12 November 2015

The World Fantasy Award: A Proposal In Two Parts

Fornit THIS Fornus, motherfuckers.

Part The First: A Note To Lovecraft Fanboys -or- The Shadow Out Of A Man Of His Time

So by now most people in fandom know what's happened: the World Fantasy Awards will no longer be using their statuette of Howard Phillips Lovecraft--sorry, their frankly ugly as sin statuette of Lovecraft--as their award. The reason is because Lovecraft is rightly seen as a virulent, hopeless racist and changing times dictate a change is necessary, especially now that more and more people of color--such as Nnedi Okorafor and Sofia Samatar--are becoming eligible for, and winning, the award. Thus, starting next year, something new will take Lovecraft's place. This has some fans of the late Mr. Lovecraft in a bit of a  . . . well, tizzy is probably too weak a word. It's more like an epic, childish shit fit of Brobdingnagian proportions.

Example #1:  Lovecraft biographer S T Joshi's petulant, foot-stomping rant in which he called the charges of racism against Lovecraft "slander." Which is hilarious, because there is example after example of Lovecraft's racism in his stories and in his letters. Joshi's frothing denialism of same speaks ill of him as an honest biographer and journalist. 

Example #2: The unbelievable example of Poe's Law that follows, screencapped from a Lovecraft fan group on Facebook by the always awesome Natalie Luhrs. Names have been blocked out to protect identities.


I cannot tell you how many times I have lost my shit over this and how much "MY HEAD IS FULL OF FUCK" this has produced in me. I cannot even describe the incredible lack of self-regard it takes to write guff like this.  

A couple of things I would like to point out here: First of all, pointing out someone's racism is pretty much the opposite of "whitewashing." Second, the initial complaints about the "Howard" award came from Nnedi Okorafor, who won it for her novel Who Fears Death, a critical and fan favorite in recent years. Likewise Sofia Samatar's win for "Selkie Stories Are For Losers." So these are people actually doing meaningful work in the field . . . which is more than one can say about dudes on Facebook who think calling out and then ending the association between a racist, insular New Englander and an organization that purports to represent the Fantasy genre worldwide is somehow "sad and pathetic." Methinks a glance in yonder mirror may be in order.

A few points, in no particular order: Lovecraft fans like to note that Lovecraft became less racist as he got older, and point out a few lone passages in his voluminous letters to illustrate this. However, Lovecraft never recanted his earlier racism--and even if he had, it still exists and is still ticking away much louder than any quiet admissions that "the liberals . . . were right," as he once said. More racists quote "On the Creation of Niggers" than NAACP members quote his later, nonspecific realizations that he maybe didn't know everything about everything. So please don't come at me with his gradual softening on race. The case against that is a lot bigger than the case for it. 

Likewise, please don't come at me with the "product of his time" argument. Because you know who else was a man of his time? Mark Twain. Mark Twain who, as Adam-Troy Castro so rightly noted this morning, "raged against discriminatory laws, had Huck Finn realize Jim was a person, crusaded against lynching, condemned our military actions against indigenous people, paid for the college education of the black man who became the mentor of Thurgood Marshall, was the first major American white to posit that black is beautiful, and wrote 'The War Prayer.' The thing is, there is a difference in being of your time, as we all are, and being for your time, let alone for all time." So please don't come at me with that load of mule muffins, either.

And so finally we come to the main argument: Lovecraft's influence on the fantasy genre. To which I say: whaHUH? Lovecraft is by everyone's admission--even the relentless fuck-knuckles in the screencap above--a writer of horror, and the macabre, and the weird. He did write some fantasy tales, notably "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath," which is nowhere near as well remembered as his horror work. So since by everyone's metric Lovecraft is not really the most influential fantasist of all time, or even of the last century (an honor which surely must fall to either Tolkien or C. S. Lewis), can someone please for the almighty love of fuck tell me why the hell you're pissed off about this?! Quite honestly, the fantasy genre would be better served with an award that is actually representative of the damn genre, and of the genre as a worldwide phenomenon rather than as just a narrow, absurdly reductive slice of it.

