Genre Trouble: The May Day “NO MORE UNCOMPENSATED EMOTIONAL LABOR!” Post

Once in a while, I do a census of my friends, because hey: who am I hanging with?

After this third year of re-entry to SF/F fandom, this is what I notice: I have no friends, no trusted colleagues, who are White cisgender men.

Methodological note: We exclude relatives from the census, because family is family, but friends and colleagues you choose.

In the last few weeks, I’ve watched some singularly unedifying things go down on Twitter, and wasted an unconscionable amount of time gently explaining to Clueless White Boys why their expectation of unpaid emotional labor is a problem, and why some of us don’t think we should be obliged to forgive predators with 10+ years of damage–in this particular case, the notorious troll Requires Hate / Benjanun Sriduangkaew, but the same argument has been made in favor of sexually harassing editors, asshole male authors who claim to know “nothing of females or women,” etc.

So here’s the pattern that we need to stop encouraging:

  • Clueless White Man (generally a fandom gatekeeper of some kind) shoots off his mouth about people who are not his demographic.
  • Victims thereof have to explain, patiently and at great length, why his words/actions were hurtful.
  • Clueless White Man graciously apologizes and gets a cookie for ‘learning.’ Sometimes Fandom Good Guys/Progressive Allies(TM) chime in to encourage us to hand out cookies.
  • Rinse and repeat.

I’ve watched this for decades in fandom and other settings. The ‘education’ expected by these intellectually and morally lazy individuals is painful and emotionally draining for the people who have to do it, and the lesson never takes.

In April, I watched as Shaun Duke, of Skiffy and Fanty, at mid-month engaged in favor of “redemption” for RH/BS (based on how he’d “learned” from being corrected by the victims of his own bigotry) and then, in the last 48 hours, involved himself in shit-stirring against author Kari Sperring, one of RH’s targets.

Sub rosa, a number of writers I respect have warned me about Duke, who has repeated the above pattern time and again. This consistent bad faith is the reason I cut ties with Skiffy & Fanty yesterday. The “Muse of Research” interview series will be hosted on this website until I find another venue.

I made the decision to go independent as a writer and artist for a solid economic reason. In my experience, gatekeepers skew upper-middle-class, white, and male, and generally act in favor of their own. I answered a call from Skiffy & Fanty for women/nonbinary contributors, but I am not interested in being anyone’s token.

Especially since it’s not a paying market.

In the spirit of May Day, I’d like to call on all of us for whom fandom is NOT a safe place:

  • to stop giving out free emotional labor and patient explanations to the clueless and the trolls, because:
  • If someone’s a grown man and can’t do basic research on how to respect other human beings, he has no business trying to participate in cultural curation, or for that matter, adult life.

By the way, that’s the reason there are no cishet White men in my self-selected professional circle: I require reciprocity from colleagues, and all the fandom White dudes I’ve met thus far have failed the friend test.

And if any of these dudes want to send me a check for the time I’ve wasted ‘educating’ them, there’s a Contact form on this site. My rate for this service is $200/hour. There is no statute of limitations, so feel free to add interest to your payment for services incurred in the distant past!

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Genre Trouble: All Art is Interactive (or Why There Are Many Ways to Review)

As I have been reading and reviewing, I’ve listened to a lot of conversations about the “right” way to review. Part of the current backlash against People Who Are Not Our Demographic Producing Things We Produce (be that video games, novels, movies, etc) includes some notions about what does not belong in the assessment of a work of art. All of this is founded in some notion that there is one correct way to review.

At bottom, a review is the record of an audience member’s engagement with a work of art: be it technical discussion (musicology or game mechanics), esthetics (composition or plotting), cultural context (analysis using the tools of history, sociology, or economics).

To inquire of correct reviewing is to ask: what is the proper stance of audience to art?

