'Lo Peoples,
Saw Avatar finally. There's so many reviews online that can sum up my reaction to the movie far better than Her Tangh-i-ness can ever express. The site io9 basically sums it up in their review's title.
io9.com/5422666/when-will-white-people-stop-making-movies-like-avatar
Thank you for going there. Next.
I'm standing solidly behind the overlooked Battle for Terra which handled a similar "gone native" storyline in a manner that didn't leave People of Color like me from feeling ripped off. I just enjoyed a movie and didn't feel sick afterwards. I spent a good part of Avatar identifying exactly which traditional cultures had been appropriated to give the Na'vi their look. I suppose I should be happy that People of Color voiced the "alien" natives. They all had acting jobs that year.
But it smacked of my long-standing issues with Disney. The Lion King had been the most recent project where the African descended voiced characters but hardly ever appeared onscreen. (Yes, I remember there was an onscreen African descended character in Atlantis: the Lost Empire.) That is, until The Princess and the Frog came out. Eventually, I'll see the P & F so I'll be outlining my issues with that film. I refused to see it in theaters.
My Mom, after watching Avatar with us, simply said, "This is why you have to tell your stories." My Mom has a point. I and my sister both write. We're trying to convince my youngest brother, The Lemurian, that he should get back onto the literary horse too. I'm telling my stories, but in telling my stories, I could have happen what happened to Dragonball, the Last AirBender, and let us not forget the true-life "21." Even Ursula Le Guin decried what had been done with her Earthsea series once it became a cable television property and a dark-skinned Ged became white.
This makes me leery of releasing stories featuring African descended, American Indian, Asian, and Latino characters to movie options. I'm wondering where to find an agent who is savvy enough to strike out boilerplate that would endanger my much needed visions. I write for those people who look non-white and who also want to read about themselves doing cool things.
No one dared recast "Precious" as blonde and blue-eyed? Wonder why? I did read Push when it came out back in the day. I've seen Precious and I'm thrilled for Mo'Nique's Oscar. Yet, I'm left in an uncomfortable space when I recognize the existence of the reality of dysfunction in African descended households, but I know the imagery in Precious is being used as part of an unsubtle campaign to keep negative depictions of the African descended front and center. Meanwhile, it isn't fashionable to make positive depictions of darker-skinned People of Color unless a white person figures prominently, or y'know turn us blue and well...Na'vi.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
A Writer's Army: Supporters
'Lo Peoples,
I grew up in a housing project in Boston. No, it wasn't always rough. But sometimes, just stepping out of your door meant heading into some kind of confrontation, so you'd probably avoid the struggle if you had reliable backup. I'd occasionally get into scraps when I walked alone, therefore, I've come to appreciate having somebody at my back so I get on with taking care of business.
Writing can be like a war. It's a war with laziness, with doubt, and with the internalized naysayers who range from the Highschool English teacher to a form rejection letter. Damn straight, I need me some backup to deal with all that.
So, I got me a posse. I'm dating myself by referring to the Old School lingo for my backup. They range in age, ethnic background, gender, sexual preference, and experience. I'm taking a moment to be grateful for them because they make it easier for me to put word after word together. I'm naming them in no particular order but as they pop into memory.
First, I'd like to thank B. Findlay-Cordova, my sister, an amazing writer in her own right. We dealt with our adolescent trauma by lying around and making up stories so realistic that our Mom routinely questioned us as to whom were we talking about. B- relinquished one of our shared worlds to me so I could go about adapting it for novelization. B- took out a loan so I could go to Clarion West. B- is an excellent plotter while I suck at plotting. She understands motivation like nobody's business.
Next up, I'm going to thank the late Joanne Street Amartseff. Joanne met me through a women's creative group called Spitfire and later encouraged me to join a writer's group she belonged to. Joanne loaned me money to go to Clarion West, no questions asked. I repaid her, in full, two weeks after I returned. I felt so grateful someone helped me who wasn't even blood related.
That brings me to the also deceased Octavia Butler. The whole reason I went to Clarion West 2001 was because of the first African-descended, female science fiction writer I had learned of. Octavia was teaching that year. Ms. Butler once spoke encouragingly to me in an M.I.T, auditorium because she and Chip Delany were my literary heroes. Black people writing about space, aliens, same-sex love, and fantastic cultures? Imagine that! I still can't bring myself to friend Chip Delany on Facebook. I once misspelled his name. For shame, Jarla!