Also, as an aside, please please please for the love of all that is holy and good PLEASE stop acting as if this is the end of Lovecraft ever being read ever again, anywhere. I assure you that there are no PC Thugs about to storm your house looking to confiscate your treasured Arkham House first edition of The Dunwich Horror and Others. Trust me, we simply do not give a fuck. Nobody is calling for publishers to stop releasing new editions of Lovecraft. So please stop acting like that's what's happening. You just look frickin' silly.

. . . WHAT.

As to Lovecraft being a "master" of the writer's art that we all imitate: well, don't make me fuckin' laugh, man. I can name you five contemporaries of Lovecraft off the top of my head--Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore, Robert Bloch, Frank Belknap Long, and Jack Williamson--who were far better writers than Lovecraft would ever be. That is not to say Lovecraft was a terrible writer--at his best, he could be very good indeed. But in his innumerable troughs he was mediocre, prone to endless repetition of the same words, images and concepts, and especially to overwritten prose of the type that would make Theodore Dreiser cough and tug his collar. Better stories than Lovecraft's can and have been written; just because he is the progenitor of a certain style of cosmic weirdness does not (and should not) make him the be-all and end-all of fantasy writing. If you're honestly going to tell me that Tolkien, Lewis, Okorafor, Pratchett, VanderMeer, or Samatar, or Angela Carter, or Amos Tutola, or Karin Tidbeck, and so on and so on and Scooby Dooby Doo) owes a stylistic debt to Lovecraft, I'm going to laugh at you until I pitch over and die. (In fact if anyone does it's Stephen King, and that's a whoooole other blog post.) Now, before I get into clothes-have-no-emperor territory here, I want to say that Lovecraft did write some absolutely champion short works. "Cool Air" is one; "The Call of Cthulhu" is another. And "Pickman's Model" is to my mind one of the finest tales of terror ever written. Notably, it is the least "Lovecraftian" of Lovecraft's stories, in that it contains little of his signature prose style, and is not related to the fabled Cthulhu Mythos. And while I'm on that subject . . . 

We can't even count Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos as being an example of one writer's world-building being influential, because the Mythos was gangbanged into existence by Lovecraft, Long, Smith, Bloch, August Derleth, and a few others, and then added to by still more writers decades later. Lovecraft did invent quite a bit of the Mythos, to be sure, but he was never responsible for all of it. Again, Tolkien and Lewis take the prize if you want to talk about pure, single-writer world-building in fantastic fiction.

So the case for Lovecraft to be the epitome of worldwide fantasy is perilously thin on the ground, it would seem. Joshi and the fanboy contingent can make all the noise they want, return all the awards they want, and organize all the boycotts they care to organize. None of this will change the fact that their arguments are as thin as the paper on which Lovecraft's work was originally printed. Lovecraft is not the be-all and end-all of fantastic literature and Lovecraft's work occupies a much smaller niche in the field of the fantastic than it does in its more natural home of horror fiction. Too bad that field already has the Stoker Awards or he'd be a shoe-in there.

So, having dispensed with the obvious and easy, now we go on to the more complicated, tougher issue.

Part the Second: Root To Leaf -or- How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Branch Out A Little

So, with Gahan Wilson's rawther creepy bust of Mr. Lovecraft no longer an issue (except in the minds of certain small minded people who would rather everything remain forever unchanging, like Jeffty in the Harlan Ellison story), the question then remains: What should take its place?

This question is fraught, at least to a thinking person, because in this day and age, hearing as we do the oft repeated mantra that representation matters, what can WFC do to present an award that will truly represent fantasy fiction and fantasists worldwide?

A number of people have presented a number of suggestions. The most common have involved the familiar: a sword in a stone, a chimera, a wardrobe, a ring with Elvish script printed on it (presumably saying One award to rule them all), a dragon--the best variant on that last I saw was a notion to combine western and eastern dragons together into a single statuette embodying both traditions, which is more in the spirit. 

