Gillian Polack's Blog, page 39
March 12, 2015
Sue Burke - Women's History Month
Who wears the pants?
When I was in grade school in the 1960s in Wisconsin, girls could not wear slacks to school except on days when we had physical education, and then only for half-days. At lunch, we had to go home and change.
We also sometimes wore slacks under our skirts on cold winter days. Pre-global-warming Wisconsin could get plenty cold, and I walked a half-mile to school, but we girls had to take off our slacks when we got there and leave them in our lockers.
Even then, we thought the rule was stupid, one of many rules only for girls. We were unhappy, and we worked to change what we could.
By the time I graduated from high school in 1973, we could wear slacks to class, but that same year, Helen Thomas was ridiculed by President Richard Nixon for wearing them to the Oval Office.
Women staff members were not allowed to wear pants at the White House, and over at Congress, female aides in slacks were sometimes harassed.
Thomas, at that moment, was the chief White House correspondent for United Press International and had traveled with Nixon to China the year before. Eventually she became the first female officer of the National Press Club and first female president of the White House Correspondent’s Association – which she had enlisted the help of President Kennedy to open up to women.
But Nixon was no Kennedy. “Helen, are you still wearing slacks?” Nixon said. “Do you prefer them, really? Every time I see a girl in slacks, it reminds me of China.” He asked her if they cost more than “gowns.” She said no, and he replied: “Then change.” The room erupted with laughter.
Her fellow reporters – males – complained that she had been ridiculed. “It was a cheap way for the President to get a laugh,” one said. Another thought “she was too nice” and should have taken Nixon on.
Thomas responded “The President has not been out on the American scene enough to recognize that pants are not just a trend but a part of the American woman’s wardrobe. I don’t know the President very well, but I do know he is a gentleman of the old school. He views women as he saw them in the ‘30s or ‘40s. Or even ‘50s.”
At that point, I was about to begin university studies for journalism. Helen Thomas hadn’t been my inspiration, but she showed how far I could go. Like her, I might become the only reporter in the White House Press Corps to have a personal assigned seat in the White House Briefing Room. I might be the one to say “Thank you, Mr. President” to signal that the briefing was over, and no one would argue with me about that, not even the President himself.
Eventually, I became a journalist and loved the work. Then I branched out into other kinds of writing and loved that. I also campaigned for women’s rights. I wore slacks whenever I wanted. And I was happy.
Sue Burke now lives in Madrid, Spain, and works as a writer and translator. More information is available at her website, . She is also part of a crowdfunding campaign to translate a Spanish science fiction anthology into English at http://igg.me/at/CastlesInSpain.
When I was in grade school in the 1960s in Wisconsin, girls could not wear slacks to school except on days when we had physical education, and then only for half-days. At lunch, we had to go home and change.
We also sometimes wore slacks under our skirts on cold winter days. Pre-global-warming Wisconsin could get plenty cold, and I walked a half-mile to school, but we girls had to take off our slacks when we got there and leave them in our lockers.
Even then, we thought the rule was stupid, one of many rules only for girls. We were unhappy, and we worked to change what we could.
By the time I graduated from high school in 1973, we could wear slacks to class, but that same year, Helen Thomas was ridiculed by President Richard Nixon for wearing them to the Oval Office.
Women staff members were not allowed to wear pants at the White House, and over at Congress, female aides in slacks were sometimes harassed.
Thomas, at that moment, was the chief White House correspondent for United Press International and had traveled with Nixon to China the year before. Eventually she became the first female officer of the National Press Club and first female president of the White House Correspondent’s Association – which she had enlisted the help of President Kennedy to open up to women.
But Nixon was no Kennedy. “Helen, are you still wearing slacks?” Nixon said. “Do you prefer them, really? Every time I see a girl in slacks, it reminds me of China.” He asked her if they cost more than “gowns.” She said no, and he replied: “Then change.” The room erupted with laughter.
Her fellow reporters – males – complained that she had been ridiculed. “It was a cheap way for the President to get a laugh,” one said. Another thought “she was too nice” and should have taken Nixon on.
Thomas responded “The President has not been out on the American scene enough to recognize that pants are not just a trend but a part of the American woman’s wardrobe. I don’t know the President very well, but I do know he is a gentleman of the old school. He views women as he saw them in the ‘30s or ‘40s. Or even ‘50s.”
At that point, I was about to begin university studies for journalism. Helen Thomas hadn’t been my inspiration, but she showed how far I could go. Like her, I might become the only reporter in the White House Press Corps to have a personal assigned seat in the White House Briefing Room. I might be the one to say “Thank you, Mr. President” to signal that the briefing was over, and no one would argue with me about that, not even the President himself.
