#i was about to say the main good thing that came out if my girlhood was comfort with expressing myself via clothes

[sucresanguine]

not to be throwing stones but the way people talk about having a "female" childhood as a default good thing in queer spaces is bonkers. Like the amount of abuse I and many others experienced that was directly tied to that shouldn't have to be minimized as some kind of learning experience. I don't actually think suffering in one way makes you a better person for it. I'm not out here saying No One Ever Had A Happy Girlhood but for many people that shit was traumatizing and doesn't need to be put on a pretty little pedestal nor held up as something that made you necessarily more empathetic/feminist/radicalized because imo that really does carry the connotation that all those things were potentially good for you. Being someone who went through that didn't distinctly or directly make me a better feminist or ally, it made me a very very hurt person.

[tlstraveldiary]

A Weekend Full of Louis

I spent last weekend between Louisville, KY and St. Louis, Missouri. Both named after King Louies from France, though Louisville is after Louis XVI and St. Louis is after Louis IX. The main purpose of the trip was to attend the Kentucky Derby, though we made a few pit stops. A horse race, North America’s tallest monument, and what I’m counting as a new state later, here are my thoughts on the weekend.

I flew into St. Louis early Friday morning and my lovely friends, Madelynn and Alli picked me up from the airport. Madelynn is originally from right outside Louisville, but now lives in St. Louis and is the reason I came for the derby. I met her through my job, so, in addition to friends, we’re co-workers and sorority sisters. She is probably the most sociable person I have ever met, and talks to strangers with ease. She makes you feel like everything you’re saying is the most compelling thing she’s ever heard. Alli is also a friend, co-worker, sister, who flew in from San Diego for the weekend. Originally from northern California, she is incredibly put together, prepared for any situation. A spill barely has time to figure out what fabric it’s on before she pulls out a Tide pen. She has some of the most interesting lore, paired with the most beautiful hair.

We left from the airport to get some coffee, and tried out Omen Coffee Co in Midtown. I ordered the Chocolate Covered Strawberry latte which was uniquely delicious. After, we headed to Madelynn’s Cycle Bar class. If you’re in St. Louis, I highly recommend taking a spin class with Madelynn. She manages to find the perfect balance between pushing you to be your best, while also not making you feel bad about yourself if your best isn’t 100mph at the highest resistance. After class, we pretty quickly hopped in the car and headed for Louisville, knowing we’d be back to St. Louis.

What do you consider to count as having been to a state? For me it’s either leaving the airport, or getting out of the car. That’s why I’m counting Indiana as visited after last weekend, though all we did was stop at a gas station. We were hoping to snag some much needed diet cokes, but found the gas station soda fountain had been hit by a tornado and was out of commission. Luckily for the gas station, the soda fountain was the only thing hit.

The drive from St. Louis to Louisville is shockingly beautiful. The ignorant Texan in me thinks of the midwest as being entirely flat farmland, but there’s actually some rolling hills and trees. We pulled into Louisville and met up with two of Madelynn’s friends from college, Connor and Savannah, both of whom happen to also fall into the sorority sister category, at a local Thai restaurant. Then we all headed to Madelynn’s parent’s house, where they were nice enough to let us stay for the weekend, and went to bed.

The next morning was Derby Day! Madelynn’s mom made us a delicious breakfast of cinnamon rolls and mimosas, and we had the classic girlhood moment of getting ready together, listening to music and sipping drinks. I was having both a good make up and good hair day, believe it or not. After some debate, I ended up leaving my hair in it’s natural, straight state, and (shockingly) didn’t regret it. Once we were all ready and pictures had been taken, we headed to the Derby.

I’m going to do a separate post on what it was like sitting GA Infield at the Derby, but for now here’s all you need to know: it was fun, but it was exhausting. After the main race, we headed out for some much needed dinner. Leaving the Derby is not as easy as getting there. Hundreds of people leave the infield all at once, most of them needing Ubers, just like we did. We had to walk to the University of Louisville stadium before we could even hope to find a ride. Keep in mind, there are no seats in the infield, so at this point we had been standing in heels for hours, and we were exhausted and hungry. As we were walking, Connor was telling us about how her mom drives for Uber, and “wouldn’t it be so funny if we saw her?” Next thing we knew, we did see her. She was picking up two girls our age who had paid her cash to pick them up after she Ubered them there, and they were willing to let us hop in. It was nothing short of a miracle! She took us to Drake’s, where we had life-giving food.

We started with appetizers: friend pickles, soft pretzel bites, and BLT tots. The tots were life changing and I will but putting bacon, lettuce, and tomato on top of tater tots from now on. For my entree, I got mini burgers. As any meal is after you’ve been drinking all day, it was the best I’ve ever had. Even after all that, our day was not over. We originally headed to Tin Roof for drinks and dancing, but after seeing it looked dead and had an expensive cover, we switched our plans and headed to O’Shea’s. I can’t tell you if O’Shea’s is fun or not because we never made it inside. What I can tell you is that I’ve never had a queuing experience quite like that. We pulled up to find the line went for blocks, but decided to tough it out. El Nopal, the Mexican restaurant down the block was selling margaritas off the street, which we, of course, had to indulge in. We chatted and waited in line for about an hour before we decided to go ahead and head home. By the end of the day, my feet were screaming at me, but it was all worth it.

The next morning, we enjoyed brunch at Emmy Squared Pizza. I had the Becky, which was exactly what I needed. I’ve heard brunch is new for them, and I would highly recommend. Afterwards, we headed to what is apparently the best cookie shop on the USA, Please and Thank You. I, of course, had to try a chocolate chip cookie and, let me tell you, it was delicious, though I’d have to try it side by side to my beloved Levain before I could say which is better. I also ordered the butterscotch latte which was the perfect blend of sweet but not too sweet. We then checked out some local shops, namely Six Sisters Boutique, WOW - Women-Owned Wallet, and Vintage Vibe, before heading back to St. Louis.

When we arrived in St. Louis we headed straight for the Gateway Arch, as one does in St. Louis, before heading to try toasted raviolis at Mama’s On the Hill and grabbing concretes at Ted Drewes. Both were equally delicious. The next morning, Alli left on an early flight, but I had some extra time. I took another one of Madelynn’s CycleBar classes (seriously, try it out) and took myself to the St. Louis botanical gardens, which were beautiful. I originally wanted to see Degas’s ballerina statue at the St. Louis art museum, but it’s unfortunately closed on Mondays. After the gardens, I headed to the airport. I’ll make another post with my 24 hours in St. Louis itinerary, where I’ll go into more detail.

Last weekend was full of dear friends and new adventures, and was pretty perfect in my book. I’m so lucky to have a job that brought me friends like Madelynn and Alli, and to be part of an organization that has connected me with so many women, including Connor and Sav, across the nation. If you get the opportunity to have a Louis weekend for yourself, Louis XVI, Louis IX, and I definitely recommend it.

[im-just-a-random-fandom-girl]

listen, i don’t know if this will reach anyone that could maybe give some advice or perspective but honestly i just need to like talk

long discussion (rant) about gender identity and how i am very confused below the cut

so i’m a bisexual woman and do not feel any distaste of being called a woman. i love it. i love girlhood and sisterhood, even with the challenges that come with it

that being said, i have been thinking about whether i might be non-binary? or like fluid in some regard?

so the reason i’m second guessing or really having a hard time thinking about this is that i know that gender presentation and gender identity are two totally different things, and they do not have to align with traditional norms. i do dress androgynously/more masculine and feel most confident in than clothing style, but that doesn’t mean i’m non-binary. another thing i’m struggling with is that i also, as i said before, really like being a girl and the sisterhood that comes with it (albeit after unlearning some internalized misogyny and i’m-not-like-other-girls thinking)

so then, why do i think i might be non-binary? again, a few reasons.

the main reason is that i’ve always struggled with body insecurities that i now look back and think may have been more accurately described as body dysphoria. having talked to other people about their experiences with puberty, i came to realize that my experience was not the same as other people i know (and at the time, i think i knew this a bit too). i hated every single second of it, to point that even saying the word “puberty” around me would send me totally spiraling and sobbing up until the age of like 15. you can imagine the lengths my parents had to go to try and help me through it and educate me.

growing breasts was awful. i hated having to think about my chest. i hated wearing bras, but i also hated not wearing bras because then you could see my nipples/boobs more. this is still an issue i have, but i didn’t really think about it until it hit me that i sometimes go out of my way to pick an outfit i can wear a sports bra with because it compresses my chest. i also do not have a big chest in the first place! i am an A-cup, and i still feel like this

on the flip-side, though. i also hated growing body hair and still hate that to this day. i was bullied on one occasion about my leg hair when i was 8 and it has stuck with me my whole life for some bizarre reason, so it might be in part a response to that? but having body hair is just not appealing to me. i’m hispanic and have some dark facial hair and i am getting laser hair removal in december for it because it’s been such a problem for me for so long. whatever, my point about this is that i associate giving a fuck about body hair (like not wanting to have any) to be a sign that i’m not non-binary because it’s such a like “feminine” quality, while not caring about having body hair is so much more how i have seen non-binary represented

one of my more recent (like last 5 years lol) insecurities that i feel like might also be dysphoria is my hatred for my hips and a real admiration of the male build. i’m mid-size (28-30) and strongly dislike showing off any curve. when i used to wear skinny jeans (lol), i had to pair it with a long cardigan or loose shirt. now that i’ve actually developed a sense of style, i love baggy jeans. barrel jeans are my current fav. anything that makes my hip-to-leg ratio not look so pronounced makes me feel so good. perhaps a contraction is that i like tight fitting tops equally as much as a love a good baggy tee. i really envy how shirts fall on men’s bodies. when the bottom of my shirt is long enough to fall at or below my hips, it is genuinely the worst. i hate how it bunches funny. the solution is cropped tops or tucking the shirt in… but i don’t feel comfortable in crop tops and sometimes tucking the shirt is not the vibe. i just want to fall so i look like a rectangle lmao. also shorts. i want shorts to be longer and looser and look of me how they look on men. short shorts are a no for me

my preference for androgynous/masculine clothing also feels like less of a preference and more of a need? i don’t know how to describe it the right way. basically, i’ve recently come to realize that the average person’s reaction to having to wear clothing that does not match their typical gender expression would not be to sob uncontrollably or be like wanting to not leave the house or crawl out of your skin. which is what i feel like when i wear clothing that to me feels too feminine. skirts. dresses. frill. sparkle. bright colors. any like funky sleeve (i realize that is very specific). certain neck cuts of shirts, like v-neck or scoop.

although the distaste for skirts and dresses didn’t hit until high school, i’ve had the other preferences since forever. my mom loves frilly clothes and i can’t tell you how many blow-out arguments we had when i was younger about her buying me something frilly or sparkly or bright and me just screaming and arguing about how much i hated it. if she made me keep it, i would never wear it. if i was forced to wear it for like a funeral or wedding or something, i would often throw a fit.

buying a prom dress was the absolute WORST. the process induced my first panic attack, and involved crying every time i tried on a dress. my poor mom and aunt were so patient. i really could not articulate what i didn’t like about the dresses. looking back, i think that because i didn’t have a sense of my style even in my regular day-to-day yet (thank god for college) and i had never once second guessed anything related to my gender, i could not myself even understand that i just didn’t like feeling so overtly feminine. it was overwhelming.

this is not to say that i never present more femininely in my day-to-day now. i do every once in a while, usually if i’m dressing up for an event or going out. i feel like it partially might be that i don’t know how to dress up while maintaining an androgynous look, but it also doesn’t bother me for those situations. that being said, the next day i always have a far swing into masculinity. baggy cargo shorts, my tightest sports bra, and an oversized tee shirt. i had a friend tell me one time i looked like a dad when i was dressed like this the day after a night out and i actually beamed. she thought it was kind of mean and apologized but i ate that shit up.

anyway, this is what’s been going through my mind a lot the last… 2 years maybe?

i feel like questioning for so long is an indication that i may be too, but i’m like so so fearful. am i trying to be trendy? am i just a woman who likes androgyny? i don’t want to feel like a fraud using she/her and they/them pronouns. can you identify as a woman and still use they/them? isn’t that inherently not what being non-binary is? am i more gender fluid, then? i feel no strong draw to any pronouns. my only feeling is that i would rather not be referred to with he/him, and also that i like being called a woman.

anyway

i’m very confused a need help from knowledgeable queer people. i have no older queer people in my life and i just don’t know who to talk to.