I'm going to thank The Lemurian, my youngest brother, the only family member who ever requested to be put into one of my stories. Realize that writers cannibalize their own lives all of the time. The Lemurian lovingly indulged me. The Lemurian can also tell me when I've gone overboard in upping the body count by slaying innocent characters. Now if I can ever convince the Lemurian to actually finish his Magnum Opus, I will have repaid my debt.
Creative Writing Graduate student, Lisa Vaas, started off as a landlady and evolved into a member of the family. She kindly provided housing while I penned some of my novels and stories, until I finally got a day job that would allow me to co-sign on my own home. Lisa introduced me to the world of public readings for I'd never read my work aloud before.
Jen Johnson, my voluptuous fellow Libran and fellow Spitfire, whose lush and challenging work reminds me that I'm sometimes a poetess. Maybe, someday, I'll get be as facile with the craft as she.
Marya Wolfman is the woman I insist should be my biographer. Marya participated in the same writing group with me and Joanne. Every time I submitted something for crit. Marya understood instinctively what my narrative intentions were, even if I didn't always understand them myself.
Go Marya!
I'm going to shout out at my Big Sister, Nalo Hopkinson. Nalo included me in Mojo Conjure Stories my first professional publication credit. I'm delighted to have shared space with the man of color I call my Sensei in her same anthology: Steven Barnes.
Novelist, Screenwriter, and Handseller-Supreme, Resa Nelson, first met me back in the 90's through Spitfire. Unbeknownst to me, Resa had founded the writer's critique group that I later joined along with Joanne. Resa has demonstrated to me how to stretch and try other mediums or genres in service to one's own technique.
Tom Sweeney, my favorite Big Dude, modeled action-packed, minimalist narratives for me. I met him at the above-mentioned critique group. As an engineer, Tom has a pragmatic mind. I think of him as my canary in a coal-mine. My style of writing used to be dense and required lots of processing power. If Tom was left clueless as to what's going on then I'd know my story failed.
Jack Womack and Ellen Datlow are mentioned together in their debut as Literary Papa and Faery Godmother. I'd never read the Ambient series until Clarion West and then it inspired love from then on. I am a proud owner of two hand-signed, Datlow-edited Anthologies which also propelled me into Clarion West.
I give props to CW2K1, the 2001 Clarion West class that I keep in touch with via Facebook and privately. The years are growing longer and longer between when we see one another, but the love's still there.
Jeff Hecht has to be acknowledged because he started my love affair with used Macs. He sold me my my first Apple computer after members of writing group complained about reading my blotted and fading typewritten manuscripts. Her Tangh-i-ness somewhat entered the brave new computing age!
The case of Lewis Gannett is an example of admiration pursued to a fond extreme. I read a gay Gothic novel called The Living One, wrote an unpublished homage of sorts, then felt duty-bound to locate its author in my hometown. Curious, no?
Lastly, Agnes Novak, ma âme soeur et mon âme frére, David Mynott, also receive mention as a pair. I met them both during my wild years at Mass Art. I once thought I'd be an accomplished painter. Agnes lead Spitfire and David managed the gallery during our shows at the Piano Factory. They are two of my very, very oldest friends. They never blinked when I switched mediums either.
And so, I close my humble and heartfelt thank you to all my backup. Her Tangh-i-ness welcomes new applicants as well. Tobias Buckell and Catherine Lundoff already made the cut. If I forgot somebody, I'm sure I'll hear about it on FB.
Peace...we can never have enough of that either.
Her Tangh-i-ness
I grew up in a housing project in Boston. No, it wasn't always rough. But sometimes, just stepping out of your door meant heading into some kind of confrontation, so you'd probably avoid the struggle if you had reliable backup. I'd occasionally get into scraps when I walked alone, therefore, I've come to appreciate having somebody at my back so I get on with taking care of business.
Writing can be like a war. It's a war with laziness, with doubt, and with the internalized naysayers who range from the Highschool English teacher to a form rejection letter. Damn straight, I need me some backup to deal with all that.
So, I got me a posse. I'm dating myself by referring to the Old School lingo for my backup. They range in age, ethnic background, gender, sexual preference, and experience. I'm taking a moment to be grateful for them because they make it easier for me to put word after word together. I'm naming them in no particular order but as they pop into memory.
First, I'd like to thank B. Findlay-Cordova, my sister, an amazing writer in her own right. We dealt with our adolescent trauma by lying around and making up stories so realistic that our Mom routinely questioned us as to whom were we talking about. B- relinquished one of our shared worlds to me so I could go about adapting it for novelization. B- took out a loan so I could go to Clarion West. B- is an excellent plotter while I suck at plotting. She understands motivation like nobody's business.
