For the past three months, I’ve been listening to a relatively new artist named Conan Gray. And when I say listening, I mean playing over and over and over again. So if you’re wondering what the cool kids are listening to nowadays, here’s some of my favorite songs of his.
This is my all-time favorite of his, and also the only one I’ve ever heard on the radio, though that was on SiriusXM, I’m not sure if it’s ever played on the actual radio.
Since this one is second, you can probably guess that this is my second favorite! I really love the message of this song, especially since I’m straight edge, I feel like it really hits different, y’know?
I like this one a lot because it’s slower and softer than some of his other songs, and I just really like the word choices for some of the lyrics in it.
This one in particular is just kinda fun, it’s not like as amazing as the other ones by any means, but I like it, I think it’s a little silly and I really like the vibe.
So there you go! I hope you enjoy a couple of these songs and I implore you to check out some of his other stuff. He doesn’t have a whole lot out since he’s pretty new, but I haven’t heard anything by him that I don’t like. And as always, I hope you have a great day!
Trump has officially said the quiet part loud and noted that he’s not going to agree to fund the Postal Service explicitly because he doesn’t want mail in votes. This during a pandemic that his administration has done a very poor job combatting, in no small part because it made a(n erroneous) political calculation that the pandemic would mostly affect blue states, and Democrats would be blamed. All of this means Trump is actively acknowledging that the only way he can win re-election is through suppression of voting. Which we knew, but now we don’t even have to pretend that’s not what he’s doing. He’s doing it, all right, and, by the way, fuck you for wanting to vote in the first place.
Which, you know. Fuck him, because I haven’t missed an election since my very first one in 1988 — for which I used a mail-in vote, fuck you very much! — and I’m sure as hell not going to miss this one. For the primary election in June, I requested and used a mail-in ballot, and here in Ohio, the Secretary of State will be mailing everyone a mail-in ballot request (why a request and not an actual ballot? Unnnngh, because the Ohio GOP hates actual voting, but at least it’s a reminder one may vote by mail).
However, for the last few national election cycles, I’ve voted early, by driving to my county board of elections office and voting there. I do it so I can have it done early, and because then, no matter what happens to me between when I vote and Election Day, my vote will be counted. Also, in these pandemic times, it’s a responsible social-distancing choice, since I’m usually the only person there to vote when I show up.
The Darke County Board of Elections site informs me that Early Voting begins on October 6 at 8am. If you don’t think I won’t actually get my ass up early this year to be there when the doors open, you don’t know me (well, actually, I’ll probably show up between 10am and noon, but if a cat paws me awake at 5am, which there is a very good chance of, then I’ll be there at 8). I am likely to drag along a family member or two as well. Why? Because fuck you, I’m voting.
Folks, it’s come to this: Today really is the day that everyone should assume the actual Election Day, November 3, 2020, is going to be a clusterfuck of massive proportions, and make their plan to vote early. Likewise, today is the day that everyone should assume voting by mail will be even more of a clusterfuck, and be prepared to compensate for that. Don’t assume otherwise, because, as we have seen, Trump (and the GOP in general, but especially Trump) actually are trying to suppress the vote.
How to prepare?
1. As I have, find out when Early Voting happens in your county and where, put the earliest possible dates and times on your calendar, and then show up physically to vote early. Wear a mask, socially distance, and all of that, but do it.
2. If you take a mail-in ballot: Request it as early as possible and when you get it, fill it out and send it back as quickly as you can. Try to get it in the mail at least two weeks before Election Day, because, remember, Trump and his odious new postmaster general are trying to dismantle the Postal Service as quickly as possible to fuck with mail-in votes. Indeed:
3. Even if you get your ballot by mail, consider turning it in physically at your local Board of Elections, or barring that, at an official dropbox. My current high level of voting paranoia is such that I would go for turning it in to the Board of Elections rather than a dropbox, because if the actual President of the United States is declaring open season on Americans’ right to vote, it’s not too much of a stretch to suspect someone will take that as permission to fuck up dropboxes, because fuck you for voting, that’s why.
In short: Know how to vote early, fucking vote early, and if you must do it by mail, do it especially early (or turn in your ballot by hand, to your local board of elections if possible).
And yes, I absolutely and positively hate feeling this paranoid about the idea that my government is trying to keep my vote from being counted, thank you for asking. But here we are, it’s 2020, the worst President of my lifetime is just blithely gibbering at a microphone about suppressing voting, and there’s no point trying to pretend that it’s not what’s happening, and that the president’s party isn’t complicit with it.
And also: Fuck you, I’m voting. You literally could not stop me this year. I have always voted — always took for granted I could vote — but this year above all I will go out of my way to get it done. You should, too.
Betrayal is never a simple thing. In this Big Idea for The Shadow Commission, New York Times bestseller David Mack pulls back the curtain on the complexity of this concept, and gives us a closer look at the process of turning coats.
The Shadow Commission is about betrayal: how we betray ourselves, how and why we betray the trust of those who put their faith in us, and how the things we say and do might drive others to betray us. It’s also about how we atone for those sins.
Its theme informed my choice of the novel’s epigraph, which comes from one of William Shakespeare’s most famous tales of treachery:
Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires:
The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be,
Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.
—Macbeth, Act I, Scene 4
The simplest expression of the idea comes at the very start of the book, with a sneak attack that vitiates a long-standing assumption of détènte. From there the abrogations of the truce between Goetic and Pauline sorcerers (aka Black and White magicians, respectively) become grander and increasingly violent.
Though dramatically useful, such depictions felt superficial to my desire to plumb the depths of what real betrayal means. As the story progresses, my characters variously find themselves falsely accused of violating their oaths of duty, breaking sacred promises of friendship, or, in the cases of those in the service of the Catholic Church, ignoring their vows to God.
My main character, Cade Martin, bears a particularly heavy burden this time around. He comes to feel that his tragic failure to defend all of his apprentices from his enemies’ assaults constitutes a betrayal of his students’ trust in him as a master. A toxic combination of guilt and regret hampers Cade’s ability to take action (out of fear that he might jeopardize the lives or safety of his wife, friends, or allies) and ultimately compels him to take drastic action to atone for what he alone sees as his failures of leadership.
For Cade and his wife, fellow Midnight Front veteran Anja Kernova, the cruelest cut of all seems to come when they learn that they and their apprentices have been betrayed by one of their own, by Anja’s favorite adept, a woman named Lila Matar.
