approach actually works.”

Alex had a canned speech that she used in these situations. It included a list of times she can been called as an expert witness, her curriculum vitae, her education. Today, however, she decided to take a more direct approach. She sauntered over to the towering man and started through her lashes into his eyes. Her pink tongue darted out, briefly, moistening her lips. She slid one hand up his torso from his waist to his shoulder, grabbing him when he moved away in surprise. With the other hand, she reached below his belt. His eyes widened in surprise. However,she quickly located evidence that he was not entirely displeased by the attention. Alex closed her eyes and focused. The information came slowly, she had not prepared herself, mentally, physically, or otherwise, for an investigation, but her brow furrowed and eventually it came.

“You were supposed to have a date last night,” she murmured. “Someone you met online. You bought flowers and sat at the table for two hours. She never came. You went home and watched porn.”

His eyes, which had grown steadily larger since the moment Alex approached him, were bulging by the time he pulled indignantly away. He was panting slightly. The large man cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and looked at Mr. Lowe.

“Tell Mr. Langley to meet me in my office,” he said, and strode out of the room. 

"
3. Alex holds Hank accountable.

Hank is the handsome local detective who sometimes hires Alex to help the LMPD out on cases. They are more than a team, though, they are friends. When Hank forgets these elements of their relationship, Alex is not afraid to call him out.

 “I don’t do this because I particularly like these jobs, you know,” she said.

He looked up, shocked at the anger in her voice.

“It certainly isn’t for the money, either, I get paid less for this shit than I do any of my other jobs. You think I like spending my time in roach hotels or standing in blood splatter instead of condos on the beach?”

“Why do you do it, then?” he asked.

“Because I want to help! I want to do something that really helps people. I want to affect something more than some company’s bottom line or do more than confirm for a wife what she already fucking knew. But more than that I do it. . .”

She trailed off, afraid to say more, already a lump was rising in her throat. Hank had treated her with dignity and respect. They had become friends. Good friends. Suddenly, she couldn’t take it anymore. Neil. The serial killer. Isolation. Her own possible death. It was just too much. She wrote a name, description, and address on a napkin and slid it across the table.

“Here,” she said around tears. “Do what you want to with it.” 

4. Hank, himself, does not treat Alex like a wilting flower.

Hank is worried about Alex, which is a sign of caring. Even in that, though, he does not condescend. This scene was really important to me, because I actually rewrote it twice to make sure that Hank was being supportive and not trying to be the white knight. Although, in another scene, Alex is not afraid to use others' vision of her as a damsel in distress to get her way. Read both below to see the contrast.

She could tell that they still weren’t convinced. She was torn between gratitude for and irritation with their concern. She was, after all, hardly a damsel in distress. If that was what they wanted, however ...

Alex slumped, lowering her lashes and pursing her lips. She sighed deeply and then straightened up. Sad but strong. It had the desired effect; she had their undivided attention.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she began, “You’ll be doing me a favor as well.”

Slowly, with a haltingness that was not part of her show, Alex explained what she had discovered and how. They reacted just as she had thought they would, with a protectiveness that made her glad that she wasn’t the perpetrator. She waded through the prerequisite offers to “disappear him” and “take his place” and when they had died down she continued.

“The way I see it, we’d be doing each other a solid. I’d be somewhere that he couldn’t find me, and you’d have someone who could follow this lead. As sexy as Miggs is,” she continued, “I’m not sure he could pull off sequins.”

All eyes turned to Hank, whose jaw muscled bulged and relaxed as if he was chewing gum. Even through her Onyx Alex could see deep crimson rolling off him. He stared at her for a long moment.

“All right,” he said at last, “Let’s do it. Alex, stay here. Let’s get you what you need. The rest of you, get to work.”

Hank leaned over his desk, his hands splayed on the scarred laminate. One foot tapping restlessly on the floor. He spoke in very measured tones.

“Are you okay?” he said at last.

Alex tried to answer. She tried several times but each time her resolve, her ability to compartmentalize shuddered with the weight of the water behind it.

“I’m surviving,” she finally replied. Hank nodded slowly.

“Alex.. “he said, and then nothing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Alex picked at her cuticle for a moment. She’d always wanted model’s hands, those well-manicured smooth wonders. But she couldn’t handle the emotional burden of a manicure, the nail techs heard so much. So much and that emotion had to go somewhere. Her hands were large, blunt-tipped.

