So, the fine folks over at the Grim Tidings podcast invited me to the rambling round table, and we had a delightful chat.
The Grim Tidings Podcast with Deborah A. Wolf
We talked about the writing process, getting published, controversies in popular fantasy, and weiners.
We talked a lot about weiners.
Thanks for having me over, guys, I had a great time!
Jai tu wai,
Debi
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.Chuck Wendig’s blog post on defending the inclusion of *that rape scene* is spot on, and much more gentlemanly than my own response, which is a knee to the face. Because, you know, knee-jerk feminist alarmists
Chuck Wendig’s Gentlemanly Post: YOUR DEFENSE OF THAT RAPE SCENE MAKES YOU SOUND KINDA GROSS
“You’re just mad because a character you like had a bad day!”
The backlash isn’t about the use of rape in a single scene in a single episode of a single show, any more than the Ferguson riots were about a single incident of police brutality. It’s about a pattern of using rape scenes as a go-to plot device. It’s not about “Oh no, Sansa got raped!” so much as “Seriously, another rape? Can’t you show us anything else?”
Also, I don’t like Sansa. I find her vapid.
Also, being raped is not like stubbing a toe, so let’s not treat it in such a cavalier manner.
“Oh, but they lopped Theon’s dick off!”
Yes, and if they had also lopped off the weiners of Robert, Ned, Littlefinger, Jaime, Tyrion, Sam, and the Hound, you’d probably think that was excessive. You’d start wondering whether the writers hated men or something…or maybe they just like to watch weiner-lopping.
“Historical accuracy! Women got raped!”
If you’re going for historical accuracy in a medieval setting, you should have fewer full sets of even white teeth. Perhaps instead of rape, you should have half your cast die of typhus. But that would feel odd, wouldn’t it? Having the same thing happen over and over again to a bunch of different characters, for no apparent reason?
Also, this is fiction, stupid. Anything that happens in a fictional world is a choice made by that world’s creator or creators…unless Annie Wilkes is standing over you with a mallet. And I’m thinking that if Annie Wilkes was standing over you with a mallet, you’d find something besides rape to write about.
“They burned a lot of people alive, too. Why aren’t you yelling about that?”
True, they have burned a lot of people alive in this particular show. And I’m sure that if a significant percentage of the show’s intended audience–you know, people–had suffered the experience of being burned alive, they might find the minimization and normalization of their experience traumatic.
But I’m not just talking about this show.
Plus, this argument really makes you look like an asshole. I’m not a proctologist, so I don’t have to deal with assholes.
“But the scene shows that Theon…”
Stop. Stop right there. If you want man-pain, take off your cup and come spar with me.
Entertainment is neither created nor enjoyed in a vaccuum, and if you don’t understand that rape in popular culture and rape culture and rape in real life are related, then you are THICK IN THE GODDAMN HEAD and unlikely to be cured even by a knee to the face.
Maybe.
Maybe instead of me explaining–again–why I don’t enjoy watching a woman get raped in three episodes out of four in a show I otherwise really like, you should explain to me why you *do* enjoy it.
Think about it, eh?
Jai tu wai
Debi
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.Sharing a short excerpt from today’s worldbuilding exercise: I’m writing a concise history of Atualon.
The Wyvern’s Rebellion
Solarus ap Serpentus ne Atu, during a visit to the capital city of Khanbul, abducts the young Imperial Princess Zhaolin and installs her as his Consort. Emperor Pu Yet Sin seds his fifteen-year-old son Ghanzhi as an Imperial envoy to Atualon to secure her release or, failing that, demand an Imperial dowry and instatement of Zhaolin as Sa Atu. Ghangi, against his father’s explicit orders, demands his sister’s immediate and unconditional return, but Serpentus laughs in his face and tosses the Imperial Prince into the dungeons of Atukos.
When the Emperor learns of his son’s disobedience he disowns the boy and refuse to pursue the matter further. Imperial Prince Tiachu is named Heir and immediately challenges his father to mortal combat, which he wins. Emperor Tiachu then raises an army and sends it west to Atualon.