By the book’s midpoint, Cade feels broken and lost. It falls to his former wartime enemy and now ally, Briet Segfrunsdóttir, to talk him off his metaphorical ledge and bring him back into their shared fight for survival. But even in a moment of comfort, Cade remains on the lookout for the next betrayal coming his way:
Briet offered him a faltering smile. “So let’s go back to shore, get dry, and figure out our next move.”
His eyes remained downcast as he considered her offer. He looked weary. More than just bruised and worse for wear. As twilight turned to shadow, Cade Martin looked humbled.
“How are we supposed to fight something this big?”
“As long as you watch my back, I’ll watch yours. Agreed?”
There was disbelief in his voice. “We’re watching each other’s backs?” He let slip a rueful laugh. “Twenty years ago we’d have put knives into them.”
“And we might yet.” She dismissed the idea with a tilt of her head. “But that’s a problem for tomorrow. So . . . are you with me or not?”
He gave in with a nod, and together they started the long walk to shore.
The novel’s most grievous betrayal, of course, is saved for the end of the story, when the turn of a single person’s allegiance can do the most possible damage, for reasons that I hope will seem not only perfectly clear in their moment of revelation but also, in hindsight, inevitable.
Last but not least, to me this tale of betrayal would have felt incomplete without at least a glimmer of real loyalty. Not everyone in The Shadow Commission succumbs to avarice or fear. Some friends and allies hold true to their bonds of friendship, even when doing so comes at a cost.
In a tale in which too many faithless actors seem ready to compromise their honor and abandon courage, there are still a few noble souls who will not break, who will not yield no matter how many people turn against them.
In short, though The Shadow Commission is an unapologetic tragedy, it also carries within it a seed of hope. Our own world presently seems overrun with petty villains, but I still believe in heroes. And that is what The Shadow Commission is really about.
If you use TikTok, have children who have cell phones, or follow basically any youngin’ on social media, you probably know exactly what I’m talking about when I say: my generation does not use periods. Unless, of course, we say, “Period!” But usually we punctuate that with an exclamation mark.
More often than not, people my age opt to completely leave out any type of punctuation at the end of texts or tweets, especially short messages, because there’s no need to punctuate if there’s only one sentence, you can just send the message and that counts as the ending point. In addition, Twitter has a character limit, and why waste a character on a period?
I can absolutely confirm without a doubt that everyone my age for some reason thinks that periods are passive-aggressive as hell and if you use one in a text you must be mad about something, or upset with the person you’re sending it to. You just sound… so angry. I can’t explain where this logic came from, but we all hear it the same way. Periods mean you’re unhappy. When you send a sentence with a period, you are sending a clear-cut statement that has a finite end, so it must be about something serious.
If a message contains multiple sentences that need to be divided with a period, usually we just opt for hitting enter/return and starting a new line, or we use a fuck-ton of commas and make paragraphs of run on sentences, which is actually an issue for me when I write formal things (like these blog posts) because my dad has to edit my super long sentences and chop them up into normal sentences.
Alternatively to starting a new line, we take double texting to the extreme by sending multiple messages in rapid succession. We will finish one sentence or one thought, and send it, and then type another and send it immediately after, and do that about five or six times in a row until you have multiple completely different texts that blow up your phone.
On top of all this, I text like I talk, and I talk speedy as heck. I don’t really breathe between sentences or pause at all, so it makes sense that my texts would read like one really fast, long sentence that has no clear end or breaks.
If you text like this, “Hello. Pick up cabbages from the store. Don’t forget the meeting is at seven.” Sure, it looks normal, but it also looks rude. The aggressive capitalization, the harsh periods, it’s just so mean looking!
Periods are something you use to be concise, passive-aggressive, harsh, petty, or all of the above. And, of course, I’m not saying that any of you are wrong for using them, or that you intend to come across this way. I’m just expressing how most people my age see these things. Linguistic differences between generations is ever-changing, and even more so with technology and social media defining our communication with each other.
So, if you see the whippersnappers out on their Razor Scooters wearing Silly Bandz and not using periods, please understand that we aren’t trying to be grammatically incorrect, it’s just a tone thing! We are still fully capable of using them when we need to. It’s just generally that amongst each other we prefer to keep it casual and friendly.
Have a great day.
(See how angry it looks compared to “Have a great day!”)
In the category of Science Fiction novel. And as you can see from the picture above, it has some very fine company, in terms of the other finalists.
If you can’t see it, here they are again:
1. Best Science Fiction Novel
The Testaments by Margaret Atwood
The Ten Thousand Doors of January by Alix E. Harrow
Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir
The Future of Another Timeline by Annalee Newitz
The Last Emperox by John Scalzi
The Rosewater Redemption by Tade Thompson
Network Effect by Martha Wells
Wanderers by Chuck Wendig
It’s a field where I would be happy with any one of these writers/titles winning, so that’s really the best of all possible worlds. And it’s nice to see The Last Emperox getting some early recognition, award-wise. That would be lovely to have continue.
Here’s a link to the entire 2020 ballot and the finalists in all the categories. The ballot page also has a link where you may register to vote for the awards this year, if such is your joy, and why shouldn’t it be your joy? Be joyful, damn it!
A library of information right at your fingertips? Or rather, the very flesh of your fingertips containing a library of information? Read all about Julie Czerneda’s mystical Web-beings and their ability to keep archives of knowledge within their bodies, as she presents the Big Idea of her new book, Mirage.
JULIE E. CZERNEDA:
Alien Squabbles? Worlds in Conflict? Come to the Web Shifter’s Library!
The library in question is the All Species’ Library of Linguistics and Culture. It began, quite simply, as a way for trouble to find my characters: Esen-alit-Quar, the semi-immortal shapeshifting Web-being, and her Human friend, Paul Ragem. After all, if you, like Esen, must keep your true nature hidden from the rest of the universe, it’s not that easy to jump in a starship and careen around. There’s the biological accommodation (waste disposal) to consider, let alone the diet for whatever form she manages to get stuck in, then there’s that other problem.
If a Web-being needs living mass in order to change her form? Well, whoever’s on the ship best to get off in a hurry. Esen would be very sad, but biology wins.
By the end of Esen’s third book, Hidden in Sight, I’d dealt with starship issues aplenty and decided it was time those in trouble came to Esen, in a single interesting place. I might have created a transit hub or interstellar shopping mall. Why make it a library, you ask?
Glad you did.
Esen the Living Archive
When I first envisioned Web-beings, it was a thought experiment on a biological basis for being semi-immortal. I arrived at the notion of organisms who manipulate their molecular structure using energy to repair aging and damage. It led me to aliens who’d hide themselves by cycling, as I called it, into the form of shorter-lived intelligent species. To be convincing, they’d need to know how to behave as one. Thus I had them (there were six at the start) collect and share everything they discovered about a species, from its biology (and thus how to be that form) to every aspect of society and culture.