Next up, I'm going to thank the late Joanne Street Amartseff. Joanne met me through a women's creative group called Spitfire and later encouraged me to join a writer's group she belonged to. Joanne loaned me money to go to Clarion West, no questions asked. I repaid her, in full, two weeks after I returned. I felt so grateful someone helped me who wasn't even blood related.
That brings me to the also deceased Octavia Butler. The whole reason I went to Clarion West 2001 was because of the first African-descended, female science fiction writer I had learned of. Octavia was teaching that year. Ms. Butler once spoke encouragingly to me in an M.I.T, auditorium because she and Chip Delany were my literary heroes. Black people writing about space, aliens, same-sex love, and fantastic cultures? Imagine that! I still can't bring myself to friend Chip Delany on Facebook. I once misspelled his name. For shame, Jarla!
I'm going to thank The Lemurian, my youngest brother, the only family member who ever requested to be put into one of my stories. Realize that writers cannibalize their own lives all of the time. The Lemurian lovingly indulged me. The Lemurian can also tell me when I've gone overboard in upping the body count by slaying innocent characters. Now if I can ever convince the Lemurian to actually finish his Magnum Opus, I will have repaid my debt.
Creative Writing Graduate student, Lisa Vaas, started off as a landlady and evolved into a member of the family. She kindly provided housing while I penned some of my novels and stories, until I finally got a day job that would allow me to co-sign on my own home. Lisa introduced me to the world of public readings for I'd never read my work aloud before.
Jen Johnson, my voluptuous fellow Libran and fellow Spitfire, whose lush and challenging work reminds me that I'm sometimes a poetess. Maybe, someday, I'll get be as facile with the craft as she.
Marya Wolfman is the woman I insist should be my biographer. Marya participated in the same writing group with me and Joanne. Every time I submitted something for crit. Marya understood instinctively what my narrative intentions were, even if I didn't always understand them myself.
Go Marya!
I'm going to shout out at my Big Sister, Nalo Hopkinson. Nalo included me in Mojo Conjure Stories my first professional publication credit. I'm delighted to have shared space with the man of color I call my Sensei in her same anthology: Steven Barnes.
Novelist, Screenwriter, and Handseller-Supreme, Resa Nelson, first met me back in the 90's through Spitfire. Unbeknownst to me, Resa had founded the writer's critique group that I later joined along with Joanne. Resa has demonstrated to me how to stretch and try other mediums or genres in service to one's own technique.
Tom Sweeney, my favorite Big Dude, modeled action-packed, minimalist narratives for me. I met him at the above-mentioned critique group. As an engineer, Tom has a pragmatic mind. I think of him as my canary in a coal-mine. My style of writing used to be dense and required lots of processing power. If Tom was left clueless as to what's going on then I'd know my story failed.
Jack Womack and Ellen Datlow are mentioned together in their debut as Literary Papa and Faery Godmother. I'd never read the Ambient series until Clarion West and then it inspired love from then on. I am a proud owner of two hand-signed, Datlow-edited Anthologies which also propelled me into Clarion West.
I give props to CW2K1, the 2001 Clarion West class that I keep in touch with via Facebook and privately. The years are growing longer and longer between when we see one another, but the love's still there.
Jeff Hecht has to be acknowledged because he started my love affair with used Macs. He sold me my my first Apple computer after members of writing group complained about reading my blotted and fading typewritten manuscripts. Her Tangh-i-ness somewhat entered the brave new computing age!
The case of Lewis Gannett is an example of admiration pursued to a fond extreme. I read a gay Gothic novel called The Living One, wrote an unpublished homage of sorts, then felt duty-bound to locate its author in my hometown. Curious, no?
Lastly, Agnes Novak, ma âme soeur et mon âme frére, David Mynott, also receive mention as a pair. I met them both during my wild years at Mass Art. I once thought I'd be an accomplished painter. Agnes lead Spitfire and David managed the gallery during our shows at the Piano Factory. They are two of my very, very oldest friends. They never blinked when I switched mediums either.
And so, I close my humble and heartfelt thank you to all my backup. Her Tangh-i-ness welcomes new applicants as well. Tobias Buckell and Catherine Lundoff already made the cut. If I forgot somebody, I'm sure I'll hear about it on FB.
Peace...we can never have enough of that either.
