Zoe E. Whitten's Blog, page 43

Who do you think I am?

Last night, the weather shifted, and I didn’t think. I let the voices get to me, and I said something way too mean to someone, even if it was exactly what I was thinking. They dismissed me with a few easy words. It’s not so hard to do, for anyone to dismiss anyone else. You don’t want to hear any negativity? Just find an excuse and run with it. Done, problem eliminated. Well, it’s not really gone, but you don’t have to think about it anymore, and that’s good enough.

Here’s my most recent picture:



What do you see when you look at me? Do you see a person with a mental illness? Do you see a victim of systemic abuse and torture? Do you see a former predator and con artist? Do you see a survivor? A housewife? An artist?

Do you see the cracks in my shell? Do you look at my smile and think about how I hear voices, or that I spend six days a week living in my room? Do you think about the fact that I have no friends in meat space? Do you think about my guilt, my shame, or my regrets?

I don’t think you do.

Not all of you feel the same way about me. Some of you build me up and assign to me positive qualities. Some of you ignore who I am now to say, “But despite all that torture, look how you turned out.”

You mean well, but what you do when you say that is shred my insides. Because I look at me, and I see the broken, crazy person you cannot. I see the low self-esteem that you can’t accept. I see every crack and scar that you gloss over. I know when I look at that smile that it’s only a temporary condition. It’s less than a fraction of who I am. But for you well meaning people, that’s all you see. It’s the only aspect of me you’re willing to focus on because to look any farther…but no, you can’t.

Some of you hate my guts because you focus on my most heinous confessions. Nothing that happened before those moments matters, because there’s no such thing as cause and effect when it comes to monsters like me. Like the well meaning folks, you see nothing of my regret or shame. You cannot forgive, because that might “normalize” people like me. You fear us walking around in your pristine existence, corrupting others and turning them away from goodness. You don’t see me any more than the well meaning people do. If you did, if you saw me like I see me, you might look in a mirror and decide you don’t like yourself either. And who wants to do that?

I don’t get out here and bare my soul because I think I’m better than any of you, or because I believe in some bullshit platitude about the truth setting me free. The truth traps me and confines me. The truth restricts me down to the words you choose to cherry pick from my confessions. Whether you see me in a positive or negative light, you still only pick and choose what to read about me.

I don’t tell the truth to you so you can understand me, because you never will. I speak up because for years, fear and shame forced onto me by adults and other kids kept my mouth glued shut. In my silence, other people wrote my story for me. People used me and took my silence as consent. People mocked me and took my silence as an invitation to keep pushing. People who hit me took my silence as acceptance of the order of the world.

My silence became a habit into adulthood, and the few people I opened up to didn’t understand what I was telling them. It made me more and more bitter, and I just kept fucking things up. I pushed away friends. I used people, and I lied by way of omission because none of you wanted the truth anyway. You just wanted an answer that suited you.

That much is still true. I can give you everything inside of me without edits, but you still won’t see the truth. You will pick through the pieces and assemble a picture that works for you, and you won’t understand why I reject your interpretation of me. For the well meaning people, my rejection will sting worse, because you think you’re just trying to help. You offer me a pretty picture of me, and you say, “This is how I see you.” And you will be hurt when I say, “Then you still don’t see me.” Some of you may feel so hurt by my rejection, you’ll come to hate me and join the other camp.

The people who assemble a picture of a monster are so much closer to the truth than they realize, but they’re still missing the vital pieces to see me. You see me as a threat, as a bad person. And I am a bad person. I am a monster who grew up broken and bitter under years of righteous torture. You see only the end result of what other people did to me, and you easily forgive what was done to me by worse monsters. Some of you even have the nerve to tell me I had it coming. So you ignore that I was tortured for years before I snapped. You ignore the bullies and the teachers who let it happen. You cheer for the boy who raped me, without really thinking that you’re laughing at a rape victim and encouraging a rapist. Probably because admitting that might show you some of the ugly monster inside you.

None of the truth matters to either side, because the image you see of me now is all that matters. And none of you see me.

At times, it makes me feel like giving up and falling silent again. But I can’t because I know that my silence is just another invitation for you to write my story for me. The people who mean well will write me as an amazing person who overcomes adversity. The people who hate me will see a monster who went into hiding and declare victory over a menace to their society.

Talking does no good. The truth cannot set me free. But my silence will damn me as surely as my most carefully chosen words. So I might as well talk and tell you my stories from my perspective. Either way, you will dismiss my interpretation and make up your own projected reality. But I will offer you all the pieces of me and let you pick and choose what parts to collect.

So the main question that’s up to you is, what pieces do you pick out? Do you only pick up the pretty, shiny pieces to make something you can smile when you look at it? Or do you only pick up the shattered, darkened bits to make a picture that turns your stomach? How do you choose to see me through the pieces you collect? Who do you think I am when you’ve never really looked at the full sum of my broken parts?

Can we all be more honest here?

I seem to be making more and more efforts to ensure I’m never welcome at horror or fantasy writing conventions, not even as a fan. I also seem to want less and less to be associated with these writing communities, even if I still like to write and read them.

Before I completely lose my shit in spectacular fashion, (and I will) I want to talk about myself as a fiction reader. To the right of my desk is my bookshelf, which is stocked with my current print TBR pile of 30 books, and which also contains the books I loved and need to read over someday. In the same room is my husband’s TBR shelf, packed with just as many books. In the hallway are five more bookshelves full of old books we’ve read. We are book addicts. We are avid readers. When we went to Amsterdam so I could buy weed, we spent more on books than we did on drugs. Three trips we’ve made to Amsterdam, and each time, we’ve spent about 40 euros on pot, and about 400 on books. We are nerdy unabashed book lovers.

I have a Sony ebook reader for reading epubs, and it has 40 ebooks. But since I sometimes can’t find an epub file for certain books, I also have the Kindle app on my PC and my smartphone. On that app, I’ve got another 30 ebooks. My current reading list of books bought and paid for is 100 titles high. I’m actually on a forced buying hiatus until I can work myself down to 80 TBR books.

Unlike hubby, who has never made a review or contacted any authors, I sit down and write reviews for almost everything I read. I don’t have a favorite genre, and I will read YA or adult books; fantasy, horror, sci-fi, romance, comedy…if I like the blurb, I’ll read it. And once I’ve read a book, I’ll give an honest review. I don’t kiss ass, and I have given scathing reviews even for authors I love, like Stephen King and Anne Rice. So if I gush on your book, you know I’m being honest.

What I’m saying is, even though I’m a nobody hobbyist writer, I am that mystical beast you writers claim to want on your side. I am an avid reader with an open mind and an open budget, one who is willing to give you honest feedback, good and bad. I will never lie to you. Even better, if your blurb grabs me, I will blow my budget buying your books. I will support you right down to my last slim dime.

I’m your best fucking friend, writers. So…WHY THE FUCK DO YOU ASSHOLES KEEP PISSING ME OFF SO FUCKING OFTEN?

Today, I’m on Twitter, having a GREAT day. This has been the first day without rain in weeks, and the temperature jumped up to 24 C. We got to have a nice walk outside with the sun shining, the birds singing, and the puppy bouncing around our feet. I’m reading a great book, Generation Dead by Daniel Waters, and all the way around, this day couldn’t be any nicer without ending in me having hot sex with Johnny Depp and Lucy Liu at the same time.

But then a writer I’m following advertises his book with “My vampires don’t glitter.” Okay, you know what? It’s time to point out this mistake for once. I tweet, “Sadly, I will never be buying your book. Not that you care.”

AND HE BLOCKED ME. I won’t name names, but this is a so-called professional horror writer, one who wastes whole blog posts lecturing other writers about behaving professional, having thick skin, responding to criticism professionally. BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, and it’s all bullshit, because he’s a thin-skinned wanker. All that shit he talks about appreciating the thoughts of his readers goes right out the window when they aren’t kissing his fucking ass and telling him it tastes like mint candy.