A discussion I saw on David Gerrold's Facebook page (and no, I'm not having that conversation again, thank you very much, chtorr chtorr) illustrated to me the pitfalls of this discussion. There were suggestions for a bust of Tolkien and Baum and Terry Pratchett--nice gestures, but they run the risk of appealing to the extremely loyal fans of a single author and nobody else, and even the great Pterry is, sadly, not universally loved. Aside form that, if you make an individual's face the award, then it becomes all about that individual and what he or she or zie stands for, and what they represent--and didn't we just go through all that? Do we really want to go through it again?

Other suggested more abstract images--a pegasus, a door in a hedge, a phoenix, a door with a funhouse mirror in it. I went into Gerrold's thread and suggested Aladdin's lamp or Anansi the Spider. (My suggestion got one like exactly, but that's my issue.) And there were several votes for Cthulhu, which misses the point from the other direction completely.


Some of the ideas were purposefully silly--Julie Newmar in her Catwoman outfit was one I liked--and thank goodness for that, because if we start taking ourselves too seriously in this fandom, we're fuckin' cooked. But one thing I notced about almost all of the suggestions was that while they were images and/or people universally known to fantasy fans, they were not representative of world fantasy as a whole . . . just its western, European-American traditions.  

One remark from the Gerrold thread emphasizes my point: the commenter suggested Dorothy's silver shoes from Baum's original Oz novel, noting that WFA was an American idea anyway. 

The level of facepalm needed for this would shove my hand out the back of my damn skull.  

This is exactly the kind of thinking that is diametrically opposed to inclusion and representation. It suggests that American fantasy is all that really matters, and ignores the excellent work being produced in other countries and other languages. It's a hidebound, blinkered view--and one I held myself for far too long. Just as Lovecraft is not the be-all/end-all of fantastic fiction, American fantasy shouldn't be the be-all/end-all of the World Fantasy Awards. This is one of the reasons the Tempest Challenge was important to me; it encouraged me to read outside the narrow confines of a fairly narrow literary diet, and it reminded me of something I knew all along but let myself forget: there's a whole world of great stories out there, and there is no good reason on Earth to ignore them, or to make their tellers feel as if they don't matter--or worse, are somehow alien. This fails to take into account the virtually infinite permutations that fantasy can take the world over. And it fails to hold us accountable for not including them.

So I thought about this all morning, and wondered to myself if there was something that was a bit more universal that could be used, either as an engraved plaque or as a statuette, that might represent World Fantasy, not just Anglo-Euro-American Fantasy.

And then I thought: What about the World Tree?

So I went and looked that up, and you know, it's not a half bad notion, even if it is mine. The World Tree appears in various permutations in myths the world over, not just in European traditions but in South Asian and meso-American myth as well. There are ancient myths about the baobab in Africa, and about spirits residing in trees in Thailand. Sacred grove myths abound across the world. And any number of fantasy stories center on trees or involve them deeply in the telling.

Plus, it's a symbolic image. What better symbol could there be for the many branchings of the stories we tell, the many ways we tell them, the roots that lie in myth and how they take hold in us and grow, and spread, and bear leaf and fruit, and nourish us, and give us shade and comfort? Our stories give us so much--what else could symbolize them but the tree that grows and becomes the roof of the world?

And so, fellow fantasy fans, I propose to you: The World Tree Award. It can be Yggdrasil or a baobab, or a sequoia, or an oak--or even an Ent. It can be a different tree every year, commissioned from a different artist much like each year's Hugo. With trees, the sky is pretty much the limit. And with the whole world held in those boughs, think how much richer the stories will be. And how enriched we will become as a result.

Just remember that the mighty oak was once a nut like you.

I hope this will be considered, somewhere, but someone. Our stories have spread so wide, so far--they deserve a symbol that honors them. I hope this can be the one.

Remain In Light.

07 August 2015

Because it is bitter, and because it is my heart: An update on David Gerrold

Far and away and without a doubt the most popular (or at least most-read) entry on this blog is my post about David Gerrold and his ongoing inability to finish A Method for Madness, the fifth book in his War Against the Chtorr series that began when I was a teenager. I still get comments on the damned thing. And it's apparently like #7 on the Google results for searches about the series. I suggested at that time that it was time for Gerrold to finish it or admit he never would and hang it up and move on to more beneficial and fertile fields.

