N.K. Jemisin

Out now!

The Killing Moon

The Kingdom of Gods

In the desert city-state of Gujaareh, peace is the only law. Along its ancient stone streets, there is no crime or violence. Priests of the dream-goddess, known as Gatherers, maintain order: harvesting the dreams of the citizens, healing the injured, and guiding the dreamers into the afterlife. . .

When Ehiru-the most famous of the city's Gatherers-is sent to harvest the dreams of a diplomatic envoy, he finds himself drawn into a conspiracy that threatens to drag the dreaming city into war.

Learn more.

Time to pick a side.

I’ve written two different posts about this issue. Circumstances decided that this one got posted first; good. I might post the other. Depends on how I feel over the next few days.

So, I’ve had a few weeks to think about the fallout from my Guest of Honor speech at Continuum. I’ve also had a few weeks in which to observe the SFWA controversy that was brewing before my speech, in response to the Malzberg & Resnick articles in the Bulletin. Lots of other things have happened during that time, on both the micro and macro scale: yet another incidence of sexual harassment at a con — or rather, someone finally naming names re a serial harasser about whom I’ve heard whispers and warnings for years. The US Supreme Court clearing the way for federal recognition of gay marriage. The Supreme Court also clearing the way for the return of modern-day poll taxes (complete with old-school grandfather clauses [PDF]!) in the form of voter ID laws. Queer people of color trying to figure out how the hell they’re supposed to feel in the wake of both. Some guy I never heard of mansplaining on how to (badly, in his case) write women. Julia Gillard getting booted as Australia’s Prime Minister. Penny Arcade offending a swath of the human race, again. And as always, everywhere, people fighting back.

I mention all these seemingly disparate things because they’re not disparate at all. Continue reading ›

World Fantasy Award nomination #2

…is for The Killing Moon. Yeah, baby! And congrats to the many other nominees — especially the writers also published in John Joseph Adams’ EPIC anthology, because that one got nominated too. Dreamblood-world short story “The Narcomancer” is in that one. This spotlight is crowded with awesome people.

So, that happened

Not going to spend a lot of time on yesterday’s shenanigans. I’m still in Deadline Hell on the UMSP, still in recovery mode from cross-planet/season-hopping jetlag, and still on vacation when all is said and done; I’ve got better things to do. And anyway, I’m too much of a counselor to forget that the most virulent-sounding hatred is always the result of fear. There can be nothing more pitiful — dangerous, certainly, but still, pitiful — than a person whose self-worth depends solely on their perceived ability to diminish others. That is a person who truly has nothing of his own.

Little Vegemite in the big city. Small jar with Brooklyn & Manhattan in the background.

Better things to do.

I will say this: we’ve spent a day talking about this guy. That’s good and necessary; some people would prefer to forget that we have a big problem with racism in SFF, and now we’ve got another Exhibit A of the Especially Blatant variety. But I do want to remind everyone that it’s the Unexamined Privileges and Assumptions variety that does more damage over time, and that’s a far, far more endemic problem in this genre than the odd frothing change-phobe. We have to deal with both kinds of racism if we are ever to begin a true Reconciliation — but each type of bigotry deserves a proportionate response. One day’s about enough for that guy. Now let’s get back to the conversations we were all having before he so rudely interrupted.

Like, holy shit, it looks like over $10,000 has been raised for the Carl Brandon Society, and I’m guessing Con or Bust is probably well past $500 (they’re not the same thing, note — and you still have time to get a matching contribution on Con or Bust)! That’s all kinds of awesome. You can still donate, if you haven’t, and do things like help an up-and-coming writer of color attend Clarion, help fans of color go to SFF cons they would otherwise never attend, and more. But note that CBS and Con or Bust need volunteers as much as they both need money; these are all labors of love on the part of the people involved. They could use more love.

And speaking of love… If you donated yesterday as an expression of support for me, thank you. I got bombarded with emails and texts and FB messages and whatnot yesterday, all of which were supportive — and thanks for that, too. I saw a few of the conversations happening online about this — not many; remember, Deadline Hell — and I know important convos are happening where I can’t see. All that’s very good. Please keep talking. Even an argument is better than silence.

In the meantime, Imma get back to writin’. And, er, contemplating this Vegemite. Yeast, huh? How ’bout that.

Continuum GoH Speech

Apologies for not posting this sooner, folks; my schedule as a GoH is packed almost solid, and I just got a free moment to upload. I ad-libbed a bit, but this is the text of my speech from earlier today at Continuum. Might miss some emphases and other formatting; no time to check it right now.