This is exactly the sort of thing that’s pissing me off about a lot of so-called professional writers. Their blogs are full of advice for indie writers about having thick skin and how they should deal with criticism, and it’s all lies. It’s social posturing and moral grandstanding, and these fuckers couldn’t take a bad review or a critical comment from a reader. They only want gladhanding and praise.

What really gets me is the way the writers of a single genre are fucking snobs. They act like the readers they’re courting are only interested in one genre. So they spit on writers in other genres, and they claim those other popular writers have no talent. It’s all just dumb luck that a few million people bought their books. And once the book is on the market, the only reason it’s praised is because the average reader is too stupid to know quality writing. These book snobs bitch and moan that they’re being judged unfairly based on what they write, and it’s all just reader prejudice working against them.

But it’s all bullshit, and it hasn’t occurred to these writers that there are lots of readers like me who read horror AND romance AND thrillers, and who are sick and fucking tired of horror writers spitting on them for being “too stupid” to appreciate their hard work. They aren’t being judged by people for what they write in their books. No, they’re being judged for their habits of spitting on the same readers they claim they want to court.

Another example, without naming names. I see this other writer promoting her shit as being for the fans who are “tired of candy-coated YA.” Grrrr-arrgh! Now look, I’ve read some YA that’s stereotypical or badly written. That’s a fair cop in individual cases, but there isn’t much YA I’ve read that’s candy-coated. Even with the most stereotypical stories, I’ve read some pretty gory and intense stuff. I’ve seen grim and gritty depictions of bullying and harassment. I have never seen these “giggling fairies” that supposedly are turning readers off of YA fantasy. NEVER FUCKIN’ SEEN IT. But I have seen a lot of adult writers dissing YA as a whole. When these adult writers offer up their first YA titles, how do they promote themselves? By spitting on the writers already in the fucking market, pissing off the readers they claim to want to court.

This is how some writers promote their shit, by being negative to the same genre they’re working in. “I’m not like all of that shitty YA you’ve read before. I know real quality, and I’m better than that crappy book you thought you liked.” It’s really starting to hack me off to deal with these people because they turn around and lie in their blog about how they serve as an example of professional behavior. It’s all “do as I say, not as I do,” and I want to tell a whole bunch of authors under no uncertain terms to get fucked and stop telling other writers to do something they could never do themselves.

People like this make me never want to be a professional writer. I wouldn’t want to have to smile and primp and pose and pretend I’m so goody-goody and say, “I’m not like those hack writers in the bestsellers lists.” I know I’m a hack. I know I belong down here in the obscure unknowns, and I know it’s because I’m just not good enough.

But aside from being a hobby writer, I am also an avid reader, and a regular reviewer. Nobody sends me books from the publishers for free. I fucking buy the books I review. I don’t look for freebies to build my TBR pile. Sometimes I win a book in a drawing or contest, but for the most part, I pay artists for the work they’ve done. And as a reader, all I’m asking for is some basic fucking respect from the writers for my opinions. But the moment my opinion turns out to be unfavorable? It doesn’t matter that I paid for the book, or that I gave the honest review the writers were asking for. I didn’t kiss their ass, so fuck me, I’m blocked.

Fuck me? NO, WRITERS, FUCK YOU. Fuck your sanctimonious speechifying. Fuck your goddamned moral posturing and spitting on other authors for behaving “badly” when you behave just as badly or worse. Fuck your writing advice blog posts where you tell other writers how to act when you’re fucking incapable of taking your own advice. But most of all, fuck you for saying you want readers like me, only to fucking spit in my face when I give you the honest criticism you claim to want.

I may never be a famous writer because I’ve got a nasty temper and a big mouth. I may never win an award for my writing because I won’t kiss the asses of the clique my book belongs in. And I may never move beyond being a hobby writer because I piss off way too many people by using crude language on my blog.

But none of that changes the fact that I spend a few thousand dollars on books every fucking year, and I am the reader you claim you need so badly. As an avid multi-genre reader who pays you and reviews you, I am sick of watching you liars preen and pose for each other while ignoring me, the person who actually has something honest to say to you. You don’t want me. You want your clique friends to buy your books and tell you how great you are. You want validation of your snobby opinions, and you want to belong to a club of speshul fucking snowflakes while projecting that very same label onto authors with more success than you will ever have, or ever deserve.

I’m a shitty writer. I like being boring. I suck at marketing, and I lack the talent to make the bestseller’s list. But I’m a great reader, and I’m sick of you ignoring me in favor of your gladhanding friends.

Fuck you.

No love,

Me

AKA: the fucking crazy bitch you blocked who would have read your vampire book if you weren’t such a snobby fucking asshole.

Leave those fans alone…

I’m having a really good day today. We went to the theater to watch The Host, and I bawled over the ending. (5-stars, totally loved it.) Then we went to Feltrinelli and I got the new Depeche Mode album, Delta Machine, and a Blu-Ray copy of Snow White and the Hunter.

I’m in such a good mood, I debated bringing this topic up at all because I’ve already covered it in the not too recent past. But last night I read this blog post over at Insatiable Booksluts, (I love their name, by the way) I do not like the thing that you like, and that is okay. It got me nodding my head a lot, and this is something I wish I could convince people in all fandoms to take to heart.

Look, I’m a picky reader, and I know this. I know after talking to people about books we’ve both read that some things will drive me bonkers that most other readers don’t care much about. It isn’t that they don’t see the mistakes. It just doesn’t bother them as much as it does me. I point out these things, and they go, “Oh right, that.” Then they shrug and say, “Well I still liked it.”

And after that I just let it go. My friends read books I hate, and it’s no big deal. To each their own. Now if a friend asks me to explain why I hate a book, I will tell them my reasons, but I’m not expecting them to suddenly change their mind based on my opinion. All I’m doing is giving them some insight to the way my crazy brain works.

Why am I bringing this up? Well the day I posted on Twitter about how much I loved Breaking Dawn, I got attacked by a woman who had a chip on her shoulder and was not going to let me enjoy that book NO MATTER WHAT. Suddenly, I was not allowed to have a contrary opinion. No, I was just wrong, and she had to tell me why. I asked her once, “If all you’re going to do is tear down a book I like, please stop.” She did not, so I blocked her. And I don’t even feel guilty for it. You don’t like the book? Fine. I didn’t ask for your opinion, and I’m not obligated to watch you tear down something I like.

Y’all, I don’t like The Hunger Games. Lots of my friends did. I don’t attack my friends or remind them over and over my many reasons for hating the book. They like it, and it’s not for me. I don’t like Joe Hill. Tons of my friends think he’s the bee’s knees. I don’t try to change their mind. I just know, he’s not for me. But do you know how many of my past friends LOVED to pick on me for liking Twilight? I’ve been told at least a dozen times, “Well you like what you want, but I just think she’s a terrible writer, and here’s why…” It’s like, “Your opinion is wrong, and now I must argue with you for not accepting that I’m right.”

It has never once convinced me that I’m wrong to like Twilight, but what it has done is shown me that some of my friends can’t respect me enough to let me like what I want. They cannot stand Meyer, and so they have to tell me why. It doesn’t convince me that Meyer has no skill, but it does convince me that some of my friends are snobs who have to be right rather the agree to disagree. And you know what? I stop talking to those people. Because if they can’t respect my opinion over something minor like this, how can I expect them to respect my opinion over much more important matters?

I don’t like Harry Potter. I think Rowling’s writing is weak, and I think her books are heavily padded and in need of better editing. I’m in the minority on this opinion, but do you know how many Harry Potter fans HATE Twilight? Well I do, because every single week, they gotta post something on Facebook to bash Twilight and compare it to how awesome Harry Potter is. I have yet to make up my own meme pointing out the problems with Harry Potter, or to post comments on the memes. I just sigh, click “hide,” and keep scrolling.