All art forms are, at bottom, prompts. Whether we are talking about writing, drama, games, visual art, dance, sculpture, etc., the audience participates. The reader/viewer/player maintains eye contact as the artist’s contribution brings up associations. Each member of the audience brings their entire life experience to the interaction. They can disengage and walk away, or not.

Visual artists have the opportunity to lurk in the gallery and watch viewers react to the work. (I know more than one artist who figured out who their ‘real’ audience was by watching various reactions to the work.) Performance artists can feel the exchange of energy with the audience; without this exchange, there is no performance. For writers, especially in traditional publishing venues, it’s a bit trickier; you write into darkness, but you make the act of faith that your work will prompt an experience in your readers.

Writing teacher Peter Elbow (in Writing with Power) has an interesting analogy for the reader-writer exchange: the story is a bicycle, which the reader pedals to run the apparatus that shows the movie.

At any time, the reader can stop pedaling and get off the bike. The movie runs in the reader’s head, and depends upon their engagement. When I was reading stories in Russian and in French, I was aware of building the pictures in my head, as I looked up one word after another in my dictionaries and set them into the edifice like bricks in the wall. I expended effort to bring the picture into focus.

Different readers have different experiences from the same set of prompts.

When I read Tolstoy as a twenty-first-century child of the US, whose childhood was passed in the palmy days of the Cold War and the stirring of social change in the 1960s, I do not have the same experience as his Russian contemporaries, nor did they have the same experience. I built his landscapes out of my own experience of the American Midwest and South; I created his characters from the faces of people I had met.

(And years later, I met his people in all sorts of different guises, particularly the social-climbing office-politicians; some types he had written as early 19th century military men, I met as 21st-century corporate women. But some things don’t change.)

In short: there is no Universal Reviewer, because there is no Universal Person.

Unless you’re arguing that some of us are not real persons. (Which might, in fact, be your very point, disguised as a quibble of esthetics.)

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Weekend Writing Warriors: Sunday 26 April 2015 (WIP: Ship’s Heart, character interview)

Downbelow, the Inhabitants make music in the infrared, and I bathe my own inhabitants (those lower-case, the Humans) in subtle movements of warmth.

I wear my history, in the constant circulation of signals, in the minute dents in the hull; one does not travel through space or time and remain unmarked. In life, I wore the razor scar of the dueling-blade that laid open my face to the back-teeth. I did not flinch at my opponent’s blade, nor did I parry fast enough to entirely turn it aside.

It was an honorable scar, from a duel to the death. I was the one who walked away. Only later, I learned that was a useless way to settle an argument.

I wear the count of my dead, among them the one I slew in single combat.

***

From character interview with Naime the Shipwright, the oldest character in the cast.

Weekend Writing Warriors offers a selection of eight-sentence excerpts from many different writers. For the full selection, see here.

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Ship’s Heart: Naime the Shipwright (character interview)

My day, or rather, my Day, is counted differently now that I am no longer mortal, or rather, embodied in a mortal frame. Continue reading

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Goals: Sick Days

In Kris Rusch’s Freelancer’s Survival Guide, there’s a great guideline for when to take sick days. If your Toughest Boss Ever would have said, “Go home, you’re sick,” then take the day.

Well, my Toughest Boss Ever is me. I had the cough from hell, which then set off the backache from hell. Anatomical details: don’t tick off your iliopsoas. It has no sense of humor, and since it fills your pelvic bones it will give you the backache of your life, with occasional twinges that make you scream.

So, very horizontal today. Everything that requires major brainpower is on hold. I am getting caught up on my reading and doing occasional chat on Twitter.

And that’s it.

Can’t wait to go back to work.

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Weekend Writing Warriors: Sunday 19 April 2015 (WIP: Ship’s Heart)

Mavra turned to Ferenc. “It’s a story, but yes, on Karis they did once cut throats on the altar of the Queen of the Snows. For treason and for disobeying clan-affiliation rules, but they haven’t done that in recent times, not for a thousand years at least.”

“Ick,” Ferenc said. “So the red sparkles were supposed to be blood.”