Warning for profanity.

My father was afraid for me to come to Australia.

He mostly made jokes about it — “Good, you’ve got dredlocks, maybe they won’t think you’re Chinese”, stuff like that. But I know my father, and I know when the jokes have a serious undercurrent. Now, mind you, I travel alone all the time, and I’m not always traveling to places that are friendly to Americans, or women, or black people. I’ve walked past trucks in Japan blaring “Gaijin go home” on loudspeakers, underneath billboards featuring a black man in an ape costume who was somehow selling breakfast cereal. I’ve sat on a public bus in Italy while a Somali woman was refused entry. I don’t speak Italian so I couldn’t be sure why, but the fact that everyone turned to look at me as soon as the bus pulled off was kind of a hint. And mind you — I live in New York. In Brooklyn, in a rapidly-gentrifying neighborhood called Crown Heights, which is internationally famous for a series of racial clashes between white Hasidic Jews and black Carribbeans; nowadays both groups have largely been driven out, replaced by wealthy young hipsters. But the cause celebre in New York right now is a police policy called Stop-and-Frisk, which gives the cops pretty much the right to search anyone they deem “suspicious” for any reason — and which in practice has resulted in a tremendously disproportionate targeting of black and Latino people for basically the crime of walking around while black or Latino. 95% of those stopped have been found to have committed no crime.

And both my father and I grew up in Alabama — he in Birmingham, dodging dogs and fire hoses turned on him and other Civil Rights protestors by infamous police Chief Bull Connor; me in Mobile in the 1980s, when the Michael Donald lynching — the last “traditional” lynching of a black man in the United States, with a noose and a tree and everything — occurred around the corner from my grandmother’s house. I remember my grandmother sitting in her den with a shotgun across her knees while I cracked pecans at her feet; I was maybe nine years old, had no idea what was going on. She told me the gun was just an old replica; she’d brought it out to clean it. I said “OK, Grandma,” and asked whether she’d make me a pie when I was done.

I say all this so you will understand the context of my father’s fear, when I told him I was going to Australia.

See, I just have a typical American education. When I took “World History” in high school, I think we spent three days on Australia — which, all things considered, is three times more than we spent on the entire continent of Africa. And though I’ve made an effort to educate myself further in the years since in a number of areas, I will admit that Australian history hasn’t been very high on the list. But my father has studied civil rights struggles everywhere in the world. He understood that a nation which classified its indigeous people as animals less than fifty years ago might not be the safest place for a woman like me… with brown skin and a big nose and a tendency to tell people to fuck off when they get on my nerves. Even in the depths of the Jim Crow era in the US, black people were people. Inferior ones… but people.

And now that I’m here I have spent the past three days — coupled with the three days in school, that’s twice as much as the average American! — visiting your museums and talking to your fellow citizens and just walking around observing your city streets, and I know now that Dad was right to worry. This is not a safe country for people of color. It’s better than it was, certainly, but when the first news story I saw on turning on my first Australian TV channel was about your One Nation party’s Pauline Hanson… well. Still got a ways to go.

Now. Before you tar and feather me, let me tell you something else I’ve come to understand in the past three days. Australia may not be the safest place for someone who looks like me… but it’s trying to become safer. And Australia may have classified the peoples of the Koorie and other nations as “fauna” until very recently, but Australia has also made tremendous strides lately in rectifying this error. I’ve listened in fascination to the Acknowledgements of Country made at nearly every public event I’ve attended since I’ve been here. I’ve marveled that indigenous languages are offered as courses for study at some local universities. I am awed that you don’t shove all of your indigenous history into a single museum, where it’s easy for people not of that culture to avoid or ignore, because that’s what happens in the US. So as horrified as I am by the nastier details of Australian history… I am also heartened, astonished, inspired, by the Australian present. You’ve still got a long way to go before Reconciliation is complete, but then again, you’ve started down that path. You’re trying.

I want you to understand: what you’ve done? It will never happen in my country. Not in my lifetime, at least. Right now American politicians are doing their best to roll back voting rights won during our own Civil Rights movement. They are putting in place educational “reforms” which disproportionately have a negative impact on black and brown and poor white kids, and will essentially help to solidify a permanent underclass. Right now there are laws in places like Florida and Texas which are intended to make it essentially legal for white people to just shoot people like me, without consequence, as long as they feel threatened by my presence. So: admitting that the land we live on was stolen from hundreds of other nations and peoples? Acknowledging that the prosperity the United States enjoys was bought with blood? That’s a pipe dream.