This sort of thing drives me bonkers, though. It’s this whole, “Well my fandom is smarter than your fandom” bullshit. And the thing is, I see people say they don’t like Twilight fans for being so emotional, but I haven’t met any Twilight fans who post up photo memes weekly, like Harry Potter fans, like Doctor Who fans, or like Babylon 5 fans. These people never ever stop in their vocal appreciation for their fandoms, and they never stop bashing fans of the Twilight series for “unhealthy enthusiasm.” So…no, I really don’t appreciate when someone tells me “Well I get that you like this, but I still reserve the right to throw my hate in your face week in and week out. Oh, and I’ll also post love for this thing I love that you hate.” It’s more than a little hypocritical, don’t you think?

At times, my bitterness over this hypocrisy has made me think about making up anti-Potter memes, or anti-Doctor memes. But then I’m not really hating these things so much I need to attack them. I’m just sick of my fandom being bashed, and I want someone to return the favor and show them what it’s like to have a taste of their own bad behavior. But I don’t bother because I also know, they just don’t care. They think it’s funny to bash on this one series, and if someone bashes theirs, so what, those people are probably idiots.

Ultimately, I come to the conclusion that people must like being jerks. It must make them feel good to hurt the feelings of someone they don’t know, and they feed off the anger and irritation, the frustration and indignation. They’re emotional vampires, delighting in poisoning the happiness of others. They’re snooty bullies, picking on people for not liking the same things.

And this is stupid. We shouldn’t all like the same things. If we did, ours would be a boring, banal world. I just wish that when people talked about connecting with others online, they meant they wanted to connect with people who thought differently from them, that they meant they liked seeing stories from other perspectives. But mostly, it seems like people get online to find a clique to validate their views. And anyone who disagrees with them is worthy only of sneering contempt.

I don’t like the books you do. Some of them, I loathe to the point that they make my eye twitch. But I let that go, and I wonder why some of you can’t extend me the same courtesy. Seriously, what do you get out of bashing the things I love, aside from losing my friendship?

Campaigns to think about…

So, after making a rambling comment on Twitter about not being sure how to meet our first stretch goal of $600 to pay my editor Tara for her work on Thicker Than Blood, we got ANOTHER $100 contribution. That’s 3 so far, for those not keeping score at home. Because of these ultra-generous fans, all backers will be getting a new ARC in their incentive packages, Fangs, Humans, and Other Perils of Night Life. This is a sequel to A Boy and His Dawg, which has been getting some good reviews over on Amazon after being free for a week. (Have I said woot yet? No? WOOT!)

I’m not 100% sure if the ARC will have a cover or not, but I have already contacted the artist who worked on the first book, D.B. Harris, and he’s willing to do the second cover too. Which is good, cause that way they’ll have a consistent style. I have all of April and part of June to scrape together funds to pay D.B. So I want to say that of course I’ll have a proper cover on the ARC for you. But I won’t promise this because I don’t want to lie to you if things don’t work out. But, for sure, I will be using a lot of this extra time to edit the book, and as ARCs go, it should be a relatively clean copy. (I edit because I love you.)

I said on Twitter that I’d have the incentive package out in April, but this is a math mistake on my part. Our campaign still has 36 days left, and so the packages won’t get out to you lovely peeps until May. The book will release in June, and this is another way of me saying thanks to you for preordering. I had plans to release other books before Fangs, but since I’ll already have it finished with a cover, I suspect it will be my July release. One of the joys of being an indie punk is, I never met a schedule I didn’t ignore to do what I wanted. (^_^)

Anywho, have I said recently how awesome my fans are? Because they really are. I may not have as many as the bigger authors, but da-yum, my fans know how to show the love.

Instead of signing off with butt smooching, I want to bring a couple of other campaigns to your attention, which I have no affiliation with, but which I still think you should check out. The first is a new party card game called Widget. The game maker asked me to check out last night. I did, and the word nerd in me went “Oooh! This has potential!” So I retweeted the link they sent, and then I chipped in a $10 to help nudge the game closer the stretch goals for expansion packs. The game has already met the minimum goal of $4,000, but if they can make $4,500, we’ll get vampires and zombies added to the mix.

But what is Widget about? The basic idea is making up silly gadgets with two types of cards. One card type has pictures on them of various creatures, and the other has words. The object is to link these two cards to make silly widgets, or devices meant to amuse your friends. Like, I might make an electric steamroller for pressing platypus tails, or a magic neon garlic extractor for feeding pizza to vampires. The devices are all voted upon by the other players, so the object is to find the silliest widget to amuse your friend, not aiming for a concrete point total. It’s not so much a competition as an excuse to use your imagination. Obviously, you can see why this appeals to me.

This is a great idea for a party game for many players, and rounds can go by pretty quickly. It won’t require a lot of heavy thinking, and you can whip Widget out at an adult party or at a birthday party for little kids with equal success. So, if you like playing silly party games, do give this project a look. As of this writing, they have 9 days left and $4,300, so it’s very close to the vampire and zombie expansions, which I’d love to see.

And finally, I’ve already mentioned this project, but the campaign to make survival kits for the homeless is down to the last 4 days. Donations have slowed down a lot since the campaign reached the minimum goal, so I want to point out that additional donations means more people will get help. You don’t have to toss in a lot to help, either.

This morning, a friend on Twitter tossed in a $5 and then apologized for not sending more. But I told him thanks, and that every little bit helps. The same goes for anyone willing to chip in a similar amount. It really does help, even if all you can spare is a fiver. So if you haven’t contributed to this cause, please think about it before time runs out. And if you have, please share the link and politely poke your friends to chip in a little.

Any of us can end up homeless, and when put in this place, we all need a little help to get back on our feet. When I was homeless, I might have died from hypothermia if not for the kindness of others, so I always try to remember that and help others who have stumbled to that level of life. If you’ve been there too, do think about helping. And if you haven’t, well you could be there one day, and you’ll want help out. Storing a little karma up with a donation now couldn’t hurt, right? Right.

And that’s it from me for now. Tune in tomorrow, when I bitch and complain about something at random. You know, SSDD.

Science just pulled off a double miracle

Today’s post may mark a new era for me, and an end of an old one. I can’t say it will cure me of my mood swings or my bitchy phases, but I think I’ve found the keys to defeating my depressions because I’ve been given my hope back.

Earlier this month the news brought the announcements that 3D printing was able to make organs, cartilage, or even stem cells, and I started to feel a tingle of hope in my future. Last night researchers at Lund University announced that they could encourage the brain to build new nerves and cells without surgery.

You cannot fully appreciate this without understanding that my MS plaque scares are all in my head. I have holes in my brain that make me act weird randomly. Even as people showed me stories of potential MS cures, all those article made it clear there was no way to repair damaged or dead nerves. So no promise of a future cure could give me hope. But this does. If this were put into practice, it could patch the whole in my head, and I could be freed of my MS relapses.

That’s one thing I had to give up on after being diagnosed. I was told I wouldn’t live to see 55. I couldn’t hope to be an old lady. I couldn’t even pretend I had the potential for a long happy life like healthy people. I had a countdown clock put over my head, a definite date for when I would die, and it counted down faster and faster with every birthday. It was one of my two main sources of depression, and now, it looks like I might be able to drop-kick the clock and get back to the happy delusion that I can live to be 100, just like everyone else.

The other source of my depression is, I was born sterile. Even if I hadn’t transitioned, I’ve always had to come to terms with not being a parent. And yet, the years go by, and it still hurts me. My friends online celebrate having new kids, and without meaning to, they remind me of what I could never have. I couldn’t get pregnant, nor get someone pregnant. I could never know the joys or the stresses of raising my own kid. And the thing is, having MS and brain problems, I couldn’t adopt, or even be a foster parent. I’m not rich enough to pull a Michael Jackson and hire someone to have kids for me, and after 9 months of work, I don’t see any mother going, “Nah, I changed my mind…hey, Zoe, didn’t you want a kid?” For all intents and purposes, I was locked out of the mysterious and scary world of parenting. And unlike some folks who don’t want kids and find the little rugrats irritating, I still wanted the chance to have a kid and maybe do a better job of loving my kids than my parents did with me.