“That’s the old-fashioned way of presenting it. When I was at the Academy, though, they were going through a hyper-realist fad, buckets of stage blood. What a mess to mop up after, that’s all I could think at the time.”

***

Ferenc, age 8, is Jehen’s younger half-brother. This is the children’s first introduction to classical glam space opera, in holographic performance. Mavra’s wry observation about stage blood echoes George Sand’s sardonic letters home about the Paris theater scene of the 1830s.

Weekend Writing Warriors offers a selection of eight-sentence excerpts from many different writers. For the full selection, see here.

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Ship’s Heart: Naime the Shipwright (character interview)

Sick with a spring cold and/or allergies, and still struggling with nonfiction writing. So instead, another fictional excerpt which is more than a propos to some of our current questions.

***

Love is atmosphere, it’s safety, it’s the circle within which we can breathe easily, knowing that the warmth at our back means us well.

I remember, even after all this time. When I was a small child, each evening I rested in the circle of my fathers’ warmth. They sat on the balcony of our quarters in the Astok lighthouse tower to watch the sun set over the distant mountains. That last light shimmered bloody on the waters of the Inland Sea, then faded to dull silver. The headlands bulked up in darkness against the deep-blue sky. The breeze played around us, as the seabirds swooped.

Somewhere else in the house, someone picked out a tune on a stringed instrument; on the balcony below us, small children played.

My fathers sat with their arms around each other. I rested on the lap they made together. Warmth at my back, sea-coolness and breeze on my face: that memory is so pleasant it has not left me in seven centuries.

Then as I grew, love took in the fondness of my nest-mates; we might tussle and argue, but we were together. Our rivalries flared for the space of a game or a bout of grappling, and dissipated thereafter. I don’t know if that was a matter of our temperament or the atmosphere our parents created for us. Probably it was both; in adulthood, I saw murderous rivalries between siblings or cousins, that could be traced back through the decades to earliest childhood and the invidious comparisons of mothers or fathers or patrons.

Love feels as ordinary as weather, but like the weather requires great power and the appropriate conditions.

And beyond the atmosphere, above the sphere of weather: well, space taught me that, the Road of the Stars that I trod first as a human captain and then as one of the motive minds of the Ship. We make what we can, against the pressure of Void; if we don’t make well, we learn the face of annihilation.

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Ship’s Heart: Naime the Shipwright (character interview)

I am Naime-Martisset yr Astok. My parents and their marriage-patron are long dead, as am I.

I persist now as a memory, one of the Ship’s-Hearts, though it’s no longer a ship, really, but … that’s another story. Too long to tell now. Though you asked me for great detail, you did not reckon on my time scale.

A lot can happen in seven hundred years, and it has.

Naime was the name given me at birth, Astok my great-clan. No one alive remembers the person I was. They tell me that the ceremony is re-enacted every year in the Shipwrights’ Chapel, to the accompaniment of the recording I commissioned. That at least satisfies me. I meant that to make an impression.

I commissioned that statue of the god of war, Martis/Mortis, the ghastly wreck of the ancestors’ world.

“Carve it with my face,” I told the sculptor. “I’ll sit for you as model.”

I sketched it, I took the things they all meant to celebrate in their sentimental recollections of the heroism of war. The artist and I conspired to roll them all into one unforgettable image: ancient beyond reckoning, that conqueror on horseback with the hanging skulls of the conquered, weapons strapped across the back, sword in hand–archaic even then, before our distant ancestors left the Original World–but with my face in white stone, white translucent stone to stand under the circular opening in the dome of the Shipwrights’ Chapel and be brought to life under the rays of an alien sun.

I sat for the portrait, in the ancient fashion.

“Bring work while you’re sitting,” the sculptor said. “If you spend the entire time staring off into the heroic middle distance, you’ll just look bored.”