When your memory consists of your flesh, you’re able to store vast amounts of information, which Web-beings exchange by biting off bits of one another. (I love my job.) Rather than waste that long lifespan—and personal sacrifice–I gave them a uniting purpose: they would be archivists of the achievements and existence of ephemeral species, who tended to go extinct and be forgotten. Mind you, they’d be secretive ones who didn’t ever intend to share outside themselves but, still, archivists. In other words, librarians who locked the doors and ate the keys.
From her first mission, Esen–being Youngest and different and slightly accident-prone–took a more interactive approach. She became the first of her kind to make an ephemeral friend when she rescued Paul Ragem, a first-contact specialist and linguist. When she finds herself the only one of her kind, Paul sets up an information gathering and analysis network to keep Esen’s knowledge current, vital to her continued survival.
And more. Together, they find themselves resolving crises of ignorance where two or more space-faring species come into conflict through misunderstanding.
When you don’t know what you don’t know…
The underlying premise of each Esen story–be it the original Web Shifter three, or the new Web Shifter’s Library series–is that the biology of intelligent beings crucially impacts their ability to understand one another, a speculation I’ve always found fascinating. Consider communication. How do we begin a conversation if the Other doesn’t have a mouth or ears, and we don’t know they use scent instead of sound? What might we do that’s normal or moral behaviour for us, yet to the Other offers profound offense or threat? How do we negotiate with a species with a lifecycle or lifespan profoundly different from our own? I could go on, but…
I’ve Esen for that.
The knowledge Esen contains in her flesh, combined with her ability to become another species, not only lets me write from the point of view of any, it makes her uniquely suited to comprehend both sides of a dispute. In essence, she’s a self-searching database. (One that tends to explode when upset, but that’s an aspect we needn’t consider here.)
Esen’s goal, with Paul’s help, is to correct misunderstandings before they escalate into conflict and potential extinction. But they need to know those misunderstandings are happening in time to act, while keeping Esen’s true nature secret.
It’s not as if decision-makers are going to know what they don’t know.
Come to the Library
Bringing me back to why a library, the All Species’ Library of Linguistics and Culture in particular. I’d made it Paul’s dream to share with everyone the wealth of knowledge inside his best friend. A fantasy that seemed impossible, given the risk to Esen’s secret, until Esen herself declared it their future. They would set up a library devoted to the most problematic areas of communication between biologically different organisms: language and culture. Anyone who comes is permitted to ask one question per visit, so long as they provide an item of new information in return. Along the lines of “to take a book, you must donate one we don’t already have.”
Esen’s knowledge base could continue to expand and be current, while she would answer the question through the Library, using the knowledge and comprehension of a Web-being.
If a question suggested a potentially dangerous misunderstanding, alarms would sound.
During the Library’s first year in operation, a steady clientele of non-Humans passed through the doors on a daily basis, the majority with new information. Mostly slang and verb forms, but there’ve been some interesting gems. While the alarm didn’t sound, in Search Image Esen and Paul used the Library to help their friend Evan Gooseberry resolve a crisis on Dokeci Na. In the just-released Mirage they meet those who present their own bodies as new information and ask for sanctuary.
While in—suffice to say, not only is the Library every bit the handy plot device I’d hoped in planning Esen’s future adventures, it’s proved to be full of opportunities to explore biology and communication; often messy, full of surprises, and important.
A Final Note on Libraries
When I was young, every Saturday morning my Poppa and I would drive to the local lumber store to pick up nails or whatever he needed for a current project. We’d go up and down every aisle with wood to imagine what we could make next. Instead of going straight home, we’d stop at the library. I’d borrow another armload (the librarians let me) of science fiction and fantasy and, having read them?
I’d imagine what I could make next.
So while I’ve made it sound thoughtful and crafty, creating a library in order to tell more stories about my favourite ever-helpful shapeshifting alien, Esen-alit-Quar–Esen for short, Es in a hurry or between friends?
How could it be anything else?
Come on in.
Some of you may recall, back in June 2019, when I surveyed the landscape of potential Democratic presidential candidates, Kamala Harris was my first choice. This is what I said at the time about why that was:
Because she’s hella smart, pretty savvy and because I think her background and daily practice in politics shows she’s not scared of anyone, least of all the Republicans. I also suspect that she would put together a very fine cabinet of equally smart and savvy people and be the best chance to reverse the four years of stupidity and cupidity we’ve endured to this point. Is she perfect? Lol, no, and I suspect people will be more than happy to expound on this in the comments. But I don’t need perfect at this point, and additionally I think she’s smart enough to know where she’s not smart enough, and will collect people to her to compensate. Also, she’s not old as fuck, and her personal baggage seems dealable. Plus she’d shred Trump in the presidential debates like he was a chicken straight out of the crock pot. Yeah, I’d watch that.
Now it’s August 2020, and as we know, Harris did not become the Democratic presidential candidate, Joe Biden did (what I said about him at the time: “I mean, honestly, meh?” which is an assessment I stand by). But, Joe Biden just today decided to make Harris his partner on the Democratic ticket, in the Vice-Presidential seat.
So how do I feel about that?
Not surprisingly, pretty good. One, to be blunt and gross, if Biden keels — and he might, he’s 78 — then I get what I wanted in the first place, and beyond that, the current thinking is that Biden will stay in office for one term, teeing up Harris for ’24 (someone should check with Biden about that thinking, however). But two, presuming Biden stays perfectly healthy for four years, he has a super-competent vice president who will almost certainly have her own portfolio in the White House; I can’t imagine Harris agreeing to be Vice President if all she was going to do was twiddle her thumbs for four years, hoping for Biden to kick off.
In the meantime, she’s a net plus for diversity on the ticket and I expect will be excellent campaigner. Plus, while she regrettably won’t get to shred Trump in the debates, watching her tee off on Pence, who writer Elizabeth May just memorably described as “an actual jar of heated mayonnaise in human form,” will be delight enough. And I imagine she’ll get her punches in on Trump while campaigning, which will infuriate Trump to no end; we know how angry competent women make him.
As a former attorney general and someone whose crime policies were not, shall we say, the most enlightened, Harris is not a huge favorite of the more progressive folks who are aligned with the Democratic party. Inasmuch as the Republicans will try to scare the white folks with the idea of “soft on crime” Democrats, however, her being on the ticket will make that slightly less effective. Given that half the white people in America are currently and inexplicably still planning to vote for Trump, these little things will matter. I mean, honestly, what the hell, fellow white people, why are at least half of you this way, please stop.