Her Tangh-i-ness
Monday, February 1, 2010
Manifesting As Another Creative Art
'Lo Peoples,
I'm taking a moment to acknowledge the importance of "deliberate creation" in experiencing life the way one wants. I've successfully manifested many personal goals when I'd reached the point of faith that aligns everything around me in service to my desires. This will be another recurring theme of mine.
For example, I work with different languages in my short stories and novels. I'm not a Native speaker of any of these languages, yet I managed to find free translation help simply because I stayed focused upon my need and having it met. It's not like I sat down and created a list of all the multilingual people I knew. Rather, in the course of conversations with people, I piped up with my language help request and found there are people who were willing to provide just what I needed.
If I told you, I'd found assistance with French that would probably not raise many eyebrows. There are plenty of online resources, library books, and self-study courses and media productions for French. In my case, I'd become fascinated by Egyptian Arabic. Not just standard street speech which is polite, but also the kind of speech that would make any Native Speaker look askance before answering. I don't read Arabic either. I use transliterated English to represent the nuances of Egyptian Arabic pronunciation and phrasing.
As a genre writer who insists upon including the erotic along with the expected science fiction, fantasy, or horror flavors, surely one can appreciate the sensitivity required in approaching a translator. Egyptian Arabic is thought of as being closest to historical Arabic. I'd agonized privately over being able to find a translator who could handle the prurient nature of some of the subject matter I work with.
Nevertheless, I have been successful. I've been successful too in attracting a plastics expert when I wanted to write about the impact of sound upon plastic for plot reasons. Most recently, an ER doctor kindly pointed out loopholes in some of my medical scenarios. I didn't set an exact timeframe for these research questions to be answered, but I know that I kept mulling over them. Since I kept them in mind, it does not surprise me that sooner rather than later, I would encounter their real-time answers.
I could have made an affirmation to speak specifically to those needs, but it wasn't necessary. I use whatever "deliberate creation" technique I think will get me a desired result. The utmost important technique is to expect a positive and welcome result in the first place.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
I'm taking a moment to acknowledge the importance of "deliberate creation" in experiencing life the way one wants. I've successfully manifested many personal goals when I'd reached the point of faith that aligns everything around me in service to my desires. This will be another recurring theme of mine.
For example, I work with different languages in my short stories and novels. I'm not a Native speaker of any of these languages, yet I managed to find free translation help simply because I stayed focused upon my need and having it met. It's not like I sat down and created a list of all the multilingual people I knew. Rather, in the course of conversations with people, I piped up with my language help request and found there are people who were willing to provide just what I needed.
If I told you, I'd found assistance with French that would probably not raise many eyebrows. There are plenty of online resources, library books, and self-study courses and media productions for French. In my case, I'd become fascinated by Egyptian Arabic. Not just standard street speech which is polite, but also the kind of speech that would make any Native Speaker look askance before answering. I don't read Arabic either. I use transliterated English to represent the nuances of Egyptian Arabic pronunciation and phrasing.
As a genre writer who insists upon including the erotic along with the expected science fiction, fantasy, or horror flavors, surely one can appreciate the sensitivity required in approaching a translator. Egyptian Arabic is thought of as being closest to historical Arabic. I'd agonized privately over being able to find a translator who could handle the prurient nature of some of the subject matter I work with.
Nevertheless, I have been successful. I've been successful too in attracting a plastics expert when I wanted to write about the impact of sound upon plastic for plot reasons. Most recently, an ER doctor kindly pointed out loopholes in some of my medical scenarios. I didn't set an exact timeframe for these research questions to be answered, but I know that I kept mulling over them. Since I kept them in mind, it does not surprise me that sooner rather than later, I would encounter their real-time answers.
I could have made an affirmation to speak specifically to those needs, but it wasn't necessary. I use whatever "deliberate creation" technique I think will get me a desired result. The utmost important technique is to expect a positive and welcome result in the first place.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Hot for Werewolves
'Lo Peoples,
Don't know if I'll get into theatres to see Avatar. It's doing well in the box office without my dollars although I'll probably see it once it comes to Netflix or DVD. I am mighty curious about the upcoming remake of The Wolfman with Benecio Del Toro though.
Her Tangh-i-ness has been avoiding the Twillight craze. I have issues with idealizing a boyfriend who can potentially kill his girlfriend at whim being part of his allure. That's a dangerous thought to influence young girls. However, I admit to watching True Blood and Underworld because both of those series feature some of my favorite supernatural beings—the much reviled shapechangers—the werefolk.