[rustedhearts]

but i love him to death (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve harrington is only known for one thing around this part of town: being a low-life piece of shit. but you love him, and there's no coming back from a love as bruised as this.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ main masterlist ✶ hunger

tags: insanely toxic relationship (these people should not be together!); mention of suicide; oral (m!receiving); talk of stab wounds and other cruelty; steve is deeply deeply troubled; depraved behavior honestly; reckless behavior; actually a whole lot of knives.

“white trash dick, but i love him to death. he’s so good to me, and to nobody else, so you can fuck yourself.”

—inbred, ethel cain

rural midwest. winter, 2007.

Steve Harrington knew what a cell looked like by the time he was twelve. How to handle a switchblade, how to gut a buck, how to step on another boy’s chest and hold a lighter to his cheek until he was squealing and whining like an infant. His first trip to juvie came the day after he turned twelve. The second came at fourteen. “That Harrington kid” could’ve been stamped across his headstone.

The big house came when he was eighteen. A six month sentence spent like a small town prince in iron bars. He reappeared with a cross tattoo on his left knuckle. God’s justice, he’d say. As if God would ever grant such power to a boy the likes of him.

The second stint at twenty-one was nine months and a year probation. The inked serpent slithering the inside of his forearm served as another parting gift. By the time you came to know him at twenty-four, he was a blackened, scarred version of the boy he used to be. You never knew that bare-skinned, freckled, lanky kid his mama talked about.

You only ever knew the man with the buzzed head, and a fistful of justice.

Twenty years old and still clinging to girlhood naivety, you walked into his world thinking it would be a short trip. You thought the date at the diner with an apple pie dessert and a kiss against the truck bed would be just another diary entry. Hearts around his name and a lipstick kiss across lined paper, you wound your diary up, tucked it under your head, and waited for his call the next day.

But by the time you were twenty-two, you had bookshelves full of diaries, all branded with Steve’s name.

September 2005

Steve picked me up in his truck. It’s old and beat up. I imagined it might’ve been a nice green color back in the day, like the color of the pine trees in his backyard near the property line. He held my hand the whole way to the diner. He’s so warm and rough. You can tell he’s not like those other boys I went to high school with, all soft and lotioned and cushioned with office life. He’s a working man. He’s not afraid to get dirty.

I guess I slammed the door when we were getting out. He said: “hey, don’t slam the truck.” I thought he was joking. But he just stared at me. He kinda does that a lot. Under a set of furrowed brows, eyes all serpent like. Matches his tattoo. Something about that look makes my insides skitter around. I know it’s wrong to get a thrill out of being afraid, but I think I do.

I don’t really care that he’s been to jail. I don’t care about the talk that follows him like a fly to shit. I only care about the way he kissed me tonight. Like being devoured whole. The way he holds me makes me feel so small.

God, I think I love him.

✶ ✶

April 2006

All he ever does is yell these days. At me, at his crew, at anybody that looks his way. It’s blown past cranky and stumbled straight into crazy. Mama says she doesn’t know what I see in a “piece of shit” like him. She said if Daddy were around to see that “low life white trash I walk around with” that he’d blow his head off all over again. I think he’s turning in his grave just hearing her say that kind of stuff.

And I do hate the way Steve gets mad like that. How he yells at me for slamming the truck even when I don’t, and how he pulls me a little too hard and fucks a little too mean. But he loves me. And I love him. More than I’ve ever loved anybody. We’re getting a place together this summer. Nobody’s ever asked me to move in with them before. Hell, nobody’s ever asked me to be their girlfriend before Steve.

But Steve wants me. He wants me to be his and all his and nothing more. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Those other people just don’t know him like I do. They don’t know how sweet he can be. How on Thursday nights he brings me sunflowers. How on Fridays we rent a movie and order takeout, and he kisses me and kisses me until he’s tired. He’d do anything for me.

✶ ✶

December 2006

If Steve keeps up like this, he’ll go right back to jail. My mama said it, the sheriff said it, even Steve’s fucked up daddy said it, and that man hasn’t had a single brain cell to fry sunny-side up and eat for breakfast since Desert Storm. But anyone can tell Steve is heading down a dark road again.

He loses wads of cash, only to show up with a heap more a few days later. Things are going missing. He comes home late. Sometimes I swear his hands smell like the burn of gunfire. I try not to get too curious because I know he hates when I pry, but I can’t help it.

I just hope whatever he’s doing, he doesn’t get in over his head.

✶ ✶

August 2007

Steve and I had a terrible fight. I think that’s all we do these days. Fight and break things and scream at each other until I feel like I can’t even breathe. Sometimes I swear he’s gonna pop a vein. Sometimes I wish he would, just to watch him bleed all over the fucking house. Sometimes I hate him so much I think about killing him with my bare hands, and sometimes he says he hates me so much he wants to do the same.

But then he comes back from wherever he runs off to, softer and quieter and soaked in Menthol smoke. And he kisses me. So sweetly, like how he did outside the diner on our first date when his lips tasted like brown sugar apple and pie crust. And he traces my body with his mouth and those rough, hot-plate hands, and I feel like nothing bad has ever happened to us. Like we didn’t just smash the kitchen up, and he didn’t just break my favorite vase. Like he didn’t tell he me he fucking hated me and wished I was dead, and I didn’t just tell him he was a no good son of a bitch.

I know this can’t be good. But I love him.

✶ ✶

When winter came, the cops were knocking almost every weekend. Huffing and rolling their eyes about another noise complaint, a call for a welfare check, or more “domestic disturbance” calls. Steve would shove the door open and roll his eyes, motioning toward the familiar-faced officers leaning in the doorway scoping out the mess.

“It’s for you again, sweetheart. Wasting everyone’s time.”

And you sent them off with a promise of wellness, assuring the officers that knew all too well the kind of man “that Harrington kid” was, that you were perfectly happy.

“I didn’t call them, Steve,” you muttered, following the stomp of Steve’s work boots toward the bedroom.

He flopped down on the end of the bed, reaching for the muddied laces. “Yeah, whatever.”

The room was freezing. You only used the heat when absolutely necessary—nose about to fall off necessary. But right now, you could manage through the frigidity with one of Steve’s old flannel coats and a sweater, feet bundled in thick wool socks. You gazed down at them as you leaned in the doorway, arms crossed tight to capture heat. Steve’s huffed breaths shuddered white phantoms against the old bed quilt, colors faded and torn from time. It belonged to your grandmother.

The house you shared with Steve, tiny and rundown and something your mother pursed her lips at when she came around, sat on the edge of town. The highway was a shout away. Sometimes you hated the sound of cars whooshing and semis blaring. But when the house grew lonely on long, cold nights without Steve—the noise was all you had.

“C’mon,” you whispered, fiddling with the frayed cuff on your wrist. “Let’s just go for a drive. Clear our heads. Like we used to, you know?”

Steve set his boot on the floor, shoulders hunched over his lap. He steadied one hand on his thigh, inhaling sharply. You peeked up to watch him stare off at the wood paneled wall, fixing on the cross above your shared bed. You glanced at the matching one scrawled on his fist in black ink. Shuffling a little closer, you watched his throat bob with a steadying swallow. Your finger reached out to touch it, running down the blue vein throbbing through the side of his neck. His skin was so warm. You brushed your other hand over his head, a little sweaty from its confines in a black beanie all day. But you loved the feel of the short, wiry hair fibers against your nails. The buzzing sound it made when you scratched.

“C’mon, Steve.” You kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

You slid to your knees when you got to his throat, nose slipping through the grooves, feeling every breath he swallowed. Inhaling a highway cigarette, a whip of cold air and how it sharpened his skin, a spritz of cologne, a hint of gasoline. Hands gliding over the stiff canvas on his thighs, into the tough interior of his starched camo jacket. The outline of his pocketknife nudged your knuckles as they traveled to his ribs. You knew there was another tucked somewhere in his boot, one more in the pocket on his left calf.

The thought of his body's sharp silver blades had you trembling with hunger.

Steve eased back onto the mattress, eyes sinking closed. The utility pant zipper needed a little tug to come loose. His belt, sturdy leather recently purchased to replace one worn and cracked from wear, became a frustrating task to undo. But he didn't help you. He barely moved, stoically stagnant on the center of the quilt with shallow breaths.

Dipping your hand into the opening made by the release of his belt and zipper, your fingers closed around the length of his cock. He shuddered, a low groan echoed from his mouth with another puff of white cloud across stained ceiling tiles. His brows pinched together when you closed your lips over the pulsing head, welcoming in the warmth of his blood rushing all to one spot. The hot, wet cavern of your mouth had his hips shifting, shimmying against the bed until the springs yipped where iron rusted. They dug into your chest when you pressed into the bed, bookended by his thick, sturdy thighs against your shoulders—caging you in.

But you loved to be trapped. By his body, by his hands, by his kiss. Captured against him, knowing no other warmth but his, throbbing in your mouth.

Steve grunted and groaned like a boorish beast, fists curling and slamming into the bed as he swelled in your mouth and pushed your lips apart. And your hands roamed his thighs, nails scratching up the muddied canvas, clawing for more of him under the thin cotton of his t-shirt. The skin there was warm, too, and you sought every inch of it with greed in those wandering palms. You took special care of caressing the scar sliced across his right rib—a gash once nasty and bloody healed into something jagged and crude.

A parting gift from prison, a cellmate's final well wish.

With a sharp gasp, Steve spilled into your mouth. Hotness burst like a bad pipe, leaking down your throat and slipping past your lips onto his lap. When you had it all down, sliding its way to your stomach, you scooped your tongue over the wet spot on his crotch until it was gone.

And Steve lied there, heaving for air and squeezing his eyes closed, waiting for your final apology.

You tucked him back into his pants, zipper and belt secured, and climbed over his body on the bed. One kiss, two, three, pressed firmly over his eyes, his cheeks, his jaw. Every inch of him coated in your mouth and the aftertaste of his seed, teeth carefully scraped across his throat.

He pulled his eyes open when you were done, hazel boring into the heat of your face. His fingers smelled like the cold when they swept over your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You could feel every piece of skin breaking away from his hand, unmoisturized and overworked.

"I love you," he mused. He said it with the sugar coating of a piece of candy.

This was the sweetest he ever was.

"I love you, too."

"Let's go for that drive."

✶ ✶

He rolled the windows half down in the truck. You slipped a cigarette from the pack squished between the seats and lit the end off his, sucking in the taste of his tongue with one drag. You never knew what the true taste of Steve was like—only Menthols and whatever else lingered on him. Never him alone, never just Steve.

He rubbed warmth into your denim thigh with his wide palm, mindlessly caressing and squeezing through whitened roads. It hadn't stopped snowing for days. The roads, though recently plowed, were gritty with blue salt and rough to roll over. The truck's monstrous tires rumbled through town with the same difficulty as the little Honda chugging behind. Whatever song he had groaning on the radio sounded like gravel in a blender.

Glancing between your wind-blown cheeks and the blinding white world in the windshield, Steve silently tapped his ashes toward the snow and pulled drags with stiff lips. He licked them before tugging you by the collar of his coat, still buttoned around your body, until you toppled into his seat.

"Gimme a kiss."

You planted a sweet one on his mouth, inching away when you were done. But he kept you close, fist squeezed around the coat, chasing after your mouth with sharp teeth and tough lips. You giggled, careful of where you held your cigarette as you gave into his demands. He was driving blind now.

A few more pecks and licks and you tried again, nudging back toward your own seat near the frigid window. His hold was iron.

"Mm—Steve—"

The sound of a horn blaring had you rearing back, his grip loosened with surprise. Steve quickly veered back into the right lane, acutely missing the clip of another truck's bumper as it sped toward you in the oncoming traffic.

"Jesus, Steve!" you gasped, a cold sweat settling in your bones as the truck jostled on the snowy asphalt.

But Steve just laughed, carelessly reaching for his cigarette as it sizzled on the rubber mat near the brake pedal. You swiped your hand over your face, rubbing at the itch in your skin from the blood rush of near-death adrenaline.

"What the fuck?"

"What?" he muttered, mouthing at the butt for what was left of the cigarette.

Huffing, you squished yourself against the window and gazed out of it at the empty cornfield to your right. All it appeared as in the death season was barren land. Tufts of blanched grass poked through mounds of ice. A tire turned over on the side of the road where shattered glass exploded. The splintered wood fence of someone's farm abandoned by time. The water tower a few miles out, an unbelievable figure in the grey sky, stamped with the town name and bruised with decades of rust.

The cold that settled in your body numbed.

"What?" he pressed, tone tighter now. "You gonna fuckin' cry now? Jesus."

