As you may or may not know, I am moving soon – at the end of October, to be precise. I just got home from Vancouver last night to find a note on my door: “First house showing at 6:30pm on Monday, is that okay?”
Well, of course it’s okay, because I may be out of town again on Wednesday through Sunday and I sort of wish to be a good tenant in these last two months. (My landlady is awesome and I’m pretty sad about moving, honestly, but finances require it.)
However, this means I must clean! my house! Shock! Horror! Windex!
Ok, so my house isn’t that messy…for me. I’m a messy person. “Not that messy” for me means “Typhoon hit it” for a normal person.
So today I shall clean clean clean clean until I’m dizzy from the fumes! Also I shall go to the post office and pick up my package, and mayhap get some boxes from somewhere so I can start packing.
And then I shall spend the evening working on my publishing business as well as editing/revising Bellica some more so I can get the ARC ready by the 10th of October.
I swear, I really need a personal assistant to help me organize my day. My partner does okay at it, but then he distracts me with…um…things, and I get nothing done. Note to self: do not use romantic partners as personal assistants; the two positions do not lend themselves well to each other.
Emerson is talking specifically about abortions that remove one twin, or one or two triplets, and leave one fetus intact. He says that such abortions mean we’re in the future hypothesized in Brave New World, because human life has no value.
Apparently the only human life that should have value is life that hasn’t even been born yet, life that hasn’t taken breath, life that hasn’t experienced what the world is like, life that hasn’t lived. Certainly more value should be applied to a fetus than the living, breathing, thinking woman* carrying that fetus. Obviously she’s as bad as a terrorist if she aborts one fetus out of two because she can’t give the same standard of care to each child. How selfish. Destroying our American values.
I would like to show you what I picked up today at Talize, a Value Village-like thrift store in Delta (where my boyfriend lives).
Picture taken with my phone, so excuse the quality please. That is a 1952 Singer sewing machine, in working order, attached to a table. It needs a few touch ups and some cleaning, but by and large it works perfectly.
Eight dollars. That’s right. Eight dollars.
This brings my sewing machine roster up to 3 — another Singer in a table, though much newer, and a…Pfaff, I think, I can’t recall, that has been broken for 3 years. I suck at getting things done and fixed.
However, I am extremely excited with this purchase because it is the older Singers that are better for heavy duty fabrics, like leather or denim, or many layers (which is what broke the motor on my Pfaff). For now it’s staying as a bedside table in my boyfriend’s room, but once I move over here into my own place it’ll take up its spot in the craft corner.
Just because a book is written with a female main character and the focus of the plot is on her life does not make it “literature that only chicks want to read, hurrr”. Just because it’s fluffy does not make it “chick lit”. Just because it appeals to women does not relegate it to this oft-overlooked, oft-disparaged corner of the literature world.
The truth is it appeals to men as well. The truth is it may be fluffy, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hold some deep truths in it. That doesn’t mean it can’t speak to someone on a deeper level.
Every time you call it chick lit, you are telling a little boy who likes to play with make-up and dolls that he’s less of a person. Every time you call it chick lit, you are telling women their issues don’t matter and will never be taken seriously in the “real world”, ie the world of men’s literature. Every time you call it chick lit you are making the enjoyment of it a guilty pleasure, a sin that shouldn’t be committed by the intellectual elite. It’s misogynistic and ableist.
I have a copy of The Undomestic Goddess by Sophie Kinsella. I thought it was a great book and I’m not ashamed of liking it. I look forward to reading some of her other works. It is classified as chick lit. Why? Because the main character is a woman who leaves her job and discovers her true self in a simpler life style? Because there’s a romance with a hot gardener? Because she becomes a stronger person by the end of the book and stands up for herself and her new life?*
Oh, no, we can’t have those pesky womenfolk feeling better about themselves. Can’t have them taking strength from literature. Better name those types of books as “chick lit”, better genre-ize them so they’re not real literature, which of course involves hunting and rape and men referring to an abortion as just “letting a little air in”. Otherwise women might think their voices matter, might think their issues matter, might take matters into their own hands, get fed up, and start a revolution. We certainly can’t have that. What a tragedy.
What a tragedy, indeed.
It’s a tragedy that books by women get pushed aside because they’re by women. It’s a tragedy that women still use initials as pen names so people won’t pass over their works, and that they are still advised to do so. It’s a tragedy that those of us who do not use initials have to work twice as hard to get our work looked at, or have to submit to genre-fication in order to get published.