It certainly didn’t help that my little brother had kids, nor did it help that my dad gave me monthly reports that his parenting style is…toxic. The most recent report is, my brother is mad at my dad because he won’t hit his granddaughter over wetting her pants. They’re not my kids, so I can’t swoop in to rescue them, and with my brother considering me the whore of Satan, there’s no way I can tell him to treat his kids like the miracles they are. I can’t even parent vicariously through him, because dear lord, he’s just as mean as mom was, and he has about as much empathy for his kids. But he gets to be the parent, I only got to be the crazy sex-change aunt that nobody talks about in polite company.

BUT, if doctors can 3d print any organ to custom fit a patient without rejections, even stem cells, then they can print a uterus. I’d have to opt for a donated egg and test-tube fertilization. I’d have to be willing to accept a C-section birth because I’m not made to accommodate a normal delivery. But that’s one scar I’d be willing to take. It’s a fair exchange for what I’d get out of it.

I learned about the 3D printing early this month and got really excited, and I thought, “If they can do this before I’m 42, I could still raise a kid before MS erased my brains.” But now, that sword hanging over my head just got removed too. Women are having babies much later in life, and if I were cured of MS, I could raise my own kid without needing help for those fatigue attack days, or for the joints swelling or relapses. So even waiting until 48 for the technology to mature wouldn’t be a problem. I don’t need to rush, but when the technology is ready for human trials, I could have a kid. A miracle baby. A gift from God, and from science at the same time.

I got so excited last night, I went woozy and weepy. When that high started to wear off after dinner, I drew a sign to put on my desk. It says THE CURES ARE COMING! It doesn’t need to say anything else. It is now my inspiration, and it is my hope. It will serve as the life raft I cling to when depressions hit, and it will be my anchor when mood swings are tossing my brain about like a raft in a choppy sea.

I don’t know if y’all grasp how huge this is for me, but I gave up hope at a young age, and these things have haunted me for years. In ONE MONTH, science just came along and said, “But Zoe, maybe we can fix this stuff for you.” They gave me back my hope, y’all. I can be cured of MS. I can have the holes in my head repaired. And I can have a kid. No might, no maybe. I BELIEVE this can be reality very soon. I can have hope. And that one thing makes all the difference in the world.

I don’t know if this will completely end my angry “you people” rants or not, but I wanted to mark this occasion and make you a future deal. If it turns out I can be cured, and that I can have a kid, I will forfeit my rights to bitch about “you people.” (Not you people as in you personally, just you people in general.) Because if I can have these two miracles, then the world and people can’t be so bad after all. I told hubby this last night, and he laughed. But I’m serious. If I can have this, I think I’d give up being unhappy with other people because I’d be too grateful for having been given the impossible, twice.

Mark this day down. Remember it. This is the day that hope returned to my heart.

What we’ve been told about book marketing may be a lie…

I’ve done a lot of crabby posts lately, haven’t I? Well I want to take this one down a notch on the cranky vibe and talk about something that’s been bugging me, but not making me mad. It’s something I think us writers have been avoiding talking about, because nobody wants to question what sounds like…like sound advice. I certainly didn’t want to question it, because in some cases it’s worked out well. Some…it’s worked out well in a few rare cases, and that’s the problem with it. This method is casting a wide net, and it’s only retrieving a few results in return

This thing we’ve been told about making friends first, and then selling our books isn’t a very good idea. It sounds good in theory, but the problem in a nutshell is, authors shouldn’t require real friends to read their books. I know I don’t. I’m pretty sure most writers don’t, although some shallow authors may use their friends to manipulate their initial rankings by having friends buy books. The key word is buy, not read. I think most of the friends who buy those books shelve it and go on reading what they really like instead, assuming they like to read. And that to me is a tragedy, a book bought, but never read. Art is meant to be absorbed and reflected upon, and the profit margin is just gravy on the side.

So if someone buys my book but never reads it, I feel it’s kind of pointless. I’m not really making a connection to that person with my art. I’m using them for financial gain. What kind of shitty friend would I be if I let that be my goal in our relationship? Very shitty, y’all. The burning shit variety, the kind that leaves your butthole sore and swollen. I don’t want to be that kind of shitty friend. I don’t want to be a wham bam, thank you ma’am friend, or a shitty shitty bang bang friend. Ahem, I’ll just drop this joke here before I run it into the gutter…with the shit.

But look, there’s two problems with this line of advice bugging me, one that I’ll cover as a writer, and one that I’ll cover as a reader, and then as a writer, since it really is a bit of a double-edged sword.

The first is, friends of mine probably don’t read my niche, but I won’t know that until broaching the sales topic a few months down the road. I have attracted a lot of followers to my Twitter account, and I’ve talked to a lot of people. I talk about my hobbies, but I also talk about stuff that matters to me, and while it seems unfathomable to some social media gurus who insist on false politeness at all times, I draw in a crowd with my angry “you people” rants. Amazingly, people still talk to me after those rants.

We socialize, and I uphold every part of the social contract as it’s required of me. You want to chat until I end up in Twitter jail for treating Twitter like an IM client? Sure, let’s gab for an hour. You have a book link? Sure, I’ll share it. You have a cause that you need help promoting? Let me know, and I’ll help out. If you’ve got a charity and I’ve got the cash, I’ll send you $10-$20 to help out. You’re out of grocery money or need a bus pass? Same thing. I’ll PayPal you the funds, and you won’t find me hounding your ass about repaying me.

But when it’s all said and done, I might later mention, “If you’re in the mood for a new book, I just put this out.” And people go, “Gosh, Zoe, I don’t know if I want to read your kind of fiction.” Well by that point they’re a friend, and I won’t push the issue. But that’s why this method of marketing kind of blows chunks. I invest time and emotion into a person, and 9 times out of 10, they don’t want my books. They like me. They like my rants, and they like talking to me. And I like talking to them, so I see value in the social networks for the connections I make with others.

And, despite what Zoe Winters said in the wake of one of my “you men” rants, I DO make guy friends just fine. But they tend to be male feminists, so they get where I’m coming from when I bitch about dudes being sexist. They know that when I bitch, I ain’t talking about them, and so they don’t take it personally. But they also don’t read my books. It’s not their thing. And I don’t ask them to read me, because I value their friendship, and I’m extremely grateful that they get where I’m coming from when I go off on sexist dudes. So this whole situation is a bit buggered. Because for all my successes making friends, I’m not making many fans. I SUCK at making fans online.

And here’s the distinction I think we need to be making online, that divide between friends and fans. We need to be looking at ways to make fans first, engage them as such, and worry about friendships after that. It’s not like I’m not willing to talk to fans. Hey, a nice fan gives me money and an honest review, you can bet your ass I’ll be willing to thank them and spend some time chatting about whatever they want to discuss. This chica can show gratitude to people buying her stuff, and if those fans want a little time online chatting, I’ll give them that. I owe them that much, at least.

The other problem with this plan is bad reviews, and I want to tackle this from the reader side first. See, I follow a lot of writers, and after they RT my stuff and engage me, I really do want to buy their books and try them out. My TBR pile is now 106 books high because I’ve been buying other peoples’ books. I’m a proud and happy indie supporter. But I’m also a notoriously picky reader, and a lot of my reviews are angry and way too honest for me to maintain friendships. I just put out a review that effectively ended my relationship to a writer, and I have no doubt that as I pull books off my TBR pile, I’ll lose more connections. Despite what writers say about being thick-skinned and being able to take a harsh review, most cannot handle being sociable to someone who hated their book.