This is not an election cycle for people who need perfect people with perfect positions in any event. It’s an election cycle between “likely competent” and “actually fucking criminal.” So: Kamala Harris! Very likely to be a super-competent vice president! Hooray! I was going to vote for Biden anyway, because a meh president would be a refreshing change from the awful bigoted trashfire of corruption that is the alternative. But now at least there’s someone on the ticket I’m actually happy about. Let’s hope we make it to November, everybody!
They’re small updates, but important updates. If you’re a publicist, editor, publisher, or otherwise wish to send me (or Athena!) something to promote here or on social media, please review them.
They are both additionally and henceforth to be found in the sidebar for the site.
Hindu mythology, women in power, and spicy food are all just a few of the things featured in today’s Big Idea for Star Daughter by Shveta Thakrar — also featured is an examination of the question: where does one belong, when one is of two worlds?
Sometimes it’s hard to point to the exact thing that inspired your novel. Luckily for me, I have an easy answer to that question: Neil Gaiman’s and Charles Vess’s illustrated novel Stardust, but combined with Tanuja Desai Hidier’s contemporary young adult novel Born Confused.
As I said, that’s the easy answer. The more complicated one goes something like this: having spent my high school years as a brown girl isolated in a very small American Midwestern town, seeing someone like me in any of the books I devoured would have meant the world. I didn’t even know that was possible! So in my mid-twenties, once I started writing seriously, I made the decision to only write characters like me, people who were desi and Hindu. I couldn’t attempt to speak for Indians in India, nor did I want to, but I definitely could write for American kids like the one I’d been and do my part to help fix the dearth of good representation.
The thing is, I didn’t want to write stories about the pain of being brown. My entire life, I’ve been enamored of all things lush and numinous: fantasy novels and movies, fairylore, mythology, my own rich inner worlds. I believe in magic, and I love story. To me, the two are made for each other, so of course I would write fantasy.
The idea of a star falling to Earth and taking the form of a person had enchanted me ever since I first happened upon a copy of Stardust in an independent bookstore back in 2001. I bought it on the strength of the title and cover alone, and the plot stayed with me, so much that, in 2013, I decided on a whim to write a short story about a girl whose mother came from a Hindu constellation. Once I realized the girl would need to go on a quest to find her mother, it quickly became a novel.
I took advantage of the many drafts Star Daughter went through to stuff it with all the things that would have delighted my teen self and delight me even today: desi characters; sparkling silver hair; music; tons of delicious spicy food; lyrical, image-rich prose; Hindu mythology; intergenerational family relationships; a best friendship like I wish I’d had; women in multiple positions of power; gorgeous clothes; the starry court; blue mangoes and skyberry cordial; and the magical Night Market of my heart. (Oh, I had sooooo much fun dreaming up the fairy tale–worthy wares for sale at the Night Market, and I’m still waiting to find the peacock-beak entrance myself!)
But at the book’s heart is a Gujarati girl named Sheetal, who’s half human and half star, caught between worlds the same way I always felt, and how she deals with it. In her case, she accidentally burns her human father when her starry flame blazes out of control, forcing her to ascend to the heavenly realm to find her celestial mother and obtain her help—and in order to get that help, Sheetal has to win a competition she has no interest in entering.
I can’t say I’ve ever been in that particular scenario, but I absolutely channeled my own confusion about where I belonged and what I wanted for my life into her journey, and I hope it will resonate with anyone who chooses to pick up Star Daughter, whether teen or adult, desi or otherwise.
As Sheetal’s sidereal family would say, may you burn bold in the deepest night.
One thing you probably see on here a lot is book recommendations. I mean, makes sense, sure, but wouldn’t it be nice to explore another medium of stories? Well, have I got just the thing for you! For the past two years, I have been reading an amazing webtoon called Let’s Play; a story about an indie game developer who finally comes out with her own game, only to have it totally trashed by a popular streamer. Then, said streamer becomes her new neighbor! But it’s not just about that, oh no, there’s office drama, gaming drama, coffee shop drama, and so much more!
One of my favorite things about sticking with a webcomic for a long period of time is you get to see the artist’s style change and progress. The other day, I went back to the very first episode after reading the 125th one, and I didn’t even recognize one of the characters for a second! Seeing someone’s style change is so fascinating, and really shows you just how hard the artist is working to provide quality content each and every episode.
One of my favorite things about this particular webcomic is how real each and every one of the characters are. They have so much personality, their struggles are believable, and each of them is likable in their own ways. It’s one of those stories where the side characters aren’t just empty husks meant to support the main character, they’re fleshed out, have their own episodes, and are presented as characters that actually matter. And, some of them are super cute, which doesn’t hurt either. Yes, I know they’re a drawing, no that doesn’t make them any less hot, okay? Okay.
Anyways, this comic is so much fun! It’s hilarious, emotional, realistic, and engaging. This is definitely my favorite webcomic right now (though there are some close runner-ups I might post about at a later date). Follow Sam on her journey of navigating through her ever-changing relationships with those closest to her here. Make sure you go to the first episode! And have a great day.
At least in the Big Ten and probably in the Pac-12, definitely in some of the midlist conferences. I imagine the reality of it won’t really hit some people until the SEC gives up the ghost, although, who knows, maybe they won’t, it’s not a coincidence that some of the hottest hotspots of coronavirus activity are in the South. The idea of 100,000 Auburn fans (for example) screaming their hearts out in the stands, all without masks, terrifies me, but I guess it might just be an example of freedom for them. Just 15% of Alabama ICU beds are available as of six days ago, incidentally. And we’re not even talking about Florida yet!
As you can see from the tweet above, I made snark about this being the fault of the maskless, and while they are certainly not the only ones at fault — let’s all stare at the federal and state governments that have got us to where we are today, y’all — let’s not pretend that the folks who absolutely refused to perform sensible prophylactic practices don’t bear a large chunk of the responsibility. Not just for no college football, although that is a big one here in the US, all things considered, but also for the general grinding and sputtering of our economy and its recovery. As I noted in a follow-up tweet, the maskless have done more to destroy the American capitalist system in a few short months than three whole decades of college socialists. The college socialists wear their fucking masks, people. Even when they’re out there protesting.
I went to a Division III school (which had already cancelled its fall sports in July anyway), so from an alumni standpoint I don’t have a dog in this hunt; indeed, the only real emotion I feel is happy for my friends from Michigan. Now they won’t have their asses handed to them by Ohio State again this year (that rivalry is a very real thing that affects both states in a way that I, a humble nerd from California, genuinely cannot feel in my bones). But I do suspect football-less fall Saturdays are going to do more to bring the reality of our current situation home to some people than 160,000 dead, millions more infected and a cratered economy. Which is sad, but whatever works.