So I brought my tablet, and my Gate of Hours, and the treatises of the ones I meant to refute. Not only engineering calculations, but the words of my enemies. I plotted this performance, I stared them down, I worked out refutations in the margins.

And the sculptor took notes.

They could as well have scanned me, measured bone and flesh, built a simulacrum —

But the traditional art of the portrait is something else, still mysterious after tens of millennia. There is the measuring eye, and then something else — the intent, the exchange of energy between artist and sitter.

When I faced her finally, Martis/Mortis who was of several sexes on the Original World, she looked back at me with the face I turned to my enemies — my own face, in the mirror of the argument between us.

“Death has neither sex nor gender, no more than the sea,” the sculptor said.
Old wisdom. Like the sea, death–or our lust for war–takes the shape of its vessel.

And then, in public ceremony, recorded for posterity, I did obeisance to the victims, kissed the foreheads of the dead. Then I took up the sculptor’s mallet and smashed my own portrait, Martis/Mortis who bore my face and sat her horse just like me.

And that is why I bear the second name Martisset, child of the god of war.

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Weekend Writing Warriors: Sunday 12 April 2015 (WIP: Ship’s Heart)

Ferenc and the little ones darted between them, imitating the dancers who fell when the light stabbed across them.

The song rose to a despairing shriek; the scene changed, without warning, to a dais on which the sole survivor stood, under the watchful glance of an outsized figure all in white with a swarm of snow about her, a transparent blade in one hand and a red flower in the other.

Perhaps one of the Karis gods? “It’s the Queen of the Snows,” Mavra whispered. “Now things take a turn very much for the worse.”

Another figure, masked, took shape out of darkness, approached the combatant on the dais, pulled them backward by the hair and drew a long blade across their throat, scattering red glitter. Jehen heard a gasp; Ferenc was standing across the commons, where the dancing circle had been. His mouth was open in horror and wonder.

***

Out of order, temporally, from last week’s excerpt. Ferenc, age 8, is Jehen’s younger half-brother. This is the children’s first introduction to classical glam space opera, in holographic performance.

Weekend Writing Warriors offers a selection of eight-sentence excerpts from many different writers. For the full selection, see here.

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The Not Really SF Short Story Challenge, or Hard SF Invades Literatania

It’s a bright and sunny day, excellent for a constitutional stroll, but Your Humble Author has been noodling around on Twitter, aka the Devil’s Workshop.

Back in the halcyon Leaden Age of SF, mad scientists explained things at length and nobody got into their spaceship without an extensive tour of the engine room. Monsieur Verne has a lot to answer for.

Recently, the Melancholic Juvenile Canine Insurgencies campaigned for the Hugo ballot and raised the alarm about the Literati who have invaded the Fortress of Real Science Fiction and subjected us all to a merciless reign of metaphor, simile, thematic complexity, and actual characterization.

Alas, the train has left the station, the boat has been missed [insert transport metaphor of your choice]

To satisfy the repressed desire for Real SF, I am proposing a counter-raid onto the home territory of Literatania, the Realist Short Story. So here it is:

The Not Really SF Short Story Challenge: Write a short story, everyday setting, but in the style of leaden age ‘hard SF’. PROVIDE ALL THE CIRCUIT DIAGRAMS.

Rules (Basic Set)

  1. No character is permitted to interact with any technology without explaining it in exhaustive detail. Clarification: This includes the toaster, electric kettle, HVAC, plumbing, cell/mobile phones. Don’t forget titanium dioxide in the toothpaste, dyestuffs in clothes, air traffic control (for plane passing overhead), alien biology (cats, hamsters etc).
  2. Keep it to standard short story length, or at least under 10K words.
  3. Have fun.

Rules (Advanced Set)

  1. The story may NOT be explicitly about technology. (Per Kari Sperring’s comments on original Twitter thread, treat mathematics as Naughty Bits.)
  2. You must choose a theme/story typical of realist literary fiction. Historical setting is OK, but other rules still obtain.

If you take the challenge, link below.

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