"I'm Not Black"

I grew up saying, "I'm not black."

I always said it with a wink. That sort of joking sincerity where you understood what I was saying.

For instance:

I competed in "Poetry Interpretation" competitions in High School. Trust me, it's nothing like it sounds. You take a piece of poetry (not haiku, or rhyming poetry if you wanted to win) and perform it. You hold a tiny, regulation size, black binder in your hand and you have up to seven minutes to perform for a judge in a room full of your competitors, and maybe a small audience.

We (the Prose and Poetry teams) had workshops every summer to find, cut, and rehearse new pieces for the following school year.

Our coach (my theatre director) and another gentleman found a piece that would be "perfect" for me. It was about an African American kid who grew up listening to his father's jazz music outside an old nightclub...

There was more to it, but honestly I can't remember the piece to tell you about it. I stopped reading when it started talking about jazz.

I know nothing about jazz, or african american culture.

I read the piece, turned to my theatre director, and the man who actually selected and cut the piece just for me...and I said, "I'm not black."

My theatre director laughed. The gentlemen who cut and helped us rehearse simply gaped at me as if I had just claimed to be a descendent of the kings who dwell on the dark side of the moon. To him what I said was that level of ridiculous.

 

Cut to present day.

 

I am an advocate of diversity in literature. Specifically Young Adult (YA) and Middle Grade (MG) literature. I grew up seeing the first brown Disney princess (Jasmine) and I was in my early twenties before I saw the first black Disney princess (Tiana).

I strongly believe that people (children, teens, adults, men, women, etc.) would benefit from "seeing themselves" in the books they read.

I'm going to be ugly though.

I'm going to probably make people mad.

Worst of all - I am going to be completely forthright with you...

 

I advocate diversity not for myself, but for the people who lack the ability to imagine themselves any other way.

A white, red-headed, young girl with a fish tail didn't make me want to be any less of a mermaid.

A white boy with glasses, green eyes, and a forehead scar didn't make me want to be any less of a wizard.

The color of my hero's skin has never made me feel less-than, or like I couldn't be what they were. Maybe my mother gifted me with a healthy amount of self-esteem to go with my imagination. Who's to say?

Color has never mattered to me, and in my heart of hearts it still doesn't.......and I wish it didn't for you.

 

It's hard for me to gather my thoughts.

This post was brought about by the recent articles and reviews asserting that Rainbow Rowell's novel Eleanor & Park has racist undertones. In case you were unaware the titular "Park" is a young boy who is half-Korean.

I caught a tweet maybe two weeks ago that linked an article stating that much, and I wrote it off. Shooed it away like the inconsequential fly that I thought it was. It turned out to be Not So Inconsequential.

Yesterday evening scrolling through my Tumblr I found this blog post, entitled: "Cognitive Dissonance" by Mike Jung.

He loved ELEANOR & PARK. He's Korean himself, and his kids are half-Korean. Upon first reading the novel he loved it because it so brilliantly captured himself at that age; a young boy who culturally felt as if he didn't belong.

 

He saw himself. Mike Jung saw himself in the character of Park.

 

But then a small group of people made him question his own feelings toward the book. I’ll agree with someone I respect; there are sound criticisms out there. As a result Mr. Jung "didn't love it any less", but found himself "deeply troubled" by it.

Racism is an ugly thing. We all know that. It breeds ignorance, and hatred.

Rainbow Rowell set out to do a thing in making Park half-Korean. She made it a point to put a person of color in her story, and wrote it hoping that somewhere in the Great Out There a person of color would see themselves. She achieved her goal with Mike Jung, but then people who apparently cannot abide someone taking a step in the right direction sullied that achievement.

 

I'm disgusted.

 

We cry out for diversity. "Give us black/asian/hispanic/middle-eastern/native-american characters!" "Give us LGBTQ characters!"

Someone does, and Park isn't a poorly drawn stereotype. He's a kid who happens to be half-Korean, but he also loves The Beatles and comic books.

More importantly it's The Beatles and the comic books that he shares with Eleanor. No one in the book gives two, runny shits about Park's genetic/cultural heritage.

And some people might say that's a bad thing.

Here's the deal: if it doesn't matter to Park (or to Eleanor) that he's Half-Korean, why does it matter to you?

If it doesn't matter to me that I am half-black, why does it matter to you?

I’ll say this to those who ardently believe that Eleanor & Park is a racist work:

In finding racism where there is none, speaking out against this imagined racism, and placing a dunce cap on the author you have alienated those who you claim to be fighting for.

It’s like calling out the Huxtables for not being black enough. It’s admonishing the cast of Sex and the City for not addressing issues of white-privilege. It's Witch-Hunting. We all know how Witch-Hunting goes; people see what they want to see. They become sheep bleating at shadows while the wolf sneaks up behind them.

I wonder if Mike Jung had written Eleanor & Park if it would be heralded as racist. Would all the advocacy groups become livid and outspoken about how aspects of Park’s culture are factually inaccurate, or how the portrayal of him as half-Korean is invalid?

Perhaps Mike Jung would come back and say “I wrote from my personal experience. Park knows what I know. I see a lot of myself in Park.”

I think that would shut everyone up.

Rainbow Rowell doesn’t have that ability. She made a choice to be an advocate, to give us a Hero of a different color – which we all can agree we need for one reason or another – and there are people out there trying to kick her in the teeth for it.

They made someone who identified with Park, a Korean man who saw himself in Park feel troubled by his experience. They invalidated good feelings, good intentions, and positive results because for some reason they couldn’t find anything else to bitch about.

It makes me very angry.

 

I ignored the article at first because it the feeling I got from the book. But seeing a light be darkened because of someone else’s maliciousness really gets under my skin. If you want to read Eleanor and Park and see racism – fine. But I think we both know that’s not the author’s intent, and certainly not what comes across to 99.9% of readers. Congratulations, you’ve achieved another minority status. We’ll mail your badge to you.