But yeah: You coulda had college football, folks. All it took was a mask and some basic consideration of other people. But you thought you’d rather not. Enjoy your Saturdays!
Update: 4:42pm — Ooooooh, drama:
Update, 8/11/20, 4:09: “Postponed.”
I was thinking about the concept of “Dad Rock” and what it means, and when it is that a previously popular and/or relevant band goes full Dad Rock, and I realized that there was a particular song from a particular band that crystallized the Dad Rock Moment, as it were, for me: “Vertigo,” by U2, off the band’s 2004 album, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.
What’s wrong with the song? Well, there’s nothing wrong with it. If you were to present it to someone who had no other context for the song or the band, it would probably come across as a nice, chunky rock song. It’s solid if not spectacular, the sort of song that a band with a long discography would trot out at the two-thirds mark of a concert. It’s the song that’s no one’s favorite but that everyone likes well enough, to pad the playlist until they get to the songs that will build to the end of set. It’s not a song one would put in the encore. It’s good! Which is fine. Or more accurately, it’s fine! Which is good.
In context, it’s the sound of U2 standing pat. U2 became the Biggest Rock Band in the World in the late 80s with The Joshua Tree, then freaked out a bit about that in the 90s, releasing a trio of albums (Achtung Baby, Zooropa, Pop) that increasingly strayed from their previous iteration before releasing 2000’s All That You Can’t Leave Behind, which married the two previous eras into a “return to form” album that got them back to Biggest Rock Band in the World status.
So what did the band do for Atomic Bomb? Well, they stayed where they were and just worked that for a while.
“Vertigo,” the album’s first single, typified that. It’s a U2 song that sounds like a song that songwriters and musicians who were not U2 would make if they were told to make a song that sounds like U2. Bono is in full “arch lyric” mode, the Edge is sawing away but also doesn’t forget to drop in his signature chiming guitar in the right places, the rhythm section is doing its uncomplicated but solid thing. The video is grandiose and also tongue-in-cheek about it, to variable success.
All of which was a solid commercial choice: Atomic Bomb sold ten million copies, won nine Grammys (three for “Vertigo” alone), and started the band on its profitable relationship with Apple, which would culminate rather infamously with the band’s 2014 album Songs of Innocence being stuffed into everyone’s iTunes collection whether they wanted it or not (this was the uber Dad Rock maneuver, the tech company equivalent of making your kids listen to the classic rock station against their will as you drove them to school in the minivan). No one could fault U2 either for “Vertigo” or Atomic Bomb. From a sheer numbers point of view it kept the band on the top of the rock heap.
But for me it also meant U2 stopped being a band that would surprise or inspire. They became predictable, and comfortable, and less memorable. And indeed that’s where the band has stayed in the sixteen years and three studio albums since. The albums since have varied from “meh” to “not bad,” and each has a song or two worth revisiting. But when I think about the band, “Vertigo” is a hard frontier for me: What came before it could be flawed (boy, could it!) but wasn’t boring; what comes afterward might be good but isn’t essential.
And fundamentally this is what “dad rock” means to me: it’s when a rock band whose audience is mostly male stops challenging that audience and starts maintaining it instead, even if they release new work. Or as Bono himself might have put it, in the bridge to “Vertigo,” speaking as U2’s audience: “Just give me what I want and no one gets hurt.”
I’m noting U2 here because it’s a band relevant to my own life, but certainly they are not the only example. The Rolling Stones went Full Dad with Undercover in 1984; Genesis in 1987 with Invisible Touch; Metallica with Death Magnetic in 2008; Coldplay with Viva la Vida, also in 2008. Paul McCartney went Full Dad the instant he left the Beatles; likewise the Foo Fighters (who, by the way, I love) appear to have been intended as Dad Rock from day one. Most bands associated with the Album Oriented Rock era of music have been Full Dad since the early 90s; Journey, which was one of my favorite bands growing up, has a concert playlist that is stuck in amber — the band members call their greatest hits “the dirty dozen” and play them every show. Likewise pretty much every heavy metal band that started up in the 80s; when I went and saw Iron Maiden’s Legacy of the Beast tour last year; that “greatest hits” concert format, while entirely awesome, was also the epitome of Dad Rock.
(Let us not speak of KISS.)
Dad Rock is clearly used as a pejorative, and my personal definition of it isn’t particularly complimentary either, but allow me for a moment here to give at least a half-hearted defense of dad rock. First, look: There’s nothing actually wrong with producing a reliable creative product for an identifiable audience, said the man who got a thirteen-book publishing contract specifically because he is able to produce reliable creative product for an identifiable audience. If the worst thing that can be said about your new work is that it’s rather a lot like your old work, only more so, you’re probably going to be able to make your house payments (or castle payments, in the case of U2).
Second, it’s not just the bands and musicians staying pat. Rare is the music listener who is as adventurous with their tastes at 38 as they were when they were 18; even more so at 48 or 58 or further on. At a certain point people know what they like and they want more of that, and if the bands they already like keep putting out work that’s in the same vein, album after album, then guess what? Those fans are going to stick around.
Which brings us to a third point, which is that after a certain bend in the demographic curve, most musical artists aren’t picking up new listeners anymore, or at least, younger listeners; they work with what they have. If you’re lucky you become retro, or (in the case of U2, the Stones and probably Coldplay) you were so big at one point you could lose much of your audience over time and still fill stadiums. But most performers work with who they accrued in their heyday. Those kids who were your fans became dads, your music became Dad Rock, and you know what? That’s fine. We can’t all be David Bowie, innovating literally until the day we die, and it’s worth remembering that even David Bowie went Full Dad for a while there (See: Tonight and Never Let Me Down), and otherwise benefited from a catalogue that gave him the wherewithal to do other things later without regard as to whether an audience would follow.
Finally: Hey, combining constant innovation while maintaining a non-trivial level of popularity is hard. Shit, producing merely adequate creative product while staying popular is hard, which is why so few people actually manage even that, particularly in music, in which what is popular can become obsolete almost literally overnight (See: The extinction event of 80s hair metal bands known as “Smells Like Teen Spirit” in 1991). It might be unfair to demand constant innovation from musicians, especially when coupled with their need to, you know, move units (or, these days, shift streams) in order to eat.