“Because I didn’t want this,” she said at last.

“What?” Hank asked.

“This” Alex said louder, gesturing to the office. “I didn’t want a dozen big brothers trying to protect me, getting in my way. I didn’t want a bunch of people knowing my business, or a skeeze or two thinking this was their big break. I didn’t want pity. I especially didn’t want pity.”

Hank moved to the font of his desk and put his hands lightly on her shoulders. She raised her eyes to his and shuddered a bit, remembering the night before.

“I don’t pity you,” he said, “I pity him.”

Alex felt rage start to rush through her then she caught Hank’s smile.

“In addition to being boring, and obviously stupid, if that man so much as hiccups in your direction he’s going inside for years. “Alex laughed, a stray tear making its way down her cheek.

“Probably has a small dick, too,” he said as an afterthought.

“I’ve seen better,” Alex agreed. Pettily. And it felt good. Indulging in her anger for a minute felt damn good.

“So, what do you need?” Hank asked.

Alex’s mind worked rapidly.

“I’ll need a throwaway cell and a place to stay. Also, some identification. Some clothes. Do you have anyone in vice who could give me a primer?”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, and we will also get a couple of guys to show up every now and then, keep an eye on you, especially to and from work. When do you need this by?”

Alex pondered, “give me two days to get ready?” she asked.

Hank affirmed, “I’ll also make sure you have some coverage between now and then.”

Alex shook her head wordlessly, but Hank held up a hand.

“It’s ultimately your call,” he said, “but hear me out. I just want someone parked nearby, so if you need help, you just have to call. Otherwise we will stay out of your hair." 

 

5. Alex is more than T&A.

It was very important to me that Alex be a nuanced character. She is attractive and also clumsy. She gets stressed out. She likes good food and bad music. She loves her friends dearly. She takes yoga and martial arts classes. These were all very important elements to me. Also, they can add a bit of humor, which I found appealing. That is shown in the following scene:

"Excruciatingly slowly, Alex eased her arm out from under the man she had been interrogating for six weeks. Her hand was asleep, cold and clammy, and she shook it gently, keeping one wary eye on his face. He didn’t move. Once the feeling had returned to her arm, Alex moved to phase two of her plan. She eased her free leg and arm off the edge of the bed, lowering them and letting gravity take her with deliberate nonchalance, to the ground. The last 18 inches went more quickly than she’d anticipated, and with a thud far louder than the acrobat’s landing she had planned, Alex was free stopped snoring with a snort. His name was Fred Langley, which added another layer of difficulty to the case as it was incredibly difficult to yell “Fred” with sincere passion and ecstasy. Alex froze, her brown eyes wide. After a second, he rolled over and the rhythmic sounds started again. Alex heaved a sigh of relief and began army crawling to the foot of the bed. She found her panties, black lace of course, and slid them on before peeking, Kilroy-like up to the bed. Fred was still sleeping. God bless Fred. And Merlot. And multiple orgasms. She stood and looked for her bra. It was nowhere to be found. Damn it. She’d liked that one. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. She slid her dress, thanking the deities of fashion for sheaths, over her head. She twisted to reach the zipper and nearly fell, banging her hip on the dresser with a muffled curse. Fine, she’d fix it in the elevator. Alex grabbed her clutch and strappy sandals and left the room, dangling the shoes from her fingers and closing the door in slow motion. Once it had latched she sprinted for the elevator, pushing the button five times in a row."

6. Alex has emotions. All of them.

While Alex is badass, it was equally imperative that she be able to get angry, and sad, and betrayed. Alex can get scared and exhausted. Sometimes she can fight through; sometimes she can't. This added a necessary element of humanity that, I think, elevated the entire story. The next scene describes the time that she chose to sleep with her husband, one last time, while blocking her powers.

She knew that she needed to go into the next few days with her eyes, all of them, wide open. Yet she fastened the onyx around her neck. For one night, she would take her chances. Tomorrow she could be scared and angry. She could be a detective. Tomorrow she could be a psychic. For just one night, for her last night, she just wanted to be a wife.

7. Alex gets it done.

I'm not going to elaborate on this much, because I don't want there to be any spoilers. But this woman gets things done, even when she needs a bit of an assist from time to time. And I love that about her.

What started as a silly idea, with a lot of work, turned into a novel that I'm proud of, one that I think breaks some of the tropes we see so often while staying true to the genre. If you are intrigued, you can buy it here. If you have already read it, I'd love to hear whether you think I made it or not.