Yeah, Vamps are sexy. Yawn. Gimme the primal energy of the werefolk. Raze and Lucian from Underworld, Remus Lupin from Harry Potter, and even Sam Merlotte from True Blood evoke that pheremone-laden reaction within me.
The actor David Naughton years ago convinced me that werewolves are one of the best excuses ever to get away with showing off a male body in the raw. Lon Chaney Jr. I mooned over because despite being the Wolfman, I felt convinced he still remained a gentle soul. Jack Nicholson versus James Spader has to be one of the best were-on-were battles ever. The werewolf doesn't always have to be a deranged animal that has to be put down. He or she can take that passion and channel it into something screenworthy. I am fond of a film called Skinwalkers (This isn't the Hillerman inspired title) for that reason.
If I'm not writing, it's easy for me to get out of sorts with myself. I really love pushing characters around on a computer screen, if not on paper. I'd been having a writing dry spell. It wasn't a block. I found myself greatly distracted with online dating. You see it's the huntress in me that gets the werewolf. I don't have to think about it. I know. I thought I'd have to write some more slash to further horrify male gamers who cringe at the idea of their fave videogame alter-egos boinking one another. No need, the werefolk came to my rescue.
So I started with a dream. Werewolf meets girl and boy. Werewolf bites boy so he can move in on girl. Werewolf messes around with boy. Boy likes it. Girl decides to den with both of them. Throw in French Slavery, Métissage, the time of La Révolution Française, and you have it. It might not be the greatest ménage à trois ever penned, but at least it's currently two thousand words more than I'd written before.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Don't know if I'll get into theatres to see Avatar. It's doing well in the box office without my dollars although I'll probably see it once it comes to Netflix or DVD. I am mighty curious about the upcoming remake of The Wolfman with Benecio Del Toro though.
Her Tangh-i-ness has been avoiding the Twillight craze. I have issues with idealizing a boyfriend who can potentially kill his girlfriend at whim being part of his allure. That's a dangerous thought to influence young girls. However, I admit to watching True Blood and Underworld because both of those series feature some of my favorite supernatural beings—the much reviled shapechangers—the werefolk.
Yeah, Vamps are sexy. Yawn. Gimme the primal energy of the werefolk. Raze and Lucian from Underworld, Remus Lupin from Harry Potter, and even Sam Merlotte from True Blood evoke that pheremone-laden reaction within me.
The actor David Naughton years ago convinced me that werewolves are one of the best excuses ever to get away with showing off a male body in the raw. Lon Chaney Jr. I mooned over because despite being the Wolfman, I felt convinced he still remained a gentle soul. Jack Nicholson versus James Spader has to be one of the best were-on-were battles ever. The werewolf doesn't always have to be a deranged animal that has to be put down. He or she can take that passion and channel it into something screenworthy. I am fond of a film called Skinwalkers (This isn't the Hillerman inspired title) for that reason.
If I'm not writing, it's easy for me to get out of sorts with myself. I really love pushing characters around on a computer screen, if not on paper. I'd been having a writing dry spell. It wasn't a block. I found myself greatly distracted with online dating. You see it's the huntress in me that gets the werewolf. I don't have to think about it. I know. I thought I'd have to write some more slash to further horrify male gamers who cringe at the idea of their fave videogame alter-egos boinking one another. No need, the werefolk came to my rescue.
So I started with a dream. Werewolf meets girl and boy. Werewolf bites boy so he can move in on girl. Werewolf messes around with boy. Boy likes it. Girl decides to den with both of them. Throw in French Slavery, Métissage, the time of La Révolution Française, and you have it. It might not be the greatest ménage à trois ever penned, but at least it's currently two thousand words more than I'd written before.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Why I Don't Write Yaoi
'Lo Peoples,
My dating life distracted me a bit even before Holiday season got into full swing. Just in time for New Years Resolutions, I'm back. Her Tangh-i-ness has remembered what she had been doing before hormones became involved.
First, I give props to Tobias Buckell whose blog post on Dreads inspired me to climb back onto my soapbox again. Here is the original post. He is revealing his ardent thoughts on respect for a culture not his own.
http://www.tobiasbuckell.com/2009/11/29/dreads/
Enjoy. Read his novel series where dreadlocked and Caribbean-inspired heros figure prominently.
Cultural misappropriation is a real and disrespectful phenomenon. I could start ranting about the Black contribution to Rock and Roll, but that'll get me off topic. Today, I'm talking about that particular, guy-on-guy action which originated in Japan: Yaoi. Slash fiction, of the Kirk and Spock, or Aragorn and Legolas variety, is a close American relation.
