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Tag Archives: Rants

It Does Happen Here.

In the interest of my readers (All one of you) the following may contain triggers for various fucked up shit. If you have experienced some fucked up shit, you might want to skip this drunken word slurry in favor of something more pleasant. (YouTube has some great cat videos.)

Today, Gwen and friends had to go to sexual assault training. This resulted in thirty males age 20-30 snickering through a video about a girl who was assaulted by a friend, and how it destroyed her life. Now, your auntie Gwen is a hard ass, but her girl Pip isn’t. Pip spent the rest of the day trying desperately not to break down crying at work while assholes made jokes and an array of insensitive remarks (Personal favorite was our boss reading that 1-in-4 females will be sexually assaulted, and quipping that since there were four females present, we were screwed. Jerks.).

This (And copious amounts of rum) have made me consider the issue of rape in fiction. Because I (And Pip) write some seriously fucked up shit. Pip’s is for therapy, but why do I do it? Why read comic books, with their long-standing tradition of ‘Girl-In-Fridge’? George R.R. Martin’s Song of Fire and Ice, with more rape per square foot than murder? Anything Stephen King has written in the last five years or so?

Why is there so much sexual assault in our make-believe?

I can’t speak for everyone. I know there are people (male and female) for whom rape is a fetish. But that’s a fantasy of rape, no more real than Saturday morning cartoons. It’s for pretend. And while those people make Auntie Gwen very uncomfortable, they don’t explain the issue. They might be the readers, but they can’t all be the writers, because I don’t fantasize about getting raped (Living with Pip, I have to be careful saying that word).

So why, Gwen asked the empty stage. Why write about something that makes me so uncomfortable? Why probe at your own wounds? Why display them for others to see? Why would you do something that hurts that much?

And there (And at the bottom of the glass) is the answer I was seeking. The reason that we look into the scaberous, pustulent face of our own nightmares is because it hurts. Because it’s fucked up, because it makes us cringe and turn away. Not to stare at the freaks, but because the only way to master our fears is to strip them bare and chase them through the streets, howling obscenities. Things hiding in the dark are terrifying- a gargoyle dragged into the light begins to wither and die, squealing and thrashing.

Don’t look away, Gentle Reader. Don’t pretend this isn’t happening. Don’t pretend that you don’t know someone who has been sexually assaulted- you do. Don’t pretend that you don’t know someone who has committed sexual assault- you do.

 

One in four women and one in six men with report being sexually assaulted this year.

One in twenty males will commit sexual assault this year.

 

Don’t look away.

 

Things Which Are Surprisingly Hard

Firstly, trying to write in someone else’s voice. I’ve been slowly chipping away at the next installment of Z-day, and it is very difficult for me to stay true to Pip’s protagonist- an introvert who speaks in passive tense and dreads being the center of attention. Pip is helping (By which I mean making it worse), but still it requires a painful amount of thought to remove myself from the throat grabbing heroines I prefer to see such an action-packed series through the eyes of someone who wants desperately to be a passive observer.

Secondly, trying to write ANYTHING AT ALL. Don’t tell her, but Pip is giving me a serious crutch in the form of her erratic zombie serial. I don’t think I could get my shit together enough for SRS WRITR STUF right now. Mostly I jut want to pull the blankets over my head and drink myself blind, deaf and dumb. Or at least more cold tolerant- the heaters are broken and I’m sleeping in multiple hoodies.

I think that’s enough of me bitching for today- drop a line if you want some personalized vitriol.

NANOWRIMO, or Why I Hate November Now

I know, I know: the only people who hate Nanowrimo and its 30-day long writing frolic are snobs who thing noveling should belong to the few, the proud, the inky. Only bitter mouthed old biddies would piss on the parade by not wanting to be part of the party!

Well, hold still, it’s hard to piss on you when you’re dancing around.

I think that the concept of Nano is a good one: an abbreviated visit to the shores of a distant and undeniably exotic land. And I don’t hate the tourists for coming to my island, buying crappy plastic knickknacks, leaving trash everywhere and banging all the native girls. My problem is that Disney went and bought the island next door, and what was once a cheery if annoying tourist season has become an unbearable slog through carnival rides, gift shops, and $12 hotdogs.

I don’t write for a living, and I doubt I will ever feel comfortable attempting to do so. Auntie Gwen has done the starving artist thing before, and as much as she hates her crap job it is better than the alternative. Now, those of you who do are rock stars, and well deserving of your accolades. Since I don’t use my word juice to pay the rent and put food on the table, many people out there label me a hobbyist and a dilettante, and they are welcome to do so. (And anyone who wants to do so to my face is invited to join me in the Thunderdome. Different rant.)

BUT.

BUT.

During the month of November, every shambling derelict of a human being who can gum a few words (Not the vaunted 50k, but any gathering of squiggles that resembles sentences) becomes a fragment of an army of someday novelists, all suddenly adding their static to the atmosphere in an obsene riot of postapocalyptic scenes as the casual residents of Authorland flee the oncoming hordes.

Perhaps the reason the better armored members of our island don’t like it is because of the sudden competition, or because they see writing as a holy calling defiled by laypersons. Perhaps they see these visitors as an invading force, the united Workaholics, TV Addicts, and Guitar Hero Junkies converging into an Axis of Awful. Perhaps it is part of some code that I, as a lowly Unpublished Whoever, am not allowed to see because I haven’t paid the mothership a jillion dollars and my firstborn child. Perhaps it is something only the elite can know, that only those who have made the financially hilarious decision to live on what dreams I can sell will ever understand.

I just want my Twitter feed to stop being the ALL WORD COUNT ALL THE TIME! feed.