It doesn’t matter if I loved previous books from the same author. I knew an author who I loved the first four books of hers I read. But I wrote a scathing review of her next novel, and she unfollowed me. Later on, I thought that maybe I could repair the damage by reading another book from her and giving another good review, but it turns out I’m really hating her next book. It seems like the more she tries to write closer to mainstream, the worse her writing gets. I’d love for her to take this advice to heart and get back to writing the books that are more visually alive and filled with quirky characters. But instead, she unfriended me, and my criticism isn’t worth her time. (Side note: spell check is screaming at me these days for embracing new words like unfriended and unfollowed. And I laugh at spell check’s pain.)

As a writer, this problem of making friends first can work out to less reviews, because what friend wants to say “I hated your book”? Okay, what friend besides me? I mean, I tend to think a real friendship can survive me making a bad review. But when a friend asks, “Will you read my book?” I get anxiety attacks. I tell them, “Are you sure? You know how picky I am. You’ve seen me write bad reviews.” And they say, “Yes, I know, and that’s why I want you to read it. I just know you’ll be honest with me.”

This is a gamble on their part. They want to believe that they’ve got the chops to make it past my thorny list of complaints and end up with a 4-5 star review. Sometimes it works out, like my ongoing love affair with Katey Hawthorne. And y’all, I’ve met her in person and can say, she’s one hot, hawt chica. But why I love her is, she gets me wet between my ears. She pushes all my buttons, and I love her work.

But more often than not, I end up hating a friend’s book. Not merely disliking a passage or two, because that would still work out to a decent 4-star review. No, I mean I have eye twitching episodes, and I scream at the book because I actively loathe it. So when I write the scathing review that I warned my friend was coming, guess what happens? They aren’t as capable of taking the blow as they wanted to believe.

When a close friend wrote that she hated my book, the reason I unfriended her wasn’t about her hating the book. It was her accusing me of coaching perverts, and it was her decision to attack other favorable reviews for not hating the book like she did. It’s extremely hypocritical, because that same friend went and published her books with a company that released an anthology of sick stories. One of those stories involves a father grooming his underage daughter for sex. That story ends with the father murdering his wife and seeking out his daughter for a happy ending. When I pointed this out to the publisher, he said it was different when he did it, and what I wrote was “sick porn.” Lesson learned? “When I publish a story with these themes, it’s okay, but when you do it, it’s pure filth.” (Hypocrite.)

So this author who attacked me for writing an evil book works for a publisher who wrote an even worse grooming scenario with no qualms, and she said nothing to them about it because they published her book. And that’s why we can’t be friends no more, because her moral outrage only applied to me, and not to people who could offer her a paycheck. I don’t care how long we’ve been friends. When you display hypocrisy that obvious, I don’t want to be around you anymore.

This is really running back into Memory Lane, but my point is, the whole affair ruined MANY friendships for good. I can’t speak to anyone involved without thinking, “You’re such a fucking hypocrite.” That one bad review led to personal attacks from others, and she said nothing about that, even when people began to stalk me and ask questions like, “When you got raped, were you still a man?” She felt nothing for the shit storm she dropped on me; felt nothing that she almost convinced me to give up on writing for good. Despite us talking for years, she just didn’t care what effect she had on me.

If she’d been a complete stranger, I’d have been able to say “Pfft, whatever, lady.” But the reason it still stings is because she was a close friend, and because we’d been talking for a few years before that. A bad review from a stranger is just an opinion, you see. But a review like that from a friend is a dagger in the back that twists itself every single time I have to visit my Amazon page. It’s a venomous wound that boils pus and explodes on its own every few months or sometimes even weeks.

And the thing is, I only have one bad review where I’m able to talk to the reviewer. But we were never close, so it’s hardly a test of my moral code. We had more of a reviewer/writer relationship. So when she gave me a scathing review, I used her comments to issue a revision of the book. I tried to do the right thing and use her criticism as advice. Later on, she stopped communicating, and it might be for something I said to another writer, and that’s okay.

But I can’t really say for certain if I’m any better than the writers who broke off communications with me over my bad reviews. I just don’t get that many reviews, period. For all my talk, I may be just as hypocritical as the writers who told me they could handle harsh criticism, and then ran away never to speak to me again when my review was unfriendly. I don’t know yet, because I’ve only got two bad reviews from people I knew a while before asking for reviews. Maybe in the future, I’ll get a really scathing review from a friend and shrug it off. And then I’ll know I’m not a hypocrite. But for now, I have to admit, I might be.

I always get a little jealous when someone says their book has 35 reviews, and I’ve got 5. But I have to wonder if the reason I’m not getting reviews is, I’m friends with these people, and they just don’t want to tell me they didn’t like my book. Maybe they prefer to keep the relationship intact and just let their dislike of the book go quietly.

I kind of wish I could just lie to people and spout the simple platitudes they want to hear. “Solid book, great plot! I can see this as a movie! When is the sequel?” But I don’t work like that. I want honest reviews, even if they’re 2-star reviews. So I give honest reviews and accept that I’ll probably lose another friend in the process. But I really hate this cycle of meeting someone and getting to know them, only to lose them over my honest opinion. I get emotionally invested in these artists. I get to know their families, and I’m there when they lose loved ones, or when they get sick. I’m there to celebrate when they get good news or publishing contracts. I like that connection to other people, and I don’t want to lose that just because I didn’t like their book.

But at the same time, I understand why they leave. I’m kicking their beloved project, the object of their love and devotion. I see a lot of people on Twitter during my rants about this who say, “Well they’re just too shallow to accept criticism.”

No, no, no. It’s not that simple. Every writer wants to believe they have thick skin, but it’s more honest that they have emotional armor, much like mine. A bad review from a stranger is okay, because it’s bouncing off their armor. But when I’ve been following a writer six months, talking to them online and becoming a friend, I’m getting under their armor. So my bad review isn’t no big deal like it would be if I was a stranger. It’s a poisoned dagger, and it’s stuck in the most sensitive spot for maximum damage, even if that’s not my intention.

That’s what I mean about that one attacking review I got. If a stranger accused me of promoting deviant sexual values, I could say “Whatever” and move on without taking a scratch in my armor. But this was a friend who I’d spoken to in emails at length about my fears, about the abuse I’d suffered, and about my writing goals trying to educate normal people about what abuse does to the victims. So her interpretation that I was promoting sexual grooming to perverts didn’t just sting a little. It left a festering wound in my heart.

Her review was rallied around by other people I’d also been friends with online. One of those people had told me in private that I needed to get over my trust issues and welcome them in. So I did, and they called me a pedophile. And after many, many years of knowing this person, it’s not just a little nick in my armor. He’d gotten past my emotional armor long before. That insult is a scar on my heart that never heals.

Whether I’ve got thick skin or not is irrelevant. An attack from a close friend like that cannot be brushed off like it’s no big deal. If you can brush off something like that from a long-time friend easily, then I’m sorry for saying this, but you’re a shallow person who doesn’t invest much emotionally in your friends. I’m not like that, and I never want to be like that. If I tell someone I love them, I want the words to be true. I want the words to have all the weight they deserve. I do not want my love to be a cheap thing passed around like a plastic bauble sold at the checkout stand for a few pennies. My love is meant to be taken as a Faberge egg, delicate and more priceless than any other emotion I give you. So having someone say that my love is meaningless after years, it hurts. It hurts just as bad as the rejection of my relatives when I transitioned.

This is why I really don’t like the idea of making friends first and then selling books. I’d much rather make fans of my writing, and then worry about friendship after we establish that they don’t hate my books. Because if they do hate my books, as a stranger, it’s easier to write them off, thank them for their opinion, and then move on. When a friend I love hates my book, it can be devastating enough to make me almost give up writing for good. I don’t know if there is a marketing method out there to seek fans first, but I know I’d prefer going that route, both as a writer and as a reader. Because this current marketing model is starting to leave me with way more holes in my heart than I want to deal with.

Book review: Nobody’s Hero by Katey Hawthorne

Nobody’s Hero is the sixth book I’ve read by Katey Hawthorne, including her horror story Scripped under the name K.V. Taylor, and she is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors right alongside John A. Lindqvist. I’d call reading her gay supernatural/superhero romances a guilty pleasure, except I never feel guilty for reading them, and her writing is pure pleasure from start to finish.