The Yaoi genre remains the reason I still collect graphic novels and DVDs to this day. Many of my other comics and manga sit crated in my basement. I've been falling in love with drawn people since back in the days of Speed Racer. (No. We did not sully our memories with the questionable movie adaptation. Even Christina Ricci's welcome presence couldn't move us. Thank you.)
Yaoi is a Japanese exploration of male/male relationships with a feminine sensibility. Without the seme pursuing the uke the plot doesn't advance, although there are stories where the uke is rather forward. I don't agree with the current marketing wisdom to include all works created by women with the same male/male relationships under Yaoi as an umbrella term. It doesn't work. Yaoi is a specific outgrowth of the social and ethnic culture it spawned from. It focuses on same-sex relationships in ways many women would appreciate on both sides of the Pacific.
Just because I am often writing about guys making love and romantic pursuing other guys (or women pursuing women), doesn't put me in the Yaoi or Yuri category. People who love Yaoi and Yuri may find a lot to their liking in my work, but I'm not following the Yaoi genre rules.
I guess I'm also launching into this speech because of that old saw about marketability and defining one's audience. I happen to be a Person of Color, and as one, I'm very sensitive to the idea of removing something from it's cultural context and completely obliterating any sense of acknowledgment of that something's origin.
Yeah, I read a lot of Yaoi. I bow down to Sensei-gata: Mika Sadhiro, Ayano Yamane, Miya Ousaka, Moto Hagio, Yuuka Nitta, Kazuma Kodaka, Kai Nanase, Kiriko Higashizato, Kasuza Takashima, Megumu Minami, Yuzuha Ougi, Yayoi Neko, You Higuri, Hirotaka Kisaragi and Duo Brand. What these Sensei-gata do is wonderful.
I like to think they steep their stories in the same broth that my own stories simmer within. We are just different flavors of a particularly human experience.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-Ness
My dating life distracted me a bit even before Holiday season got into full swing. Just in time for New Years Resolutions, I'm back. Her Tangh-i-ness has remembered what she had been doing before hormones became involved.
First, I give props to Tobias Buckell whose blog post on Dreads inspired me to climb back onto my soapbox again. Here is the original post. He is revealing his ardent thoughts on respect for a culture not his own.
http://www.tobiasbuckell.com/2009/11/29/dreads/Enjoy. Read his novel series where dreadlocked and Caribbean-inspired heros figure prominently.
Cultural misappropriation is a real and disrespectful phenomenon. I could start ranting about the Black contribution to Rock and Roll, but that'll get me off topic. Today, I'm talking about that particular, guy-on-guy action which originated in Japan: Yaoi. Slash fiction, of the Kirk and Spock, or Aragorn and Legolas variety, is a close American relation.
The Yaoi genre remains the reason I still collect graphic novels and DVDs to this day. Many of my other comics and manga sit crated in my basement. I've been falling in love with drawn people since back in the days of Speed Racer. (No. We did not sully our memories with the questionable movie adaptation. Even Christina Ricci's welcome presence couldn't move us. Thank you.)
Yaoi is a Japanese exploration of male/male relationships with a feminine sensibility. Without the seme pursuing the uke the plot doesn't advance, although there are stories where the uke is rather forward. I don't agree with the current marketing wisdom to include all works created by women with the same male/male relationships under Yaoi as an umbrella term. It doesn't work. Yaoi is a specific outgrowth of the social and ethnic culture it spawned from. It focuses on same-sex relationships in ways many women would appreciate on both sides of the Pacific.
Just because I am often writing about guys making love and romantic pursuing other guys (or women pursuing women), doesn't put me in the Yaoi or Yuri category. People who love Yaoi and Yuri may find a lot to their liking in my work, but I'm not following the Yaoi genre rules.
I guess I'm also launching into this speech because of that old saw about marketability and defining one's audience. I happen to be a Person of Color, and as one, I'm very sensitive to the idea of removing something from it's cultural context and completely obliterating any sense of acknowledgment of that something's origin.
Yeah, I read a lot of Yaoi. I bow down to Sensei-gata: Mika Sadhiro, Ayano Yamane, Miya Ousaka, Moto Hagio, Yuuka Nitta, Kazuma Kodaka, Kai Nanase, Kiriko Higashizato, Kasuza Takashima, Megumu Minami, Yuzuha Ougi, Yayoi Neko, You Higuri, Hirotaka Kisaragi and Duo Brand. What these Sensei-gata do is wonderful.