You swiped at your cheeks with your sleeve, ignoring the sting of broken skin where the weather broke it open. "Whatever, Steve."

His tongue clicked against the back of his teeth, withered cigarette chucked out the window. You shoved your fingers under your thighs to keep them breathing.

"I gotta make a stop."

You pressed your head to the window, ignoring the rattle of glass with every rotation of the tires and the icy chill it gave you. "Fine."

The stop was the gas station up the road from town. The first inkling of civilization in a stretch of void land, owned by a no good daddy that passed it down to a no good son. It was something of a tradition in this part of the country, you supposed. To keep businesses rotted with the cavities of crime in the family. To pass the sins of the father down to the son.

Steve whipped the truck into the lot and parked behind the ice chest, giving perfect view of the neon window and the liquor aisle.

"Can you roll the windows up while you go?" you murmured meekly, watching him reach for the ignition.

He rolled his eyes, but cranked his side up without word. He leaned over your lap to do yours, breath coated in Menthols and rage. He didn't kiss you before he pulled away, and you tried not to let the sting settle for too long.

"Stay here," he barked, the truck rocking momentarily when he stepped down.

He slammed the door, effectively trapping what semblance of heat you could manage with your own breath inside and giving you some sort of relief. Short-lived relief, of course.

Steve's hand disappeared into his camo jacket as he yanked the door open, only to come away with a blade. You straightened in the passenger seat, every nerve ending and vein boiling in anticipation for the first scream. They came, however, in muffled shouts. Shattering, smashing, the familiar sharp crack of bone on bone. You hunched your shoulders close to your ears and shut your eyes, holding your breath in your throat.

The world always stopped when Steve got in a knife fight.

It came rushing back in bleached colors and white sounds when the truck teetered violently. Steve flopped into the driver's seat, slamming the truck door with a cool ease. Peeking your eyes open, you gauged the extremity of the assault by the state of his knuckles. Swollen indigo where flesh split apart and cried red across the steering wheel. Shaking a little as they swept his hat off his head, revealing pink ears and a flushed neck. Steve wiped at his face and cleaned away the sweat.

You watched him sigh and shove the keys into the ignition, shuffling in his seat to get comfortable for the ride back. In a matter of minutes, sirens would start wailing. And Steve's wallet would sit a little thicker on the nightstand nonetheless, waiting for his return.

"Let's go home," he said, passing you a tight grin.

He kept the windows rolled up, and let them fog with the whir of heat from uncleaned vents.

These little affections, you took as I love you's.

[popstarryeyed]

my midnights song ranking, according to this sorter:

explanations below:

1. The Great War

i love the imagery, the historical references and the different florals and the overarching war metaphor, and i'm a sucker for on-the-nose production choices - like, say, using military-esque drums in a song called "the great war". and i love songs about coming through hardship to peace. it's catnip to me.

fave lyric: "my hand was the one you reached for / all throughout the great war"

2. Would've, Could've, Should've

taylor just seems so righteously pissed, and i can totally believe she's still hung up on it because that's the kind of thing that affects you years down the line. can't wait for speak now taylor's version

fave lyric: "give me back my girlhood / it was mine first"

3. Anti-Hero

is it cringe? yeah. do i relate, and is the inherent cringiness of being vulnerable about your insecurities kind of the point and the entire appeal? also yeah.

fave lyric: "sometimes, i feel like everybody is a sexy baby / and i'm a monster on the hill"

4. Bejeweled

again, i'm a sucker for on-the-nose production choices. of course it sounds twinkly! it's about ~sparkling~! i also like how it's a song about not being afraid to outshine the shitty guy you're dating. it's about the guys who feel threatened when their gilfriends make more money than them or are taller than them, and how you're not gonna put yourself down to make them feel better.

(also me and my vintage costume jewelry collection appreciate a song about being shiny. i polish up real NICE!)

fave lyrics:  "i made you my world, have you heard? / i can reclaim the land"

5. Mastermind

as an autistic person, i feel like i've had to consciously learn how to be a person, like i have put effort and planning into things that happen easily and spontaneously for other people. i'm not saying taylor is autistic but i resonate with this song for that reason.

fave lyrics: "no one wanted to play with me as a little kid / so i've been scheming like a criminal ever since / to make them love me and make it seem effortless"

6. You’re on Your Own, Kid

6-8 on this list could go in any order. i think this one came out on top bc it was kind of a slow grower for me and i wanted to rectify my initial meh impression. ultimately i really like the look at taylor's life and the pursuit of stardom and how lonely it is

7. Bigger Than The Whole Sky

a lot of songs on this album are very wordy, packed with imagery and easter eggs and references, and i appreciate that this song is just a direct and simple sad breakup song.

8. Glitch

on-the-nose production choices my beloved <3

9. High Infidelity

i imagine this is the morning after bejeweled, when she's breaking up with the guy after having a great night. it's main weakness is that it does that jam-packed thing that "bigger than the whole sky" doesn't do. i love details and imagery but when a song starts to feel like a list and not a narrative it's time to dial it back

10. Question...?

i enjoy how the chorus is this really pointed interrogation and then at the end she's like "it's just a question". the arrogance of asking if everything felt second-best after her - it really captures the resentment around unresolved relationships, how you want those answers so badly but also you hate them for leaving you wondering and have decided they probably weren't worth it. its main flaw is the same list problem as "high infidelity". which is not always a flaw, to be clear. the bridge of "death by a thousand cuts" does it well.

11. Karma

lovely and breezy sonically, but i don't really believe in karma. taylor's belief that good things will come to her and bad things will come to her enemies is far too simple for me. happy for her though.

13. Labyrinth

12. Dear Reader

listing off a bunch of advice and then giving a disclaimer not to listen to anything she says is a really funny thing to do

pretty and gentle. a little bit forgettable.

14. Midnight Rain

the lyrics and concept are so good but all the pitch-shifted vocals are distracting. it's a solid song that didn't need all the bells and whistles and i find it frustrating to listen to

15. Lavender Haze

pretty, but i've heard the "my reputation's bad but you don't care" song before. many times.

16. Maroon

"so scarlet it was maroon" "the burgundy on my t-shirt" those are 3 different shades of red taylor.

17. Hits Different

"movin' on was always easy for me to do" taylor you have a song on this album about a relationship you had over ten years ago

18. Paris

ooh me and my boyfriend don't care about the world it's like we're in a city that is part of the world

19. Snow on the Beach ft. Lana Del Rey

probably doesn't deserve to be this low but the metric i used when deciding was "which would i rather listen to?" and if i listened to this, i'd just be thinking the entire time about how lana isn't on it.

20. Sweet Nothing

i'm sure she just meant to say that her partner doesn't expect as much out of her as the world but unfortunately it ends up feeling like an anthem for those women who act like feminism ruined their lives bc they're expected to like, participate in the world and have thoughts instead of just being a housewife. all he wants from you is sweet nothing - so, for you to be pretty and empty? and you're "too soft" to deal with people asking you to take a stand on social issues? wow.

like with that line specifically she was probably just talking about the pressure on social media for her to be everything to everybody (thus, "nothing" being comforting). but i only say that because i know taylor swift and what she sings about.

i think celebrities writing songs about escaping the world with their partners can easily come off a little tone-deaf. obviously everyone needs time away from the relentless news cycle and as someone who works in a nonprofit i know people need breaks from doing social justice work, but sometimes with celebrities it can seem like they've decided to just ignore the problems of the world, because they can afford to. that's the vibe i get off this song, even though i don't think she intended it.

21. Vigilante Shit

cringe. "cat eye sharp enough to kill a man" in the year of our lord 2022? please don't. this song is so style over substance. all about how she's dressed and the general idea of revenge than an actual story about doing revenge. just listen to no body no crime or mad woman instead

[cassandra-tangled]

Cassandra Appreciation Week Day 3: Underrated

Hey guys!!! Here’s my one-shot for day 3: underrated! You’ll never believe, I actually got this one up before 12 o clock midnight, lol. 

Here’s the AO3 link

The word count is 2,222

And a brief summary is: this piece touches on Cassandra’s childhood, and especially her relationship with Queen Arianna. I’m thinking about possibly starting a side project about Cass’ childhood, even though after this week my main focus will continue to be New Beginnings. Lemme know if y’all think that’d be a good idea!

Today’s one-shot doesn’t have any sensitive content. Enjoy!

Cassandra held the tightly-rolled scroll close to her chest, and made her way through the wide, pale hallways of the castle. Her father had, once again, sent her off to the throne room with a message for the King and Queen. 

���You need to learn responsibility, Cassandra,” he’d say whenever he had a job for her, stooping down to be at eye-level and laying a hand on her shoulder. “The King and Queen are good people. They were generous enough to allow me to take you in and raise you in their castle, and one day you’ll repay that debt through servitude. For now, though, the Queen especially wants you to have a happy girlhood. That doesn’t change the fact that, come a day not too far along, you will begin to aid the other servants around the castle. You must learn how to interact with those you will soon serve. Do you understand, Cassandra?” 

Cassandra would nod her head. “Yes, Father.”

“Good.” He’d hand her the scroll, tell her to mind her behavior, and send her on her way. 

And so, she went--every time, her legs carrying her almost aimlessly along the route she’d taken so often, and her mind wandering to be anywhere other than where she physically was. Cassandra was young, but she’d understood--and detested--her place in society for as long as she could remember. Books were her best friends, and she’d often read fantastical tales of endangered princesses saved by noble knights. Although enthralled in the story for its duration, when she’d finish and close the novel, she was always left with a depressing, heavy feeling in her chest. Cassandra understood that her destiny was not to be the starring damsel in distress, nor the headlining knight in shining armor, but rather, she was relegated to the role of the servant who served the victory dinner. This simple fact of life left Cassandra with an ache to be more, a deep, unshakable yearning to surpass her station. It was a silly fantasy. She could never grow to be more than the role she was destined to, and she understood that. 

In fact, despite being a girl of just nine, Cassandra had already managed to wrap her head around many of life’s truths. She understood the implications and division of status, the importance of wealth--or lack thereof. She understood that people were greedy, cold, and selfish, and that many would do unthinkable things to get by, or even just for fun. She understood that she would have to work to earn her keep, and that she wasn’t entitled to anything. She understood that her birth parents--whoever they were--did not want her, or love her, and that she was fortunate for her father finding her and taking her in. She understood that the world was a cruel, unforgiving, harsh place and that, despite her dissatisfaction with the status she’d been born to, she was most certainly one of the luckier ones. 

Cassandra also understood that, despite all of the darkness and despair that clouded the world and her young mind, there was some light. The brightest light, for Cassandra, came in the form of Queen Arianna of Corona. The Queen was so very good to her. Not only had she allowed for Cassandra to be raised here and generously provided the necessities to facilitate her upbringing, she often treated the child to sweets or motherly pats on the head. Although she knew it could never be true, Cassandra liked to daydream of a world in which Arianna was her mother. Despite being her Queen, and despite the levels of class between them, Arianna was the closest thing Cassandra had ever had to a motherly figure who actually cared for her.

Cassandra could clearly recall the first time she met the Queen. It was the same night that she’d been found by her father. He brought her back to the castle with him, and instructed her to wait for him outside of a tall, wide set of doors. Although she didn’t quite understand what was going on, it was clear to her that it wasn’t any good.  

After he’d entered the room and shut the doors, Cassandra pressed her ears up to them, and could just barely make out some phrases and mutterings of conversation through the thick, dark wood.

“Your Highnesses, I’m sorry we couldn’t...she cut the bridge and ran...we’ll search…”

“How could you let...we trusted you...my child…”

“Frederic, stop...tried his best...our most trusted soldier…”

“I know, Arianna...forgive me…heart is broken...” 

“We’ll never...until we find her…however, we did...a child…”

“You what…”

“I humbly request your permission to...as my own…”

“Bring her…”

And, suddenly, footsteps towards the door. Cassandra jumped back and leaned up against the wall, pretending that she had never been listening in the first place. 

The door swung open, and the man that rescued her--who Cassandra would soon know as Dad--stepped out. He reached down towards her and scooped her up off the ground.

“Sweetie, some friends of mine would like to meet you. They are very important people, and something bad has just happened to them. Please, be on your best behavior.”

“Um…” Cassandra wiggled, attempting to get free. “I want Mommy.” 

“I’m sorry, dear.” The man averted his eyes from Cassandra. “You’re not going to see your mother ever again.”

Cassandra’s lip began to quiver, and tears welled in her eyes. In response, the man cradling her gave her an affectionate pat on the head.

“Don’t cry, little one,” he soothed. “I’m going to make sure you’re taken care of. There is no need to worry.”