Hold Fast

This week has been tough for people with depression. For people with anxiety. For people who have struggled with suicide. It's been tough for people like me.

I'm not going to say that I was particularly attached to either Ms. Spade or Mr. Bourdain. I don't own one of her handbags. I'm not that into fashion. I love food, but I don't think I saw more than a few of Mr. Bourdain's shows. But they were losses of life, and for that I am sad. More than that, though, seeing people lose this particular battle is a special kind of terrifying for those of us who struggle with the same issues. If these people, those with success, with money, and therefore with access better therapy, more time for self care and without all of the issues that add exponentially to their mental load couldn't bring themselves to stick it out any longer, what chance do I have? If they can't, how can I possibly? Will I be next? Will I win this next round?

In light of that, I want to reach out to anyone who has struggled with depression and anxiety, as well as those who love someone who does. I don't have the answers; I wish I did. What I do have is an insight to this sometimes hellish world, and I am hoping that some of this helps.

For those who struggle; here are some techniques that work for me;

I make a pledge to hang on for as long as I think I can. Lately, the time chunks have been larger - years, months. The pull never goes away; as terrified of death as I am - and I am - there's always that belief that someday I will lose the fight to hang on (more about this phenomenon later), but for now, I can hold fast. I can hang on until Tax Season. I can hang on until the custody hearing is over. I can hang on until the kids are married and settled in. I can hang on until my husband dies of old age. I remember some times, though, where it was the space of one breath. I was literally sitting there convincing myself that I didn't have to kill myself in the space of the next breath. I could hang on for that long. The next breath? Well, I would decide that, then. Eventually, it became a whole minute. I remember staring at the second hand as it moved, excruciatingly slowly, from 9 to 12, thinking maybe I'd stretched a bit. But then it had been a minute, and I decided I could hold on until the next. So, that's my first technique. Find a period of time, as small as you need, and decide that you will not kill yourself for that bit of time. Call someone if you need to. Distract yourself if you can. But commit. And hold fast.

The next technique I learned, in all places, from Mockingjay. You see, Peeta had been hijacked. His brain had been reprogrammed so that his memories were altered and things that once brought him joy were convoluted, terrifying. He learned to play a game called "real or not real" as a way to cope, and eventually came to understand that the memories that had been hijacked had a "shiny" quality to them. For me, it's much the same with depressive/anxiety/suicidal thoughts. They seem so real. They seem so true. Yet, if I really look at them, they are a bit, well, shiny. There's a certain feeling to them that is different from any other feeling. I don't know how to describe it except, they're shiny. Look at those thoughts you have, the coldly logical voice telling you that you are a failure, that the pain will never end, that everyone else would be better off without you, and see if they are shiny. If they are, know that you brain is lying to you. Don't listen to that lie.

Finally, I ask for those I love to tell me stories. Tell me about things that we did together that made you happy. Tell me a story about a year from now. Because, you see, I've been here before. So many times. So, there's a good chance that the story I will be told will have taken place after, or in the middle of, one of my bad times. So, it stands to reason that if there was good after that last time, there will be good again. Someday. Sometime. I need to remember that these times pass. I need to know that I've had a positive effect on someone. Stories help me remember that. I hope they will help you, too.

For those who love someone with such issues, here's what you need to know;

For many of us, suicide, not continuing to live, feels like the default. It's living that feels like taking an action, not dying. I'm not neurotypical, so I can't speak with certainty, but I don't feel like that's the default for NTs. I don't feel like, for you, there's this belief that if you relax for a second, you will die. And that's what it feels like. Not kill yourself, just. . .let your guard down and look down and discover you've done it. Kinda like picking a scab or scratching and itch and breaking the skin. Just. . whoops. It is a huge emotional burden, this. It is exhausting. And it is scary.

If we are considering suicide, we have determined that we are somehow hurting you. That's why I take issue with the belief that suicide is selfish. I mean, it is. It absolutely is. But it doesn't feel that way. It feels like we will hurt you a lot for a little while and then you will be so much better off. We are actually doing you a favor. I remember when I was in my early 20's I tried to commit suicide. And I was hanging out with one of my friends when I was doing a bit better and he was acting strange. I asked him what was wrong and he started crying and nearly screamed at me "why didn't you call ME?!" And I was genuinely confused. Why would he want me to call him? Why would he want to stop me? My family are still hurt by what I did and while I can see it NOW, at the time I remember not understanding. Didn't they see I was doing it FOR them?