I want you to understand that what you’ve done makes me want to weep with envy, and bitterness, and hope.

So: segue time. Let’s scale down. Let’s talk about the community — the microcosmic nation — of science fiction and fantasy.

For the past few days I’ve also been observing a “kerfuffle”, as some call it, in reaction to the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ of America’s latest professional journal, the Bulletin. Some of you may also have been following the discussion; hopefully not all of you. To summarize: two of the genre’s most venerable white male writers made some comments in a series of recent articles which have been decried as sexist and racist by most of the organization’s membership. Now, to put this in context: the membership of SFWA also recently voted in a new president. There were two candidates — one of whom was a self-described misogynist, racist, anti-Semite, and a few other flavors of asshole. In this election he lost by a landslide… but he still earned ten percent of the vote. SFWA is small; only about 500 people voted in total, so we’re talking less than 50 people. But scale up again. Imagine if ten percent of this country’s population was busy making active efforts to take away not mere privileges, not even dignity, but your most basic rights. Imagine if ten percent of the people you interacted with, on a daily basis, did not regard you as human.

Just ten percent. But such a ten percent.

And beyond that ten percent are the silent majority — the great unmeasured mass of enablers. These are the folks who don’t object to the treatment of women as human beings, and who may even have the odd black or gay friend that they genuinely like. However, when the ten percent starts up in their frothing rage, these are the people who say nothing in response. When women and other marginalized groups respond with anger to the hatred of the ten percent, these are the people who do not support them, and in fact suggest that maybe they’re overreacting. When they read a novel set in a human society which contains only one or two female characters, these are the people who don’t decry this as implausible. Or worse, they simply don’t notice. These are the people who successfully campaigned for Star Trek to return to television after 25 years, but have no intention of campaigning for Roddenberry’s vision to be complete, with gay characters joining the rainbow brigade on the bridge. These are the people who gleefully nitpick the scientific plausibility of stopping a volcano with “cold fusion”, yet who fail to notice that an author has written a future earth in which somehow seventeen percent of the human race dominates ninety percent of the characterization.

Unlike the ten percent, these people do not overtly hate me, or people like me. But they are not our friends, either. And after all: what is hatred, really, but supreme indifference to the suffering of another?

And here’s the thing: women have been in SFF from the very beginning. We might not always have been visible, hidden away behind initials and masculine-sounding pseudonyms, quietly running the conventions at which men ran around pinching women’s bottoms, but we were there. And people of color have been in SFF from the very beginning, hiding behind the racial anonymity of names and pseudonyms — and sometimes forcibly prevented from publishing our work by well-meaning editors, lest SFF audiences be troubled by the sight of a brown person in the protagonist’s role. Or a lesbian, or a poor person, or an old person, or a trans woman, or a person in a wheelchair. SFF has always been the literature of the human imagination, not just the imagination of a single demographic. Every culture on this planet produces it in some way, shape, or form. It thrives in video games and films and TV shows, and before that it lived in the oral histories kept by the griots, and the story circles of the Navajo, and the Dreamings of this country’s first peoples. People from every walk of life consume SFF, with relish, and that is because we have all, on some level, contributed to its inception and growth.

We tread upon the mythic ground of religions and civilizations that far predate “Western” nations and Christianity; we dream of traveling amid stars that were named by Arab astronomers, using the numbers they devised to help us find our way; we retell the colonization stories that were life and death for the Irish and the English and the Inka and the Inuit; we find drama in the struggles of the marginalized and not-quite-assimilated of every society. Speculative fiction is at its core syncretic; this stuff doesn’t come out of nowhere. And it certainly didn’t spring solely from the imaginations of a bunch of beardy old middle-class middle-American guys in the 1950s.

Sadly what the SFWA kerfuffle reveals — and MammothFail before that, and MoonFail, and RaceFail and the Great Cultural Appropriation Debates of Dooooom, and Slushbomb before that, and so on — what this reveals is that memories in SFF are short, and the misconceptions vast and deep.

So I propose a solution — which I would like to appropriate, if you will allow, from Australia’s history and present. It is time for a Reconciliation within SFF.

It is time that we all recognized the real history of this genre, and acknowledged the breadth and diversity of its contributors. It’s time we acknowledged the debt we owe to those who got us here — all of them. It’s time we made note of what ground we’ve trodden upon, and the wrongs we’ve done to those who trod it first. And it’s time we took steps — some symbolic, some substantive — to try and correct those errors. I do not mean a simple removal of the barriers that currently exist within the genre and its fandom, though doing that’s certainly the first step. I mean we must now make an active, conscious effort to establish a literature of the imagination which truly belongs to everyone.