“But, Mommy…”

“I know, but you’ll be taken care of. Please, just don’t cry when I take you in there. Okay?” 

Cassandra wrapped her arms around the man’s neck and hugged him tight. “Okay.”

She felt the movement underneath her as the two made their way into the mysterious room. Within seconds, the movement had stopped. 

“Here she is.” The man gave her a pat on the back. “Will you look up for me, sweetie?”

Slowly, Cassandra loosened her grip from the man’s neck, and shifted her gaze towards the direction that he was looking in. Her eyes met with two people sitting in huge, regal chairs--a man and a woman. They were wearing the finest clothes she had ever seen, and the room was as fancy and large as the rest of the castle, but Cassandra could tell that something was very wrong. They looked tired and defeated, their eyes puffy, and cheeks crusted with the salty residue of tears. The man was slumped forward, head in his hands and leg jumping up and down restlessly. The woman simply sat back in her chair, gazing off into the distance with a melancholy look. When her green eyes met with Cassandra’s, though, she managed a weak smile.

“Hello, dear.” The green-eyed woman then addressed her words to the man holding Cassandra. “Where did you say you found her again?”

“At the house where, er…”

The woman nodded her head. “Okay. You needn’t say more in front of such sensitive ears.”

Suddenly, the hunched over, stressed-looking man spoke. “Couldn’t you take her to an orphanage, Captain?”

“Frederic.” The woman swatted at his shoulder. “I know you’re upset, but don’t be so cruel. Look at her! She’s but an innocent babe. If the Captain wants to take her in, we should let him.” 

The man raised his gaze from the table, and when his eyes met with Cassandra’s, they softened. “Oh, you’re right, Arianna. She’s just a child.” He paused, and returned his gaze to the table. “Captain, if you wish to take the child as your ward, you may.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll get her some food and put her to sleep, and as soon as I’m finished, I’ll rejoin the search. Rest assured, my men are scouring every nook and cranny tirelessly, sir.”

“Very well.”

“Before you go,” the woman interrupted, “may I hold her?”

“If you wish, Your Majesty.”

“Please. I do.”

With that, Cassandra was placed in the lap of the green-eyed woman. Her face was grief ridden, struck with melancholy, and yet she smiled, and was tender and gentle. She reached out a hand, and stroked the child’s hair.

“Hello, dear. My name is Arianna.”

“Ar...Ar-yanna,” Cassandra repeated.

“That’s right. What’s yours?” The woman cupped Cassandra’s face in her hands. 

“Cassandra.”

“You’re a beautiful child, do you know that, Cassandra? The nice man who brought you here is going to take good care of you. You’re going to live here with him. We will make sure you are fed, clothed, have a good education, have toys to play with and books to read. Does that sound good?”

“Okay. But whaddabout Mommy?”

“Oh, dear.” The woman pulled Cassandra into an embrace, and Cassandra could feel her chest silently heaving. She spoke with pain in her voice. “It’d do you best to completely forget of that dreadful, dreadful woman.” 

Cassandra had, in fact, forgotten her mother. Who she was, her features, anything about the woman that Cass had once known was pushed deep to the recesses of her mind. From that day on, she came to know the man who had saved her as Dad, the worrisome man as King Frederic, and the sad, green-eyed woman as Queen Arianna. 

That night was the first and last time that Queen Arianna had hugged her, but to this day, the Queen was just as kind and caring towards her.

Suddenly, a voice pulled Cassandra from her thoughts. 

“Yoohoo, kid! Another scroll from the boss?”

Jostled, Cassandra looked up, and realized she had drifted so far in her memories that she’d walked right past the throne room.

“Oh. Yes.” She turned around sheepishly and made her way to the doors of the throne room. The guard who had addressed her, William, swung the door open for her.

“The Queen is in there. You know she loves your visits,” he winked.

A smile came across Cassandra’s face. “Thanks, Will.” With that, she made her way into the throne room. Arianna was, in fact, perched in her throne, apparently reviewing some court documents. Cassandra silently made her way up the long carpet, and stopped just before the stairs that led up to where Arianna was sat. She bowed towards the throne, clutching the scroll to her chest, until she was addressed by the Queen.

“Your Majesty,” Nigel, the royal advisor, interjected after a few seconds of silence. “It would appear you have a visitor.”

“Oh! Cassandra. Thank you, Nigel. Hello, dear.”

Cassandra straightened out her back and smiled. “Hello, Your Majesty. I come bearing another message from my father.”

“Oh, good. I’m sorry, I didn’t see you for a moment. Nigel, if you will?”

Silently, Nigel descended from his position next to the throne, and retrieved the scroll from Cassandra’s hands. 

“Thank you, Nigel,” Arianna smiled, as she was handed the scroll. She tucked it neatly into her lap. “I’ll get back to work in a moment. It’s been a while since your father has sent you here. You’re not getting into trouble, are you, Cassandra?”

Cassandra’s cheeks flushed red. “Oh, no, Your Majesty, I--”

Arianna let out a light chuckle. “I’m only making fun, dear. You’re a good child, that much I know. Have you been alright?”

Cassandra nodded her head. “Yes, thank you, Your Majesty. I am truly indebted to you for all that you do for me. I hope that you have been good.” 

“Oh, don’t mention it. I’m as good as I can be.” Arianna turned her attention to Nigel. “Nigel, do you know where that pesky bag of candy got to? Why don’t you give the child a treat or two?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Once more, Nigel descended the steps, and placed two pieces of neatly-wrapped candy in Cassandra’s hand.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Cassandra bowed slightly.

“You’re welcome. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” Arianna gazed at Cassandra for a moment, before glancing down at the floor. “You’re growing up so fast.” Her voice shifted, suddenly betraying a hint of sadness. “How long have you been with us now, Cassandra?”

“Almost five years,” Cassandra replied. 

“Five. That’s a long time.” Arianna paused. “How has your training with the guards been going?”

“Very well, thank you. I’ve been enjoying it a lot. I’m blessed to have such an opportunity.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” A gentle smile spread over Arianna’s face. “Well, darling, I’d love to chat for longer, but I’m a busy woman.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I’m sorry if I intruded.”

“Oh, no! Don’t be silly, you’re perfectly fine. It was good to see you, and please send your father my regards.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Cassandra.” 

With that, Arianna shifted her gaze back down towards her paperwork, and Cassandra made her way back to the halls. A heavy feeling clouded Cassandra’s head as she made her way back towards her father’s office, which doubled as her school space. She wished so deeply that she could spend more time with the Queen, that they could bond like mother and daughter. Cassandra sighed, and forced the thought to the back of her head.

No use in dreams that will never come true.

[yasbxxgie]

Why Octavia E Butler’s novels are so relevant today

It’s campaign season in the US, and a charismatic dark horse is running with the slogan ‘make America great again’. According to his opponent, he’s a demagogue; a rabble-rouser; a hypocrite. When his supporters form mobs and burn people to death, he condemns their violence “in such mild language that his people are free to hear what they want to hear”. He accuses, without grounds, whole groups of people of being rapists and drug dealers. How much of this rhetoric he actually believes and how much he spouts “just because he knows the value of dividing in order to conquer and to rule” is at once debatable, and increasingly beside the point, as he strives to return the country to a “simpler” bygone era that never actually existed.

More like this:

-        The 1968 novel that predicted today

-        The fiction that predicted space travel

-        The story of cannibalism that came true

You might think he sounds familiar – but the character in question is Texas Senator Andrew Steele Jarret, the fictional presidential candidate who storms to victory in a dystopian science-fiction novel titled Parable of the Talents. Written by Octavia E Butler, it was published in 1998, two decades before the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States.

Like much of her writing, Butler’s book was a warning about where the US and humanity in general might be heading. In some respects, we’ve beaten her to it: a sequel to 1993’s Parable of the Sower, Parable of the Talents is set in what is still the future, 2032. While its vision is extreme, there is plenty that feels within the bounds of possibility: resources are increasingly scarce, the planet is boiling, religious fundamentalism is rife, the middle classes live in walled-off enclaves. The novel’s protagonist, a black woman like the author herself, fears that Jarret’s authoritarianism will only worsen matters.

Fourteen years after her early death, Butler’s reputation is soaring. Her predictions about the direction that US politics would take, and the slogan that would help speed it there, are certainly uncanny. But that wasn’t all she foresaw. She challenged traditional gender identity, telling a story about a pregnant man in Bloodchild and envisaging shape-shifting, sex-changing characters in Wild Seed. Her interest in hybridity and the adaptation of the human race, which she explored in her Xenogenesis trilogy, anticipated non-fiction works by the likes of Yuval Noah Harari. Concerns about topics including climate change and the pharmaceutical industry resonate even more powerfully now than when she wove them into her work.

And of course, by virtue of her gender and ethnicity, she was striving to smash genre assumptions about writers – and readers – so ingrained that in 1987, her publisher still insisted on putting two white women on the jacket of her novel Dawn, whose main character is black. She also helped reshape fantasy and sci-fi, bringing to them naturalism as well as characters like herself. And when she won the prestigious MacArthur ‘genius’ grant in 1995, it was a first for any science-fiction writer.

Octavia Estelle Butler was born on 22 June 1947. Her father, a shoeshiner, died when she was very young, and she was raised by her mother, a maid, in Pasadena, California. As an only child, Butler began entertaining herself by telling stories when she was just four. Later, tall for her age and painfully shy, growing up in an era of segregation and conformity, that same storytelling urge became an escape route. She read, too, hungrily and in spite of her dyslexia. Her mother – who herself had been allowed only a scant few years of schooling – took her to get a library card, and would bring back cast-off books from the homes she cleaned.

An alternate future

Through fiction, Butler learnt to imagine an alternate future to the drab-seeming life that was envisioned for her: wife, mother, secretary. “I fantasised living impossible, but interesting lives – magical lives in which I could fly like Superman, communicate with animals, control people’s minds”, she wrote in 1999. She was 12 when she discovered science fiction, the genre that would draw her most powerfully as a writer. “It appealed to me more, even, than fantasy because it required more thought, more research into things that fascinated me,” she explained. Even as a young girl, those sources of fascination ranged from botany and palaeontology to astronomy. She wasn’t a particularly good student, she said, but she was “an avid one”.

After high school, Butler went on to graduate from Pasadena City College with an Associates of Arts degree in 1968. Throughout the 1970s, she honed her craft as a writer, finding, through a class with the Screen Writers’ Guild Open Door Program, a mentor in sci-fi veteran Harlan Ellison, and then selling her first story while attending the Clarion Science Fiction Writer’s Workshop. Supporting herself variously as a dishwasher, telemarketer and inspector at a crisp factory, she would wake at 2am to write. After five years of rejection slips, she sold her first novel, Patternmaster, in 1975, and when it was published the following year, critics praised its well-built plot and refreshingly progressive heroine. It imagines a distant future in which humanity has evolved into three distinct genetic groups, the dominant one telepathic, and introduces themes of hierarchy and community that would come to define her work. It also spawned a series, with two more books, Mind of My Mind and Survivor, following before the decade’s end.

With the $1,750 advance that Survivor earnt her, Butler took a trip east to Maryland, the setting for a novel she wanted to write about a young black woman who travels back in time to the Deep South of 19th-Century America. Having lived her entire life on the West Coast, she travelled by cross-country bus, and it was during a three-hour wait at a bus station that she wrote the first and last chapters of what would become Kindred. It was published in 1979 and remains her best-known book.

The 1980s would bring a string of awards, including two Hugos, the science-fiction awards first established in 1953. They also saw the publication of her Xenogenesis trilogy, which was spurred by talk of ‘winnable nuclear war’ during the arms race, and probes the idea that humanity’s hierarchical nature is a fatal flaw.The books also respond to debates about human genetic engineering and captive breeding programs for endangered species.

In her author photos, Butler appears a serious woman with an exceptionally penetrating gaze. At a talk she gave in Washington DC in 1991, later reported in the radical feminist periodical, Off Our Backs, she offered a fuller description of herself: “comfortably asocial – a hermit in the middle of Los Angeles – a pessimist if I’m not careful, a feminist, a black, a former Baptist, an oil-and-water combination of ambition, laziness, certainty and drive”.

That certainty and drive can be seen in papers from her archive, now housed at the Huntington Library. In 1998, some motivational notes written on the back of a ring-bound writing pad begin “I shall be a bestselling writer!” She goes on: “I will find the way to do this! So be it! See to it!” Elsewhere, she’s to be found urging herself to “tell stories filled with facts. Make people touch and taste and know. Make people feel! Feel! Feel!”