Which brings me to the last thing you need to know. At least for me, my suicidal tendencies don't come in some whirlwind of emotion. They come from this voice of cruel logic. This internal voice that very clearly spells out all of the reasons this is the best decision. It is the worst kind of logic; utterly false yet it sounds utterly rational and true. That's why it's so hard to fight. The waves of illogical emotion I can deal with. That point by point logic, well, that's hard to fight. It just seems to make so much sense.

So, what can you do?

Acknowledge our illness. Listen, suicide is a choice. I get that. I believe it. But the illness that leads to it isn't. You don't ask a diabetic to suddenly produce insulin. You don't ask someone with cerebral palsy to suddenly walk. You can't ask us to magically produce brain chemicals. We would if we could, but we can't.

However, you can hold us accountable. We can shower, even if we feel we can't. We can get out of bed. We can be hugged. We can eat and drink. And we need to. But sometimes we need help.

Be patient. We will be annoying as all hell during our rough times. We want you to call, but don't want to talk. We want you to get us out of this but will fight you. We will let you down and that just makes it worse. You're having to fight our illness and those internal voices get loud. But be patient. Don't give up on us.

Reach out. A lot. In every way possible. Text, message, call. Tag us in memes and pictures. Anything to let us know we have some relevance. Sit with us. Distract us, somehow, even if you have to fight us to do it. It sucks, I know. But it helps.

To those who have lost the fight; I will miss you. I'm sorry that you made that choice. I'm sorry that it didn't feel like it was a choice. To those who are still fighting, hold fast. You are loved. You have made a difference. The world is a better place with you in it. And it will get better. Remember, you currently have a 100% track record of surviving even the worst days, and that's pretty damn amazing.

What I Learned in School This Year

Thursday was the last day of school for my children. Due to various circumstances, it was not only their last day for the year, but it was their last day ever in the school they attended for the past two years. In many ways, it was a wonderful place. My children learned a lot. I learned a lot, as well. I learned that it is more work to get your children to and from school, on time, with everything that they need than it was to homeschool. I learned, in the words of Roland Deschain, that there is a time to use the fist and a time to use the feather. I learned common core math strategies - kinda. But, what I learned most of all was that, here in Kentucky anyway, teachers are under attack.

Let me say that again. Not only do these heroes deal with over-crowded classrooms, students who do not have the foundation to be invested in their education (more on this later), standardized testing being the benchmark against which their effectiveness is measured, long hours, buying their own supplies, and so much more. Now they are under attack in every way from every level.

Let's start in the classroom with the students themselves. In that instance, when I say teachers are under attack what I mean is that I don't remember visiting the school a single time during which I did not see a student either attack a teacher physically, or spew forth profanity-laden diatribes. Chairs were thrown, doors kicked, and materials were destroyed, daily. I saw the teachers manage the situation as best as they could, with compassion beyond what I could do. Some of them stepped aside to cry for a minute or have an asthma attack privately, and then they marched back into the classroom, a smile on their face, to teach again. So much talk has been dedicated to school shooting, and rightfully so, but what we fail to see is these smaller - relatively - attacks that happen daily.

When these events happen, teachers turn to parents and administrators for guidance. While there are certainly many parents and administrators who give support, backup if you will, in many cases the teachers find themselves under attack from the very people who should be helping them. Many parents simply do not answer the calls or emails. While this benign neglect of the situation is not helpful, it is at least not antagonistic. Other parents, however, show us exactly how the children in question learned their habits. On at least four occasions, I was called some variation of "bitch" by a parent who was exiting the school while I was coming in. Simply because I had the audacity to be sharing a doorway with them while they were upset. I can only imagine what was aimed at those with whom they were angry. I saw parents screaming at teachers and staff. I saw a parent kick a chair. I have heard parents berate teachers for having the audacity to discipline their children. I saw an administrator repeatedly insult teachers, tear them down emotionally and mentally, and enact policies that further bind the hands of those who are "in the trenches." I saw the same administrator repeatedly and  actively disregard unanimous decisions made by the teachers in regards to policy and staffing.