Eventually, I became a journalist and loved the work. Then I branched out into other kinds of writing and loved that. I also campaigned for women’s rights. I wore slacks whenever I wanted. And I was happy.
Sue Burke now lives in Madrid, Spain, and works as a writer and translator. More information is available at her website, . She is also part of a crowdfunding campaign to translate a Spanish science fiction anthology into English at http://igg.me/at/CastlesInSpain.
March 11, 2015
Isolde Martyn - Women's History Month
EDUCATE A WOMAN AND…
My Mum died just before Christmas at the age of 96 and I am so proud of what she achieved. It can’t have been easy growing up in the Depression. She won a scholarship to the town’s grammar school. It separated her from the village kids she had grown up with but she told me how when she had walked into the school library and saw all those books, she felt ‘this is everything I longed for’.
In today’s world, she would have gone to university but back then my grandfather could not afford the cost so she became a primary school teacher. I remember many of the girls she coached for the 11-Plus –that big hurdle that decided which high school you went to — and some of them were still in touch when she reached her eighties. She was so delighted that one of them went on to be a student at Oxford.
Because her grandchildren were in Australia, she never figured regularly in their lives (except for the occasional summer visit) and there was no Skype back then. But what we lost out on familywise, her local community gained. She was a councillor for 17 years and as planning chairman she protected the little villages from over-development. When mayor, she fought for a council housing estate that had no community centre or shops to have a supermarket and won. The building of the supermarket drew other shops, a doctor’s and a dentist’s, then a library and church were built. It gave the local people pride in their community and a sense of place. In her early nineties, Mum was still writing to the paper to save the little library from being closed down by the Tory Government.
She was a member of the village theatrical society and during her year as mayor, when the group was putting on a play, based on one of Thomas Hardy’s novels, at the town pavilion, she was sitting in the front row as mayor for the first act. After the interval her seat was empty and when the curtain went up, there she was on stage in nineteenth century costume to the great applause of the audience.
She did a great deal for the borough’s music societies, the village conservation groups and animal welfare. The town hall flew its civic flag at half-mast when the news reached them of her death and about eight former mayors came to the memorial service in the little village church. We gave her a great send off. Looking back, I’m filled with great sadness that distance prevented us sharing some of her finest moments but there must be so many stories like this. People say educate a woman and she will change a community for the better. In Mum’s case, I am so proud to say: how true!
Isolde’s most recent novel THE GOLDEN WIDOWS deals with two young widows on opposing sides during the Wars of the Roses: Warwick the Kingmaker’s sister, Katherine Neville and Elizabeth Woodville, Lady Grey. Publication details at: www.isoldemartyn.com
My Mum died just before Christmas at the age of 96 and I am so proud of what she achieved. It can’t have been easy growing up in the Depression. She won a scholarship to the town’s grammar school. It separated her from the village kids she had grown up with but she told me how when she had walked into the school library and saw all those books, she felt ‘this is everything I longed for’.
In today’s world, she would have gone to university but back then my grandfather could not afford the cost so she became a primary school teacher. I remember many of the girls she coached for the 11-Plus –that big hurdle that decided which high school you went to — and some of them were still in touch when she reached her eighties. She was so delighted that one of them went on to be a student at Oxford.
Because her grandchildren were in Australia, she never figured regularly in their lives (except for the occasional summer visit) and there was no Skype back then. But what we lost out on familywise, her local community gained. She was a councillor for 17 years and as planning chairman she protected the little villages from over-development. When mayor, she fought for a council housing estate that had no community centre or shops to have a supermarket and won. The building of the supermarket drew other shops, a doctor’s and a dentist’s, then a library and church were built. It gave the local people pride in their community and a sense of place. In her early nineties, Mum was still writing to the paper to save the little library from being closed down by the Tory Government.
She was a member of the village theatrical society and during her year as mayor, when the group was putting on a play, based on one of Thomas Hardy’s novels, at the town pavilion, she was sitting in the front row as mayor for the first act. After the interval her seat was empty and when the curtain went up, there she was on stage in nineteenth century costume to the great applause of the audience.
She did a great deal for the borough’s music societies, the village conservation groups and animal welfare. The town hall flew its civic flag at half-mast when the news reached them of her death and about eight former mayors came to the memorial service in the little village church. We gave her a great send off. Looking back, I’m filled with great sadness that distance prevented us sharing some of her finest moments but there must be so many stories like this. People say educate a woman and she will change a community for the better. In Mum’s case, I am so proud to say: how true!