 

People are people.

Black is not a verb. Korean is not a verb. White is not a verb.

Color is not a verb.

Nor is it an identity; at least not in a healthy mind.

There is no "too black", or "too white", or "being asian" or "being egyptian"

People are people.

I am creative. I am intelligent. I am ambitious. I can be kind. Each of those adjectives has other connotations. You can surmise intelligence by simply noting creativity; you can infer compassion from the word Kind. You can glean goal-oriented, and future-minded from ambitious.

What can you get from Black? What can you get from Asian? What can you get from Colombian?

(I have an answer! Dance moves, Math skills, and good coffee, respectively. But I’m being crass…)

By reducing me to a color, by reducing me to culture (that I may or may not be a part of), by reducing me...

...Reducing me...

You are Reducing Me.

You have REDUCED Park. You have taken something away, by drawing attention to an issue that is a non-issue; you have made it less-than in your attempt to make yourself feel like you're making a difference, or fighting an injustice. Despite the MULTITUDE of injustices out there you have focused on the ONE thing that ISN'T an issue, and have done a disservice to everyone. Worst of all I believe you’re attempting to make an enemy of a friend.

Park is a teenager in the 80's. As a teenager in an interracial household were you aware of the history of both of your cultures, or was one more dominant? If you weren't did you know the entire ins-and-outs of your own culture's history as a teenager? White people did you know all about white privilege and fight against it at 15? (If so - did you have any friends?)

Park's father was a dominant (and positive) force in his life. His father is white. If Park "Isn't Korean enough" or if his mother "wasn't Korean enough" isn't that like real life? Doesn't one culture take a backseat to the other in a relationship? How you spend holidays, and who with, and what you eat for dinner. If there's not a committee involved it usually ends up with one person deferring or pleasing the other.

Does casual racism not abound? Is it not a real thing? or did Rainbow Rowell include it because she's secretly a casual racist?

An author builds a world, builds characters, and contemporary authors are masters of building characters that are true to life. Artistic Integrity, if you will.

I could sum it all up by that all the things that a few people are outraged at are simply things that lend the book gravity, and reality.

And you've maligned the artist.

Shame on you.

 

I have a character. Her name is Eden. She's like me, half-black and half-white, her culture, her beliefs, her (former) home-life somewhat reflect that of my own. I may be called to the carpet because some may say she is "too white", and to that I'll say:

"Everything she does is black because she is black. Everything she does is white because she is white. She is all of these things, but most importantly she's broken - that's where the story begins, you see..."

Or maybe I'll be cheekier:

"Well it is a YA Fantasy. In my world people's personalities aren't defined by what color their skin is."

 

 

I hate even talking about race.

I feel like I'll be maligned or swept to the side because of my "People are People" views.

I hate talking about race because the instant a person of color talks about race that's all they become - they become a color.

Which defeats the entire purpose doesn't it?

I am more than a color.

My characters are more than colors.

All characters are more than colors.

We are all more than color.

 

That is why I'm not black...I won't admit it until you truly understand that I am more than that.

Gratitude 2013

Here's the part where I get all sappy...

Thanksgiving.

One day we've devoted to remembering to be grateful for everything we have in our lives. I could dust off my soap-box, step up, and wag my finger at how we should be thankful every day for the awesome/terrible/wonderful/horrifying/awe-inspiring world we live in...

Alas...

You've heard that said before from people who have said it better than I ever could. So I'm just going to itemize the *remarkable* things that I'm thankful for this year.

I'm thankful for my home.

                               Me when I met L

We (L and I) were going to move this year. The opportunity arose suddenly, and for a moment we were both beside ourselves with excitement. However that old matron, Prudence, won out. It wasn't fiscally responsible for us to make a long-distance move at the time, and fortunately another job opportunity presented itself to L, and he took it.
That job allowed us to move. Not to another state (someday Utah, Nevada...*whispers* Oregon), but to a real house. Not a tiny apartment, not a ramshackle building with four walls and a roof, but a lovely house that suits both of our very different tastes. A large garage for him, an extra room with a fireplace that was transformed into a lovely library for me...and a yard for the furry brute that lives with us who chews indiscriminately on his surroundings.
I'm thankful that we found this house together, that we make our coffee, watch our movies, wash the floors -- that we live here. I wake up every morning and go to bed every night beside someone who loves me. Together in these (almost) three years we have started a life together, and I am so so SO very grateful for that. It really is a dream come true.

I'm thankful for my day-job career change.
I've worked a number of different jobs, always writing in the background. Until recently, I often found that I didn't really write and I just worked meaningless jobs with the intention of writing. I didn't get serious until 2011.
I was in the Hospitality (read: hotel) business for a long while. The reasons why I spent the better part of this last year clawing my way out of that career path merit a post all their own, but here I'll suffice it to say that I finally did it.

                       This was how I went to work every day for years.

I have a job now where I get to hold and interact with dogs, cats, kittens, and puppies. I get to help people who want to help their animals. I have set, fantastic hours (perfect for my writing-mode time of day), and we can still afford to pay our bills. I work with knowledgeable people who have integrity and take pride in their work.
It is the first day-job I've had where I can truly say "I'd be happy doing this, and writing on the side for as long as it takes". It's nice not having the place you spend 40+ hours per week being just a means to an end, but time well spent. It's a new feeling, and for that I am very grateful.




I'm thankful for my Kim.
My best-friend Kim. A year ago today I was insane, prone to fits of glee and self-deprecating bouts of anxiety - I was new to the query trenches.
While L (my love) keeps me grounded he is not a man of words (I use enough for the both of us, I think). Also, he doesn't know how to handle my wild thoughts/emotions aside from just letting me speak my hopes/frustrations/fears/dreams/doubts into the room and following up with a "Well, we'll see..."
My best friend Kim is the Reason to my Madness.