The Undomestic Goddess is mainstream literature. By which I mean it’s set in the here and now and deals with modern-day characters, and there are no fantastical or science-fiction-y elements to it.
Mainstream literature is real fucking literature, regardless the gender of the main character or the author.
Writing has been a boys’ club for far too long. It’s time for that to change, and it’s not going to unless we stop saying “chick lit”.
If you’ve been paying attention the past several years, you’ll know we have an “obesity epidemic” on our hands.
Well, that’s what they like to call it. I don’t, because it makes it seem like we fat people are the disease. The way we get treated by most people, you’d think we were.
I don’t mind the descriptor “fat”. In fact I embrace it. It’s completely devoid of any negative or positive denotation — all it means is that I have an abundance of adipose tissue on my frame. That’s it. Simple, to the point, accurate. I am fat.
However, the connotations associated with the word — well, that’s another story. Here’s the skinny (pardon the pun) on denotation vs. connotation, in case you’re not aware: denotation is what a word actually means. Connotation is what people think it means. And because what people think as a whole shapes our society and thus, our language, connotation will quickly become denotation.
That’s why pejorative words are pejorative. They get used as an insult long enough and soon that’s all they are, regardless the actual denotations of the words themselves.
Connotations are completely valid ways of understanding the definitions of words — words mean things, and they don’t exist in a vacuum, separate from society. However, as I am a member of certain groups that are constantly marginalized and referred to in pejorative ways, I’m very invested in the idea of reclaiming pejorative words to remove the negative connotations.
A book or series of books you’ve read more than five times
Ugh. I really really really wish I could say The Black Jewels Trilogy for this one, but unfortunately I keep on losing my copy of that one and haven’t replaced enough times to have read it more than five times (I have read it four times). So in the interest of full disclosure…Freedom’s Landing, by Anne McCaffrey.
Don’t judge me! I was young! I did it for the money sex scene!
To be fair, though, Freedom’s Landing is a pretty good book, even if it is a prime example of some of Ms McCaffrey’s Favorite Tropes (that sounds like it should be a holiday dish of some sort: Favorite Tropes! Made of tears and repetition!).
She does ease up on the RACE A GOOD, RACE B EVIL (because A is for Aryan and B is for Black, see?) thing a little bit, but then puts all the blame on RACE C (for…cookies. They are a NEVER food!). To wit: book starts off with the Catteni established as the Bad Guys (with the exception of one, Zanial, who’s “good” even though he did try to rape the main character within the first 10 or so pages of the book) and the Terrans, Rugarians, Deski, and…some other alien races I’m forgetting the names of being the Good Guys. Catteni go around subjugating planets and taking slaves. One of the uses for slaves: making them colonize less-than-friendly planets for the Catteni, who will then move in and take advantage of all the slaves’ hard work. Apparently this works very well for them, and is important, as it is the basis of the entire book.
So, Kris Bjornsen and her fellow slaves get dropped on this planet…along with Zanial (it’s her fault she’s there, by the way, because when he made a move to grab her and rip her clothing off, she hit him over the head with a blunt object and then went to toss him in a deserted street of the main town of Barevi, only to get gassed because of the slave riots), whose life she saves by convincing the self-established leader of the slave-colonizers that Z would be useful.
By the end of the book it’s revealed that the Catteni are being controlled by a greater, EVILLER race, the Eosi (so I suppose they’d be Race E), who possess Catteni and make them do really gross things (like vote Republican). It is also revealed that Zanial has an amazing cock.
Because oh yes. Kris falls in love with him. And they totally do it. And it’s actually pretty hot, granted, but perhaps not the best thing for an impressionable 10 year old to be reading. Not because of the sex scene — I’m fully sex positive, and think kids can learn about sex and know about it a lot earlier than we give them credit for — but because of the relationship dynamic.
Recently I was given a copy of Unleashed — a set of 4 short stories all in the genre of Paranormal Romance.
Awesome, I think. I need a good escape.
Unfortunately, two out of four of the stories made me want to escape back into real life because the men I know are better than the ones portrayed within the stories. That’s pretty damn sad, considering I’ve classified my last two relationships as wars because of the PTSD they’ve given me (Vietnam and Desert Storm, in order, in case you’re interested).
I mean, there’s a reason we read romance — we want to believe in people loving each other. I am the Mulder of paranormal romance — but my Scully side wants a little more from romance stories than “instant soul-mate, just add tears”.
But. Not knowing any of this before I started, I dove in eagerly into the first story, “Bond of Silver” by Rebecca York.