I think to some degree this process has already begun. Discussions like the one that’s been happening in SFWA for the past week are the proof of it; not so very long ago, there would have been no response at all to that kind of casual sexism or racism. All this anger, all this sturm und drang — these are good things. Signs of progress. What I am proposing, however, is that we take things to the next level. Maybe it’s time for a Truth in Reconciliation commission, in which authors and fans speak out about their misconceptions and mistakes, and make a commitment to doing better. Maybe we need practical reconciliation efforts such as encouraging more markets to accept blind submissions, demanding that more publishers depict diverse characters on book covers. At the same time, let’s have some self-deterministic reconciliation, since women and people of color and disabled folks and the like certainly haven’t been shy about offering their own suggestions for change. Incidentally, if you did not follow RaceFail when it occurred or if you dismissed it as too much to handle, try. It’s all still there; just Google it. Hundreds of people poured millions of words into articulating what’s wrong with this genre, and how those wrongs can be made right. You owe it to yourself to read some of what they wrote.

I’ve been in this country three days, and I love it. The things that have happened here are in many ways far more horrific than what happened in my own country — but you as a people have shown a stunning willingness to progress beyond those wrongs, and to transform and improve yourselves in the process. Now, I do not mean to belittle what has happened here by the comparison; no one has died in SFF for its failure to acknowledge and embrace its own diversity. No lands have been stolen, no children kidnapped. But careers have ended, in some cases before they began. Opportunities have been stolen, dreams kept segregated. A potential richness of content has been hoarded and hidden from the SFF readership. So I am asking you, Australian fans, to share what you have learned about how to be a multicultural society, with the world. We can learn from your mistakes and your successes. This is what science fiction and fantasy need to do, if they are ever to truly become the literature of the world’s imagination.

Thank you.

ETA: Got pointed out by several folks that the little space between “trans” and “woman” is important; whoops. Fixed!

Off to the other side of the planet

Australia, that is, where I’ll be guesting at this year’s Continuum in Melbourne. It’s my first trip Down Under, and I’m kinda giddy about it — though not so much giddy about the 20+ hours of air travel I’ll need to get there. But that’s why I’m heading there a bit early, so that I can recover, play the tourist a little and become vertical again, and say something more than “Blergh” to the people I meet there.

If you’re Melbourne-abouts, drop in and say hi! If you’re closer to my usual side of the planet, though, don’t feel bad — another announcement I haven’t gotten around to making here is that I’ll be one of the Guests of Honor at next year’s Wiscon, so maybe you can make it there.

OK, back to frantically packing, and playing Mass Effect 2 to calm my nerves.

You CAN win the Kobayashi Maru.

Gonna keep this brief, ’cause it’s 1:30 am as I’m writing this, and ’cause tomorrow I’m taking a 6-hour flight to Cali to attend the Nebulas and hopefully either win, or cheer while someone I really like wins. It’s a win-win, so no need to wish me luck; if anything, wish me safe and stress-free travels.

Anyway. Just saw Star Trek: Into Darkness, and I have some thoughts. Those thoughts will require spoilers, so beware, anyone reading past this point. Also, spoilers for a brief mention of Iron Man 3.

Continue reading ›

Recent Developments

Hi, all. Still neck-deep in Deadline Hell, though beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel. (And please don’t take my mashup of three metaphors in one sentence as a measure of the quality of my writing right now.) But all novel, all the time does not a sane girl make, so here’s a little of what else I’ve been up to lately:

Let’s All Go to the Science Fiction Disco: Here is how this project was described to me initially: Would you like to write an essay about Janelle Monae? To which I replied “[expletive] YEAH WHAT THE [expletive] DO YOU THINK” and some other gibberish along those lines. This is part of the anthology series Adventure Rocketship, exploring the strange region of space where science fiction, pop music, and counterculture meet. Contains essays by me, Jon Courtenay Grimwood, and others, interviews with China Mieville and Michael Moorcock, and short stories by Liz Williams and Lavie Tidhar (along with many others). It’s awesome stuff.

Fantastic Erotica: The Best of Circlet Press 2008 – 2012: Speaking of awesome stuff. This anthology features my short story “The Dancers’ War,” along with a whole lot of other steamy stuff from a whole lot of other writers.