Butler died in 2006, following a fall near her home in Washington state. Though she had begun suffering from writer’s block and depression, caused in part by medication for her high blood pressure, she’d continued to teach, and in 2005, had been inducted into Chicago State University’s international black writers hall of fame. She published a novel that year, too, Fledgling, whose vampire heroine must avenge a vicious attack, and rebuild her life and family. By then, her books had been translated into 10 languages, selling more than 1 million copies altogether.

In the years since, her fanbase has only grown. It turns out that she didn’t invent the campaign slogan beloved by Trump. It was used by Ronald Reagan in his 1980 presidential campaign, and later by Bill Clinton, although later he described the phrase as a “racist dog whistle to white southerners”. Nevertheless, as Tarshia L Stanley, dean of the school of humanities, arts and sciences at St Catherine University, notes, when readers spotted during the 2016 US election that Butler had chosen the slogan for Jarret, it “jarred people into recognising that she’s been doing this work all along. She’d been trying to tell us that if we do not make changes, this is what’s going to happen. She constantly gave that message: this is the logical conclusion if we keep treading down this path. I think when people saw that phrase, it started a whole new group of people reading her work.”

Butler’s work is today the subject of fan fiction, television adaptations (there are at least two in the works), and lively attention on college campuses, where it’s read from perspectives as varied as critical race theory, Afrofuturism, black feminism, queer theory and disability studies. Stanley, who last year edited the essay collection Approaches to Teaching the Works of Octavia E Butler, is also president of a society dedicated to the author. Its membership is broad, she says, but the most gratifying surprise is how many young people Butler’s work is engaging. At the inaugural conference, there was even a panel of high-school kids.

What would Butler have made of the present political moment in the US? “I don’t think she would have been surprised”, Stanley says. She puts Butler’s ability to envisage our future down to a deep understanding of human nature – knowledge gained from having the role of outsider foisted on her in girlhood. This she backed up with research, reading journals including Scientific American, listening to lectures, travelling as far as the Amazon. For Stanley, the one lesson to take from Butler’s work is hope. “World building is huge in her canon, and so there is always hope that since we built this world, we can build another one.”

There’s a scene in Parable of the Sower when the best friend of heroine Lauren Olamina insists “Books aren’t going to save us”. Lauren replies: “Use your imagination,” telling her to search her family’s bookshelves for anything that might come in handy. “Any kind of survival information from encyclopedias, biographies, anything that helps you learn,” she goes on. "Even some fiction might be useful".

Butler’s novels are just that kind of fiction. The child who began writing as a means of escape, ended up crafting potent calls to socio-political action that seem ever more pertinent to our survival as a species.

Parable of the Sower, Parable of the Talents, and other books by Octavia Butler are published by Headline.

[fmr]

[expshared]

an extremely varied summer 2019 vis a vis annie may. let us reflect:

Dr. Stone has the biggest false start. It’s genuinely hilarious how much of a misstep the first arc is. It ditches 80% of its main cast 5 episodes in and is so, so much better for it. Senku faking his own death and sending his friends away to “spy on Tsukasa” is like sending a dog away to the farm. Anyway this show is ugly and the pacing is bad but you know what, after we arrive on Gilligan’s Island and Senku begins interacting with the people there I became reluctantly invested. The critiques I had at the beginning of the show—that the premise wanted me to believe in the Power of Science above all things and also gave me a Jojo high schooler who punches a lion so hard it dies—fell away after those things became irrelevant and it turned  into a quirky little science camp show. It’s fun like that, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to recommend it to anyone new. A huge spike in my investment came in giving Suika, the little girl with a watermelon on her head, a pair of glasses, so those are the kind of stakes we’re dealing with here in Dr. Stone.

I don’t know how Ohkubo did it the first time. He captured lightning in a bottle with Soul Eater, and a huge part of that is Maka carrying the entire series on her back. Fire Force is bad. Narratively it’s a mess that doesn’t spare a moment for the characters in its story and instead flits from one plot point to the next, and emotionally it’s empty and, to be honest? Unsettling. Studio Shaft’s finger prints are all over this series and even that can’t save it—and in some places it actively hurts it.  There’s so much dead space. Also, let’s address the elephant in the room: this show is misogynist. This show delights in making its female characters uncomfortable. Whether it’s Iris getting her clothes burned off or Tamaki’s “oops I’m accidentally sexy!” bit, it’s Bad, Folks. There’s an uncomfortably long moment where we, the audience, watch Tamaki cry, largely naked, after having her face punched in by her former idol. On a smaller note, Shinra just isn’t a strong enough character to carry the plot; his defining character traits are Smiles Weird and Kicks Things, neither of which are a personality. 

Vinland Saga thrives almost exclusively on the uniqueness of its setting. It’s a dark historical seinen and I welcome the change of tone from traditional seasonal fare. There’s something to be said about the incidental nature of Thorfinn’s presence—the narrative moves almost without him. It gives the story this larger-than-life historical backdrop. We, like Thorfinn, are just kind of along for the ride. Time marches on with or without us there to participate. Also it’s got a sick OST.

O Maidens in Your Savage Season is a show with an audience that’s hard to pin down. I mean, the audience is me, but outside of that it’s a hard sell. It’s a series penned by the divisive Mari Okada about a handful of high school girls coming to terms with sex, sexuality, and girlhood. If you turn your brain off now and stop listening you’re doing yourself a disservice because this show is bombass. It’s incisive and biting without being lewd or over the top or conservative. It tackles some heavy shit and does so with relative grace. It’s got LGBT rep. In one of its soaring moments, a pedophile is punched in the face. It also features a girl walking in on her crush beating it to train-themed porn. It’s extremely uncomfortable to watch and had my heart rate spiking. It’s anime Eighth Grade and it’s harrowing and relatable and challenging without pitting girls against each other and turning a love triangle into yet another tortured shoujo romance. It deftly handles each character’s agonizing and embarrassing struggle with adolescence. I understand why this one flew under the radar but it shouldn’t. Also, Sonezaki’s boyfriend is the smoothest boy alive and I would like any romantic confession to be at least half of what his was.

There’s a show like Wasteful Days of High School Girls every season. You know the drill—it’s a comedy about some girls in high school. Each one of them is a trope. And yet? The glee this show takes in making its cast deliver stupid punch line after stupid punchline, the surprisingly heartfelt moments that give way to absurd freefall, the single digit collective IQ of the cast? Charming and highly successful. I had a good laugh at least every other scene.  

Granbelm is a serviceable magical girl/mecha fusion that treads common ground but manages to have its own voice. In fact, the finale struck me as very engaged in a conversation with Madoka, and the penultimate episode was raw and emotional and even got me a little misty-eyed. Weird flex to say that this is a rare non-Gundam anime to have hand-drawn mecha. If dark magical girl shows are your thing, this is one of the better ones.

The continuing Fruits Basket loses its luster for me the further along I watch. This may change now that we’re getting into all new anime territory, but I couldn’t help but feel as if I just had more fun watching the 2001 anime. I still haven’t come around to Kyo and knowing what’s at the end of this long road just makes it harder. I did enjoy the two episodes each that both Hana and Ou got, and that’s certainly a plus for this new iteration.  

Carole and Tuesday petered off a little at the end, but despite the general consensus that it spent too much time on episodic adventures, I quite enjoyed it. Watanabe shows are consistently odd, offbeat passion projects of love and it is clear that C+T wanted to be a showcase of artists and musicians first and a political narrative second. I got what I came for and even if in, say, my most ideal version of this show features a little more character and a little less Mars Got Talent, I still liked what I got. Besides, soaring cast-comes-together-to-sing-the-final-song moments always get me choked up no matter what.   

Astra Lost in Space was the surprise of the season. The source material is a little-known cult favorite, but I had heard no real buzz about it at all prior to watching and was all the more impressed for it. Astra is a tight little sci-fi narrative that knows its strengths and saves its twists for when you least expect them. It’s filled with charming characters you root for and is competently directed. I had a lot of fun guessing and shooting wild speculations off while I watched. Perfect for a 12 episode adventure complete with a wholesome and warm ending.

If you haven’t checked out Kimetsu no Yaiba yet, do. Just do it. If you’ve been on the fence, just take the leap. This second cour of Demon Slayer went from “this is an enjoyable show” to “holy shit I wish I could watch every episode again for the first time and all at once”. To speak nothing of Ufotable’s absolute mastery over 3D space and the Action Scene, the source material is no slouch either. There’s such a solid backbone of character and empathy and every story featured in Demon Slayer only furthers its ultimate message of family, found and otherwise. I make no exaggeration: episode 19 is one of the most perfect episodes of anime in recent memory. It hits every beat. I watched it twice, back to back. And then after I was done with the season, I voraciously ate up the source material.  If Ufotable adapts all of the manga to the level of care and attention as this first installment, I am very confident in saying that Demon Slayer could be one of the Best.

[dr-nero-is-god]

i know why dr. nero read a tale of two cities: you’re welcome

let me assure you, you do not follow someone with an english literature degree for nothing. today i will deliver unto you some thoughts on a tale of two cities by charles dickens.

did it take me two months to read the whole book? yes. did i like it? kinda yeah. but did mark walden really pick this book for a reason? yes. yes. i promise you: it’s not just a random, old, boring book picked for the sake of being boring and old.

but before you fight me on that point, let’s all make sure we understand the story (under the cut). 

what is a tale of two cities about?

a tale of two cities (henceforth abbreviated as ATTC), in one sense, is about the triumph of family and the ability for social order to survive great evil—that is, the French Revolution—bonded with themes of great sacrifice and salvation. 

Doctor Mannette was a prisoner of the Bastille for ten years, and when he escapes he hardly knows himself. He is rescued by the love of a daughter he has never met before, Lucie, and though she is nearly an adult they form an unbreakable father-daughter bond that carries them through Lucie’s marriage and eventual motherhood. Lucie marries Charles Darnay, who, like herself and her father, is of French nationality but lives in England. Unfortunately, Charles is the son of an aristocrat, and so when he is caught in France during the revolution, he is sentenced to death. Ultimately, though, a friend of the family (Sydney) redeems himself by arriving to die in Charles’ place, and Lucie’s family sets out back to England.

in one sense, ATTC is kind of a proto-political thriller—it's asking big questions like, what is justice? how should people respond when they are oppressed? how do they respond when they are oppressed? how do families survive when injustice reigns?—in the setting of spies and political clout.

and that’s well and good, but it’s also very abstract. in the concrete, why might mark walden have picked this book, out of all the books?

we can get the simple things out of the way. it’s long. believe it or not, dickens is a great author to read aloud, because his prose is very sparkly. it’s a weird book to use to try and get a teenager to like you. all of this is a factor, sure. but i have three reasons that I think *might* have mattered to this book’s selection. 

Neither Raven nor Nero is quite so stainless as these characters, but they are likewise united by a found family relationship. Nero pulls Raven from a life of death and torture and misery—a place where she has been just as much a captive as Doctor Manette or Charles Darnay. Though they must face the possibility of death every day, Nero says, “Hey. I’ll walk with you.” As I mentioned before, ATTC is about social stability winning out against chaotic violence, which is an apt parallel to the life Nero offers Raven against that which Anastasia Furan has provided so far. Nero is the stability that helps Raven find new life, and we know it to be a good thing. 

1) Because this is very much a book about found family.

Lucie first meets her father when she is about to finish the second decade of her life. Her father is a stranger to her, and yet their connection is immediate and saving for the both of them. At the beginning of the book, the relationship they build represents the first victory of family—and the hope that they survive the end is likewise our consolation. Yet even at the end, when only the guillotine awaits Sydney, found family is in play. Sydney goes to die in Charles Darnay’s stead and finds himself in the company of a seamstress, who also does not deserve to die. They don’t know each other, and yet they find refuge in each other at their point of death: companions on the road to the next life.

Dr. Nero would never love a book if the villains were not sympathetic, if not justified, if not right. And this is one of those books where—even though the protagonists are a little too perfect to deserve anything nasty—the villains might be right. In fact, they may not be sympathetic, and yet there's the possibility that they are right. The system has to come down, people have to be ripped from their pedestals, and things have to change. The ensuing conflict is violent and unjust, and yet it's that kind of evil and firmness I can see Dr. Nero admiring. Furthermore, it is the conflict that Raven might wish to embrace as retaliation against what she has experienced at the hands of Anastasia. There is a system that Raven would be ready to tear down, and this novel offers space for that.

2) Because despite the fact that our protagonists are a family we want to see win, the antagonists are extremely easy to root for.