It’s not about the sex, although I must say, Katey does an outstanding job of writing hot sex scenes. She writes sex that passes the wet test with flying colors and creamy panties. But lots of people who write romantic erotica can write great sex and make awful characters who I don’t believe in. The key thing I love about all of Katey’s stories, is, she writes real people. It doesn’t matter if one of the guys in the story has superpowers like Jamie, they still feel real. It’s the little details that sucker me into buying their authenticity. They have real jobs. They have families and believable friendships, and backgrounds that feel authentic. There’s no rich guys who never seem to work for a living, no vapid shallow dates that gloss over real life. Every scene in the story makes me feel like this could be happening somewhere in mundane America.

But more than that, Katey writes relationships with a slow kind up buildup with believable conflicts. The characters might have hot sex early on, but that doesn’t mean they’re in love, or that they’ll work things out. Here in Nobody’s Hero, the conflict is that Jamie has powers, and his hot coworker Kellan is a sleeper, someone who isn’t supposed to know about the awakened. Jamie HAS to live a double life, and because of the way the local awakened do selective marriages to raise stronger children, Jamie is seen as a prized “stud” to his people. Because he doesn’t want to hurt his widowed mother, Jamie is out as gay at work and with his friends, but not to his mother or many of the awakened folks in his mother’s social circle. This kind of double life makes his relationship to Kellan even bigger trouble for both sides of his double life.

I believe in this story, and I believe in Jamie’s reasons for still being in the closet. I loved Kellan’s family, and I loved the slow build up of tension until it all looks like everything is going to blow up in Jamie’s face. This book is pitch perfect, and there’s not one detail I’d change. The only conflict in me is trying to decide if this is my favorite Hawthorne story, or if By the River will still hold onto the top spot. Both are so, so amazing, I might have to mull this over with a reread of both books to be sure. But in any case, I really cannot gush enough about how much I loved this book, and when I got to the end, my first reaction was a loud and happy “Fuck yes!”

That’s why I give Nobody’s Hero 5 stars. I know erotic gay romance isn’t for everybody, but for those willing to read it, you’re not just getting hot sex. You WILL get plenty of hot sex too, but along with that, you also get a great story with fantastic characters. And if you read this and agree its perfect, you’ll be happy to know that Katey has a lot of other stories that are just as amazing and worth your time. Really, I cannot recommend her stuff highly enough, and y’all know, I never gush unless I really mean it. Well I really, really mean this: GO GET THIS BOOK. NOW, PLEASE.

What’s the difference between me and you?

Today on Facebook, I saw an image promoting a veggie pride parade, and I got tweaked. Not over there being a veggie pride parade. No, I started feeling pissy because I realized vegans have to organize into support groups because some meat eaters look down on them. Even a relatively simple choice of what to eat becomes a huge deal to people who this has nothing to do with.

That led me to thinking how many so-called sane and rational people can find the dumbest shit to judge others for. “Oh, yeah?” you snap. “Well what are you doing here, Zoe?” It’s probably a fair point on surface examination, but I’m not mad at y’all for your habits and hobbies. I’m not mad at meat eaters for liking meat, cause I loves me a good bacon cheeseburger. I don’t think horror fans worship the devil, cause I like a good scary book every now and then too. What pisses me right the fuck off is this constant whining about the habits and hobbies of others, like your life choices make you any more enlightened or smarter than the next person. I get pissed at the meat eaters for sneering at vegans, and I get pissed at the horror fans for sneering at the romance fans.

I honest to God saw someone on Twitter who snapped, “Readers of Cassandra Claire novels, you deserve everything that happens to you.” Well hey, bitch, you just convinced me to buy a Cassandra Claire book without even checking the blurb, because your petty fucking judgment of others makes me sick. If I hate the book too, I’m gonna rant in a review about why I hate it, but I AM NOT going to wish harm or bad karma on the readers giving it five stars. I’ll rant on why I hate it, and then I’m going to move on and get on with my life. You wishing bad karma of people who like her books is some goddamned sociopathic bullshit on your part, lady. And the part that makes it even more sick is, you act like you’re so much better a person because you aren’t “sick and twisted like those freaks.” You are the pot calling the kettle black, lady.

I’m sick and fucking tired of all the petty snark thrown at different people for NOTHING. I’m sick of sociopathic bastards eavesdropping on the conversations of others and bitching online to their friends about other peoples’ completely normal behavior. I’m sick of petty motherfuckers complaining about the couple next to them being romantic and making goo-goo eyes, like there’s something sick about being in love. If you get ill watching a young couple be all cutesy, then the problem is you, you sociopathic bastard. The problem is your inability to empathize with anyone else. You are the most important human being out of seven billion, and everyone else is just harshing your buzz.

When I go outside to people watch, I love to see people happy. I love to watch kids run around in circles and squeal at the top of their lungs. That’s what kids are supposed to do, be noisy and play. If you think their parents should force them to be silent because you hate kids, YOU’RE the problem here, motherfucker. Not the parents letting their kids play. YOU, for judging kids over something you know you fucking did when you were their age.

When I go outside to people watch, I listen to the samples of music bleeding off their headphones. Hey, it might be an artist I know, or it might be something new that I could get into. I’m not like you fucking music snobs complaining that only one musical genre is worth your time, and everyone else “forcing their crap” on you needs to learn to respect you. You don’t deserve respect, because from the moment you walk outside, you’ve got a fucking chip on your shoulder for petty bullshit. From the moment you wake up, you’re making shitty comments about other people for little nothing issues.

When I go outside to people watch, I love checking out the way they dress, the way they style their hair, or they way they try to fit a certain look to fit in with their cliques. I’m a punk myself, but I LOVE goth styles. I love to see young punks bringing back the mohawk or the studded leather jacket bearing the patches of all their favorite bands. I love it when people sing in public, even if they’re off key. Sometimes, it even inspires me to sing in public too.

What I’m saying is, despite being a life-long victim of bullying, of physical and sexual abuse and of neglect, I still love to go outside and explore my world. I still want to make connections to other people, and I want to learn about them. I want to know what makes them tick, and I want to know what gets them excited or happy. I want to learn about y’all.

Which is not to say I’m always a chipper chica. Sometimes, I’m downright scary because of my mood swings. But when I have those, I tend to pull away from other people, to spare them from my sudden outbursts.

When I get up in the morning, I’m cranky because I usually came out of a nightmare. I slurp my coffee, stroke my puppy, and go on Twitter to start sharing and socializing. And for every joke or comment that amuses me, there’s another snipe or insult for people you don’t know, don’t give a fuck about, and who you shouldn’t be judging simply because they have different tastes than you.

And that’s why I lose my shit so often. It isn’t that your choice of music annoys me. I probably like some of the same bands as you. I get pissed because you wish fans of Bieber would die in a fire. I get pissed because you sneer at fans of Dan Brown as mental retards. I get pissed because you have nothing but disdain for vegans, or for Atheists, or if you are Atheist, for people who have any form of spiritual faith. In short, I’m sick of people being so fucking petty to one another and acting like everyone else is trying to ruin your day by existing.

Meat eaters, people being vegan won’t ruin the taste of meat for you any more than gay marriage harms a straight couple’s marriage. Music snobs, Bieber having fans is because they like his music, and your hatred of them or him isn’t valid. Book readers, I know some YA tropes bother you, but if you really don’t like them, alternately don’t read any YA, or commit to write a better YA story that fits your tastes. (That’s what I do, you know, write the kinds of books I wish I could read.) Fans of movies or TV shows, stop spitting on other fandoms for not liking your favorite things. And y’all gamer fanboys attacking each other over Nintendo VS Sony, VS Microsoft…for the love of fuck, people! They’re all just gaming platforms, not important life decisions. If you hate someone else for liking or not liking Nintendo, you fucking need therapy, not validation of your bullshit opinions. Get off the comments sections of the gaming blog and get on the phone to seek professional help.

