I really did intend to make a real entry here today, but instead I took the time I wasn't working to go romping with the dogs in the snow.
And got the best photo ever of Puck the Dog, possibly:
But because Emma gets jealous, here's one of her too, walking the wall ala Jon Snow:
I have no regrets. You can see the whole captioned set of romping photos at Flickr.
I'm going to give this site a real makeover at some point this year, but I gave it an in-the-meantime one over the weekend. I did an abysmal job at tracking my reading last year, so I'm also reviving my reading log page; will also try to remember to point to it occasionally.
Totally overwhelmed by the number of people who shared and visited the post about sexism and self-promotion and related thoughts over the weekend here or over on tumblr. I almost didn't post it, and am now really glad I did. Look for more Actual Bloggery to happen here, and more little things over at tumblr (where I'll continue to mirror bigger posts). At any rate, I propose a blog renaissance for 2014. And will do my part, even while deep in Secret Project Land, as I am currently.
Speaking of the self-promote-y, I completely missed this lovely mention of The Woken Gods from Erin Keane as part of the WFPL staff year-end reading round-up: "Bond's D.C. is a world of powerful tricksters, ancient relics, and spooky rituals that feels both mysterious and familiar at once, and like her first novel "Blackwood," (listen to an excerpt on Unbound) this whip-smart heroine-led adventure is equal parts creepy and fun." *beam*
Two things I suggest you read today, if you haven't: Genevieve Valentine's fashion round-up from the Golden Globes (always a highlight of the day after any awards show) and Sarah Weinman's great NYT Magazine piece about an award-winning crime manuscript written by a man currently in prison for murder.
And, finally, having eaten in enough restaurants in the last week to last me through the next couple of months in deadline-ville, I'm looking forward to bunker life with the secret novel and our foray into Vegan Before 6 (so far so good, er, on the first day). The fabulously fun winter residency of the Bluegrass Writers Studio definitely also yielded enough social activity to hold me for a good while, but was, in fact, too fabulously fun to pass up most evenings–especially given that it's C's final semester in the program (thesis novel!). Finally met the delightful (but in a noir way) Kelly Braffet in person, along with her editor Zack Wagman (who I interviewed once upon a time), as well as Alissa Nutting, who it turns out we have several common friends with, and the very funny Sam Lipsyte. Plus, the usual program suspects like Derek Nikitas. And, of course, we got to hang out lots with Maureen McHugh, one of my favorite favorite people, who was here teaching a workshop. Witness this evidence from an evening meal at Table 310 with Maureen, Christopher, (the lucky-for-us currently local) Andrew Shaffer, and a former program student who turned out to also be a former small town funeral director and made the best conversation (sample: "We call that 'creating a beautiful picture' "):
Two of my favorite people at dinner. pic.twitter.com/dUFk0jiy0K
— Gwenda Bond (@Gwenda) January 9, 2014
In short: I like 2014 so far.
So…I almost talked myself out of making this post, but then, hey, I said I was going to start blogging again and these are the kinds of things I'm interesting in blogging about. Even though it is a little scary, for reasons the post will make clear. The thing is, publishing books is–even though our books are not ourselves–extremely revealing, by which I mean it opens us up to lots more casual judgment and criticism, especially when we voice opinions that not everyone agrees with or wants to hear.
It's probably one of the reasons I've talked less in depth about anything except writing and interesting bits and bobs I find on the Internet here, since Blackwood came out. The other is that it takes time, time away from writing fiction and doing other work and living, which is time and mental space I don't have much of. I like watching TV too much. So, there will probably be a lot more nattering type "this is what's going on" posts. Pet pictures and the like. But I'm not happy with confining all discussions of other things to twitter or facebook, and so here we are. And I come to you with a ranty ramble.
What prompted this post is a stew of things that happened to appear in concert this week, and some of which I've been stewing about ever since.
The first was the Jennifer Weiner profile in the New Yorker. I only just got time to read the whole thing last night. It's a fair, thoughtful piece, and definitely worth your time.