If that wasn't enough, the media, and certain government officials have joined in the carnage. Recently in Texas, a community member had a habit of driving through the pick up line at a school. This is dangerous on many levels. Students often do not exhibit the situational awareness needed to navigate traffic, especially at the end of a school day, and driving through an area in which they were moving put the students in danger of being struck by a vehicle. Students cannot be released to a person who is not on "the list" of approved individuals. Having a person not associated with any students driving through the area puts children at risk. Additionally, this action is inconsiderate as it contributes to chaos and confusion. After many attempts to verbally redirect the person driving the car, a teacher put his safety at risk by laying on the vehicle in an attempt to stop it. Rather than being lauded for his selflessness, the media portrayed this as a "teacher attacking a  motorist." Don't believe me, you can watch the video here. Here is Kentucky, teachers fighting for their pension were labeled "thugs" by the Governor. To make matters worse, he doubled down on his verbal attack by blaming teachers for children's death or becoming victims of sexual assault.

And now, adding injury to injury, the State of Kentucky, lead by a former clergy member, are in the process of taking over Jefferson County Public Schools. They state that the schools have not been effective in closing the gap for disadvantaged students. I have spent a lot of time here telling you what I have seen. Now, let me tell you what I have not seen. In my many, many hours spent in the school, I have not seen a single politician in the school, witnessing first-hand what happens and what the teachers do to try to educate every single student to the best of their ability. I have not seen a single politician at any of the school events, educating parents about ways to make sure their family has housing, electricity, food, clothing, or help with substance abuse, physical abuse, finding a job, and more. I have not seen a member of the clergy in schools volunteering, reaching out, or providing any of the above assistance. They blame the schools for not closing the gap, but here's what they fail to grasp. A student who is hungry cannot close the gap - the school provides not only free breakfast and lunch, but provides backpacks of food for summers, breaks and weekends to those who are in need. Yet it is the job of the state and the community (including the church) to make sure families are fed when they are unable to feed themselves. They are not doing their job. A student who is ill cannot close the gap. Yet the State and the churches are not doing their part to ensure that students have access to health care when the families are unable to provide this. A student who is being abused or neglected cannot close the gap. Yet the substance abuse, physical abuse, and neglect take place in the same communities as these churches that are casting stones, they take place regardless of calls to DHS. A student who is homeless or living in squalor cannot close the gap. The school provides assistance with clothing, housing, and utilities, and yet the churches and politicians create such a maze to navigate for assistance, looking for every opportunity to say no. Now it is those people, those very people who have dropped the ball in so many cases, who have added to the already astronomical role the schools must play, who believe they should be the ones to set the policy and run the school system. They are taking the power away from the stakeholders, those of us who ARE in the schools daily, and adding it to their load when they have a history of uninvolvement, fiscal irresponsibility, disrespect for the system, and improper implementation of the programs already in place to aid their constituents and community. It is, in short, another attack.

We need to do better. We trust teachers with our children for 8 or more hours a day. We trust them to help us mold the minds of our little ones to achieve to the highest of their ability. Some parents trust the teachers for far more - babysitting, feeding, raising their children. The least we can do is to stop the attacks and help them do their jobs.

#metoo

I see his face, sometimes, flashing across Facebook in the “people you may know.” I even clicked on it, once. He’s doing well for himself, it seems. Successful. About a dozen pictures of him with his arm around a smiling girl. And I wonder. . .

I wonder if those girls know about the time that he assaulted another girl. That arm that is laid so companionably around their shoulders was used to force that girl onto his bed. That those perfectly manicured hands alternated between trying to push her pants down and forcing their way between her thighs. I wonder if they know about that other smile he gets, the one where he laughs while he rubs his penis against her lips, trying to force it through them. I wonder if they’d still smile if they did.

I wonder if they’d even believe me.

I know people didn’t then. Or, if they believed me, they thought it was my fault. I don’t say this from conjecture, but from fact.

One person told me it was because of they way I was dressed. I’d been proud of myself back then, for losing weight. Was feeling good about myself. So I was wearing a cap-sleeved tight shirt with Chinese characters. And khaki cargo pants. I’ve got curves. They showed. They showed through the t-shirt and cargo pants. So it was my fault.

Another person told me that I had a “reputation.” That people talked about me. That I flirted. So obviously I had led him on.

My therapist told me that I shouldn’t tell. That if I did, people would drag out everything about me. That if I had anything to hide, it would all be in the open and he would likely get a slap on the wrist. He wasn’t wrong. The man in question was an athlete, something akin to royalty at my high school while I. . . well, I was outspoken, had some bad habits. Made some bad choices.

So I didn’t say anything.