Y’all may be entitled to an opinion, but you are NOT entitled to attack other people for not agreeing with your particular tastes. And yet, every fucking day, that’s exactly what some of you do. You knock that chip off your own shoulder for the littlest, most petty bullshit. And after watching hundreds of you taking offense over nothing, I just want to send all of you to group therapy for being incapable of feeling or learning empathy.

The thing that drives me nuts about this is, many of you people have been attacked for your choices of hobbies. People who read horror get asked if they worship Satan, or if they want to rape and kill people. People who read romance get told they’re shallow and stupid and incapable of appreciating real love. (A bullshit charge coming from people who sneer at public displays of affection.) Adults who watch My Little Pony get attacked for being immature, and possibly mentally retarded. Yet none of this abuse teaches you a damn thing about empathy, so you’ll turn around and heap shit on someone else just as quickly, and for the same petty reasons.

You all act like you have life SO HARD, and everyone else is trying to fuck with you. You’re victims of persecution complexes, and you don’t have a clue what real persecution is like. Nobody breaks your bones for being a fan of this book genre or that. No gang jumps you and beats you to a bloody pulp for your choice of band… Okay, wait, that’s a partial lie. Some punks, emos, and goths HAVE been beaten to a pulp because their manner of dress identifies their musical preference, and they have been hospitalized for it. But my point is, the vast majority of you carry a chip on your shoulder not for any attacks you’ve suffered. You carry it because “those damn idiots” don’t think the same way you do.

I ain’t like you. I grew up living under your petty judgmental feet. I’ve had gangs jump me just for the way I talk, or walk, or because I skipped instead of running. I’ve had bones broken, and all the time when I was a kid, I was told that this would all change when I became an adult. But nothing has changed. All the people I watch online are still childish and petty. Some of you are violent and bullying to anyone who dares question your sociopathic bullshit. But just because you can find a thousand other assholes who also agree with your opinion of Bieber or his fans, it doesn’t make you right. You’re still an asshole, and you still fucking need therapy.

And because I know someone is asking, “What about you?” I sought therapy. The last time I tried, I was told by the counselor that I was not a threat to myself or to others, and therefore, they could not help me. I don’t think that makes me sane. It just means the state doesn’t consider me evil enough to warrant concern. But the same cannot be said for some of y’all, who daily wish death or harm on strangers. You do it not because other people slighted you, or because they represent a threat to your safety. You just do it because it’s easier to make a list of people to hate than it is to love people and accept their diversity.

I don’t get angry at you for the things you like. I get angry at you for hating other people on petty grounds. Most of you would argue that you’re sane, so why am I, the bonkers chick who talks out loud to the voices in her head, the one with more empathy than you? Why am I in love with the human race despite them almost killing me multiple times, and you sane sheltered people from good homes are almost incapable of loving anyone outside your immediate family? Why, in short, is your humanity so lacking, when you have relatively little hardships to deal with in life? And why if you have been attacked by others for petty shit can you not use that as a lesson toward learning empathy?

So what’s the difference between us? I still give a fuck and want people to learn to love and feel empathy. You don’t give a fuck, only feel empathy in limited doses for people in your clique, and wish harm on other people over nothing. And I wish you’d get help, because some days, you make me want to cry and drink myself to death.

CANNOT believe I’m about to defend Moffat…

Yesterday on Twitter, several of my newer followers decided to complain about David Moffat’s writing being “creepy” on Doctor Who because Moffat has now written three companions whom the Doctor has met first as children. In one companion’s case, he gave her a bicycle, and this was further proof of Moffat’s creepiness. One of these poor souls even declared, “It’s very problematic when all the companion’s relationships start with such a power imbalance.” Oh for the love of…NO. They don’t have a valid complaint here. People may be entitled to their opinions, but it is possible for an opinion to be so ignorant that it deserves open ridicule. This is one of those opinions.

I’m not a fan of the new Doctor Who shows, but even I have seen enough from watching old shows plus new pilots to know that people making these claim are flat out full of shit. I’m not even going to mince words, because of all the real problems people could point to in Moffat’s writing, they chose to hit on the LEAST problematic part. I will explain.

First, let me talk about the “age issue.” My God, some people really are hung up on couples only getting together if they’re exactly the same fucking age. You must think I’m sick as fuck because my husband is 15 years older than me, but I’m one of those freaky creeps who believe that true love doesn’t care about age. I also believe that love and sex are completely separate things, so it is possible to be in love with someone younger without it being creepy or inappropriate. When I find a relationship creepy is when someone obsesses over a certain age as their criteria for sexual arousal, and then I don’t care if the obsessed person is into looking at kids, the middle aged, or the elderly. The fact is, their sexual objectification comes over any genuine emotion, and that is totally creepy. I think those people need therapy.

But look, ageists, the Doctor is thousands of years old. Even if his companion was 99, they would still be a child compared to him. And if his companions were 99, they’d be dead from heart attacks by the middle of an episode for all the times the Doctor has shouted “RUN!”

There’s also no way you could have balance in such a relationship because the Doctor is god in a box. Even if the Doctor’s companion was a bodybuilder trained in 15 martial arts and had two bastard swords strapped to his back, there would still be an imbalance. Even if the Doctor teamed up with Batman, there would still be imbalance because Batman is human, and the Doctor is GOD IN A BOX.

The thing y’all creepy complainers aren’t even acknowledging is, the Doctor doesn’t control where the Tardis goes. The Tardis takes the Doctor where it thinks he needs to be. Now it may be too trite or convenient that the Doctor has somehow met three companions in childhood, and it may serve as proof that Moffat’s writing is a bit sloppy. But it is not creepy because the Doctor isn’t planning these visits. He doesn’t say “Tardis, take me to meet my companion years before they’re ready for our wacky hi-jinx together.” He just ends up in the right place and time to meet them. Which is convenient and trite, and sloppy. But it is not creepy.

Now if the Doctor put his arm around one of his child companions, stroked her thigh in a grooming manner, and said, “One day, you and I are going to travel through time and space on many romp-like misadventures, but for now, I’d just like to make out with you,” THAT would be creepy. Then you’d have a valid complaint, and I’d be with you 100%. But the worst fucking crime you can lay at this ancient time traveler’s feet is, “he gave a companion a bicycle for Christmas.” DEAR GOD, NO! NOT A BICYCLE! You know how bicycles lead to hooligan behavior and premarital sex with time travelers! Oh wait, no. It just leads to bike riding. Considering how often companions have to run for their lives, a little cardio training in their youth isn’t such a bad idea.

Really, these people could complain about Moffat’s cliché dialogue, his recycled crutch catch phrases, his open misogyny against women characters, or his need to turn certain episodes into a long Benny Hill skit only missing Yakety Sax to complete the “tribute.” But they chose to call his writing creepy for something completely innocent. In doing so, they said more about themselves in a few tweets than they may have intended.

And I’ll tell you something else. People these days seem to give more of a shit for the welfare of fictional children than they do for real kids. When Twitter passed around a petition demanding an apology from CNN for mourning the plight of rapists of a drunk teen, there should have been millions of signatures to shame the news anchors, men and women, were in discussing a real life abuse case. But there wasn’t even one million. It’s just not that big a deal to y’all.

There should be howling outrage over a lot of real life abuse cases where a person in a position of authority has power over their victims and uses it to keep them silent. But aside from an initial few folks saber rattling death threats to all “creepos” to ease their conscience for otherwise not giving a shit, folks look away from real world abused children time, and time, and time again. When do people get upset? When a fictional child is treated in a seemingly improper or creepy way. People, I don’t want to be mean, really, but some of y’all got severely fucked up priorities.

Here in this case, there’s nothing to be creeped out by. People who find this problematic are nitpicking to look for something, ANYTHING to complain about, and if you hate Doctor Who that much, DON’T FUCKING WATCH THE SHOW. I’ve not been into the new series because I have a host of complaints about the writing. But I leave my Doctor loving friends be, and I let them enjoy their show and their fandom without nitpicking at them.