                                       Pictured: Me talking to Kim

She is a sharp critic (wonderfully merciless, yet kind). Truly, had I listened to Kim's initial critiques of my first novel I wouldn't have queried too soon, and I wouldn't have needed to spend months fixing all the things she told me in the very beginning to fix. (Except the umbrellas! THE UMBRELLAS STAY, KIM! --- unless an agent or editor says otherwise)
We live seven hours apart. We see each other once a year. But she is my soul-sister. Without her I fear I would drive L insane. She means the world to me. I am/have been/will always be grateful for her.

I'm thankful for Twitter.
Oh lord that sounds so lame. However without Twitter I wouldn't have found my excellent Critique Partners Alex, and Phalia.
Ooops! Let's take a step backward: Without the Twitter contest PitMad, I would not have found Alex on Twitter. He's incredibly talented, and has a sharp eye. I could go on and on about how he has helped my first novel become what it is. Without one Critique Partner I wouldn't have gone looking for another, Phalia. She is tremendously supportive with heaps of ambition and talent as well.
Twitter also introduced me to the supportive writing community out there:
Melanie Conklin, Heidi Schulz, Alana Chapman, Richard Pearson, Julie Hutchings, Emma Trevayne, Chelsea Bobulski, Lela Gwenn, Brianna Shrum, Jean Giardina, Brooks Benjamin, Summer Heacock,  Megan Orsini, Lucas Hargis, Carey Torgesen, Vicki Weavil, Jessie Devine, J.M. Bankston, Hillary Monahan, Rhiann Wynn-Nolet...

                                             I LOVE YOU ALL!!!

Basically look at the people I follow on Twitter - Every. Single. One is so disgustingly talented, funny, warm-hearted, and just....whenever I'm having a bad day or feeling cynical about the state of the world I can go to Twitter and be reminded that these people are out there creating and bringing their special brand of Phenomenal BAMF into existence. (Yes, I just used "BAMF" - 2008 was a good year.)
Let's not forget the publishing professionals on Twitter who dispense wisdom, advice, and good humor into the universe: Sarah LaPolla, Eric Ruben, Jessica Sinsheimer, Brooks Sherman, Amy Boggs, Peter Knapp, Bridget Smith, T.S. Ferguson, Jennifer Udden, Evan Gregory...the list goes on...They all regularly go out of their way to better the writing community, and educate the uninitiated. My writing has improved just by following their blogs, reading their feeds, and (in a couple of cases) taking their advice.
Twitter is a bar full of lively, interesting conversation, and it's a classroom --- a bar-classroom that I don't have to pay for, or put on clothes to visit. I'm very grateful for that.


I'm thankful for other people's patience.
Writing is full-time thing. At least that's how I treat it. I have a day-job that takes at least 40 hours of my week, I have the love of my life who I enjoy interacting with on a more than occasional basis, and I have writing.
Believe it or not I have other friends, too! Friends who live less than ten minutes away! I realized over a coffee date the other day that I've only seen my good friend, Anna, only six times this year. Six.
She lives seven minutes away - eight or nine if there's a traffic issue. She (and my other local friends) always invite me for coffee, or for movie night, or for drinks, etc...
I'm  writing.

                                       Me, just ask anyone.

And they're okay with that. We're all grown, and at this weird place in our mid-late twenties where real, post-college, adult life is kindof kicking our asses. But there are some friends who have drifted away due to my self-imposed solitude. That's okay too. I still love them. But I'm grateful for the ones who still invite me to do whatever even though there's a 98% chance I'll say No - because I know they get me. They're the ones who ask me "how's the story coming" and their eyes don't glaze over when I start to talk. They're my people, and I'm grateful for their patience.



I'm stopping here at five things. My magic number is 3, and I'm compelled to run to my alternate magic number (7), but I'll relent and be content that 5 is the number of Grace, Freedom, and Change - I can live with that. It's better than going all abstract and reaching for the Feels. People can always tell when you're reaching.
What are you thankful for?
Whatever or Whoever it is let me encourage you to tell them - everyone likes to know that they're appreciated/loved.

I have one chapter left on my NaNoWriMo novel! So I'm going to get back to that. It has gone from MG SciFi to YA SciFi - more on that next time though!


Until we meet again....

Cyclones, Wardrobes, and Passageways - Oh My!

I write stories that are labeled Portal Fantasy.

My Middle Grade MS, and my Young Adult MS/WIP are both Portal Fantasy. I'm about to break the pattern with my NaNoWriMo Project, but we'll talk about that tomorrow.

For now, I'll begin by clarifying:

Some of you may be wondering, "What is Portal Fantasy?"

Remember how Dorothy got to the land of Oz the very first time?
A cyclone picked up her house and took her there. Portal
In book three, Ozma of Oz, a hurricane took Dorothy and her hen, Billina, to Oz. Portal

Remember how the Pevensie children first made their way into Narnia?
They crawled into the coolest wardrobe ever. Portal.

Remember when Harry Potter got his wand, or how about when he made it onto the Hogwarts Express?
Hagrid tapped the bricks which opened the door into The Leaky Cauldron, and Harry vanished into the barrier between train platforms 9 and 10 to wind up on Platform 9 3/4. You guessed it...Portals.

Portal Fantasy - despite these examples of timeless and magnificent stories - is disdained by many. The majority of readers (be they agents, editors, or Barnes & Noble shoppers) want to be immediately introduced to the fantasy world in which the story takes place.
I am not said reader.
In fact, I prefer Portal Fantasy over almost any other genre/category of story. But that makes me Very Picky whenever I pick up a Portal Fantasy.

There are common wisdoms in the writing community:
1. Write what you know.
2. Write a story that only you can tell.
3. Write for yourself/Write what you love.