The Matreons of Atualon, fearing war, demand that the Imperial Prince and Princess be returned immediately to Sindan, and reparations paid as well. But Solarus has already defiled the girl and it is reported that the boy prince has taken wetlung and is not expected to live. The Matreons are divided in their responses to this outrage; some demand that Solarus be stricken from the line of succession, others that he be allowed to succeed his father but required to install the girl as Issa Atu and pay reparations to the new Emperor. When Serpentus refuses to negotiate with the Matreons, the Matreons return to their Houses and take up the matter with their Patreons.
Several of the Houses issue a Denuntiatio, or formal intent to remove House Serpentus from the throne. Serpentus declares all titles and lands belonging to the families whose Patreons have signed the Denuntiatio forfeit. Houses Ursos, Equos, Corvos, and Wyvernos raise the standard of rebellion.
And that’s all I’m going to tell you, for now.
Jai tu wai!
Debi
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.Introducing SPLIT FEATHER, a Siggy Alexie book:
Siggy J. Alexie is a young woman of mixed heritage living in Bearpaw, Michigan. Given up for adoption as a child, abandoned by her adoptive parents as a hopelessly troubled teenager, Siggy struggles to figure out who she is, where she belongs, and how to blend in with ‘normal’ folks. But soon after a botched DNA test, Siggy receives a mysterious package, and when she opens it up all Hell breaks loose…
…literally.
Stay tuned for updates.
Jai tu wai,
Debi
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.I belong to a very few Facebook groups; one of my favorite is Grimdark Fiction Readers and Writers. I enjoy gritty tales with morally ambiguous characters; GRR Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire,of course, Mark Lawrence’s Broken Empire. I write a little bit of it, myself.
Joe Abercrombie’s name is mentioned in that group so many times that I began to feel a bit remiss in not having read any of his books, so I broke open my trusty old Kindle and bought The Blade Itself.
Holy shit, can this guy write.
I loved his characters; I did start feeling a bit of female rage brewing at his all-male cast until about a third of the way into the book, when he introduced a thoroughly enjoyable female POV character. I would have liked to see more women represented, because it’s an awesome sandbox full of awesome toys and girls like to play too. But I loved his cast, each and every one of them, I hated the bad guys and I hated the good guys sometimes as well. Abercrombie is a master at presenting a diverse cast of characters, each with their own voice and story.
His worldbuilding is seamless. I’d hate to live there, but I love reading about it.
And as for his storytelling…again, holy shit. Abercrombie weaves a tale so subtly and urgently that your coffee will sit at your elbow and get cold, your phone calls will go unanswered, and you will occasionally forget to breathe.
And it only gets better.
Why are you still here? Go forth and read!
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.My kids’ school doesn’t have a library, and I think this is a great shame. Brick-and-mortar book houses–libraries, bookstores–are so important to children. How else are they to stumble across Dickens, Twain, Kierkegaard, or The Three Investigators than by wandering alone and unshepherded through stacks and shelves and piles of wonderful, musty, magical old books? Shall they partake only of the thin and sugary buffet of today’s best hits as determined by someone else’s algorithm?
I worry for the children who will never accidentally pick up The Secret of Skeleton Island, or Big Red, or Moby Dick. Especially with the fearfulness that some educators are showing towards books…as if Huck Finn is going to crawl out from between the pages and lead our children on a lawsuit-begging rampage. As if Hermione will encourage the young to pursue the dark arts instead of finishing their homework.
Do you remember combing through the obscure offerings of a library or used bookstore, and finding gems among the slag? Finding new voices, new opinions, new stories that enhanced and added to your worldview? What are some of the things you discovered that you never would have found had you been clicking through the advertisements of a digital marketplace?
Deborah A. Wolf is a weaver of tales, a lifelong student of pretty much everything, and sworn to slay the dreaded Grammarwocky.
Is there a book in you?