The villains in ATTC include the government, a man named Defarge, his wife, The Vengeance, and agents Jacques 1, 2, and 3. It is true that guillotining a lot of people without necessarily requiring evidence is pretty bad, but you can also understand why these people are angry. People have been starving. The aristocracy has absolutely abused its power. Men are indentured in hard labor, women are held captive, children are murdered, and that’s life, because aristocrats are kings. Again, I am *not* saying that everybody in the French Revolution was altogether justified, but their motivations remain valid.

Now, let’s pause. I stand by my first two reasons—these are clear elements of intertextuality between ATTC and H.I.V.E. that absolutely exist between the books. They are valid, but I would also feel comfortable saying that maybe Mark Walden didn’t have them in mind when he published Deadlock. 

However, I still stand by my assertion that he picked this book for a particular reason, and this last one is that reason:

“‘Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,’ returned madame; ‘but don’t tell me.’”

3) Because Madame Defarge is a fucking badass.

I could tell that Madame Defarge was a great character from the beginning. Though she was mainly in the background to start, she received a few flourishes of detail that indicated she was something special. Like a deathly Fate, Madame Defarge develops as the personification of the French Revolution: a violent, chaotic quasi-assassin character who is determined to rain hell down upon everyone she hates. (note: she hates the protagonists. a lot.) Madame Defarge is unfettered by constraints of family and so she is free to arm herself with a pistol and a dagger and take people’s lives into her own hands. She single-handedly leads her fellow women into the fray when the Bastille falls. She, too, is a character with whom one would not want to mess. And some of the things said about her are just FANTASTIC. 

“Of a strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class, opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without pity.”

“Lying hidden in her bosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.”

Wow, right?

What we have here is a woman who is more immovable than the elements, a primal embodiment of predatory strength, and, one might even argue, a picture of liberated femininity whose freedom is rooted as much in her body as in her weapons. 

This is something I know: Dr. Nero and Mark Walden both would notice and care a great deal about such a character. 

I shan’t make mincemeat of Walden’s personal thoughts, but I can speculate why this woman would matter to Dr. Nero. 

One, Madame Defarge is cheated of her victory. Dr. Nero would absolutely take issue with the way the madame exits the book, not least of all because he would know that she could do better. You know those books where you think the villain should have won? This is one such book.

Two, Madame Defarge parallels the violence in Anastasia Furan. This is a woman whose family has been shattered by violence, who may well deserve remuneration for what happened, who is hurt and beaten but not yet killed... and she’s also totally stuck in the past. A main theme of ATTC is that oppression will only beget violence, and likewise, Anastasia doesn’t have anything in her future but death. 

But third, and most importantly, Madame Defarge is the character with whom Raven is most likely to identify with, and the character she most needs to escape. Raven starts her story also shattered, also violent, and, most tragically, trapped in somebody else’s past. I think teenage-Raven would find Madame Defarge the most engaging character to listen to, but she is also the character she must break away from—leave behind the chaos and accept a more reliable structure in her life—to avoid being smothered by anger that will never really get anyone anywhere. 

In other words, it may be that Madame Defarge is the villain who first inspired Nero and who he hopes will inspire Raven as she reinvents herself apart from Anastasia’s chaos. Madame Defarge is a call to action.

If you’re still with me after all of that, you might be thinking, cool, but why does this matter? Who really cares about a book that got mentioned one time and nothing came of it?

I’m glad you asked.

At the end of the day, Nero and Raven’s relationship parallels the love that ATTC’s characters find when they are trapped in darkness and death, but their business parallels the grim revenge that Madame Defarge sets out to wreak upon the world—and it is the business of their enemies, as well.  

It matters because we get a more complex moral landscape with morally complex characters.

In A Tale of Two Cities, the good people are saved and the bad people do not get their revenge. Things in H.I.V.E. are not so simple. Nero and Raven share the stability of family at the same time that they long for revenge; traditional poles of “good” and “bad” occupy the same hearts at the same time. 

Why does Dr. Nero read this book to Raven? I think one way to read it is that it’s his way of saying, “We’re together in this, and I believe that you can be saved and have your revenge too. We can admire Madame Defarge, and we can do better. ” 

For Dr. Nero to read this book to Raven when nothing but a story can save her, A Tale of Two Cities is a promise that there is room for badass assassin ladies in literature and in life. Raven’s story doesn’t close with her first failure.

For those of us who live outside the pages of the book, the presence of this book means something for us as well. If you, too, can hold an assassin in your heart, then you are also participating in the work of salvation. When you listen to a story and get to know someone, you pluck them from obscurity and bring them into the fold—if even the most chaotic and violent of us can belong, then anyone can. 

Raven can. 

Nero can. 

And so can you.

[marjaystuff]

Elise Cooper interviews Kristin Hannah

The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah will give the famous novel The Grapes of Wrath a run for its money. ��As with her other books, this one also portrays a woman who overcomes something in her life and turns out stronger in the end. It is a complex, intricate journey where the main protagonist comes into her own, overcoming the large number of obstacles thrown her way.

Set during the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, and the mid-west migration to California the book emphasizes the crime of inhumanity to one’s fellow citizen. It shows how nature, literally and figuratively, can be so cruel. Elsa’s story really begins after meeting Rafe. She feels unwanted and unloved by her rich family and decides one night to go on the town in a red dress.  Unfortunately, she mistakes his lust for love, becomes pregnant, and is disowned by her family.  Rafe’s family takes her in and forces him to marry her. These new parents become the family she never really had. But hard times hit this farming family, and instead of stepping up to the plate, Rafe leaves them.  

Now 1934, her youngest son Anthony has “dust pneumonia,” a then-common ailment of the Great Plains. Because of this, Elsa decides to leave her home in Lonesome Tree Texas and move to the fresh air of California. Ending up in the San Joaquin Valley, Elsa, her daughter, Loreda, and her son, trade one set of terrible circumstances for another. Work is scarce, and the locals are prejudiced against “Okies,” as migrants were known regardless of where they are from. The family settles into a camp riddled with filth on the banks of an irrigation ditch. Eventually they end up in the town of Welty, named after the owner of a large farm. She meets Jack, an idealist union organizer who wants the migrants to unite for better wages and working conditions.  Falling in love with him, Elsa becomes the migrants’ spokesperson, understanding that she has a voice of power.

This novel will tear at the reader’s heart strings. Whether the scenes during the Dust Bowl, the struggle to survive the Depression, or the challenges the migrant workers faced, people will take a journey with this compelling family. The story is about motherhood, resilience, and the strength of the human spirit. Once again Hannah has hit a home run.

Elise Cooper: Were you influenced by the Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck?

Kristin Hannah:  Obviously I read it and loved the story.  I would not say it particularly influenced me except to open me up to that era and experience.  I looked at the Dust Bowl, the Depression, and the Mid-West migration to California through a woman’s eyes. As with Steinbeck’s story so much of what we know about that era is that women many times were not in the picture.

EC:  Your books focus on a women’s perspective?

KH: I have been on this journey ever since my books Winter Garden and Home Front. I like telling stories that we think we know and eras we think we know but from the female outlook.  So often, what is learned about in history is from the male perspective with women stories lost, marginalized, and deemed less important. I wanted to show how important women are and put in this book quote by Elsa, “It was always about the men.  They seem to think it meant nothing to cook and clean and bear children.  But we worked from sunup to sundown too, toiled on wheat farms…we came to find a better life, to feed our children.  We aren’t lazy or shiftless.  We don’t want to live the way we do.”

EC: What about this particular novel?

KH:  As I traveled around talking to readers about the book, Nightingale, that dealt with the French resistance during WWII, I began to understand how much that book meant to people and the powerful emotions it invoked. Maybe because it is the story that we should have known all along, but many of us didn’t.  I wanted to show female courage, heroism, and bravery in the face of difficult and dangerous odds.  As time went on, I knew I wanted to write a novel that was just as powerful, emotional, and as important that was an American story. I wanted to look at our own history and country. For whatever reason it led me to the Dust Bowl, the Great Depression, and the migration to the west. Women throughout history have done a lot of amazing stuff.

EC:  Readers can see a lot of comparisons to today, especially with a quote in the prologue?

KH:  You must be referring to this one, “My American dream was turned into a nightmare by poverty and hardship and greed.  These past few years have been a time of things lost:  Jobs. Homes. Food.” I started this book four years ago and had no idea that it would turn out as relevant for today.  There is this sense of being a time lost.  I think there is a very strong correlation to be made now.  I think history can teach us something.  It’s a good reminder now. After reading a story like this, people can relate to how the human spirit has strength and durability with the power of family.  Looking back, it’s important to recall that we have been through hard times before in America and not only survived but thrived.  If we pull together and look towards the future, we can thrive again.  The message of America is to be brave, have courage without fear, and to be a survivor.  I think it has been this way for all of our history.  

EC:  There is also a message about divisiveness?

KH: I am certainly well aware how it is in our country now.  For me, it helps to look at the history, what it was like in the 30s, late 60s, and 70s.  These were all times of great change in America, which does not come easily when we focus on what divides us instead of what unites us.  It is important in history to see how some things continually repeat.  We should listen to the past and learn from it.  There is a discussion in the book where Elsa faces discrimination, being called “your kind.” Elsa responds, “Our kind are hardworking Americans who have hit hard times, which meant poverty, no jobs, and nowhere to turn.” After arriving in California people would not rent to her because anyone from Oklahoma, Texas, and Arkansas were looked down upon. Nothing is really that simple, cut and dry.  It was the depression and people were flooding into California who did not have jobs, money, or a place to live.

EC: The antagonist, Walty, is pure evil?

KH:  He is the villain of the novel.  He represents big industry that cares more about profits than workers.  Ultimately, he never saw how important those workers were to him and to his economic future.  

EC:  In the movie “Oklahoma” there is a song where a line is relevant to your story: “I don't say I'm no better than anybody else, But I'll be damned if I ain't jist as good!”  Farmers versus city folk?

KH:  I mostly focused on the idea of how people label other as “the other.” People who live in the city don’t understand the farmers’ plight, which can be seen throughout the novel.  The whole book is about farmers, people who make their living from the land.  They are at the hands of mother nature.  As they feed the whole world, they struggle through difficult times.  

EC:  Women characters are the essence of your story? Let’s begin by talking about Rose, her mother-in-law.

KH:  She represents the idealization of the farm wife who can do it all, working from sunup to sundown. She believes in her land and family, focusing on who she is feeding and loving.  She is always there for her family in a pinch.  

EC:  What about Elsa?

KH:  After writing 24 novels, Elsa is my favorite character ever. In the beginning she was an outsider and lonely. She had a journey from an insecure woman who believed she had no self-worth and will never be loved, to gaining enough strength to be a warrior. She finds her independent and powerful voice to help others. For me, this was so moving.  No matter how many times she was knocked down she got back up and tried again.  

EC:  How did her early upbringing affect her personality including having rheumatic fever?

KH:  Her illness was the reason her family clipped her wings, keeping her expectations low.  She had to let go of it.  She never defined herself from her illness.  Elsa says in the beginning of the book her real problem was not her illness, but that her family found her lacking because she was not pretty enough. In the end, she decided to take risks to improve her life, instead of sitting back and letting it happen.

EC:  What about the daughter, Loreda?

KH:  She represented the next generation who saw the world as a different place.  In the beginning of the story, she was an ordinary, spoiled adolescent girl going through a difficult time. She was a romantic idealist who was very passionate.  I would compare her to the Isabelle character from The Nightingale in the sense it is easier to take big risks when not responsible for anyone else’s life.  

EC:  What about Elsa’s husband, Rafe, versus her lover, Jack?

KH:  After meeting her future husband Rafe it seemed like the worst thing that could happen to Elsa, but it was actually the best thing that happened to her.  She became a wife, a mother, and part of a loving family.  Her love for Rafe was defined by a lack of love for herself. He was a weak man and a dreamer at a point when the world had no place for someone without the strength to stand up.  

Jack became the great love of Elsa’s life.  He showed her the power of passion, both physically and ideologically.  He helped her to unlock something within herself.  With his unfettered idealism he looked through a lens of what he wanted the world to be and lost focus on how dangerous the real world was. Elsa knew this from the moment she chose to be with Jack.  

EC:  It is a story of motherhood?

KH:  Yes, how women find themselves and stand up for each other during really hard times.  The strength from Rose allowed Elsa to become the woman she became. Elsa and then Loreda went through what we all go through, leaving behind girlhood and discovering who they were as people. I love this line in the story, “You are the daughter I always wanted.  Elsa replied And you are my mother. You saved me.”