I've previously covered the "Write what you know" and how it has affected my storytelling.
I know magic. I know fantasy. Therefore, that's what you'll be getting a lot of from me.

I'm skipping number 2, because it merits a blog entry all its own.

Now, as for "Write for yourself/Write what you love". This is often translated into "Write a story you would want to read."

I didn't know that Portal Fantasy was an official label until I began researching the query process, etc...

Like many of you I read to escape. Real life has bills, socially unacceptable people, and other obligations that just drain all the fun out of the world around us (if you let them). It's so much more exciting to dream about what I would create in a quasi-Utopian Fairyland like Oz, or being a wandmaker for future Hogwarts students.
Portal Fantasy is special kind of escape.
How many of us waited for our owl (which must have just fallen behind on its route) to deliver our letter to Hogwarts?
How many of us have longed for an "out of our hands" way to flee the drudgery of common existence? You might consider it a sort of Fantasy-Scapegoat.
Harry Potter would have been a different story had we met Harry at the Grandparent-Potter's house nervous about his first day of school, and already familiar with the Wizarding World. Not that it would have been less amazing or interesting, but we would have been further removed from the magic.
By experiencing a fantastic transition alongside the protagonists we, the audience, not only empathize with their journey, but a part of our imaginations makes that magical transformation with the character. To use HP as an example (for the millionth time) - we sorted ourselves when Harry was sorted; some of us may have hoped for Gryffindor (I hoped for Ravenclaw, alas, I am resoundingly Slytherin), in any case, we became Hogwarts students by proxy.

I can't be a Stark of Winterfell, or (thankfully) a Lannister of Casterly Rock.
But perhaps a tornado will whisk me (and my loved ones) away to Oz; maybe my owl will arrive next year (very apologetic for her years of tardiness)...
For me Portal Fantasy allows for the "this could happen to me" aspect of the story - no matter how outlandish it may be.

Writing a portal is no easy task. It's one of those things where everything has already been done. Your characters can't be caught in a violent storm, fall under the bed, walk into a spacious closet...
Done!
Boring!
Unoriginal!

In the earliest rough draft of my first MS, Bianca & Scarlett were kidnapped into Faerie - too scary/violent for what I wanted it to be.
By the finished 3rd draft I borrowed from The Road to Oz. In the fifth Oz book Dorothy finds herself wandering the countryside until she comes to a crossroads, and the path leads her back to Oz.
Bianca and Scarlett meandered down an alleyway and found themselves in Faerie.
One of my best friends (who, unfortunately, loved almost everything about that terrible draft) did comment on this:

"You know why we had bells between classes in High School right? We can all tell time, but psychologically the bell causes our mindset to change. It ends one thing and starts another. The transition into Faerie needs a bell. I was reading, then suddenly they were there. It didn't work for me. It needs a bell."

I drove myself insane trying to find the perfect bell. I ended up borrowing and altering certain mythologies for my bell, and now "the Bell" is now a crucial piece of world-building that alters how/when the story takes place.

So there it is: My declaration of love for Portal Fantasy and its implied inclusivity (new word!), and how it changed my writing life.

Why do you write the stories you write? Why do you read the stories you read? How do they shape the way you live your life, dream about tomorrow, or write your own work?

Until we meet again...

Writing the Second book...

For as many writers you find you'll discover an equal number of "writing processes".

You won't know what your own REAL writing process is until you begin work on your second (maybe even your third) book.

First books are where you learn how to unlearn all your rookie mistakes
I've talked several times about how my 113,000 word YA became an almost 50,000 word MG. That was the same story - one book - cut by more than half because I was repairing all the mistakes from an almost hopelessly flawed manuscript.
Now that work is under control. When the day comes and it needs to be edited or changed further I'll know exactly where and how to begin. It's handled.

As of this moment I am excitedly churning out my first actual YA project!

*this is me when I write - except there's more typing involved*

A little backstory:

Before there was my MG...there was the idea for this book. The year was 2009, and I was finally doing it: writing my debut novel!

I had the whole world built. The whole story outlined. The characters itching to find their way onto the pages and say all their lines. Alas, it didn't click with me, something was missing.

I shelved the project in August of 2009.

I came back to it in 2011. After what felt like centuries of a writing hiatus, I had met L, I had a good steady job (no more writing by candlelight because the electric hadn't been paid!), I had a reason to be successful! Real-Adult-Life was starting and I didn't have a MS in hand to find an agent. I was behind! So I dusted off the 2009 project and set to work.

I changed the story around, I added a couple of characters, I took certain elements out, and I realized that the world wasn't as complete as I originally thought then fixed it.

I wrote six chapters, and I came to another stopping point.

I wasn't feeling it. Not only was it poorly written, but it lacked the immersive quality that would keep me entertained while writing it (the same quality that keeps me reading fantasy.)

There was no hope for my 2009-2011 project.

Back on the shelf it went.

In November (November 15, 2011 to be exact) I got the idea for what became my first book. It is now complete, and in the hands of agents.

After I sent it to the first agent who requested I was outlining "Book 2" (my MS is *hopefully* the first of a series)...and in the midst of fleshing out the outline for Book 2 I discovered It.

It = the missing part of my 2009/2011 failure.

The Story never left me; I actually pirated multiple things from that world, and several characters that made it in to the final draft of my current MS.

I freaked out. The excited Freak Out.

When I inserted the once-missing link into the 2009/2011 YA Fantasy outline I panicked for joy. Oh goodness, the entire story underwent a massive overhaul. Only three of the original characters remained. The MC became supporting cast, and one of the supporting cast members became the MC. The world became completely three dimensional.

I had all the tools I needed - so the outlining began.

The outline was quick. The Story was waiting patiently in the crevices of my brain for a very long time. It was like taking all of your dishes out of a box and finding their proper places in the cabinet. It was a little too easy.

This time I got nine chapters in...then I went back and re-read.