To go back to “Vertigo,” it might be the sound of U2 standing pat, but it’s also the sound of U2 being as U2 as they could possibly be, for an audience who wanted that and was, for the most part, glad to keep getting it. It might be that U2’s greatest moments of creativity, innovation and popularity are behind them and they just keep doing more of the same between now and whenever. But let us also acknowledge that there are worse fates, for both a band and its audience, than becoming Dad Rock.
Hello, everyone! I hope you are all having a great Saturday. One thing that Saturdays are good for is shopping small! Which is why I’ve decided to start a new thing on here where, occasionally on Saturdays, I feature a small business that I think is awesome and highly recommend! Every business that I promote will be one that I personally have tried and/or used their products, so I actually know that what I’m recommending you is quality stuff supporting quality people!
To kick things off, I’d like to talk about Ocean’s Originals; a wonderful brand of all natural skincare and beauty products to amp up your self care routine. Not only is everything all natural, it’s also hella affordable! From lip tint to body scrub, cuticle balm to roller ball perfumes, she has such a nice variety of self-care products that I just adore.
I have bought from Ocean many times, and never regretted a single purchase. Everything feels so quality, not to mention smells totally amazing! Personally, my favorites out of what I’ve tried are probably the lip conditioners and the cuticle balm, but I also really like the lip scrubs and Luscious Lashes oil. Just to be clear, I have not tried all the products she offers! But I can totally vouch for the ones I have, as they have all been wonderful additions to my skincare regime.
Here’s a few words from the creator herself:
My name is Ocean! I’m 22 & live in Illinois. I’ve been creating since October 2017. I love creating all types of self care items, especially lip care! I strive to be as eco friendly and low waste as possible in every aspect of my business! It’s extremely important to me to be low waste in every aspect & I’m actively finding ways to reduce waste while providing the best products!
Anyways, I hope you consider giving Ocean’s wonderful products a try, and I hope you have a great Saturday!
Ugh, we’re talking about the “canon” of science fiction literature, again, for reasons (most imminently the recent Hugo award ceremony and its fallout), and whether, basically, newer writers and readers should and must slog through a bunch of books in the genre that are now half a century old at least, from a bunch of mostly male, mostly white, mostly straight writers who are, shall we say, not necessarily speaking to the moment.
I’ve essayed this before, because I’m me, but here’s my newest set of thoughts on the matter, also because I’m me. Ready? Here we go:
As a practical matter, the science fiction “canon” is already dead.
There are at least two generations of adults now, and two generations of genre writers, who didn’t grow up on it and fundamentally don’t care about it. Long gone are the days where a kid’s first introduction to the genre was a Heinlein or Asimov novel, smuggled out of the adult fiction section of the library or bookstore like samizdat. The Kids These Days got their start reading genre through the YA section and grew up on Rowling and Collins and Westerfeld and Black and Pierce and Snicket, and got their science fiction through film and TV and video games and animation and comics as much as if not more than from books.
I repeat: They don’t care about “the canon.” Why should they? What they grew up with was sufficient for what they needed — to be entertained when they became readers and fans, and to be inspired if they became creators and writers. The writers they read spoke to them directly, because the art was new and it was theirs, not their parents’ or grandparents’. And while one might sniffily declare that what those YA authors were doing had been done before, by [insert spreadsheet of who who did what first in genre, which in itself is probably incomplete and therefore incorrect], no one cares. For readers and developing writers, it doesn’t matter who got there first, it matters who is there now, when those readers (and writers) are developing their own tastes and preferences, and claiming their own heroes and inspirations, both in fiction and in terms of the people writing it.
Also, here’s a news flash: even those of us who are old enough that the “canon” might have some actual relevance to our development as writers didn’t necessarily have that much reverence for it back then. Look, I’m fifty fucking one, and when I was younger, the “canonical” writers and works were already old. I liked some of them — Heinlein is an obvious one for me, Bradbury a less obvious one, and I enjoyed Piper in parts and Herbert for the length of Dune — but a lot of the rest of them were just not that interesting to me, nor would I consider them significant influences on me as a writer.
There are writers outside the field who are much more influential on how I write — Gregory Mcdonald and William Goldman and Nora Ephron, to name three — than pretty much any “canonical” SF writer other than Heinlein. What’s more, you could fill a library with all the “foundational” science fiction authors and books I haven’t read, and an even larger one with the writers that I read a couple things by, and went “meh,” and never read them again.
Who in genre was influential to me as a writer? Well, in high school and college, and in no particular order:
(sucks in a breath)
Varley and Brust and Adams and Gibson and Butler and Le Guin and Card and Gaiman and Stephenson. Alan Dean Foster, who seemingly put out a novel every month, was my go to sci-fi candy as a teenager. Ariel, by Steven Boyett, was hugely inspirational to me because it was fun and also written by someone who was still a teenager at the time. At the very end of my formative period came Tepper and Simmons.
None of these writers were “canonical” at the time, either (well, Le Guin was) — they were just who was writing then, putting out the new stuff that I would snap up and enjoy. I wasn’t spending much time going into the classics of the genre; I wasn’t shunning it, but these contemporary writers were just more interesting to me, and felt more relevant to my own life.
And yes, I knew a few science fiction nerds at the time who would try to shame me for not liking some classic writer (or at least someone who they considered a classic). My usual reaction would be to shrug, because I liked what I liked and that was fine (I was, however, more receptive to the enthusiastic SF nerd who instead of shaming said “Oooh! If you like that then you’ll like this!” Which is how I met Stephenson and Simmons, as two examples).
The point here is that even for me, who is a straight white dude in his fifties and who is deeply into the middle of a long and unquestionably successful career as a science fiction author — who is indeed in many respects the very model of a popular, mainstream genre writer — the canon of science fiction, the “golden age” of science fiction, was not (and is not!) essential, either as a reader, or later as a writer. I don’t feel bad about skipping a lot of that stuff back then, and at this point, the chance I’ll go back to read a lot of it now is pretty damn slim, because I’d rather keep up with what my contemporaries are writing, and be influenced by them.
That being the case, what is the argument for saying writers in their forties, or thirties, or twenties, need to offer fealty to a “canon” of genre work? It’s not necessary, practically, commercially or artistically, and at this point maintaining that it is only serves the function of being an increasingly inefficient method of gatekeeping by an ever-shrinking group. The moment of the canon as (effective) social cudgel has passed, because, again, younger writers and readers simply, and correctly, don’t care.
Now, is it useful to have a knowledge of the works and writers that have been influential over the length and breadth of the genre? Sure, if your interests run in that direction, and you want to grasp the history of the genre for your own purposes. Do these “canonical” works and writers still have value and interest to modern writers and readers? Indeed they may! We all get to choose our influences, and some of them might be from this group.