I like to think they steep their stories in the same broth that my own stories simmer within. We are just different flavors of a particularly human experience.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-Ness
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Book Review: Remastering Jerna
October 23, 2009
Remastering Jerna
Ann Somerville
P.D. Publishing, Inc.
©2009
'Lo Peoples,
Remastering Jerna is a work of speculative fiction. Kinky and polyamorous people need folktales just like other social groups. It's much more fun for all those involved if we just agree on that point.
I've had years of practice falling for imaginary people.
But then, that's the whole charm of reading fiction isn't it? To me a successful piece of fiction introduces me to a character I'd like to meet. Even rarer is to find a character I'd like to add to my boudoir. What I appreciate most about Jerna Setiq is the dignity he brings to being a male submissive. In a testosterone-driven society, as particularly evidenced in my native States, being a vulnerable man more often earns one unkind names and sneers than being elevated to a literary culturehero.
Shall we say Remastering Jerna reads like Beauty and the Beast meets When Someone You Love is Kinky? Doesn't make the picture clear enough for you? We shall try again. Within the first seventeen pages, Jerna's life as a happily married teacher is wrenched asunder by a sexually precocious student. Dramatic irony lies in the fact Jerna had actually tried to protect the boy from an abusive situation before the tables were turned upon him. Jerna prefers to sacrifice his own good name to safeguard a former lover involved with the student. His own society brands Jerna a pedophile which he is not. He must divorce his beloved wife lest she lose her children.
The prison scenes had their intended chilling effect with Jerna's matter-of-fact exploitation. They prepare the reader subtly for the difference between willing submission founded upon trust that later occurs in the story. Jerna trades his nightmarish prison-detail for whoredom. Imagine the choice between starvation, gang-rape, and being used as disposable labor and white slavery. Throughout his ordeal, Jerna never loses his penchant for kindness towards others. It earns him the affection and respect of fellow sex workers, a doctor, an older client, and a male Dom who requires training himself.
Some might feel the conciliatory ending where Jerna is eventually reunited with wife and children and yet maintains the homosexual relationship he formed with a male Dom incredible. But isn't that the really juicy thing about folktales—when they end with love involved for all?
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Note: This copy of Remastering Jerna was acquired in an author-run contest. The reviewer is quite ecstatic that she won it.
Remastering Jerna
Ann Somerville
P.D. Publishing, Inc.
©2009
'Lo Peoples,
Remastering Jerna is a work of speculative fiction. Kinky and polyamorous people need folktales just like other social groups. It's much more fun for all those involved if we just agree on that point.
I've had years of practice falling for imaginary people.
But then, that's the whole charm of reading fiction isn't it? To me a successful piece of fiction introduces me to a character I'd like to meet. Even rarer is to find a character I'd like to add to my boudoir. What I appreciate most about Jerna Setiq is the dignity he brings to being a male submissive. In a testosterone-driven society, as particularly evidenced in my native States, being a vulnerable man more often earns one unkind names and sneers than being elevated to a literary culturehero.
Shall we say Remastering Jerna reads like Beauty and the Beast meets When Someone You Love is Kinky? Doesn't make the picture clear enough for you? We shall try again. Within the first seventeen pages, Jerna's life as a happily married teacher is wrenched asunder by a sexually precocious student. Dramatic irony lies in the fact Jerna had actually tried to protect the boy from an abusive situation before the tables were turned upon him. Jerna prefers to sacrifice his own good name to safeguard a former lover involved with the student. His own society brands Jerna a pedophile which he is not. He must divorce his beloved wife lest she lose her children.
The prison scenes had their intended chilling effect with Jerna's matter-of-fact exploitation. They prepare the reader subtly for the difference between willing submission founded upon trust that later occurs in the story. Jerna trades his nightmarish prison-detail for whoredom. Imagine the choice between starvation, gang-rape, and being used as disposable labor and white slavery. Throughout his ordeal, Jerna never loses his penchant for kindness towards others. It earns him the affection and respect of fellow sex workers, a doctor, an older client, and a male Dom who requires training himself.
Some might feel the conciliatory ending where Jerna is eventually reunited with wife and children and yet maintains the homosexual relationship he formed with a male Dom incredible. But isn't that the really juicy thing about folktales—when they end with love involved for all?