Oh no.

See, the worlds of my MG and my YA are...subtly linked, and what I had written of the YA didn't jive...at all.

I understand the voice for a Young Adult story and a Middle Grade story will be ever-so slightly different...but what worried me was the Horror element in this (what was supposed to be) YA Fantasy.

Murder, bloodshed, gruesome - all in chapter one. I worried, pacing through the house thinking "Well, it is supposed to be darker, and it's for an older audience..."

But No. There was no excuse. Anyone who read the first chapter would think "horror" and if that isn't what they signed on for then it meant that they would put the book down long before we get to the fantasy element.

It was time for a Re-write.

I didn't shelve it. Because all the pieces were there. The world is now perfectly complete - outlines for mulitple future stories are done. The time is Now.

So I went back...and re-outlined. Created a whole new beginning without a hint of bloodshed. It allowed me to introduce certain important characters much earlier. BOOM! BOOYA! ...or whatever the kids say nowadays.

Now as for my process. I had no idea how much that would...refine itself.

My Middle Grade MS was an arduous project; a labor of love; created in the throes of literary passion and almost divine inspiration.

My Young Adult is all blood, sweat, and tears. It's a story that has to be told, but I'm still uncertain as to how to tell it.

My MG - the characters appeared in my head. They never changed from who they were. I had one character with a stutter (that stutter was written out between drafts 5 and 6) but ultimately the essence of who each and every person is has never changed.

My YA - even as I write there is only One character who remains constant, and it isn't my MC. My Main Character even her appearance fluctuated greatly in my head until I wrote it down.

Is she black or is she white? ...Both

Is she blind or can she see? ...Both

And it goes on...

Her personality is even worse. She isn't an artifact I'm digging out of the sand like so many of my other characters. She's someone I'm getting to know; like I would get to know you if we were sitting on your couch while we watched tv and drank a glass of wine. Which means sometimes she leaves the room and I can't ask her questions. So I wing it. She isn't a badass, she isn't desperate for vengeance, she isn't funny, she isn't quirky, she isn't high strung, she isn't easy-going...Eden just is. She is all of those things and more. She's perfectly lovely. But I'll be damned if I can tell you everything about her - she's still a mystery.

As for my speed....

Oh the words still pour like a fountain - when I'm "in the zone"...but I'm forcing myself to write outside of my comfort zone. I did that with the first draft of my first book, and though the draft was terrible and almost nothing but character names have survived from it - I still had something to fix.

So it will be with this.

The writing has improved. My prose are less purple (not as many adjectives/adverbs), but I still write everything down.

That's my process.

Like a film that's four hours long but has to be condensed to 90 minutes so are my stories. I'll cut all the fluff away. That time they traveled here, the idle conversation there...those can all go away. I have to write them down though. Because the first draft is for Me. This is my time to find out what I'm writing. I'm discovering these characters and building their relationships as I go - which is an entirely new experience. I know where they end up...I know how all of my stories end...and I'm having great fun finding out how this one begins.

So there will be more blog silence from me (unless I have earth-shattering news to share) until this book is complete. Then I'll be back to my regularly scheduled appointments with you.

What have you learned working on your second or third book?

Have you picked up anything that you shelved years ago?

What have you created recently?

Until we meet again...

Thursday's Children 7.18.13: Inspired by Diversity! An interview with Craig L. Gidney

A weekly blog hop where writers share their inspirations. Please join us!

 

 

Today's post brings you my very first blog interview with author Craig L. Gidney.

 Allow me to detail how Mr. Gidney and I became acquainted.

 Approximately two weeks ago, I became rather interested in observing a movement that has been gaining steam in the writing community.

The issue of Diversity in YA literature.
Needless to say I am a strong advocate for those who would bring characters of various minorities, sexual orientations, and cultures onto the Middle Grade/Young Adult stage.
Not only did I begin to examine my own work, but I begin to notice within the Twitterverse (where I find 99% of my writing/publishing contact) I was one of a remarkably few people of color.
Then I realized that I was the only person of color that I was aware of writing Middle Grade fantasy.
One step further: I was the only homosexual, person of color that was writing Middle Grade fantasy.

Surely this couldn't be, I thought. I certainly couldn't be the only one.

Thankfully (as is often the case) I was right - I wasn't the only one.

I put out a call on Twitter seeking anyone that was aware of a male, homosexual, person of color who writes speculative fiction for Middle Grade, Young Adult...and New Adult.
It took 5 1/2 hours, and many kind strangers Re-Tweeting - but I was finally directed to Craig L. Gidney.

My joy couldn't have been contained.

I found his work on Amazon, I found his Twitter, and from there I made my way to his website.

As the discussion and search for authentic Minority characters intensifies throughout the publishing industry - I fear we may forget that the pool of Minority authors is just as small as the one for Minority characters.
I e-mailed Mr. Gidney. I was hungry for the world to see and to know someone like him, who is - ultimately - someone like me (except Mr. Gidney's prose has a magical, compelling quality that I will never master).
In my e-mail, I asked Mr. Gidney for an interview and he graciously accepted.

Ladies and gentlemen on the other side of the screen please give Mr. Gidney a warm welcome....

The obligatory first question an author is always asked: What brought you to writing? How did it begin for you?

It started in the second grade. I was still learning how to print letters, and we were given a class assignment to write a story. Ostensibly, this assignment was to demonstrate our vocabulary and spelling. For me, though, it was a springboard to create. I think that long lost work was about mermaids. I filled about 10 sheets of that gray, wide-lined paper they had back then. I remember one of the teachers told me, “You will be a writer when you grow up.”

As an aspiring author the publication journeys of authors are a keen interest of mine. What circumstances led you to the method of publication you chose?

Social media was a key component. I kept a Livejournal account, and made the acquaintance of Steve Berman of Lethe Press. He mentioned that he had an anthology he had been editing, called So Fey: Queer Fairy Fiction, and he announced a call to submit on his Livejournal. My short story collection arose from that initial contact.