Should these canonical writers and works be tossed aside merely because they are old? Well, no; if they are to be tossed aside, it should be because they are not relevant to the particular reader. But: that also does not oblige the reader to pick up those works for any purpose but their own; if they don’t have such a purpose, down to and including mere idle interest, then it’s all right to let that book sit. “Not picked up” is existentially different than “tossed aside.”
Moreover, the days of certain works and writers being accepted more or less uncritically as “the canon” are well and truly gone. I mean, let’s face it, these “canonical” writers and works were always being called on their bullshit — see the New Wave of Science Fiction for that, which these days has its own bullshit to be called on as well — but the last few crops of writers, with no fealty to the canon or its makers, are especially not here for it. This is deeply uncomfortable for a lot of people! The whole point of having a canon is that it’s supposed to be more or less settled!
The question then, however, is: Settled by whom? And for what purpose? “The canon” didn’t just somehow happen. It is a result of choices — choices made by editors to favor some writers and viewpoints, and by readers and self-selected fans, to choose some of these previously-selected works and writers for canonization. The writers and readers today gave no assent or consent to these choices, and their choices may well be different: They may choose different writers and works to canonize, point out the problematic aspects of “canonized” creators and works and the gatekeepers who chose them — and, importantly, may reject the idea of the canonization of works and writers at all, because intentionally or otherwise, it’s an attempted system of control and a process of putting some people and works “in” and some “out.”
Which is not a bad idea! Maybe — here’s a thought, not at all original to me but one I’m happy to amplify now — we should just abandon the idea that science fiction requires a canon. Because, again, as a practical matter for current readers and writers, it doesn’t have one, and doesn’t need one. Moreover, pinning a fandom identity to works and writers that as a group have little relevance to contemporary readers and writers seems to be resulting mostly in annoyance, schism and, so as to not paper over the issue with too-mild words, an unexamined acceptance of a shitload of bigotry and exclusion that shaped that “canon” in the first place.
So, yeah: Drop it. Make the work and writers stand or fall on their own merits, to the modern writers and readers comprising who the science fiction field is today.
You know what will happen? Some works and writers will rise, some will fall, some will be rediscovered and some will be consigned to the archives, possibly forever. No canon, just a field forever in conversation with itself, choosing its conversational partners from its past rather than having them assigned from a list.
Because, again: that’s what’s actually happening. We might as well own up to it.
One thing to know about me is that I love shopping. Like, so much so that it’s an issue. Much like Ariana Grande said in 7 Rings, “think retail therapy my new addiction.” However, there are so many reoccurring issues I run into when shopping, that you’d think they’d be enough to deter me from the activity overall. For instance, as many of you know, I’m 5′ 10″. This alone makes shopping difficult enough, since almost all pants are highwaters (capris) on me and all dresses are too short for me.
To add to this, I’m chubby as hell. Thicc with two c’s. A real tubby marshmallow, to put it plainly. Being tall and overweight is a tough combination. And while the tall thing is a relatively new issue, I’ve been overweight for half my life. So once I became old enough to shop for myself, and did so quite frequently, finding my size became a bit of a challenge.
For the past few years, I’ve been stuck between “normal” sizes, and “plus” sizes. Normal sizes are typically 00-12 and plus is 14-30. I am constantly on the border between the two, sometimes I fit a 12 and sometimes I fit a 14. And sometimes I’m a 16. And sometimes I’m a medium, and sometimes I’m a large, but also sometimes I’m an x-large.
Point is, women’s sizes are confusing! It’s so hard to know what you are when every store, every clothing line, every designer has different measurements for their cookie cutter sizes. A pair of size 12 pants in one store might fit you perfectly but a pair of 12’s in a different store might be completely different. If you’ve ever seen this image floating around, originally posted by @chloe______e on Twitter, in which all of these pants are a size 12, you can start to see why it’s so hard for women to know what size they really are.
Meanwhile, men’s pants sizes aren’t some random number, like a 4 or an 8, they’re actual inch measurements! 30×32, 33×30, these are numbers with real meaning. This is not to suggest this issue doesn’t happen to men though, because I’ve seen a men’s shirt in a medium and an xx-large be identical before.
As someone who is always stuck in between the normal sizing and the plus sizing, it makes it hard to find clothes at either type of store. For example, if I go into a plus-sized only store, like Lane Bryant, everything is too big, despite the fact that I don’t fit into any of the normal sizes at other stores. There are certain stores, like Rue 21, which divide their stores in half, one half is for normal sizes and one half is for plus sizes. I think this is kind of a bad way to do it, because it feels alienating at times, but I can see how it would work if you assumed everyone knew their size without fail. But in stores like that, I always find myself bouncing back and forth between the two sides, and it’s frustrating!
Not only are the same sizes inconsistent across different stores or brands, but even the same brands will be inconsistent with their sizing, like when a women named Riley Bodley showed that her size 4 jeans were actually smaller than her size 0 jeans, from the same company, but the size 0 pants were bought a few years earlier. Which means that American Eagle made their bigger sizes smaller! I’m in awe, really. How do we (me included) let ourselves be so distraught by what size we wear, when companies are constantly changing the sizes, let alone making them consistently smaller?
I mean what can we expect when clothing companies put out these pre-cut clothes, when every single body is different? How can we think that the same pair of jeans will fit a hundred different people just because they’re all an eight, or a ten, or a four?
So you would think with all this, I would hate shopping, but on the flip side of this chaos, when you actually do find something that fits, and looks good, that moment of joy is fucking addicting. I am someone who does not have stellar body confidence. So when I find something that looks decent on me? I have this innate need to buy it. Because who knows when I’ll find something that fits this well again? Who knows when a dress will look this nice on me again? Better play it safe and buy it. And I have this mentality for literally dozens of clothing items, which leads to me spending way too much on clothes.
Also, I think clothing is such a great way to express yourself! There are so many different styles to explore, aesthetics to showcase. Everyone has such unique taste in clothes, it’s hard not to love fashion when it can be so fun. But I can also understand people who don’t feel the same, who prefer function over fashion, comfort over cuteness. Why waste money on an expensive outfit when a t-shirt and jeans do the trick? And honestly, to each their own. You should always do whatever makes you most comfortable and happy!
This post really is just to express one of my many, many frustrations with the fashion industry. My biggest complaint about the fashion industry is far less surface level than sizing, and has to do with where our clothes come from and the factories and laborers that produce our clothes. Which gives me a perfect opportunity to promote a fantastic book I read not so long ago called Where Am I Wearing? by Kelsey Timmerman! I highly recommend checking it out if you’re interested in the source of most of our clothes and the people behind the garment making.