EC:  The quotes at the beginning of each section?

KH:  I chose Wendell Berry because he was a poet I happen to love.  He writes about nature and the land, so I thought the quote chosen was a good connection to the Dust Bowl section.  The FDR quote was chosen because of what he did during the Great Depression, trying to pull the country together.  Cesar Chavez’s quote was perfect about workers in California.  

EC:  What about your next projects?

KH:  The Nightingale might come out on the big screen but is due out in December 2021.  Firefly Lane will be out on Netflix on February 3rd.  I am very happy with the production of both. The cast of both are wonderful.  I did read the scripts and talked to the producers throughout. I love seeing these big women stories on screen.  

THANK YOU!!

[jwmcreads]

A Map for Wrecked Girls by Jessica Taylor (★★★★✩)

contemporary | 368 pages | Dial Books | August 15, 2017 | goodreads | amazon

We sat at the edge of the ocean—my sister Henri and I—inches apart but not touching at all. We'd been so sure someone would find us by now. Emma had always orbited Henri, her fierce, magnetic queen bee of an older sister, and the two had always been best friends. Until something happened that wrecked them. I'd trusted Henri more than I'd trusted myself. Wherever she told me to go, I'd follow. Then the unthinkable occurs—a watery nightmare off the dazzling coast. The girls wash up on shore, stranded. Their only companion is Alex, a troubled boy agonizing over his own secrets. Trapped in this gorgeous hell, Emma and Alex fall together as Emma and Henri fall catastrophically apart. For the first time, I was afraid we'd die on this shore. To find their way home, the sisters must find their way back to each other. But there’s no map for this—or anything. Can they survive the unearthing of the past and the upheaval of the present?

“Nobody could hold the same place in your heart as your sister.”

Tales of survival never fail to be fascinating to me, and this was no exception. A Map for Wrecked Girls explores the relationship of two sisters through a shipwreck, flashing back to their life beforehand and what led up to a split between the girls. I really loved the exploration of sisterhood and femininity. Taylor makes girlhood into this sharp, dangerous, thing, and I adored reading about it. 

The two main characters, Emma and Henri, were great to read about--fully fleshed out teenage girls that had secrets and communication issues and fears that were irrational but made sense in the context of the story. While the book could have done without the romance, I found I didn’t mind it too much and Alex was an interesting character as well, and it was so fascinating to watch the dynamic between the three main characters grow and see how much they all came to rely on each other while keeping secrets as well. I liked the flashback sequences too--the book alternates--and though I didn’t find them quite as interesting as the scenes on the island they provided really good context for the relationship of the sisters back home and how they fell apart. 

One thing I have to say is that it does seem a tad unrealistic that they got to surviving for so long and knew how to do so many things (especially as Henri and Emma in their flashbacks were fully immersed in a completely metropolitan life - heck, a brief mention of watching reality TV would have sufficed), but I can suspend my disbelief, since the main focus was on the characters and the two sisters. This was a character exploration as much as it was a survival story, and I think it succeeded fairly well in both aspects. 

[authorstalker]

The Author Stalker Interview with Julie Buntin

Marlena is a crazy compelling, beautifully written novel about addictive friendship and addiction problems. After her parents separate, 15-year-old Cat is forced to move to a remote Michigan town with her mother, leaving her elite private high school behind. She thinks her future is over, but when she meets the girl next door, her life feels exciting for the first time ever. Marlena is everything Cat is not: pretty, gifted, charming, experienced. While Cat is exhilarated by the ways her new friendship lets her play at adulthood, she ignores the real, serious burdens that are destroying Marlena. In this interview, author Julie Buntin talks about addiction and self-destruction, the writers who have influenced her career, and the backlash that accompanies books about female friendship. 

Marlena is getting a lot of positive attention, but my one tiny concern is that it will be marketed exclusively as a coming-of-age story about female friendship. While that’s accurate, your novel is also about addiction and is the first work of fiction I’ve read about America’s opioid problem. It’s a full-blown crisis, particularly in Ohio (where I’m from) and Michigan (where you’re from). 

Post-election, the opioid epidemic is getting more media coverage, in part because many of the people affected voted for Trump. If I was a publicist, I would tap into this news trend and promote Marlena as a portrait of working class America and how it reached this point — the teenage sections of the book are set in the early 2000s during the rise of Oxycontin. 

Do you share my concern that Marlena will be pigeonholed as “women’s fiction,” or am I totally off base? Was it difficult to write about an issue that hits so close to home, and did you worry about your family and friends’ reactions to the subject matter? 

Yes and no. I wrote a novel about female friendship that mostly takes place when the two main characters are teenage girls, and if talking about it in those terms pigeonholes it, I think that has something do with a marketplace that’s still sort of uneasy with stories about girlhood being classified as literary or important. Thanks to Ferrante, in part, it feels like there’s been a shift in that thinking lately, but at the same time, even as space is being made to take these stories seriously, there’s a corresponding backlash – I’ve heard people say that now we have too many books about female friendship. That makes me feel a little crazy. Too many? Because The Girls and Girls on Fire and The Mothers and The Girls from Corona del Mar and Friendship and Animals and Swing Time and The Neapolitan Trilogy all came out within the last few years? 

How many novels have been written about infidelity? About boyhood and manhood and sports and war? And besides, all the books I listed are about so much more than the friendship that drives the plot. In marketing and descriptive copy, they often get boiled down to female friendship story, and thereby shuffled into a less literary category. Very rarely are they looked at in their larger context. A few writers get that treatment, Elena Ferrante, Zadie Smith, but you’re lucky and probably famous if you do. I guess what I’m saying is that I wish Marlena could be called women’s literature, a female friendship story, and have that be synonymous with the understanding that there’s more to the book.

For me, that “more” is addiction. It’s the thing that defines the characters, that sets the tone for the friendship, that changes the course of Marlena and Cat’s lives. I’m grateful and glad you read it that way too, and I’ll admit that I did point that out to my publicist more than once. When I started the novel, I didn’t set out to tackle the opioid crisis in the Midwest, but I did want to write about self-destruction, the thrill and attraction of drugs as an adolescent, and what might happen to the girls who go a step too far. How do we reconcile the people we are as teenagers, the things we did, with the adults we become? I wanted, even needed, to ask that question for many personal reasons and because of a few people in my life, but it was also, for fear of sounding pretentious and for lack of a better word, a literary question. What does that story look like? What shape does it take? We hear stories of recovery, but so rarely do we hear the story of muddling through a problem, of wondering whether you have one, of getting stuck and maybe not ever getting out. The arc is less clear. But it’s still a story that’s important – or I think so, obviously.  Because of my connection to some of these themes – my sister is an addict, and I lost a friend in my early twenties – I was definitely a little nervous about people mistaking this fiction for my life. So far people from my hometown have been overwhelmingly supportive, but I think it was difficult for my mom, especially, to accept that I chose to write a book about these upsetting subjects. 

This is your debut novel, and it was published to wide acclaim (A starred review comparing you to Ferrante! Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers pick! A Lorrie Moore blurb smack dab on the cover!). Can you describe Marlena’s path to publication – how long did it take to write and then to sell? As a first-time author, which moments have been the most thrilling?

I started the book on the cusp of 2011. I was in grad school, and took a stab at a novella with these characters, though none of the pages I wrote back then made it into the version of Marlena on bookstore shelves. I was working on another novel at the time, it was very autobiographical and written as like, a collage of titled prose poems. It wasn’t good. I worked on it very earnestly and very hard for years, cheating on it with the characters in Marlena, but didn’t abandon it fully until 2013, when Lorrie Moore, my thesis advisor at the time, encouraged me to pursue Marlena instead. I sold it two years later. I guess the short answer is it took me about four years to write, but then I completely rewrote the book after it sold. I sat down with a blank word document and the novel printed out, and started rewriting it, using the old pages as reference. When that process was done, Marlena was 40k words or thereabouts shorter than the book Henry Holt bought, with way more detail in the narrative present and one character gone entirely. 

The rewriting process was the most thrilling part of this so far – I’ve never written like that before or since, and for some reason, I think I needed the security of knowing my book had a home, the presence of my editor cheering me on (not to mention her brilliant notes), in order to get to that place. Is that a boring most thrilling moment? My book launch at powerHouse Arena—where I used to work as the events coordinator, the job that got me started in publishing—was very very thrilling. It was this beautiful full circle moment, to come back to a place where I’d spent so much time when I was first sketching out the novel, but as an author. I will never forget that night – a top ten life moment for sure. Honestly, it’s all thrilling and overwhelming, even a little scary. Seeing the book in the world, hearing from readers, getting positive reviews, getting star reviews – it’s a dream I’ve had for a long time, and I never really believed it would it happen.  

I do think that Elena Ferrante fans will fall in love with Marlena, not just because you write with a similarly vivid, page-turner quality, but because in many ways, Cat and Marlena’s friendship echoes Lenu and Lila’s friendship in the Neapolitan series. Reading your book, I couldn’t stop thinking about fate and the families we’re born into, that the girl who was born with more potential wasn’t also born with the luck to fulfill it. In Marlena’s words, her life “felt like a sentence, that it had been barreling down on her since she could first speak, that it really wasn’t much of a life at all.” And then I read this part of a great interview in The Millions with Dan Chaon, which reminded me of your protagonist:

I threw away everyone I grew up with, gladly. I left for college and never went back, and I pretended to be my own creation, no nature or nurture either, just a self-invented person. My life is so different from some of my cousins’ lives that we may as well live in different universes, but I achieved that by chopping off big parts of myself. I think those severed limbs are the ghosts that haunt my writing.

In an essay in The Atlantic, you wrote about your high school years in northern Michigan, so it’s no secret that where you grew up closely mirrors Marlena’s setting. I’m wondering: 1) What roles privilege and guilt play in your novel, particularly as they relate to Cat’s character, and 2) Did you, like Dan Chaon, have to chop off parts of yourself to become a writer, and did you ever come close to taking a different, non-writerly path in life?

Thank you for this question – it’s wonderful to be read with so much attention. (Is this my most thrilling moment? It is up there.) I really identify with that Dan Chaon quote, the last sentence especially. It articulates something about my experience that I hadn’t found the words for.

To answer the first part of your question, I think that as an adult, Cat is more aware than ever of how much better off she was than Marlena and what a difference that made. She’s frustrated about not having had more clarity back then, not doing something to change what happened – even as she recognizes the futility of that kind of thinking. Or that’s an awareness she comes to as she sifts through this story and some of her feelings of displacement in the life she’s found herself in, which is so different from the one she knew as a kid. So I guess the roles guilt and privilege play have a bearing on the plot, in the sense that Cat’s kind of asking herself this very question, exploring it, via her memory of her fifteenth year.

Now for the second part, the chopping off pieces of yourself part. I guess my answer is, kind of? I was a pretty wild teenager. On the Marlena and Cat spectrum, I was probably closer to Marlena. A pretty generous scholarship to an arts boarding school my junior year rescued me. It was a miracle – my grades were terrible. They let me in on the basis of a creative writing portfolio—a portfolio I’d compiled almost as a joke, thinking if I could get in for writing and then prove myself in choir, I could switch to a vocal performance track. I had no formal training and no illusions about my chances of getting in as a singer – but I loved to sing and my voice was good enough for solos in my hometown choir, which made me think with practice I might be able to locate some special talent. But once I started there, even though it took me until my twenties to fully reform some of my bad behavior, I fell in love with writing. I’d always been a really voracious reader, but the more I wrote, the more friends I made who took writing seriously, the more I began to see literature as a path I could follow right out of Michigan and into a better life. 

So I think by age 17 or so, I knew writing was my thing, and thankfully, I was in an educational environment that encouraged it. By the time I graduated, it was either become a writer or, I don’t know, become a professional alcoholic. Is this too heavy? I think writing saved my life, and my life was maybe in need of saving pretty young. And moving to New York after high school helped solidify that – I had to make enough money to stay, I didn’t have time to fuck around. Every choice I made, I picked the thing that would bring me closer to books, to writing and writers. Despite my two years at private school, books were the only subject I was fluent in. I knew nothing about the world, let alone pop culture (that was particularly embarrassing as a twenty-something in New York), but I’d read a ton and could hold my own in those conversations.

I think I had to chop off the part of myself that trends toward self-destruction. That sounds and is healthy, but it makes for a weird dissonance in my life – a sense that the good things that happen to me are not quite real, are constantly at risk of sabotage by some dormant aspect of myself. In following this route with so much focus, I also lost a certain closeness with my family, with my home, with the girl I’d been up until I moved to the city. My life is very different from my siblings’ lives, for example. Sometimes I feel breathtakingly lucky – whether or not this is an accurate interpretation of the years leading up to this one, I see where I am now as a result of a few surprising turns in my life that almost didn’t happen.