Well, it's happened. After two decades of interruptions, dropped publishers, family issues, and whatever else in his personal and/or professional life that's been interrupting him, Gerrold dropped this on his Facebook page earlier this week.

Yup, he did it. Finally. A first draft of A Method for Madness exists and will be (one presumes) published sometime in the next year or two, depending on rewrites and publishing contracts, etc. Hopefully the first four books in the series will see re-release as well so people can re-familiarize themselves with them. All of this is and/or would be a Good Thing.

I am not going to be so conceited as to think I had anything to do with this. Seriously. I'm just some schmuck with a blog that few people read, and Gerrold has gone on record numerous times as saying that he doesn't let fans or anyone else tell him how to write, what to write, or when to write it. I believe Gerrold was likely aware of my prior essay and if he was he shot it the middle finger at the time I posted it, and more power to him if he did. My essay was and is an easily dismissed fly-speck on the surface of his career, and should be treated as such.

That said, I do want to take this opportunity to say the following to David Gerrold:

Sir, I owe you an apology. I doubted you and your ability, cast aspersions on each, and was incorrect in my estimations of both. Having been incorrect I will gladly eat my heart out, because it is bitter, and because it is my heart. I will also be updating my original essay with a link to this update, so as to prevent confusion on this issue with anyone whose Google search leads them here. Also, thank you for not giving up and for keeping this particular series of dreams alive, because whatever else has passed beneath the bridge they have always been particular favorites of mine.

Now, I told you all that to tell you this:

Took you fucking long enough, man. Congrats on making it.

28 May 2015

The Tempest Challenge: Catching up on my reading

Hello all! You’ll excuse me if I seem a little out of it today—it’s been a long, long week. Slammed at work, sick kid, wife attending BEA with all the concomitant schedule-related higgledy-piggledy that implies. All of it has cost me sleep and left me loopy. Also, higgledy-piggledy is an awesome hyphenate that should be used more often. But I digress. Suffice to say that I didn’t get much sleep last night and my brain is all sorta WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE(crashes into pillow)ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. So this oughta be fun.


I’m now several weeks into K. Tempest Bradford’s reading challenge, wherein if you’ll recall Tempest challenged people to spend a year reading authors other than cis white male ones. Since I had a look at my bookshelves and confirmed that, yep, it’s pretty pale and male there, I thought it would be a more than worthwhile endeavor. I had actually already been trying to expand my reading horizons in my own small way, but this way I am holding myself to a specific baseline and not falling back on familiar habits because they’re, well, familiar. I figure the pale males will still be around for me to read next year. They’re reliable like that. Though they are hard to pick out against a snowbank.

. . . WHAT.

Anyway, this is what I’ve been reading the last several weeks, and my reactions to same:

The True Game, by Sheri Tepper—This is an omnibus collection of Tepper’s “Peter trilogy” from her True Game series: King’s Blood Four, Necromancer Nine, and Wizard’s Eleven. I enjoyed these quite a bit, thought the second book bogged down and went in what I felt was a couple of odd directions. Of the three my favorite book was the first. It had a lovely otherworldly atmosphere to it, and Peter’s narrative voice matched this very well. It had the feel of true terra incognita, and I felt like I was feeling my way in the world right along with Peter. The later books did not achieve this as well, partly because Peter was more confident and assured, and partly because Tepper herself seemed to be hedging her bets a bit more in the second and third books. In all honesty by the time I got to the third book the series was being carried by Tepper’s strong characterization of Peter and his supporting cast. The story itself had by then become basic good-vs.-evil stuff, with the ambiguities of the first volume largely given a pass in favor of Big Moments and a clever if obvious love story where Everyone But Peter Sees It Happening. And the second book, while it has a lot to offer, sort of swallows itself up with its own weirdness while providing backstory for the world Peter and co. live in. Overall I enjoyed these quite a bit, though I will admit to hitting diminishing returns by the time I got to Wizard’s Eleven. Ursula Vernon mentioned to me on Twitter that her favorites in the series are the Jinian Footseer novels, so I will seek those out to see how I like them at a later date.