In your new novel, Bereft, Rafael "Rafe" Fannen is a young boy at a religious school struggling with a dark secret about his identity. What was your inspiration for this story?

My older brother had a book in his room, called Black Skin, White Mask by Franz Fanon. The cover of the book a picture of a black man wearing a white half-mask. That photograph terrified me! Later, when I was in college, I read some Fanon, and as a response wrote a draft of the story that would eventually become the novel. Rafe’s last name, Fannen, is a direct homage to Fanon. The novel is opened up with a quote from a William Blake poem that gave the novel its title.

Now, it's a very crude, broad-stroke faux synopsis to say"a young boy at a religious school with a dark secret about his identity." Bereft is so much more than that; the layers and nuance wrapped in your lyrical prose are magnificent. From your perspective what sets Bereft apart from the other Young Adult LGBT fiction out there?

Bereft is a novel that’s “in conversation” with a number of cultural narratives and tropes. Rafe deals with some heavy issues through his rich inner life, which reference everything from fantasy literature to Christian theology. I put a lot of work into the subtext; as readers we absorb messages subliminally, so it was important to me to be aware of that. Rafe navigates a world where his mother’s Angels battle against his father’s African masks. Where the Virgin Mary is also Lady Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings. The symbolism in the book was carefully crafted.

You've mentioned the importance of Young Adult readers seeing themselves in the books they read. I heartily agree! What book were you reading when you first saw yourself? And...how much of you is in Rafe?

Andre Norton’s novel Lavender-Green Magic was very important to me. It was one of her YA novels, about a black family who move to a New England town. The kids find an enchanted pillow that transports them to Colonial Times where they end up in the midst of a power struggle between two witches. I was simply enthralled that she included black people in her work.

As for the second part of the question, there is a lot of Rafe in me. In addition to the identity issues, I did go to a religious school, was bullied, and read lots of books. Where Rafe and I differ is that both of my parents were together, stable, and upper middle class.

Can you describe your writing process? How do you "get in the zone"?

I brainstorm on paper. This is where plot points, images, and various scenes are dreamed up. I have several notebooks filled with ideas. When I compose the text, I listen to music, mostly songs without words in the ambient genre. I always have my brainstorm notebooks open, in case an idea for a later section pops into my head. At the end of the writing session, I jot down where I finished and what more needs to be written.

What are three professional goals you hope to accomplish?

I don’t have three professional goals, only one. That’s to be able to write full-time. It’s become increasingly difficult for freelancers. Writing does not pay the bills, and there are horror stories about best-selling authors dying penniless or being unable to get health insurance.

We get a taste of your vivid, fantastical imagination in your collection of short stories Sea, Swallow Me. Do you plan on returning to the fantasy realm in the near future, or can we expect more poignant LGBT contemporary stories? Both?

I am currently working on two fantasy projects. One is a magical-realist novel that may or may not be YA. The second thing I’m working on is a themed collection of fantasy/magical realist/horror short stories that focus on African American characters.

In your blog you mentioned you grew up as a "geek". As a sci-fi fantasy nerd myself I know that Once a Geek, Always a Geek. What are some things you fan-boy over?

I am mostly a book geek, so when a favorite author comes out with a book, I get weak. I also am a music geek. I go to shows when I can afford to. I’ve become more of a film buff, and like everything from angst-ridden indies, cult classics and Hollywood blockbusters. I want to see Pacific Rim so much!

Top three authors (living or dead) you would have over for dinner?

I would invite the fantasy author Tanith Lee, who has been really supportive of me. I managed to get a couple of her obscure books back in print. James Baldwin would be interesting—I understand he was quite the character. And Toni Morrison—she’s so eloquent. I imagine that I would silently eat my meal (at the French Laundry; always dream big, I say) in quiet awe.

What advice would you give to an aspiring author?

Remember that you love writing. Most likely, you won’t be the next Stephen King or J.K. Rowling. You will end up on the midlist or published by a small press, and you will collect rejection slips (or emails) more than you will acceptances. But you will persist, because you must tell stories.

What is the most magical, extraordinary, or exciting thing ever to happen to you?

Picture it: a Brazilian beach, surrounded by surf and sand. The wild sea crashing against a rock where I was standing. An unbridled pony, nibbling beach grass. A sky the blue color that seems to only exist in fairytales. I was alone but I felt euphoric. I felt a mystical connection to everything.

Thank you so much for your time Mr. Gidney, I would have a thousand other questions, but I only allow myself twelve (it's one of my magic numbers). It is my sincerest hope that your audience continues to expand.

For those of you curious to read Mr. Gidney's mesmerizing work you can read one of his short stories, "Magpie Sisters", here. Be aware that Bereft is available on Amazon, and Kindle, it's definitely worth your time. Keep Mr. Gidney in your thoughts (and on your bookshelf) as he is definitely an author to watch!

Until we meet again!

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My Worst Experiences = My Defining Moments, and Where I Go from Here

Next week I'm preparing to host my first blog interview with someone who I consider a role-model.

I don't use the term "role-model" lightly. Being very different from everyone I've been surrounded by in my formative years I've crafted significant portions of my personality from my favorite literary characters.
That may seem silly to some of you, but as an only child with a single, working mother and living outside of the district of the school I attended my peer interaction (until I was 16) was very limited. Television and the books on my shelves were simultaneously my escape and my social education.

As for my role-model? Last week I plumbed the far reaches of the Twitterverse asking my friends and acquaintances:

"Help! Searching for a male, homosexual, POC {Person of Color} author who writes MG/YA/NA speculative fiction..."

It took multiple Re-tweets from kind friends and strangers, but eventually I was directed to Craig L. Gidney.