Anyways, that’s all I really had to say, just a bit of a vent piece. I hope it was relatable to some of you! Or at least enjoyable if nothing else. And I hope you have a great day!
(Also, someone in the comments of my last post asked me what the M is for. It’s my middle initial!)
The mask in question purchasable here, from John Picacio, who did the artwork printed onto it. Very nicely done, and clearly looks great as well.
(And for those about to ask, the picture was taken with my Pixel 4 and then edited in Photoshop. The original, less treated photo is here for your comparing and contrasting.)
Remember to wear your masks, folks!
Living as we do in the country, we have a long driveway, which is made of dirt, on top of which is a layer of gravel. The gravel has to be relaid every couple of years, and today was that day: A nice man came by in a really huge dump truck, and laid several tons of crushed rock of various grades into the driveway.
As a result, the driveway is now super-smooth if a little treacherous to walk on — the gravel will compact a bit for the next couple of weeks, and then will be easier to get down without worrying about turning an ankle if one is not careful.
But regardless, our driveway is now squared away and looking pretty nice. One of the weird things about being an adult is being excited by a new load of gravel, I suppose, but here we are. One adult, happy about crushed rock.
Today on the Big Idea we have The First Sister by Linden A. Lewis — a novel about a hero with no name and no voice, and the power of three words that, in this world at least, were (and are) not said enough.
(Content Warning: discussion of sexual assault)
LINDEN A. LEWIS:
I read a lot of stories about war and revolution. With the way our world currently is, who doesn’t like a story where the corrupt system is overthrown by the little people? But one of the things that irks me as a reader is to see a world in which there are people enslaved in sexual service, only to have those people relegated to the sidelines once the heroes march in.
Or maybe (as in another popular series I love but had to question) the former-sex-slaves become part of a problematic rebellion bent on terrorism. Or (ever so popular a choice) they die so our warriors can mourn them but ultimately keep on being warriors. So where does their justice come in?
As the popular refrain goes, “If you don’t like it, write your own.” So I did.
“First Sister has no name and no voice.”
That was the first line of my query letter. It’s now the first line that readers see when they check out the synopsis of the book. “No name and no voice” means First Sister isn’t just a comfort woman who’s had her bodily agency taken away, she’s one who has lost her core identity because of the people in power. She doesn’t have a name except for the title they gave her. She doesn’t have a voice because they took it away so she won’t repeat the secrets she hears in the line of duty.
If you’ve been a victim of sexual assault, you’re probably nodding along, identifying with those words. If you haven’t, you might be wondering, “What the hell, Linden? Why write a nameless, voiceless woman?”
The core idea of the Sisterhood, the institution First Sister is part of, came partially from the dichotomy between Madonna and whore. A woman is either a saint or a sinner, a family member or a sexual conquest. How often women have to evoke images of a man’s mother, sisters, or daughters to summon empathy was part of the core conceit behind the Sisterhood, where all positions are named after family members: Sisters, Aunts, Cousins, Mother.
But, as in our world, believing victims is not just a problem among men. Women (read: white women) who benefit from this patriarchal system also work to uphold it. It is forces like these that work to keep First Sister and others like her from ever speaking out against the violence they experience.
First Sister is nameless, because so many sexual abuse victims are not well-known celebrities; they’re just average people. First Sister can’t speak, because so many sexual abuse victims feel that, even if they do speak up, they won’t be believed.
I remember the humble beginnings of the #MeToo movement. It started so simply: Post #MeToo as your status if you’ve been sexually assaulted. I watched the posts roll in, seeing just how many of my friends were exactly like me. But I bit my tongue. I have family on my social media channels, and my sexual assault isn’t something I’m comfortable talking to them about. That day, I didn’t post anything except comments: “I believe you.”
But the #MeToo hashtag gained steam, and more and more people felt comfortable speaking out. Those replies were what I longed for, the reassurance that someone believed what I’d been through. Little by little, I began taking back pieces of my agency by speaking with friends, by telling people what I’d been through. And every time I heard “I believe you,” I felt like a piece of me healed a little bit.
You see, no one had ever believed me before. I was just a child when it happened. He was a family member. I was supposedly a verbose kid who would talk to trees when bored, yet no one “understood” me when I tried to explain what had happened. And when I tried to bring it up later, when I was older and had more vocabulary? No one wanted family drama.
Part of the reason I kept my mouth shut for so long, even as #MeToo went from hashtag to movement, was because I didn’t want to deal with the naysayers. “Why didn’t you report him?” I still fear people asking. “Why don’t you report him now?” Or, the comment I fear most of all: “Where’s your proof?” Without proof of something that happened 20-something years ago, people could say I’m a false accuser.
Sadly, I find I’m not the only one who is nameless, who is voiceless in these matters. The US Department of Justice reports that the number of rapes and sexual assaults that are never reported far outweighs the number of men convicted of rape because of fake accusations. Actually, it far outweighs the number of fake accusations. Period. Obviously I’m not the only one scared of saying something, who believe officials won’t be able to help. And let me be abundantly clear: Officials like police officers are far less likely to listen to someone who isn’t cisgender, white, and/or straight.
In The First Sister, I wanted the novel to reflect this world where “I believe you” is intrinsic, so I very specifically did not include any graphic sexual abuse scenes. Sexual abuse happens; it’s something the characters talk about having faced, but no one ever questions them. No one ever disbelieves them. The last thing I wanted was for this book to be seen to glorify sexual assault in any way or to become akin to ‘torture porn.’ Instead, the world and the characters explore the dangers of rape culture. They explore what it’s like to fight against a patriarchal system upheld by men and (again, rich/white) women.
I believe victims. I stand with them. And The First Sister is my love letter to everyone who has been forced to deal with rape culture, whether they feel comfortable telling their stories or not. So when it comes to First Sister? She is far more focused on seizing that culture by the throat, choking the life out of it, and creating a revolution. She is a sexual abuse survivor, but she is also the hero.
As some of you wondered whether Athena would have use of the Mallet (as we call the ability to moderate the comments here), and whether she would get her own mallet or have to borrow mine, the picture above should answer your question: She does, and she has her own. The mallet in question here is a gift from a friend, and it is delightful (and yes, for those of you who don’t know, I also have an actual real world mallet as well, mine in the shape of an oversized judge’s gavel). We’re the Mallet-Wielding Scalzis, we are.
What we don’t know yet is what Athena chooses to call her mallet. Mine is — of course — the Mallet of Loving Correction. We’ll see how Athena decides to name her own. I’m looking forward to finding out. I hope none of you ever have to have it applied to you.