Isolde’s most recent novel THE GOLDEN WIDOWS deals with two young widows on opposing sides during the Wars of the Roses: Warwick the Kingmaker’s sister, Katherine Neville and Elizabeth Woodville, Lady Grey. Publication details at: www.isoldemartyn.com
gillpolack @ 2015-03-12T13:29:00
Small things continue to go wrong, big things seem to be mostly reasonable (except for the cursed novel, for the curse is sputtering out too slowly and it is yet to emerge). My way of dealing is a bit random. I've deepcleaned my coffee pot (this means I can have Byron Bay coffee for Pesach, for both my grinder and pot will be Pesach-ready) and got rid of the evilest element of my vile headache (too much breathing of smoke yesterday, which was inevitable, for I taught and had to walk both there and back for teaching - the killer was the return trip, for I was carrying groceries and so, as I explained to a friend, was forced to breath) and bought many packets of instant noodles (which I'm not supposed to eat and which need finishing by Pesach but whose presence in the cupboard comforts me particularly for no good reason whatsoever, so if anyone drops in and has a sudden need for instant noodles...) and loads more slight daftness.
Tomorrow, with luck, I'll be doing something a bit more sensible. Someone had a sale on a car seat back massage thingie, which I'm hoping will help with the muscle problems due to the bushfire smoke. It and baths so full of Epsom salts that I almost float are my secret weapons to get through the next few weeks. For today and tomorrow, I've already got meals, so that I won't be tempted by those instant noodles. The doctor's suggestion is working for the side effects (no swelling! very few actual asthma attacks!) but not for the everyday symptoms. At least it doesn't interfere with my work. I'm annoyed and discomfited and I hurt and I probably should eat more chocolate, but it's not actually disabling.
What I don't understand is how my physical malaise reaches out to people who've never met me and causes things to go wrong. It's a mystery. When I feel like this, stuff goes awry, always. When I feel fine, the world mostly operates in harmony. You'd think the universe would notice this and conspire to keep major allergens away from me.
For my next trick, I have two piles of paper to work through today. I have until 4.30 to work through them, for after that time, teaching calls (I've already packed my teaching bags - they include some surprise elements, including a tiffin). No matter the aches, I'll feel better for reducing the paper and admin tasks. I did a bunch last night and one desk (don't ask how many desks I own!) is almost entirely clear. This is the desk that stores papers that need something done with, and it included a half dozen articles that had to be read. If I can finish my two piles of paper for today, then I'm sure I'll feel better!
Tomorrow, with luck, I'll be doing something a bit more sensible. Someone had a sale on a car seat back massage thingie, which I'm hoping will help with the muscle problems due to the bushfire smoke. It and baths so full of Epsom salts that I almost float are my secret weapons to get through the next few weeks. For today and tomorrow, I've already got meals, so that I won't be tempted by those instant noodles. The doctor's suggestion is working for the side effects (no swelling! very few actual asthma attacks!) but not for the everyday symptoms. At least it doesn't interfere with my work. I'm annoyed and discomfited and I hurt and I probably should eat more chocolate, but it's not actually disabling.
What I don't understand is how my physical malaise reaches out to people who've never met me and causes things to go wrong. It's a mystery. When I feel like this, stuff goes awry, always. When I feel fine, the world mostly operates in harmony. You'd think the universe would notice this and conspire to keep major allergens away from me.
For my next trick, I have two piles of paper to work through today. I have until 4.30 to work through them, for after that time, teaching calls (I've already packed my teaching bags - they include some surprise elements, including a tiffin). No matter the aches, I'll feel better for reducing the paper and admin tasks. I did a bunch last night and one desk (don't ask how many desks I own!) is almost entirely clear. This is the desk that stores papers that need something done with, and it included a half dozen articles that had to be read. If I can finish my two piles of paper for today, then I'm sure I'll feel better!
March 10, 2015
K.J. Taylor - Women's History Month
I consider myself a naturally lucky sort of person, and one of the many good fortunes I’ve experienced in my life is that I’ve never really had to worry about being treated differently because I’m a woman. Of course there was the usual nonsense when I was in primary school, and I’ve been (mildy) sexually harassed on a few occasions, but not once in my life to date have I felt disadvantaged by my lack of a penis.
At the time of this writing I am 29 years old, busy pursuing a career as an author while holding down a day job as an archivist. I live in a yurt with three rats and two canaries. I’m single, and have decided to remain so. I have no interest whatsoever in ever marrying, having children, living with someone, or even having a relationship. And no, I am not a lesbian. I only feel the need to say that outright because, sadly, when a woman says she doesn’t want to get married, the immediate response from some people is “oh, you must be gay then”(it was in highschool, anyway). Nor am I an asexual – I do have a sex drive, if not a very strong one, which is probably just as well. This is the life I have chosen for myself, and I happen to be content with it.