Speculative Fiction 2012: a compilation of essays and blog posts from SFF writers (including Yours Truly) over the past year. I’ve read some of the essays collected in it; good stuff. One of the anthologists (Justin of Staffer’s Book Review) talks more about it here.

OK! Breath taken. Now to dive back into Deadline Hell. See ya!

Catchup Time!

I am in crunch mode right now. The first book of the UMSP is due in May, and I’m going to have to grind like a grindy thing to meet that deadline. My writing goal right now has been upped from 3000 words/weekend (my weekends are my only solid writing time, and my normal production rate is about 1500 words/day) to 5000 with 250 words/night on as many weeknights as I can manage. Can’t always manage the latter; I work long days, in a job that’s sometimes psychologically exhausting. But I’m gonna try, so wish me luck. As a result, I’m going to be blogging less, and a little less social.

All that said, I’m going to be plenty social this weekend, at Vericon up in Boston, for those of you who are near enough to the yard and want to drop in and say hi. I’ll be there Friday and Saturday, finishing up with a signing at the Harvard Bookstore. It’ll be nice to be in the old stomping grounds for awhile, and see old friends from the writing group I had there (the BRAWLers) and newer ones like Seanan McGuire. (Who I am totally gonna yell at for the end of Blackout, which she wrote as Mira Grant! I’m still crying, dammit.)

And speaking of crying… I mentioned this on Twitter awhile back, but I haven’t felt like talking about it much, so I’m just getting around to mentioning it here; sorry. But Besame Mucho — yes, the cat I adopted less than a year ago — passed away the Sunday before last. She was frail from the get-go, painfully thin as I noted in her introduction post, and despite a mostly healthy appetite she never managed to gain weight — lost it, actually, despite my and the vet’s best efforts. (And the vet, Dr. Quim, made an heroic effort. I really need to send the whole clinic some flowers or something, because I think her death hit them just as hard as it hit me.) Anyway, finally that weekend she just stopped eating, and there just wasn’t much to be done. Hazard of adopting an older cat. ::sigh:: But I’m glad I could make her last year, after being abandoned the way she was, safe and cozy.

Still, I wasn’t quite ready to lose another cat in so short a space. It’s hit me surprisingly hard — possibly because I had NukuNuku for 15+ years and that’s what seems normal to me, abnormally long as that was. I’m still wrestling with whether I want to adopt again. Certainly not anytime soon, but probably. …Ah, who am I kidding? I’m a cat person at heart. And my little house seems a lot quieter without someone around to go meow.

Anyway, until I’m ready to be a cat mama again, let me steer all New York-area folks toward the Prospect Park Animal Clinic, because they do good work, and they really care, and they always have abandoned and found pets available for adoption who could use a good place to live. Even if it’s only for a little while.

On Fanworks

There’s been much debate in the blogosphere over the years about FANFIC: Threat or Menace?!?!?1! I haven’t participated in most of that debate, mostly because a) before four years ago, I had no “professional author” dog in the fight, and b) I was busy, mostly producing dogs for the fight.

But I also haven’t participated because my thoughts on the subject are fairly simple. I think fanworks = flattery + free publicity. I’m not going to limit things to fanfiction here, because the issue is really derivative art in general (including filk, fanart, fanjewelry, whatever), and I’m not going to go much deeper into it because lots of other authors have already said smart things on this issue, and I don’t feel like retreading the ground. Also because this particular ground has been paved for centuries anyway, so I’m not sure why it’s even an issue.

Yeah, I’ve heard the Marion Zimmer Bradley myth. Yeah, I’ve seen a dozen-odd Authors Behaving Badly over fanfic, defending their right to police other people’s imaginations with tooth and claw — I don’t agree with those authors, but if they want to draw a line in the sand over it, that’s their business. And yeah, I’m aware that the potential for litigation exists if somebody thinks I stole their idea, particularly in the area of fanfiction since writing is something I actually do. (Never mind that ideas can’t be copyrighted. I’m an American, and if there’s one right us Americans treasure, it’s the right to sue the pants off anybody for completely nonsensical reasons.) I’m also aware that people might do squicky things to my characters. But there’s a very simple way for me as an author to avoid the problems (if any) associated with fanfic, and that’s for me to ignore it. If you write it, don’t tell me. If you post it, don’t show me. If I blunder across it, I won’t read it. If you pull a Clockwork Orange on me and strap me to a chair with my eyes wired open while you flash it on a screen before me, I’ll pretend I didn’t read it. (And then I will probably sue you, at minimum.)