You see, in the far future when I find my way to (hopefully) your bookshelf a part of me was very scared that I would be alone. I write MG/YA speculative fiction, I am a person of color, and I am gay.

But here he was, my personal Trailblazer. The one who came before, and in my elation and excitement I quickly (with trembling hands) e-mailed Mr. Gidley asking for an interview, and he graciously accepted.

As I perused Mr. Gidney's blog postings - which you should also because they're intelligent, insightful, and beautifully written - I noticed that there were many references to Black and African American culture, and homosexual culture as well.

I'm about to post my personal experiences and feelings which may make me unpopular for some of you.....you've been warned.


If you haven't noticed (if you're familiar with my blog or my twitter feed) rarely do I directly take stances on what I refer to as "Minority Issues". I often Re-tweet or reply to things that I agree with or vaguely comment on things that I don't. As for a well crafted, concise essay on why _____ is right/wrong - it's rare to hear my point of view in my own words.

Mostly it's because I had a hard-working, bold, formidable Momma-Bear who protected me from the worst of the world as I grew up. My experience with the evils of the world is limited. For instance, my mother didn't reveal to me until I was twelve that my grandparents were racists before I was born. I had no idea; they took me everywhere and bought me everything that I ever wanted. They were Nanna and Pa. They weren't those awful people that you see in movies. Their love for me changed their hearts before I could even talk so I never got to see the worst of them - thankfully. They are still my Nanna and Pa, and they love me like crazy.
Because of Mom I grew up in a very optimistic bubble full of books, cartoons, and toys.
My first experience with racism didn't come until I was in the third grade.

Mom doesn't even know about this.



To be clear, I knew that I was different. It was a vague, uninterested sort of observation that I came to very early in life. I had been ostracized since Kindergarten for being a "girl". That never bothered me. Girls were my preferred company, and they never called me a girl. The people that called me that were in the periphery of my attention - and most often beneath it.

At my elementary school, students gathered outside the cafeteria before school, and ten minutes before 8am we were lined up and ushered into the building by our teachers.

One morning three young boys - who I didn't know at the time - pushed their way in front of me.

"Get outta my way, nigger," the first one said.

I blinked in surprise.

No one had ever called me that before.

I'd heard it in movies, I knew what it meant, and I knew it was an ugly thing to say.

But I didn't know how to react.

I was raised never to start fights, but always to finish them.

But the blonde boy didn't hit me - he just called me a name, and I had been called names before...just not THAT name.

Then the other two boys turned around.

For five minutes the three of them giggled and called me "nigger" over and over.

They thought it was funny.

At one point they even started flipping me the bird while giggling and saying the word.

I stood there and looked at them.

I memorized their faces.

I still didn't know what to do.

You didn't tattle-tale. They were just being kids, calling names, and doing things that "bad kids" did.

Another boy - who, once again, I didn't know - pulled me back out of my place in line.

"You have to tell a teacher!" Andy told me.

I shook my head, "No, it's not a big deal."

I was scared.

If Mom found out what those boys did - she would hurt them. She would hurt their parents; the world would catch on fire and explode if Mom found out what happened. Those boys didn't deserve the Wrath of Mom.

Since then, I've always considered myself merciful.

"Well then I'm telling," Andy said. He looked as worried and distressed as a fellow third grader could look, he went and found the chaperone, and I disappeared into the crowd.

I saw him point to me, and the parent-chaperone look over at me.

No one came to talk to me.

No one came to find me.

Until now, only Andy, those three boys, and I know what happened that morning.

Andy and I became friends when we were in high school. More accurately - we were part of the same large group of friends. He's married to a wonderful woman with a beautiful little girl. He never stopped being a Good Guy, and he'll never really know how grateful I was to have an advocate - even though I didn't reach out when he offered his hand.

Two of those boys I actually became casual friends with as well. They both currently serve in our armed forces, and one has a family of his own now.

None of us have ever spoken of that morning in line outside of the cafeteria.

I doubt any of them except me remember it.

Maybe Andy.

But because Andy is good and polite I doubt he would ever mention it if he does remember.

　



It wouldn't be until 7th grade that I fired the shot heard 'round the school.

I was one of the academically recognized students able to leave class five minutes early to go to lunch.
We left Mr. Smith's English Class, and a well-known "bad kid" happened to be walking down the hall with his sister. His sister was in my homeroom the previous year, and we got along well - she thought I was funny (which was how I won most of my friends).

One of the faux-trees caught a breeze that blew through the atrium we were walking through and fell on her shoulder.

The tree weighed all of 5 pounds.

It caught the six of us in the hall by surprise.

I chuckled, "Be careful!"

"Shut up, nigger."

The boy, her brother, said it.

At this point in my life, my temper and sense of indignation had started to develop. I was far less peaceable than I was as a child, and there was no fear of Mom's retaliation. I was 12 and an invincible know-it-all. Think of a sassy, brown Hermione with a penis.

"What did you say?" I asked calmly. My hands were shaking, and my chest and face could have cooked an egg they were so hot.

"You heard me," the boy replied.

"Yeah, I did."

Without preamble or fanfare I punched him, and immediately turned around and walked the rest of the way to lunch.

Little did I know the woman who would be my 8th grade science teacher saw (though didn't hear) our altercation from down the hall.

She followed me into the cafeteria and pulled me out of the lunch line.

When we made it to the Assistant Principal's office I was already in tears.

I was Colten! I never got in trouble! I never hit anyone! I was never mean! I wasn't one of the bad kids! I didn't break rules!

Mom arrived seven minutes after I made a weeping phone call.

Mom never leaves the house without make-up. When she burst through the front doors of the school her normally pristine cosmetic mask was streaked and smudged 9 ways from Sunday.

She was so proud of me.

My teachers were so proud of me.

Since I did punch the boy I got 2 days In-School-Suspension (ISS)...The boy got 5 days.