Many of the people I know, or meet, are aspiring writers. A lot of them are working on their book, or thinking about it, or dreaming about it, or cleaning house in a desperate attempt to avoid THE BOOK. Seriously, everyone I meet seems to think they have a book in them. And some of them really do:
Do you have a book in you? This guy did!
When these folks find out that I
found the holy grailsigned with a literary agent–and not just any literary agent, mind you, but a SFF rock star–I am immediately inundated with questions. Which I do not mind at all; I’m so new to this game that my first book (sold by said rock star agent) won’t be released till next year. A very short while ago, I was one of those round-eyed aspiring writers. I’d drive down the road practicing my “Yes, I would be delighted to have you represent my book” phone conversation.It was a good thing I did that, by the way; when I first spoke to my agent by phone, I was calm and professional. The moment I hung up, however, I lost my shit. Seriously, I called my first reader to tell her the news and she didn’t even recognize my voice.
Most of the questions I hear are along the lines of:
Question #1: “Are you rich yet?”
Question #2: “How do I get an agent and sell my book?”
Answer #1: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaa *gasp* hahahahahahahahaaaa. snort. giggle. heh. Nope. I’m pleased with the advance I received from Titan Books; it was enough to replace the clutch in my old car, replace the appliances that quit working because I had money coming in, pay some bills, and buy a bottle of good whiskey. Median advances for a debut fantasy novel are in the $7k range, folks; that’s not going to buy a castle in Scotland. But it does show that my publisher has faith in my book’s potential, which makes me happy, and pays a bit of rent, which makes my landlord happy.
Answer #2: Have you finished writing your book? I know, because I’ve been you, that this is not the non-answer you really want to hear. And you’re not alone:
You want to pick up the phone, describe your awesome story to the world’s greatest agent, who was sitting by the phone hoping you’d call so he could send the gold-plated contract that’s been sitting on his desk forever just waiting for your signature. Oh, and he’s got a dozen Big 5 editors ready to bid against one another for the chance to publish your book in a special gold-plated edition bound in human skin.
I feel your pain, I really do. But that’s not how this works. No agent is going to want to represent that book if it’s still in you, covered in your guts and mucus and DNA goo. You’re going to have to get that bitch out into the fresh air, and clean the slime off so it’s all shiny and pretty. It’s going to hurt, it’s going to drive you crazy, and it’s going to take more effort and commitment and sheer cussedness than you think you can take. I gave birth four times, without drugs, to babies who weighed in at just under ten pounds each. And that was nothing compared to writing my first book.
I didn’t think I could do it.
I did it.
And you can do it, too.
Now, I have some good news for you: writing a book isn’t all talent and inspiration and serendipity. As a matter of fact, if I were to make a pie chart called Writing a Book and demonstrate the percentages of talent/inspiration/dreamy shit versus time spent banging your head on a brick wall, tenacity, tendonitis, and building your skill set as a writer, the happy-skippy-muse stuff would be a smear of whipped cream on the bottom of the pie plate. Talent and inspiration and all that are wonderful if and when you have them, but most of the work of writing a book can be accomplished by SITTING YOUR ASS DOWN AND WRITING. And your writing skills can be acquired, built upon, and honed.
The bad news? Bullshit excuses won’t get your book written, and frankly nobody wants to hear them.
RECAP:
1: If you’re human, there’s a good possibility that you want to write a book.
2: You’re not going to get an agent or sell your book until you write the damn thing.
3: You’re probably not going to get rich selling your book, but what the hell, it’s still awesome.
4: It’s possible for you to write that book you’ve been dreaming of and get it published–or publish it yourself.
5: I don’t want to hear your bullshit excuses for not finishing your book, and neither does anyone else.
For those of you who keep your ass in the chair long enough to get this thing done, I’ll be writing about how I went about finding my rock star agent, and why he agreed to work with me.
Also…as great as you think it might be to finish that book, get an agent, and get published? You’re wrong. It’s so much better than that.
Jai tu wai,
Debi
Follow on Twitter
Connect on Facebook
Visit website