Next up was Dendera, a translation of a novel by the Japanese author Yuya Sato. This was a grim, enthralling tale about a society of old women discarded by their former village and sent to die at the top of the nearby mountain once they reach a certain age so as not to be a burden. Some of the women break this cycle, choosing to continue their lives on the other side of the mountain rather than accept death and move on to whatever paradise awaits (if any). Eventually they begin to rescue other women sent to the mountain, not always with consent, and the story centers around the last woman rescued in this wise. Complicating matters are a plot to attack their former home, a mysterious plague in their midst, and most dangerous of all, a marauding bear. Sato weaves this into a compelling, if decidedly bloody novel, that features strong characters, taut action, and very visual prose. If the novel has one fault it lies in its excessive anthropomorphization of the bear, but this is forgivable in light of the work as a whole. It occurred to me as I was reading it that if Cormac McCarthy was going to write a novel about elderly Japanese women, this would be it. I don't know how to put it any better than that. 

And now we come to my most recent read: Daniel José Older's Half-Resurrection Blues. And . . . wow. Wow. I can't even begin to tell you how excellent this book is. H-RB is the story of Carlos Delacruz, an "in-betweener"--someone who is half dead and half alive. Carlos works for the New York Council of the Dead as a supernatural troubleshooter and blunt instrument, and he's very good at his job. One winter night Carlos is called upon to eliminate the troublesome Trevor--and for the first time Carlos realizes he's not alone in the world. Trevor is an in-betweener too, and their brief, violent encounter tumbles Delacruz into a dark shadow world of sorcerers, demonic imps, and the most beautiful woman he has ever known. All of this coming together will threaten the line between the living and the dead. And if you think that sounds pretty cool, let me tell you that you don't know the half of it. I said this on Twitter last week and I'll say it again: Reading Half-Resurrection Blues is like taking a master class in the art of the novel. Everything--the characters, the plot, the moments big and small--are deft and keenly observed. There are scenes in here that made me grin, just grin with delight, as I was reading them, and higher praise than that I cannot offer. The prose pops and fizzes across the page, equal parts Walter Mosely and Nuyorican poetry and driving soca beat, and holy shit is it good. Like the food from the bodega around the corner that's your neighborhood's best kept secret is good. I'm not much for urban fantasy because so much of it is of a piece, but I enjoyed the hell out of this book, mostly because Older has put such a distinctive, personal stamp on the genre, and given his novel a genuine sense of place. His Brooklyn is Brooklyn, and his love for it shows. Older has a new book coming out at the end of June, a YA book called Shadowshaper, and I am seriously looking forward to that one as well. I cannot recommend Older's work highly enough.

And here, right here, is why the Tempest Challenge ought to be taken: Had I not done so I might never have encountered Older's work, or might never have taken a chance on it if I had. But I did, and so doing I found an author whose work I will immediately go out and buy more of. That, my friends, is a rare gift to a reader. I have been taking the Tempest Challenge for just a few short weeks, and already it has borne major dividends. I can't wait to see what's next. Because coming down the pike are Kate Elliott, Nnedi Okorafor, Octavia Butler, Oscar Hijuelos, Maria Dhavana Headley, Wesley Chu, Walter Mosely, Ilana C. Meyer, and oooohhh hell yes I can't wait!

But first, I need a frickin' nap. 

Remain In Light!

12 March 2015

Between the falling angel and the rising ape: Thoughts on Terry Pratchett

First of all: Context.

I don't know that this is going to make any sense. I don't know that this is going to be anything but word salad. But there is so much welled up in me right now, boiling and melting and freezing and raging and crying, that I have to let it out. To keep it in would be insane. To try to write it out would be, perhaps, equally insane. But here I am nevertheless.

I am not the best person to tell you what Terry Pratchett was like. That would probably be Neil Gaiman, or Terry's daughter Rihanna, both of whom are writers better at the craft than my pale imaginings will ever make me. All I can tell you is what Terry Pratchett did for me.