In Marlena, every character is in the middle of a life-changing event. My favorite character was Cat’s mom – even when Cat is unable to recognize it, her mom is always trying to improve and never forgets that she’s a parent – and as much as I loved Sal, I was grateful the book wasn’t told from his perspective because I would have cried the entire time. Which character was the most fun for you to write? Which was the most difficult?

Marlena and Marlena. She was fun to write for the same reason that she was difficult to write – I could never quite pin her down, writing as I was, from Cat’s perspective. Marlena is this shifting figure. She’s herself, but she’s also whoever Cat makes her out to be – a fact Cat is ever aware of in the book, but that I had to constantly try and balance. How do you write a character who can only be captured in memory? Writing Marlena was like chasing someone who runs faster than you ever will. You know you’ll never catch up, but you really really want to—you want to see her face.

You are so good at describing the bullshit girls and women experience on a daily basis. As I was reading, I wrote ugh in my notes probably 20 times. Two of Cat’s observations jumped out at me: 1) That “in high school, girls did the liking; boys got to pick” and 2) Society’s high premium on women’s looks makes being “beautiful forever…the ultimate feminine achievement.” You’re also so good at writing about…masturbation! Can you talk about masturbation as a running thread throughout the book and as a source of Cat’s agency?

This is going to be a roundabout answer – forgive me. One thing that’s been interesting, in talking about the book, is that now and then someone will ask me about the tropes of female friendship stories. One girl is beautiful, one less so – one girl is wild, one is more careful. As if these are literary tropes only. When actually, these tropes – whether they come from books or movies or culture at large, are the categories many teenage girls feel that they have to slot themselves into. Try asking an adult woman if she was the pretty friend or the smart one in high school – most women will have an answer. This kind of goes back to what I was saying before about female friendship novels – it’s like American culture doesn’t want women, and women’s literature, to be more than one thing.

I wanted the book to push against those modes of thinking, to interact with, as you put it, the bullshit girls and women experience on a daily basis. Marlena is wild, Marlena is beautiful, Marlena is the leader – except she’s not, not really, or not always. Marlena’s the one with a problem; Marlena’s the one that needs help. Cat’s maybe just as pretty – only, she can’t see herself that way, because she’s given Marlena that role in their friendship. Cat’s bolder, braver, more powerful than she thinks, especially to Marlena. How do both girls step in and out of the definitions that they think fit them best, according to the world and each other? Who are they in these contexts, and what parts of them can’t be defined or categorized at all? How aware are they of the ways stereotypes about girls determine what they do or don’t do, the women they become? In the present and in retrospect?

It feels a little weird to analyze my own book, but I guess I’ll say that Cat’s sexuality, and masturbation as a motif in the story, has to do with her own awareness of her power. Cat’s growing ability to take ownership over her own pleasure, to claim what she wants or doesn’t want as preferences that are hers alone, always felt to me like a very central part of the coming-of-age aspects of this novel, and were there from the very beginning.  

In addition to being a writer, you’re the director of writing programs at Catapult. Talk a bit about your work there – how do you balance having a day job and writing novels?

Not very well, in case it’s not obvious from how long it took me to answer these questions. I love my job at Catapult – my colleagues are universally brilliant. There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not stunned to have the good fortune of working with people so smart, so talented, so dedicated to books. Because everyone is so great, it’s an intense environment. You kind of always have to bring 100% of yourself to the table. That’s the most difficult part, especially lately with the pressures of putting a book out into the world – it’s hard to juggle both aspects of my life at once. Writing gets pushed to the fringes of my life – early mornings, late evenings before bed, weekends. Or Catapult does, and then I’m terribly behind and I get an anxious stomachache. 

Who are your favorite authors? What’s the best book you’ve read recently?

I love love loved Kayla Rae Whitaker’s The Animators. You could call it a female friendship story, and the jacket copy does, but more broadly, it’s an incredibly wise and warm-hearted investigation of what an artist’s responsibility is to her material, and what it means to tell someone else’s story. It follows Sharon Kisses and Mel Vaught, creative partners (animators) and longtime friends, through the success and failure and incomprehensible loss. It’s a remarkable book, and I just loved it – so immersive, so unforgettable, it blows my mind and makes me a little jealous that it’s Kayla’s first novel. 

An incomplete list of favorite writers: Rita Dove, Elena Ferrante, Tana French, Grace Paley, Toni Morrison, Jo Ann Beard, Chang-Rae Lee, Maile Meloy, Roberto Bolano, Marilynne Robinson, Claire Messud, Lorrie Moore, Margaret Atwood, Morgan Parker, Saul Bellow, Ursula K. Le Guin, Ada Limon, Elizabeth Bishop, Banana Yoshimoto, Maggie Nelson, Jim Harrison, oh I don’t know, this is a list I could write for days.

I can’t help it, I love learning about how writers write. Do you write in a specific place or can you write wherever? Do you create a detailed outline or go with the flow? Music while you write: yes or no? Tell me everything.

No music, not ever, too distracting and music is for singing. I don’t really make outlines, but when I was rewriting Marlena I did a lot of weird sketching and list-making on index cards that I almost always lost immediately after writing on them. I mostly write at the dining table near the window, in a computer chair that looks really strange in the dining room. When I get cold there with the window open I put on this ugly robe printed with sheep that leaves fuzz all over the place. It’s really really hard for me to concentrate, to get to a place where I can focus enough to write. But once I do get there, it’s just as hard to stop writing. So writing for me is mostly a process of trying to shut out all distractions enough to work. That’s like 90% of it – getting started.  

Last question! What advice do you have for all the aspiring writers out there?

I still feel like an aspiring writer. I’m slowly working on another book, but it’s such a different process that it feels in many ways like starting from scratch. My advice, I guess, is that you can do it? You can do it. Oh, and maybe – write what you think is important. I would have saved myself a couple years if I had just accepted that this was the story that mattered to me, and thrown my shitty novel away sooner.

You can find Julie Buntin online at her website or on Twitter @juliebuntin​.  

[museemagazine]

#WHM Petra Collins

We’ll be tapping our incredible archives in support of Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day and posting interviews from our Women issue throughout the month of March.

Petra Collins: me, myself and iphone

You have several collectives, one of which you recently curated a book for. What is the difference between “The Arduous,” “Me and You,” and your “Girls and Guns” blog?

 It’s all totally different. “Me and You” is actually a clothing company that is named by my two best friends Mayan Toledano and Julia Baylis. I don’t design any clothes, I just shoot their lookbooks. As for my Tumblr, I use that more as a tool to save photos that I love. “The Arduous” was something I started in high school. I was just starting out as a photographer, and I didn’t really see any platforms that I could put my work on, so I just decided to create one and to invite other female artists to do the same. 

How do the photography and art scenes differ between the US and Canada?

I went to an art high school and I went to a university for art. I feel like in Canada, you’re really taught to create art for a cause. I took Criticism and Curatorial Practice at my university and the whole practice is about curating change. We would learn about injustices in the art system. In Canada, it's a little more about the art. Coming here, there is a full commercial world for art

You’ve gotten to travel a lot in the U.S. for your video series and have spent time in L.A. and New York among other places. Which location provides the creative prime for you? 

I love traveling across America and meeting girls from different states and suburbs. But I live in New York, and all my friends are here, so for me, it’s a creative hub. All of my friends are in the same field as me, and when we’re hanging out we’re actually working.

 It just happens naturally here?

Yeah.

What conflicts have you encountered that you deal with in your work?

 I’ve been an artist my whole life. I started the practice of photography when I was really young. Most of the conflicts came from inside, from growing up, and from learning about myself and about the world. It was hard to be taken seriously for a long time, as a young girl. It’s interesting to see how my images have changed since I’ve grown up.

How do you feel your work has changed?

It’s definitely become stronger aesthetically. I’ve been able to harness what my aesthetic is. Mentally, my view has changed toward my subject.  I started when I was 15, so I was shooting girls my own age. Then shooting younger girls at my age, I had a different perspective and a wider knowledge of what it means to be a teenage girl. 

How do you set up shoots to be more comfortable for them?

It’s almost about being invisible. I usually shoot people in their homes or at parties. I don’t tell people what to do, ever. I let things unfold. I try to remain a spectator.

Do you feel that your work is comforting for young girls to see among the photoshopped images they see in magazines?

 I hope so. It’s hard growing up in a world where you don’t feel represented, and you don’t see your image anywhere. That’s what I try to do: create images for people who don’t see themselves in the world. 

How do you determine which companies you work for, considering the negativity toward women the fashion world can breed?

It’s a very fine line. I don’t think I would ever do anything for Victoria’s Secret, but there’s always something to gain when a company that has been, or could have been, problematic hires someone who is trying to better the world. For me, it’s always a little bit of a win every time I get to work with a company that hasn’t done anything like I do before. It’s like slowly inserting that message into those companies, and the mainstream in general, who wouldn’t normally promote it.

You preach a lot about women being empowered and owning their bodies. How do you feel about Richard Kern’s near-pornographic work, especially having posed for him and worked as his casting director? 

To put it bluntly, what he does is pornography. I really like him as a person, so I guess I’m biased. The one thing I’ve always liked about his work is that he casts literally any girl with any body type, which I find really cool. That’s something you don’t really see in male-heavy sexual photography. I’ve always loved that about him. He’s definitely not Terry Richardson.

You’ve worn many hats in your career: photographer, artist, casting director, and now, filmmaker. How did you adapt into each of those roles?

Film is something that I’ve always really wanted to do. It’s sort of my first love. That’s why I picked up photography, because it was an easier, less expensive way to tell a story. I’m still learning about film. It’s a totally different world. It takes so much longer. I definitely have to learn patience. In my ideal world, I would make a movie in a week and have it out right away, but it takes, like, a year. I’ve always been a multi-medium artist. I think it’s really important, if you’re focusing on one medium, to experience others, because it always strengthens your main focus. It wasn’t even about adapting, it was just something I naturally liked doing because it’s all part of creating images.

On “Girls and Guns,” there’s a couple photographs of you in bralettes on your blog crying. Are these part of a larger series? Or are they just something that happened?

 They’re literally just things that happened. I like being open about my life, and I don’t like to censor it. I think it’s important to see that someone is multifaceted, and has emotions and does look like shit, it’s just another selfie that I post. I think they’re cool to see.

There is a focus in your work, especially in Discharge, on selfies and self portraiture in this generation. Where do you see the boundary between selfie and self-portrait? What do they mean to you?

I think selfies are a whole new, exciting way, especially for women, of becoming the creator and the subject of imagery. It’s such a cool medium, that we’re able to create our own stories and capture our own images. There’s always a weird negativity about selfies when it’s just a normal thing, and I think it’s a good thing to be able to mold your own image instead of having someone do it for you.

If aliens landed on the moon and wanted to understand teenage girlhood, what movies would you recommend? 

 The first one’s “Carrie.” I just saw “It Follows” and I really loved it. Not that it would explain anything, but I think it was a very awesome portrayal of teenage girlhood, where the main character was taken seriously. Did you see that movie?

 No, I haven’t. It’s on my “to watch” list.

It’s really, really good. Everything was perfect. And the main character was treated as a proper protagonist. So, maybe I would say those two movies. They’re kind of weird choices. 

Where do you see yourself five years from now?

Hopefully, making a movie. I would really love to do that. It might take a bit longer, but that’s something that I’m really working towards, a feature length film.

Would you film it, or direct it, or would you write as well?

I’d like to direct it, but I’d also like to have a hand in the writing. I don’t really write, but I’d like to have a hand in the thought of it. 

Do you feel a certain responsibility to women as a female artist? Do you even consider yourself a female artist? Because that tends to be a little bit of a taboo with women.

It is definitely a taboo. I was just talking about this yesterday. I always feel that responsibility when people force me to feel it. When people are like, “You’re not doing enough." It’s a crazy standard that we put on each other. I mean, I don’t put that on anyone but when you’re representing a cause, there are always people who tell you that you need to do more. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not doing enough, then I have to sit and say, “OK, you’re one person.” A lot of my work takes place in the realm of pop culture. I’m not a savior. I’m just me, and I’m just doing my thing. A lot of people feel very entitled to other people’s lives. I always have this back-and-forth, where people are angry that I don’t do what they want. But I’m not a teacher. I’m just me.