Whenever I do hate on a show, lots of people tell me, “If you don’t like it, don’t watch.” Well I have to at least give every show a few episodes as a fair shot. If they blow it, I’ll heed the advice and stop watching. Which is why I haven’t seen any TV show through to the end of a season since Teen Wolf. Yes, I’m a picky, petty bitch. But if y’all are hitting on Moffat for being creepy because he’s conveniently written in three early meetings with the Doctor and his companions, you’re actually more petty than me. And definitely more lacking in the brains department. Which is sad because I’ve got actual holes in my brain that sometimes take away my ability to distinguish between reality and fantasy. I got a mental illness impairing my judgment. What’s your excuse for being this clueless?

AND, if you’re creeped out by a fictional child getting a fucking bicycle for Christmas, do me a favor and don’t read any of my books. Cause I’m easily a hundred times more creepy and problematic than Moffat in my willingness to mistreat and abuse fictional children. Of course, my intention is to show you what child abuse is like from the perspective of someone who’s dealt with all forms of abuse. I’ve lived with other abuse victims and felt a need to share their stories too, and what I’m doing is trying to show you the hell that real world kids go through while adults remain blissfully unaware. I’m TRYING to creep you out and make you uncomfortable about child abuse. What Moffat is guilty of is writing the same trite cliché thrice, and nothing more. If you can find fault with that, your moral compass should be retooled to work better.

The “real” stereotyping of fake creatures…

I’ve covered both of the topics that I’m going to talk about today, but I want to pair them up to make a point to readers and writers. Lately, I’ve been seeing promotions from writers and reviews from readers that alternately praise or shame a book for the “real” nature of their mystical creatures, or lack thereof. This behavior was goofy enough when it centered around “real” vampires, but now I’m seeing people complain about fairies, pixies, zombies, and werewolves all in the same vein. It’s like, once a trope has fallen into a cliché, the people who like living in a rut are suspicious of anything that doesn’t fit into their favored cliché. Real fairies are mean. Real zombies don’t run, or talk. Real pixies play violent pranks. And so on and so forth.

I was tempted to talk about this solely as a prejudice problem, because it is very much a prejudice. If you took the sentence, “real fairies are ugly and cruel” and swapped out that identifying word with any minority group, the prejudice is apparent. It’s a denial to the idea that there could be just as much diversity in mystical races as there are in humans.

But no, what I want to ask is, where are all your real humans in your fantasy stories? Where are the sycophants who idol worship one celebrity “god” while trashing the others for not having talent? Where are your cowards who see bad situations, look away, and say “it wasn’t my problem”? Where are your religious nuts who attack innocent people in the pursuit of proving their love for God? Some of you folks insist that all mystical races be written in a monstrous and unforgiving light, but when it comes to the humans in those same stories, you don’t want to see a reflection of yourselves. You demand an “everyman” to slip inside, one possessing none of your worst traits while only exemplifying the traits you wish you had.

Some of you might claim the monsters are the reflections of our dark side, but they’re not. The monsters are the other predatory animals on our planet. They’re the wolves, sharks, and bears. Humans are the monsters who campaign to cull a whole race of animals like foxes because four of our billion strong population got attacked. Humans are the ones who cast themselves in the role of the poor and downtrodden when they have historically been stomping down on animals all over the world. Now that they’re running out of animals to harm, they’ve turned on each other, casting minorities as animals unworthy of respect.

So where are these real humans in your fantasies? Why is there no recognition that the endangered mystical races hide from the humans because the humans are prejudiced toward monoethnicity in their respective cultures? Why is there no assessment of our prejudicial desire to hunt these predators to extinction even though they don’t pose a threat to our comfortably asserted dominance on the planet?

I want to compare this to cop shows, where the cops are always good, and where 99% of cases get solved, and the right bad guy ends up in jail week in and out. The black dude on the street is usually a gang banger, or a drug dealer, or a thief. The cops rarely haul in the wrong guy, smack him around, and then discover they’ve been barking up the wrong tree. Again. The writers of cop shows lecture us on morality and how the ends justify the means, but rarely do they examine the so-called thin blue line and how it allows dirty cops to commit horrible crimes and get away with it. Where are the real cops? Why don’t the viewers of cops shows demand real cops the way fantasy and horror readers and writers demand “real” monsters?

It’s a prejudice. and it’s a desire to be cast as the good guy even when our real world humans could never live up to these moralistic ideals. Fictional humans might make mistakes, but they still save the day. Harry Potter can go a full school year completely clueless about all the mistakes he’s making, and it doesn’t matter. At the end of the year, the villain will come out of hiding, carefully explain everything Harry missed, and then let Harry kill him anyway. This isn’t realistic, and it casts the underdog human in such a positive light when he’s done absolutely nothing right to earn his victories. He doesn’t deserve to win, but we’ll let him anyway, because the alternative is being honest and letting the villain kill or imprison another clueless dimwit.

People say they want to read fantasy and horror for the escapism, and it’s really sad how they go to such huge lengths not to do anything about problems in the real world while at the same time insisting that their fictional heroes be such gifted problem solvers. People get pissy over a vampire depicted the wrong way, but never question the humans being cast in such a favorable light. This is really no change from the books and films of the 40s and 50s, where the handsome, rich white hero has to fight dumb savages to rescue his woman, usually tarted up and of course completely willing to be treated as an object to be won. We didn’t evolve our fiction to be more realistic in all this time. We just shifted our racism off of real races and saddled monsters with the role of scapegoat.

The central point we’re still ignoring is, humans aren’t as noble as we want them depicted. We may want to be the heroes of our own stories, but by never examining the side effects of our fictional goodness, we also never see how we’ve shifted the focus of our prejudices rather than confronting and erasing them.

Go ahead and praise that vampire novel because the monster still acts the same as a character from the 1970s. Shun that fairy novel because the fairies aren’t evil enough to suit your prejudice. Ridicule that zombie story with talking zombies because the “real” monster is supposed to be mindless evil that frees you of any moral qualms over killing them. But when you do these things, you leave unanswered the main question, “Why aren’t the humans in these stories depicted realistically”?

Writers in the past let their work run the spectrum from light and sappy to dark and discomforting. Writers of the past gave us stories where people were kind of shitheads, and where even the protagonist was morally grey at best. But even as the technology we have to share and develop stories has improved, our ability to tell an honest story has become weaker and weaker. And modern writers, in their failure to be honest, have now conditioned the readers to clamor against stories that would have been popular in previous generations for being reflective of our cultures as opposed to projecting values onto us that are not there. Our job as writers is to challenge the status quo, not to reinforce it.

And yet, look at all the writers who not only enforce these prejudicial stereotypes of monsters, but who also rally their fans to sneer at any work that presents the mystical races in a more diverse way. All the while, they write human monster hunters who are the same as the good cop stereotype on TV. The good guys win, the evil monster dies, and the seven billion humans were kept safe from an endangered species who surely cannot have more than a thousand members in their population left in hiding. And the reader walks away comforted knowing that the monster will never have an equal place in our society, because there will always be a glorious white hero stepping down on the mystical races to keep them oppressed. In the narrative of Us VS Them, we still won’t examine our ugliest habit of othering people to justify killing and torturing Them. We won’t look in a mirror because that would be ugly. So we look in a book to be comforted by pretty lies. Or we stare for hours at the TV to reaffirm a goodness that we do not posses.

We’re not challenging the status quo or pushing the boundaries of our art. We’re pandering to a sentimental racism in the casual reader. So where are the real humans in our modern fantasies? Where are the racists, the morally righteous oppressors, the sexist objectifiers, and the manipulative white liars? Where are the real people to balance out your insistence that all monsters live up to racial stereotyping? Or do the humans get a free pass to be evil shits without writers calling them on it?