Terry Pratchett made me better.

Terry's books found me in my early 30s, and what they found was an angry, cynical, bitter ball of a man. They took that man and made him laugh, and made him see that there is hope, that love is worthwhile, that faith can be a fiction and still be necessary, that there is someone out there for each and every one of us, and that even a dragon needs a good shag once in a while. And they did not do this by being syrupy affirmations of the goodness of humankind; no. That would be the easy way, and I would not have responded to that.

They did it the hard way. They did it the hard way by being hard. By acknowledging the cynicism, the bitterness, the anger, not denying them--and then using them to confound themselves, by showing their characters putting aside the bitterness, overcoming the anger, moving past the cynicism, and rising above to become the better people they always could have been. And that is the mark of genius.

Think about it. The man humanized Death, for God's sakes, and made him a relatable, understandable, beloved character. That takes a level of talent that is beyond my ken to describe.

It was Terry who showed me--or maybe just reminded me, which is just as good--that men and women could rise above their baser selves, be more like unto the angels we like to imagine ourselves as being--closer to that point where the falling angel meets the rising ape, to use Terry's beautiful, indelible phrase. It was Terry who showed me (or reminded me) that you could be angry all you wanted--it was what you did with that anger that counted. It was Terry who reminded me (or showed me) that as unpleasant as human beings can be, there are always particles of joy and hope and caring tucked away inside us all, and that it is our job to nudge those particles together and turn them into something more.

I never laughed harder than I did when reading Terry. I never cried for more reason than I did when reading Terry Pratchett. I never felt angrier than I did when Terry was angry in one of his books. And I never left one of his books feeling cheated or let down.

And Terry made me better. He made a lot of us, better I think. And that is why losing him now, as we have, hurts so much. Because we need him now, more than ever. To help us be better. To find the falling angel within us, to give wings to us poor little apes, trying so hard to rise above. To make us laugh. To help us cry. To give us joy.

And now he's gone, to whatever reward awaits a genius who touched millions. And those millions are left behind wondering what is next.

Well, I'll tell you.

We do what Terry would have wanted us to do.

We keep rising.

Goodbye Terry. We'll see you when we get there. We send our love and our smiles with you as a last, nourishing gift as you cross that long, black desert with your good friend the Reaper Man.

Thank you, Sir. Thank you.

07 March 2015

The Challenge, Week 1: Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love walnuts with teeth

So: it’s been a week since I agreed to take up K. Tempest Bradford’s challenge to spend a year reading books by people other than white cis males. So far I have read one book, and now cats and dogs are living together, two headed calves are being born to three headed chickens, hands are writing MENE MENE TEKEL UPHARSIN on the walls wherever I go and no, none of that is really happening. Actually, I’ve been a little gassy but that’s about it, and I’m pretty sure that has more to do with my calorie count than with someone else’s word count. 

Though to hear some people tell it, I am worse than a Nazi for reading a book outside the normal white male hetero milieu. Tempest tweeted Thursday morning that someone had accused her of running an Inquisition. Which, aside from being fucking hilarious, is further evidence that Some People Are Ignorant And Do Not Know What Words Mean. Tempest is, I assure you, not running any sort of Inquisition. I know this because neither I nor anyone else has been issued one of those sweet-ass red uniforms. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have anywhere to wear the damn thing.

Our chief weapon is surprise, surprise and fear!
Plus an almost fanatical devotion to the fire hydrant!

But I digress. Onward:

So: last week into this I read Castle Hangnail by Ursula Vernon. Ursula is someone I've been aware of for years, via her art and her comic Digger. I knew she was writing prose now, but hadn't had a chance to read any of it because I am a) lazy, b) lazy, and c) lazy. But by a delightful coincidence my wife acquired a review copy of Vernon's upcoming kid-lit book, and I jumped at the chance to read something by someone I've always wanted to read. 