I saw a few tweets flying around, which notified me of its existence, but the actual first direct impression I got of it was a secondary one. My friend Erin posted a link to a Slate reaction piece to it, one which had rightly piqued her ire. Reader, this piece makes my blood boil. The headline: "Jennifer Weiner Critiques Sexism in Publishing, Promotes Self." But, you know, writers aren't always in charge of the headline, and they often seem written to troll for outrage clicks, so I was prepared for the actual piece to be a little more balanced. It honestly isn't, and then there's this:
All of this means that Jennifer Weiner is an imperfect vessel for confronting sexism in the publishing industry. What it doesn’t mean is that Weiner is unique in her strategy of leveraging critical analysis to self-promote.
Just take in the wording for a second…see if anything jumps out at you in the wording, like, oh, I don't know: IMPERFECT VESSEL.
Look, I know, I know, there's a larger point being made, etc., et al., but as a writer, I believe words matter. The choice of words reveals so much here; it is the crux, the entire red effing wheelbarrow of the matter, as far as I'm concerned.
Don't be an imperfect vessel, kids. Which seems to mean, among other things, don't self-promote, don't believe your own work is worth promoting, and for eff's sake, don't imply that it's worthy of critical consideration OR that which books get attention really does often come down to initial perceptions of the people who make those decisions… Perceptions which are undeniably colored by impressions created by the track record/history of the author and the packaging (and I'd include marketing push there). And if you believe that women's and men's work are packaged the same, or that women authors whose works are or are perceived to be primarily about and/or for girls or women are on equal ground in this equation, then I have some lovely beachfront property I'd love to sell you with a library full of Franzen the Grouch novels. Just send me a cashier's check.
Ditto if you believe that women aren't perceived and treated differently when they self-promote.
Some people are rubbed the wrong way by Jennifer Weiner, some are some of the time (I agree with her way more often than I don't and find her frequently hilarious), but what KILLS me about some of the reactions is just how much they are about her. Again, look, I get it, it's a reaction to a profile piece, also about her. But it is also absolutely typical and predictable to sidestep the points she's making. It's far easier to criticize her for self-promoting or talk about her shortcomings–whether perceived or real–than it is to address the substance of her arguments. Her arguments which are not only about the books of Jennifer Weiner.
Who, by the way, is an actual human being and author, not a vessel, perfect or imperfect or otherwise. The very phrasing in that sentence may have been what caused my blood to boil. (By the way, I have enjoyed some other pieces by the writer of the Slate one. Just decidedly not this one.)
Like Weiner, I would love to see more attention devoted to the work of women and especially that perceived to be aimed primarily at women and girls. I read category romance (I LOVE category romance) right beside mainstream literary fiction right beside mystery right beside YA right beside SF and I do my best to judge the books based on their merits. I try not to do that pre-slotting of things into Worthwhile and Not Worthwhile, but make that decision based on the book in question. I know my own likes and dislikes, which means not assuming that because something isn't my cup of book, it shouldn't exist or be talked about. This is also not to say that everything is equally "literary," but there are other measures of worth that are, um, worth discussing, too, and can we just admit that the term itself is pretty squishy and seems to stick to most of the things it's applied to, as long as the right person is doing the applying?
There are certain kinds of books the word is far less likely to be applied to. Sometimes, that may be because of the quality of the books. Sometimes, it may be for other reasons–lots of them. (I have seen people claim, for instance, that literary YA doesn't exist. Which is crazypants.)
What I wish as a reader is that I could find more smart writing about all those types of books I mentioned above easily, instead of the typical uninformed scarlet-rage inflammatory or blush-rosy nostalgic pieces about YA, or the terrible pieces implying women who read romance aren't feminists and all romances are identical, or calling out the one or two SF books this year that stand above the trash heap…. I could go on with examples, but this is getting long and I doubt I need to. This is why I believe blogs are still so important, and why I read so many, and oh romance and YA blogosphere in particular you are THE BEST. You write such smart pieces, about so many different kinds of books, taking them seriously. You talk the things I'm talking about here. But oh how I wish there were more opportunities for you to write about it for professional outlets and be paid.
(Aside: This is one of the main reasons I regretted leaving my regular reviewing gig at Locus. I want to see more women writing about books, period–also why I try to read every word about books people like Laura Miller, Charlie Jane Anders, Annalee Newitz, Sarah Weinman, Roxane Gay, and Carolyn Kellogg produce, to name a handful, in addition to the blogs I follow.)