But I am now. I’m going to follow the lead of the incredibly brave people who have stepped forward. I’ve read the responses, God help me, and there’s so much ignorance out there. Brock Turner is appealing his court case because the word “dumpster” put a negative light on him forcibly penetrating an unconscious woman. George Takai is somehow still “Uncle George.” And so on. And so on. And so I’m going to say this:

There are a dozen or more reasons that women stay quiet about assault. Sometimes for decades. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It means they are scared. It means they want to put it behind them. It means they don’t feel like they would be heard. But it does NOT mean it didn’t happen.

If a woman is not saying anything, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had that experience. It also doesn’t mean she is under any obligation to anyone.

To those shouting about how people shouldn’t be tried by a court of public opinion, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK THE WOMEN HAVE BEEN GOING THROUGH? Read the story above, is that not exactly what happened to me? Statute of limitations in Michigan is 10 years. Even when there is no statute, you have to have proof. Which means in many cases, means it is one person’s word against another. In other words, court of popular opinion. I’m not advocating for injustice on in either case, but the pendulum has to swing for change to be made.

To the men who suddenly don’t know how to treat women without being accused of assault, who are afraid: here’s a simple primer. DO NOT put your hands, penis, mouth or any part of your body against a person without their consent. If you trip and bump into someone, boob graze, or something similar, apologize and be more careful next time. If a woman says “no,” to any request of a personal nature, respect that. Do not make rape jokes. Ever. Do not comment on a woman’s body unless you have asked to do so. Do not make sexual jokes around a woman unless you have asked if it is okay. Some people are okay with it. Some people are not. Trust me, you’ll be fine.

To the man who posted that he was “raped on his timeline by a culture of victimization,” or anyone who has expressed similar sentiments. Stop. Just stop. You either don’t know the effects that sexual assault can have one someone, or you don’t care. In either case, just shut up.

To the men who are worried about how they can help, just ask. Be prepared for some backlash, hurt people do that sometimes. But help anyway. Listen to women. Teach your sons about consent. Be mindful of your words and the words of your friends. Volunteer.

To the women who have experienced assault: you have value. You have worth. You are brave. You are strong. And I see you. 

Everyone Will Hate This Blog Post

I have the unfortunate priveledge of being both conservative and liberal, depending on the issue. What that means is that I’m pretty universally frowned upon and called names. So usually I make the changes I can to bring light to the world and keep my opinions off of social media. But this, this bothers me. So, without further ado, I present the world’s most unpopular blog post.

A number of years ago, I was involved in a series of conversations regarding abortion. Well, I tried to get involved. The unfortunate fact was that I could never get a few sentences out before I was interrupted with spouts of rhetoric. “Free abortion on demand no apologies.” “Keep your rosaries off my ovaries.” “It’s just a ball of cells.” And no matter how much I tried to get to my points, I was never able to. And I had things to say. I had studied fetal development. Extensively. In fact, I had a baby that was 26 weeks developmentally that I prayed for and fought for. That I held in my arms. That I watched respond to pain. That I watched try to fight the intubation to turn his head towards the sound of my voice. Who grasped my finger. I wanted to say things, but it seems like the people I was talking to were so intent to hear what I was saying as a threat to their ideals, a threat to their rights, that they weren’t even willing to hear me. I remember being in tears and saying “Have we truly come so far that we can’t even agree that killing babies is wrong?” Not talking about the circumstances under which they were conceived. Not talking about the circumstances in which they were born. Not talking about whose rights trump whose. Those are good conversations for later. For the moment though I was just wanting to agree that taking the life away from a sentient human being who can feel it, who is the epitome of innocent, is not okay. And no, no we couldn’t even go that far. I’ll never understand that. I’ll never not be heartbroken. Because that should be a common ground that we can find.

So, now we have Nazis. Actual, swastika wearing, saluting, SELF-PROCLAIMED Nazis. I feel like the last is important. Because this is not someone being called a Nazi by someone a bit overzealous who has decided that anyone who doesn’t believe what they do deserves that moniker. This is someone who PROUDLY CHOSE that title. They may think they have their reasons, but I’d like to take a minute to refer to Julius Goat who said "Historians have a word for Germans who joined the Nazi party, not because they hated Jews, but because out of a hope for restored patriotism, or a sense of economic anxiety, or a hope to preserve their religious values, or dislike of their opponents, or raw political opportunism, or convenience, or ignorance, or greed.