Without divulging too much since it is still an upcoming novel, Castle Hangnail is a delightful confection of a novel about a young witch who wants to take possession of an ancient castle. It is fun, funny, wastes neither a moment nor a breath on extraneous business not related to the story, and has just enough darkness to keep things interesting and add real stakes, without it being too scary for the kiddos. The characters are a delight--including a goldfish you may recognize if you are at all familiar with Ursula's art--and I blasted through the book with a grin on my face. So. Much. Fun. 

Next up are Sherri Tepper's True Game trilogy, followed by some Walter Mosely and Octavia Butler. After that, I have some more ideas. So much to read, so little time!

24 February 2015

Challenge: ACCEPTED

Hey hey, wassup, lawn thyme no sea, que pasta, whatevs, okey dokey. Long and the short of it: Been writing, working, and living. Blogging, not so much.

And now for something completely different.

. . . noooo no no, not that. That’s what we do for fun on Saturdays. 

I was thinking more of this:

See, writer/critic and internet friend K. Tempest Bradford has recently issued a challenge to all and sundry: try reading books written by anyone but white cis males for a year. It’s really simple—that’s all you have to do. You don’t have to empty your bookshelves of the hetero-anglo-male-written titles that are already there. You don’t have to line up and register for a WHITE READER card that you need to carry around; as a matter of fact, you don’t even need to tell anyone you’re doing it. So, yeah, it’s pretty simple and pretty innocuous, and really not all that hard to do if you have a look around bookstores and libraries in your area.

Howeverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, he said, drawing out the end of the word for effect, because Tempest is Black, and Female, and opinionated, and confident of her opinions, her rather simple suggestion has met with some slight resistance from certain quarters.

Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say resistance from certain quarters? I meant hilariously point-missing butthurt from internet goobers who apparently couldn’t find their assholes with both hands and a flashlight at high noon.

I like this one. It immediately accuses Tempest of something she never even came close to suggesting. The sheer amount of pearl-clutchery per square inch it takes to generate enough force to jump to that conclusion could conceivably fuel several trips to Mars. Which means we need to get one invented in order to save our beleaguered space program. Quick, someone put up a Misdirected Outrage Converter Kickstarter!

[waits a minute for the latecomers to figure out the acronym, moves on]

However, I came not to give internet hotfoots, but to point out, once again, that what Tempest is suggesting is really easy to do. All it takes is a little conscious forethought, some judicious shopping, and oh, I don’t know, maybe a list of potential candidates. The way these people above and their noticeably pale cohort are reacting, you’d think Tempest had advocated nothing less than blowing up all white people, forever and ever. Which would be seriously difficult as we have all the really heavy explosives.

… nice kid, but about as sharp as a sack of wet mice.)

My point, and yes indeed I have one for once, is that this challenge of Tempest’s is so uncomplicated that even a simpleton such as myself should have little to no problem figuring out the logistics. So to Tempest I say: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. BRING IT. The more, the merrier. I get lots of cool new stuff to read. Plus, I get to re-read all my Walter Mosely, Octavia Butler, and Ralph Ellison. Win-win.

And to the butthurt white people crying into their copies of The Bell Curve, I say, in the words of a commercial that was old when I was a kid: Tryyyyy it, you’ll liiiiike it! Seriously, what have you got to lose, except maybe your ingrained prejudices and preconceived notions? The potential gains are so, so much greater.

As Saul Bellow once said, reading widens human experience. And that is exactly what Tempest is suggesting we do here. Read more, not less. Read wider, not narrower. Experience the new instead of coasting on the familiar.

Why on earth would you deny yourself that?

Now if you don’t mind, I have some reading to get caught up on. I’ll be reporting back here occasionally on my findings.

Remain In Light!

Please note that comments for this post have been turned off. I really don't have time to moderate. You know, that whole writing, working, living thing. 

09 January 2015

In which I emerge from behind the curtain to whisper in your ear

Hey all--just stopping by in the midst of plotting and being sick to let you know that my wife, Stephanie Whelan, children's librarian par excellence and curator of the excellent blog Views From the Tesseract, is in Publisher's weekly this week! She was part of a panel about the future of children's science fiction moderated by blogger and fellow librarian Betsy Bird, and, well, check it out, why don't you?

Okay, back to coughing up a lung. Whee!