But, I digress. I wanted to talk a little bit about this idea that self-promotion is somehow inherently shameful or deserving of a call-out, especially when women are engaging in it.
Because at the same time the profile conversation was going on, this week there's been a bunch of talk in the SFF field about whether people should mention awards-eligible work and the associated discussions about self-promotion that engenders (not an accidental word choice). (Read those links.)
To publish is to self-promote. Putting work into the world = implied assertion: "this is worth readers' time and attention."
— Jennifer Weiner (@jenniferweiner) January 9, 2014
Not too long ago, two fabulous YA authors I consider friends wrote essays about the experience of being a woman writer and self-promoting, about the reactions that they get and see, and how those might be different toward women than men. Here's Sarah Rees Brennan's and here's Malinda Lo's.
I watched for reactions to these pieces with interest at the time, and I meant to post at length about them, but see above, avoiding rants. While most of the reactions I saw were quite positive, recognizing their valid points, I did also see a few really clueless mansplaining and nasty ones. I won't point to them, because…reasons, but ugh. Reactions like the one to Weiner in Slate tell the story just fine.
And before it comes up, I am not at all saying that men don't feel weird about self-promotion too, that they all feel completely comfortable and natural doing it. We're all humans here. Of course, it feels awkward. It feels awkward when I do it.
I'm also not saying there shouldn't be a balance, and that it's not possible to overdo it. It is, of course it is. In my experience, if you're someone who worries about that, you're probably not anywhere close to the line.
And yet.
Like most writers I know, I often experience doubts and bouts of imposter syndrome. But at the same time I am proud of my work, and it's work I, in fact, work really hard on. I want to be able to keep doing it. I also believe that women absolutely should not think twice about self-promotion. All the data suggests it's harder for the work of women, especially in certain genres, to get attention. That makes self-promoting part of the job for most of us, whether we like it or lump it. So if I catch myself hesitating on a RT or about posting some news related to my own books or trying to get an invite somewhere, I usually go on and do it, because I want to contribute to an online and offline culture where women don't hesitate and then decide not to speak up about their own work. Speaking up hopefully encourages speaking up. In case it doesn't: speak up.
When you write popular fiction — especially pop fic for women — you have to blow your own horn. Critics won't blow it for you.
— Jennifer Weiner (@jenniferweiner) January 9, 2014
Generosity of spirit is where it's at. Let's give each other the benefit of the doubt, and stash the judging on this point. I've always tried to help draw attention to other people's work I feel deserves it, but I pledge to do more of that, too.
Mostly, though, let's all try to call b.s. like this when we see it, by which I mean the attitudes about self-promotion and other things that help preserve the percentages in the VIDA count, that stoke the inequity in certain bestseller lists, and that make women not feel okay about trying to get attention for their work. Let our self-promotion truly be shameless.
End ranty rambling.
Speaking of promo, I'm determined to get a newsletter out something like quarterly this year. The first one will be sometime in the next week or so, and sign up if you want it.
Battle of the Sexists (aka Let The Self-Promotion Roll, Ladies) Read More »
I promised more posting, so here I am. And while I have an actual suggested topic or two, I'm going to save them for next week…because I stayed up way too late last night hanging out with bad influence friends:
I am keeping @larazontally because snow and we have gained an @maureenmcq and @christopherrowe. pic.twitter.com/mbxlXKzx1q
— Gwenda Bond (@Gwenda) January 3, 2014
I regret nothing. But you get hangovers, some of which are very old. But maybe you didn't see them the first time around.
Yes, yes, I'm finally getting around to that year-end wrap-up thing so popular…at the end of the year. For whatever reason, I'm feeling little inclination to reminisce and completely excited to greet 2014 and whatever challenges and surprises and etcetera it holds in store. But I do love reading other people's posts, and I like having a semi-official and revisitable record, so here I am.
This'll be a days of past and look to the future post, as a result though, kind of like the new X-Men movie. (I call Storm. Or Rogue. Or Kitty Pryde.) (Yes, I realize most of them aren't going to be in that movie. Mystique then, especially since she's not-so-secretly a Kentuckian.) (Note from Christopher: He heard all of these characters were to be in the movie, except that Rogue ended up, and I quote, "on the cutting room floor." Sounds painful.)