My teachers sent me cards, brought candy into the tiny dungeon-like ISS building, and my theatre teacher was the only one who gave me an assignment. She provided me with a radio and headphones, and instructed me to list my top 10 favorite songs that played on my favorite stations.

I knew the boy wasn't a racist. He used The Word to get a rise out of me. He wanted to start a fight. He had black friends, his sister was a casual acquaintance of mine; he was just trying to be what my family would call a "Billy Badass".

I never harbored any ill-will towards him. I knew that's all he was trying to do, but by the time I was 12 - I had deemed such behavior Unacceptable.

 I found out seven months ago that he died.
I came across his sister's facebook and she posted a "RIP Baby Bro". I looked up the newspaper article from my hometown. He died in a high speed chase from the police in 2011. He lost control of his vehicle.




Now homophobia I am more familiar with...but not the ugly "we hate gays" kind, but the ignorant, reckless-with-words kind. I was a "girl" until 5th grade when everyone learned the word "gay", and it never really bothered me.

But three years ago when I was twenty-three I had my first disturbing taste of true, ugly homophobia.

I had gotten a speeding ticket in Canyon, TX.

It's the 12,000 person town where my former University is located.

I was working a job for barely above minimum wage and the ticket was more than I could afford.
I went to the appropriate city office to determine a payment arrangement.
There was a young, brunette lady sitting behind the desk.
Typical, moderately attractive West-Texas girl. She was my age.
I had engaged with her earlier and she was overtly hostile.
So this time I turned on the voice recorder on my cell phone. If she stepped out of line, I would have proof.
She and an older woman who also worked in the office took me to a small room so we could discuss the details of the payment arrangement.
At one point I had to go back out to my car to retrieve the original ticket.

I left my cell-phone - still recording - on the table.

Once I left, having made the payment arrangement, I got to my car and back-tracked on the recording to see what I had missed.
The older woman said something that was muddled.
The young brunette, who was sitting closer to my phone replied to whatever the older woman said:

"It just makes me sick that he takes it up the ass!"

She was vehement. There was an exclamation point at the end of her sentence.
My hands are trembling even as I write this.
I felt my stomach shrivel, and twenty minutes later when I arrived at work my co-workers commented on how flushed and pale I looked.
I explained to them what happened.

"You have to do something!" they pushed.

I didn't know what to do.
Who do you call?
What do you say?
It was so shameful, and it made me feel - for the very first time in my life - Wrong.

I ended up doing nothing.

Would it make her homophobia worse if I retaliated? Was she not entitled to her own beliefs? She didn't say it TO me she said it to a co-worker ABOUT me. My co-workers said awful things about her once I told them the story - Fair is Fair.

It was (and is) a terrible reminder of the world we live in, and the kinds of people we inhabit it with - and I'm sure she feels that exact same way about me.




But here's the thing...this is why I don't draw attention to those moments in my life...and why you may find me ...irritating.

We are all discriminated against. Fat-shaming, slut-shaming, racism, homophobia, anti-semitism, protestants-vs-catholics, etc... No one crime is greater than another. As a brown person if I cry "Racism!" at every encounter I feel may have disadvantaged me in some way then I am a victim. And there are people in the world who are REAL victims.

I am intelligent, creative, I live with a beautiful man who loves me, I have friends who I adore and who cherish me...I am blessed. That is enough. The people who Don't have those things are victims. The people who are prevented from attaining those things are victims.

Those kids grew out of whatever phase they were going through when they taunted me. They don't hate black people any more than I do.

That hideous-hearted girl from Canyon will never be able to achieve success outside of the bubble of West Texas without a tolerant attitude toward those who are different. And frankly, that's fine, because as far as I can discern she has nothing to offer the wider world.

I don't mention my stances on issues because more often than not I've observed that taking a stand creates an issue instead of solving it.

Never start a fight, but always finish it.

That's how I was raised.

But I was also raised to Pick My Battles.

Is that brunette in a position of significant authority? Did I not recieve the payment arrangement I went to make because of her attitude? No.
She said something nasty and hurt my feelings, but ultimately I still got my way. It all ended well.
It wasn't unjust for her to speak her mind to her colleague.

I'll fight injustice tooth and nail, and down to the grave.

But I find we have to be very careful to not limit the freedoms of others as we (minorities in general) pursue our own. Tolerance is a two way street, and sometimes that road can get narrow.



My interview with Mr. Gidney will definitely touch upon diversity in literature. The world thirsts for it. I would like to think that my friend's children wouldn't blink twice at an epic fantasy series set in Austrailia with an Asian heroine when they are old enough to read Young Adult books. (That's not my story, but you get the drift.)

We didn't have that growing up. Conscious Diversity is something new, and I think those of us who have endured any type of injustice should lace our stories with the wisdom we've learned from our encounters. So that the kids like me, who build their souls from pieces of other's imaginations can learn things like charity, kindness, mercy, forgiveness, and love without being preached at, or scarred...but entertained.

The world is what we make of it. Because I've seen ugly human hearts and minds I can recognize virtue much more clearly. So it is virtue that I cling to and cultivate. I would rather create beauty and harmony than fight fire with fire.
I write because I want to create good things. I want to foster open minds, and warm hearts. I want others to cherish and pursue idealism and innocence.

I've only fought when the time was right. When someone tested the boundaries and pushed too far. It was a small battle...and I think - in the end - people like that always end up defeating themselves one way or another.

So now as I prepare to converse with someone whose experience and cultural knowledge vastly outweighs mine, I look to him for guidance. Ultimately looking to answer the questions I always ask myself...am I too soft, and I too naive, am I too idealistic? (I've been called a "Pollyanna" more than once in my life.)

This week I get to introduce you to a brilliant author who writes magical prose, and I get to learn about myself in the process. I look forward to us getting acquainted with Mr. Gidney.

Until we meet again!