That word is... NAZI.Nobody cares about their motives anymore.They joined what they joined. They lent their support and their moral approval. And, in so doing, they bound themselves to everything that came." 

And they are gathering, barefaced, and publicly. Which leads me to believe that either they are so entrenched in their belief system that they don’t care about the consequences they will face, or they believe that they are in the majority and will thus face no consequences. Either is terrifying. And people are freaked out. Rightfully so. This is scary stuff. Nazis are the boogeymen of all of our lives, yeah? People whose very titles implies imminent threat. And yet people I love and admire, GOOD people are so stuck debating issues that they are actually defending Nazis. I don't think they mean to do so, but that's really how it seems. I don’t want to talk about Southern Pride. I don’t want to talk about how the current culture of xenophilia and how that has contributed. I don’t want to talk about Antifa. Not right now, not at the beginning. No more than I wanted to be interrupted with shouts of "YOU WANT WHITE MEN TO LEGISLATE MY VAGINA" before. I cannot believe that we cannot look around and agree on the fact that HAVING NAZIS OPENLY MARCHING ON AMERICAN SOIL IS BAD. Say it. Out loud. Maybe you believe it, but I need to hear you say that, see you type that, first and foremost. Loudest. Say they are reprehensible. Then we will talk details.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m too close. Maybe I look at my family of 6 and see that, if these people had their way, only two would survive. Maybe I picture my Asian child in a wheelchair trying to get away from someone with a swastika on their arm. Or trying to explain to my autistic son that he has, has HAS to be still and quiet for a little while, just a little while, okay baby? Maybe I’ve seen too many websites, recent websites, dedicated to the eradication of “gypsies” and the Romani blood in me is screaming. Just like maybe I was too close when I heard people equate my son, my premature baby who even as he turned purple from lack of oxygen tried to open his eyes to look at his mama when he heard her telling him to let go, to a ball of cells or an inconvenience. Or maybe I’m close enough. I’m close enough to see that sometimes, before we can debate  minutiae, we have to be willing to get out of our own head enough to admit universal wrongs.

Then we can go from there. Please. Let’s go from there. 

How Did it Go - BEA/BookCon edition

I have had a lot of people ask how this event went. It was, a big deal after all. I have to say, unabashedly, that this event was amazing from start to finish. I think that the big difference is that we came into this event thoroughly knowing what to expect. his time Martha and I felt like the pros. It is nearly impossible to walk into an event knowing what it is really going to be like. I'm not sure why this is an issue; surely the planners know we, as small business owners, need to know the facts about what we can expect on returns before we decide to commit, right? And yet, every event is the Premier Whatever Event in the Wherever. Attendance is always a) hugely inflated (Vegas Valley, I'm looking at you), b) growing (read, we have no idea), or c) they will not mention that 95% of attendees are other authors (read, broke and wanting to sell their books). Some event planners will tell you anything to get you there. I've found that "networking" is the word that lets me know I need to avoid an event at all costs; I know enough people by now, I think. But, having attended ALA, we were ready.

 We walked into the room at the Expo Center and got ourselves set up back in Small Press Land (Patent Pending). We had been working with a publicist and as such had pitch sheets, catalogs, and other promotional materials on hand. We had come in with a list of professionals to whom we wanted to speak and things we wanted to learn. Also, we came in with the correct expectations, that the first three days were not for ready sales.
And they weren't. They were for meeting people. Martha and I worked hard. We met reviewers, we discovered companies that can link us with vetted authors, with movie and television producers, and that can automate some of our processes. We found printers who can print better books for cheaper. And, in the evenings, we saw New York. Guys, it was heady. It was amazing to be recognized as professionals and to be told over and over again that we were one of the best put together and most impressive groups there. It was amazing to eat dinner at the Algonquin Round Table, to see a show on Broadway.

Days four and five were for sales. That's where we did, what we do. I am discovering that we need to get back into our niche markets to take care of the genre authors we represent, and I have discovered some holes in our line. Sci-Fi/Fantasy fans are rabid and hungry for more, but they don't always show up at literary based events. I feel like the same can be said for Romance, there appears to be a stigma there. I am, as always, surprised at the number of people who read non-fiction. But, I sold out of several titles, including my own, and made a total of about 2K.  People were walking by Neil Patrick Harris and R.L. Stine to come to OUR table, and we could have made more if we had brought more of our bestsellers. That was pretty awesome. It felt so good to get back to our direct sales with people who were excited to see us.