Things I wrote and/or revised this year:
And there was also a proposal in there, and a whole bunch of reviews for Locus, and several features for PW, and I got to interview one of my favorite writers for the LA Times.
Places I went this year:
I hope to get lots more places this year, like RT in New Orleans and etc etc tk.
In sum, 2013 was a year with a little of the expected, a lot more serendipity. A year I can't complain about, and which in many ways felt transitional. This was a year in which I figured out a lot of things about how I want life and my creative life and career to look going forward and how to balance those things so I don't feel utterly overwhelmed. In which I remembered to stop and be grateful slightly more often. I'm really looking forward to 2014 and seeing what lies ahead.
Resolutions of a sort:
I raise a glass to all of you, and to 2014 being fabulous for all of us.
The Old & The New Year Read More »
1. Busy times, my darlings! I spent the Thanksgiving week mostly muttering to myself, wearing various pairs of pajamas, eating low-fat red velvet-flavored ice cream sandwiches, and having weird story-related dreams. In other words: turning around the final revision pass on the circus book. And that revision has been slain, book delivered to super-wonderful editor and publisher, along with dedication and acknowledgements. That's right: GIRL ON A WIRE is in, and on to copy edits. I'm really excited (and only moderately terrified) for you guys to read this one next year. Then I polished up a proposal and sent it off to agent for a look. And and and I will start working in earnest anon on the TOP SECRET PROJECT, meaning very, very soon, and I'm really looking forward to that. No rest for the wicked.
2. That said, I am attempting to make space for more concentration on noveling and related activities, because, well, they require it, and that's where I need and want to be spending as much time as possible. Which means that while I'll still do other freelance stuff as it appeals and I can, I'm turning in my final reviews to Locus later this month. It's sad whenever you have to give up a gig that allows you to work with such genuinely lovely and awesome people as the Locus staff (who also gave me such freedom in choosing what books to write about). But, alas, I just don't have the time or, really, honestly, the inclination to do the job as it should be done any longer. It's been an absolute pleasure, though. And the good news for you, blog readers, is that this almost certainly means I'll talk more about books here again, since I can't quit that.
3. Want to buy some books for those who need them this holiday season? The Ballou Sr. High School has a wish list of holiday books for its library you can find out all about over at Guys Lit Wire (I did my shopping last night) and Oblong Books does a great Book Angel program every year, where they let people make a donation that goes directly to gifting a new book to a local kid who might not get one otherwise and I believe all you have to do is phone them up to participate. I'm sure there are many more such opportunities out there. I'll be making our annual donation of new books we don't have room for to a program that provides them to foster children this week.
4. The fabulous Colleen Mondor included a glow-inducing review of THE WOKEN GODS in her December column–her hundredth (*cue applause*)–at Bookslut. Congratulations on the achievement, Colleen, and for everything you do to bring attention to books and reading (like the aforementioned Ballou book fair!). Gratuitous review snippet: "The Woken Gods is a fast-paced tonic for curious readers who seek multi-layered mysteries and a salute to smart under-appreciated kids everywhere. … Bond has her characters growing up in a strange new world, in a bold brave way. The Woken Gods is one mighty fun read, and thus a perfect respite from holiday madness. Smart equals good in any adventure, and this is a very good read."
5. I really will start posting here again with a bit more regularity. I promise. In fact, I'm just about to undertake a little site make-over in the near future and a shiny new design always encourages posting. Right? Right. Have a great weekend, and stay safe if you (like us) are in the path of Storm of Doom Cleon. I suspect it's just mad at being named Cleon instead of, say, Cleopatra.
Random Friday Five Things Read More »
I was absolutely delighted to be invited by the fabulous Daphne, the force behind the excellent book blog Winged Reviews, to participate in her second blogoversary celebration. The idea behind it is really fun:
The celebration has been subtitled ‘Across the Pond’, because I started blog during my short stint in the US and of course I live here in the UK, so I wanted to celebrate books and authors from both sides of the Atlantic!
The celebration will run everyday this week and next, and will consist of Top 5 lists from fellow US and UK book bloggers and authors. UK bloggers and authors will be sharing their favourite US books and/or authors, and vice versa.
I only cheated a little to get in one author I wanted to include. Well, or maybe a few. Go check out my list, and see who.