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
Note: This copy of Remastering Jerna was acquired in an author-run contest. The reviewer is quite ecstatic that she won it.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Squirrel Saga
Thursday the 22nd, I trekked on foot from Readville Commuter Rail Station from West Milton Street, Hyde Park to Milton Street in Dedham to a vet who handles rehabbing squirrels.
Maybe I should back up a little.
I live with people who have a soft spot for animals. But I get the tough jobs like catching bats, wolf spiders, and house centipedes and taking them outside. Fieldmice are cute and all but not in my home.
So my brother, the Lemurian, calls me on my cellphone last Friday to announce he's coming back with a squirrel in a box. We have already had my sister spring a wounded pigeon upon us a couple a of weeks ago. The Animal Rescue League kindly took the pigeon off our hands although there wasn't a happy ending to that story.
This is a household of five cats, none of which are mine, although all the cats seem to love me. I interpret cat pretty well except if I am dealing with a sealpoint Siamese. My best animal language is reptile though. Water dragons, Tegus, and Nile monitors...well we have this thing.... Cats and reptiles don't mix however so I live without my scaly spirit animals.
Once the squirrel arrives at the house, my brother sets it up in the larger of two kitty carriers. It has banana chips and sunflower seeds from a friend of his who was the first to discover the human dependent squirrel. This little guy will sit on just about anyone's shoulder, eat nuts, and poop. It will hold up its hands to be picked up if you set it on the ground just like any human kid. Totally, unsquirrel-like. This is worrisome.
I am slightly impressed because the squirrel is young enough to lay claim to human kryptonite. That it is has big, black, beady eyes. It runs to the cage door to investigate if you speak to it and then it burrows happily in all the shredded toilet paper atop the newspaper and goes to sleep.
My brother calls the Animal Rescue League to report the squirrel needs intervention. It has no fear of humans. It tries to sneak into human-inhabited buildings where there's warmth and food. My sister worries that the squirrel will die a premature death if it's just released without any intervention. Not everyone will take pity on a wild animal.
The squirrel spent the weekend. Meanwhile, we were trying to get someone from the Animal Rescue League to take the squirrel. ARL took the pigeon and they are listed as Wildlife Rehabilator when I searched Google.™ It's a little harder to get this to happen with the squirrel. I let my brother call ARL and he gets some information about a Wildlife Rehabilitator in Weymouth. We can't get to Weymouth w/out a car. No dice.We learn ARL aren't rehabbers themselves. The Animal Rescue League will transport the squirrel to a Rehabber's though. There's a lot of demand for their services so they aren't sure when it will happen.
Meanwhile, The squirrel spends the weekend with us. It amuses itself by overturning its water tray and soaking the newspaper. The cats are trying to sneak into my brother's bedroom so they can check out the intruder. One cat is declawed so he's not as much of threat but the others are. The squirrel gets to run around in the bathroom while my brother cleans the cage. I have no idea how to sex a squirrel although my brother thinks that it's a girl because of the visible teat. My sister has no opinion. That time of the month arrives and I get irritated by the whole affair.
Monday comes and we haven't lined up a place we can get the squirrel to. Naturally, the squirrel is bored with it's spacious quarters. The bathroom is the one room where anyone has a hope of catching it and putting it back into the kitty carrier. It also has lockable door to keep the cats from joining in the fun. I am crankier and crankier. My brother is bonding with the squirrel and taking pictures. My sister is concerned that the squirrel gets the help it needs.
Now I have to call ARL. I email too just to cover all the bases. I am PMS-ing something horrible. A very patient female receptionist at the Boston office advises me that there's a Wildlife Rehabber in Dedham that ARL uses. Hallelujah! I can get to Dedham. I call the spot and I'm told I can bring the squirrel tomorrow when the vet is there. After a friendly discussion with the ARL Dedham, I decide we can keep the squirrel another night rather than impose upon Dispatch.
So Thursday, me and squirrel board and Route 32 bus and head onto our adventure. I have transferred our guest to the smaller kitty carrier and provided a farewell snack of almonds and cashews.
I am STILL cranky.
The squirrel does not say thank you or goodbye.
I sign surrender papers.
The vet comes out and explains the process of rehabbing where the squirrel gets to live outside where there are other squirrels running around free and get re-acclimated to behaving like a squirrel again. We are free to call in a week to check the squirrel's progress. My brother and sister can make the call. I am done.
I trudge back down Milton street with an empty kitty carrier, a lighter heart, and a lone hawk circles overhead. That's gotta be a sign the Universe is pleased with me. I did the right thing.
Peace,
Her Tangh-i-ness
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