Next year, BEA is in Chicago, and I'm already planning our attendance!

Sexism in SFF - Part 1

While I was at Book Expo America, I ran into Zoe Quinn.  I probably made a fool out of myself because I really dig strong women. And I feel a kinship with women who overcome whatever vindictive men throw at them. But after I fawned like a fangirl and she let me pet her sparkly jacket, we had a pretty good talk about sexism in the Geek community and how incredibly rampant it is. I've been doing a lot of thinking about that. After all, we as geeks, nerds, wierdos, whatever really were fairly marginalized until a couple of years ago, when suddenly the whole world realized that Dr. Who and superheroes were amazing. So, one would think that we would work diligently to avoid making others feel that way. And, at least if you read the novels that we are putting out, we are a pretty socially liberal group, which at least implies a certain set of ideals regarding equality and diversity and whatnot. Yet, it seems that every year or so there's some new trauma (and drama) inside of our community. Whether it's Gamergate or Sad Puppies or the rampant sexual harassment at conventions it seems readily apparent that our theoretical ideals are not being applied to our everyday lives.

I went home, and I started talking with people about this conversation. Then, I started talking about the microcosm that is the local SFF scene. I live in a liberal city, and own a business in a liberal business and yet. ..

-And yet of the publishing houses that I can name off of the top of my head, I can only think of one other that is not owned by a cis white straight male.
-With a few notable exceptions, outside of my publishing house women write romances or cozy mysteries. The rest is No! Man's Land.
-Inside my publishing house there is one author who will ADMIT that I have gotten him better sales than anyone else. Will ADMIT that he likes the way I do things better than anyone else. ADMIT that he likes the cover that I made for him, and still goes with the boys' club and hasn't shown up to sign books at one of the events we attend for years.
-And yet I've been told the names that I've been called by a couple of the other publishers. How I'm a bitch. How I "don't have what it takes" regardless of a record that tells a different story. Let's say that again, even though I have an education, a track record, documented growth, I'm a bitch who doesn't have what it takes.
-And yet it seems like when it comes to local awards, panels, events, I'm fairly frequently overlooked even though I can hold my own using whatever measuring stick you like. Sales, events, number of titles released, awards won. Whatever. I can sell out of books sitting 50 feet from Neil Patrick Harris in NYC, but can't get an email returned in my hometown.
-and yet I was part of an online writing group. Recruited members. Ran a writing contest. Complained to the owner after my winning story -after I-was ripped apart online. It was sour grapes, plain and simple. People complained about unfair wins until the owner of the site went from public vote to weighted within the group vote to within the group judges to outsider judges. Still, talented people are talented and so talented people won lots. This was over the top, though, and I told him so. Got to read an email he sent to others about having to deal with my "whining and bitching." Yep, when the dudes in there complained about stuff, he changed the voting format. Sent me emails telling me to stop teasing them. When I did, I was "whining and bitching."

I don't know. Maybe it's that I'm new. I'm relatively new to the publishing world and I'm still new to town. Maybe it's that I have a different idea of what makes a show "worth it" to show up to an event, an idea based more on dollar signs than other things, so I'm kind of out of the loop. I network in Atlanta, in NYC. I fellowship at church. If I'm working I'm WORKING. Not that I don't want to hang out with everyone. I'd love to. Over coffee or a beer. At a get together. Not at work, though. At work I'm looking for money. So maybe that's it. Maybe it's that I've gone toe to toe with a couple of people over a couple over shady business practices, royalties not paid and books not represented. Apparently that's not allowed. I can be abrasive when pushed, I know that. So maybe I offended the wrong people.

Or maybe it's that you can be a female publisher, but you cannot be loud. You cannot be assertive. You cannot call the guys out on their crap. You cannot be successful. You cannot be unapologetic. Not if you want to be allowed in the sandbox. You can if you're an author. Then that's flavor, and you get invited to the booth to bring people in. But not in leadership. Because even in the hallowed halls of science fiction and fantasy you can be a Black Widow - ready to kick ass in service of the dudes around you, but you'll never be Cap. You'll never be Tony. You can be Black Panther's drop dead gorgeous assistant, but not the Panther.

We are ahead of the pack, we geeks. For every Harley Quinn there is a Wonder Woman. There is a River Tam. But from where I'm sitting that glass ceiling still looks pretty intact. We still have a long way to go.