If we’re talking something other than fiction — say, fanart or filk — that’s less of a risk to me (if any). Frankly I have no talent whatsoever for visual art, sculpture, music, or anything else, and no interest in ever pursuing projects in any of those arenas, so I won’t actively avoid those… but. I also won’t go looking for them. Because fanworks are for fans, after all, not for me, and I know it can be a little unnerving to fan-creators when the author suddenly shows up in the comments, even if it’s just to squee. (And I do squee when I see something I like.) So if this is causing you to lose sleep at night, let me assure you: you don’t have to worry that I’ll go trolling the web someday, find your stick-figure drawing or experimental-theater script of the tentacle sex scene in 100K, and pitch an epic hissyfit. If I see it at all, I’ll probably just pull one of these:

Will Smith looking confused, caption: THE FUCK?

…and move on.

And that right there is pretty much all I can state as my policy on fanworks. Any questions?

Fantasy Fans: Where’s Your Outrage?

This is hurriedly written and unedited; gotta take Besame Mucho to the vet in a few. Apologies for typos/inclarities in advance.

If you didn’t know, something relevant to your genre happened last night. Beasts of the Southern Wild, a fantasy film I’ve been raving about, got nominated for four different Oscars — yeah, they didn’t win any last night, but getting nominated is still awesome. One of those nominations was for the film’s star, Quvenzhané Wallis, who also made history for being the youngest-ever Oscar nominee. She’s 9 years old.

Here’s the part that happened last night: half of Hollywood decided that it hated her.

The reasons for that hate vary. Some of it’s just… Hollywood, land of the unbelievably hateful people who tear each other down to build themselves up. (Where I come from that’s called bullying, and it happens most often in a schoolyard.) There’s a billion snickering comments and articles online right now about the fact that one of the Oscar winners tripped. This is a professional culture of 12-year-olds.

Well. Except. Most of the ones with power are old white guys. They just have the sense of humor of 12-year-olds.

Here’s some things they did:

Oh, and it wasn’t just Hollywood misbehaving. The better-known chunks of the feminist community got in on the act, calling her “disgusting” and “insufferable” in the comments. Those people are getting told by quite a few people, but just goes to show you that even (sometimes especially) feminists can be racist fucks.

And what terrible things did Ms. Wallis do to invite this kind of vitriol? Oh, just stuff like this:

Quvenzhané Wallis doing a little fist-pump in celebration.

Just be herself: talented, happy, pretty, and proud of her achievement. She didn’t misbehave, she didn’t snark at anyone the way winner Jennifer Lawrence did (and Lawrence was awesome for doing so, but it’s interesting how white girls can get away with being confident more easily than black girls. Isn’t it?). Ms. Wallis committed the crime of being confident while black and female. Hey, it happens to all of us, often starting around puberty; I guess Hollywood just decided to start the shaming and systematic tearing-down early.

::sigh::

So here’s the thing: I’ve seen a lot of outrage over this from folks on my Twitter feed, which includes a lot of people in the genre community. It’s heartening to see that. But I can’t help thinking that there should be a lot more outrage than I’m seeing. After all, a fantasy film just came very close to winning an Oscar for Best Picture — yet I don’t see the community even embracing this as a fantasy film, let alone leaping to the defense of one of our biggest stars. I wonder about that. Really, I do.

Here’s what I’d like to see: more people talking about this, in social media and other places. I’d like those people to unfollow The Onion, if they’re following it, and un”like” it on Facebook — because social media capital is valuable these days, and doing these small things is the equivalent of a boycott. You can also write the Onion and tell them what you think of this. I know people are looking up lists of their advertisers even as we speak, so when there’s a list of Onion advertisers to write to, I’ll add that to this post.

But aside from that, what I’d like to see is some good old-fashioned geek rage. I mean, seriously, ya’ll. Geek rage is an awesome and beautiful thing when it gets behind a cause of worth. This one’s worthy.

And I’d like to see it because I was this girl, once. Oh, not famous, but just that cheerfully focused on a goal — in my case, becoming a published novelist. And I’ve had my share of people trying to tear me apart for daring to want such a thing. Like I said, it happens to a lot of us. But a little support goes a long way.

ETA: Closed some open tags, linked to the article about the anon Oscar voter who said he wasn’t voting for her b/c of her name.

Daughter of ETA: The Onion has apologized.

Spoiled Niece of ETA: Apparently people are playing silly buggers, reporting me for spamming my own website. Apologies for the brief downtime, and hopefully it won’t happen again. Note: I hotlinked the “fistpump” gif because I can’t seem to get it to upload on my site. I got it from here, tho’.


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