(And you can go back through the other posts from that first link.)
A while back, I participated in the YA Scavenger Hunt, always fun, and wrote a little extra set in The Woken Gods universe, giving a glimpse of the Awakening in London. I’ve been meaning to put it up here since, because a few people told me they missed it and, well, it needs a place to live. (The cool art I found via google, and is available as a card and maybe a print from UK artist Deborah Holman; check her stuff out.)
And now without further ado, a little story for you…
Arawn and the Wild Hunt Visit the West End
There are better places to busk than the one Alice chooses every weekend. But the broad streets that converge on Piccadilly Circus have become like a second home to her, the noise a welcome contrast to the unbroken quiet in the flat while her parents are working, always working. The tourists here are often fresh off airplanes, only a day or two in London. The Americans in particular never seem to pick up the value of coins until they’re leaving.
Many times Alice checks the top hat she places in front of her to find handfuls of pounds — round, metallic, heavy — inches deep along the bottom. She sits it in front of her now, and removes her violin from its case.
She saves the small oceans of money from the hat, never breaking over for so much as an ice cream on the way back home. That money is adding up, and when she tells her parents she’s not giving up music to study accounting or law or whatever they’ve decided is best for her…she’ll need it. Alice takes up her usual spot on the steps around the base of the tall statue of Eros, a cupid with his bow trained on the crowd, and admires the scooped detail of the wings that would hold him aloft if he were real.
Alice likes to think Eros helps her out, that invisible arrows grab the chests of passersby and draw them in close, until they pay her tribute. She draws her own bow across the strings, makes a few small adjustments, and begins to play. It’s not something people will know, because she wrote it — she’d probably make more if it was Bach or Mozart. But this, too, is part of her rebellion.
The din of conversation and cars and city is part of the concert to her, and she notices immediately when it starts to fall away. The mournful melody that emerges from her instrument grows louder and louder, and she might be hallucinating, adjusts her fingers until she knows that’s not it. There are gasps and shouts, and then there is silence.
A silent crowd and if she couldn’t hear the sound of her own music, she’d believe she’s been struck suddenly deaf. No cars are moving. No one is moving, except her, coaxing vibrations from the strings.
And then a new sound joins her. She hears the unmistakable clack of hooves on pavement, and she goes silent, finally, like everyone else. The man is too large to be simply a man, and branching antlers sprout from a thick helmet he wears. He sits a pale gray horse, its coat shining like silver. His face is green, sickly and healthy at once, above heavy brown leather armor. He holds the thick body of a snake in one hand, twisting, with a small horned ram’s head at the top.
Around the horse’s feet come the hounds, slipping through the crowd, crying and yipping. They are lean, hungry, with white fur and red-tipped ears. A woman follows them, with long wild hair and torn clothes, and urges them on in a thick voice, using some language Alice doesn’t recognize.
The…man?…on the horse rides toward Alice, his black eyes on her. The other people around the statue scramble away, but she is frozen there, the weight of her violin in her hands the only thing that convinces her she is real. That this is real. That she is awake and this is happening.
The man stops a half-dozen feet away from her. She is surrounded. The yipping white hounds, and the hag with them, array themselves around her. Trapping her where she stands.
Like I’m their prey, Alice thinks.
The green-skinned man on the horse cranes his horned head skyward, gazing up at Eros. His horse takes two more heavy steps forward. It feels as if the pavement trembles beneath Alice’s feet.
She should go. She should run, like everyone else did. But one of the dogs must sense the direction of her thoughts — if that’s possible? if any of this is possible? — because it snarls and lopes closer.
She has to do something.
And so she lifts her bow and resumes playing. The dogs let out a chorus of unearthly howls, and, finally, after who knows how much time passes, the man turns his gray horse away, and the hounds follow him. She plays until the horse’s hooves and the eery dog calls and the encouragement of the hag can no longer be heard. She plays as the people around her become noisy again, as they discover the cars and buses are still not moving, as the bright lights go dark, as screams reach out from the distance.
Alice plays until the piece is finished, and only then does she stop, and put her instrument back into its case. Only then does she try to decide where to head from here.
-fin-
Extra, Extra: Arawn And The Wild Hunt Visit The West End Read More »