Unfortunately, though we’ve come a long way in the last few decades, there is still a perception that it’s somehow Not Right for a woman to choose a life of spinsterhood. A man who decides to remain a bachelor is also looked upon as either odd or immature in some way, but a woman who never marries is obviously mentally ill and will spend the rest of her life gradually accumulating a ludicrous number of cats. After all, if a woman doesn’t have a husband and kids, what else is she good for? Oh, a career? Well then she must be one of those ice queen bitches who scares men off on account of being way too steely-eyed and mannish. She probably also wears one of those skirt suits.
I, however, fit into a different stereotype: I’m an artist. I write novels, though not for a living (everyone in this business knows there’s no money in it). And even in the novel-writing business we encounter stupid stereotyping.
Some years ago I came across a comment online which really irritated me. I can’t quote it exactly, but as far as I can remember it was something on the lines of “way too many fantasy books are written by women these days, so it’s all male characters whining about their feelings”. The more I read that comment, the angrier I got. It would be easy to dismiss it as the stupid remark of some moron on the Internet, but it points to a larger problem: apparently, us girls are supposed to write a certain way, and if we don’t… then we’re not real women? I guess? And also, we don’t know how to write about men. You need a willy to do that, you know. Meanwhile it’s totally fine for men to write about women, or at least I haven’t heard any complaining about that.
As a matter of fact, at one point a reader I spoke to on a forum somewhere said that they thought I was a man (I go by the asexual nom de plume of K.J.Taylor), because of the way I write. I wish I’d probed them further on that point. Certainly, I don’t have much interest in writing romance into my novels (not having any in my real life, I tend to be a bit hesitant over writing about my characters falling in love – most of what I do write in that area is informed by a combination of instinct and what I’ve seen in movies or read in other books). In any case, while I have a tendency to write about tough, unemotional female characters and more vulnerable male characters (a result of my upbringing with a tough, unemotional mother and a dreamy, artistic father), I don’t think that I really do write about men (or anyone else) “whining about their feelings”. Yes, I do let my male (and female) characters cry when it’s appropriate (I do tend to put them through hell, so nervous breakdowns are only natural).
But apparently it’s Not Okay for male characters to cry or, you know, have feelings. In fact my American agent actually whinged about how my character, Arenadd Taranisäii, wasn’t “manly” enough to be a fantasy hero. Because, inexplicably, having brutally lost everything he had to live for and been thrown into a situation in which he had no real way of getting to his enemy and everybody believed his downfall had been his own fault – he plunged into depression and alcohol abuse, and started openly contemplating suicide. Because that would never happen in real life.
This makes me wonder – if Arenadd had been a female character, would my agent have complained that she wasn’t womanly enough to be a fantasy heroine? I frankly doubt it. Only women are allowed to have feelings in fiction, and that’s a stereotype that really bugs me. So in typical fashion, I ignore it. I did not do any revisions to make Arenadd more manly, because he was never supposed to be a square-jawed action hero type. He was a sensitive, thoughtful, insecure guy who reacted the way such a person would to his situation. Maybe my agent is Mr Big Shot with his office in New York, but I’ll take realistic characters before I succumb to that kind of pandering to expectations, thanks.
And on the subject of Arenadd, another personality trait I gave him is that he’s vain. Though the series he appears in his very dark (the first book was rejected multiple times for being too depressing), I drew some comic relief from the way he constantly fusses over his hair. There is even a scene in which (immediately after committing a horrific massacre), he starts giving the female protagonist haircare advice and lectures her about how curly hair takes a lot of work to keep it looking nice. I guess that’s another strike against him there – better revoke that Man Card on the spot, people. Only women are supposed to care about their hair.
And that’s one final thing that truly aggravates me about society’s treatment of women: the way we’re expected to obsess over looking pretty. If a woman ain’t hot, she ain’t nothing (recent case in point: that repulsive obituary for Colleen McCullough). In fact, despite the fact that I’m at a healthy weight, quite recently a guy who is otherwise very mature and sensible told me I’d sell more books if I lost weight and made my hair look nicer. To which I replied with a more polite version of “fuck off”. I mean, really – are male authors expected to work out so they can look nice and ripped at their book signings? I don’t hear anyone telling G.R.R.Martin to slim down and stop wearing that dorky hat and suspenders combo so people will take him seriously. Gah.
As far as I am concerned, I am an author first and a woman second, or even third. My gender is really not that important to me, and I don’t think it should be important to anyone else. But those are the breaks, I guess. Welcome to the real world, which doesn’t operate according to common sense or logic. Quite frankly, I prefer to ignore it and write fantasy. At least them I’m the one making the rules.
At the time of this writing I am 29 years old, busy pursuing a career as an author while holding down a day job as an archivist. I live in a yurt with three rats and two canaries. I’m single, and have decided to remain so. I have no interest whatsoever in ever marrying, having children, living with someone, or even having a relationship. And no, I am not a lesbian. I only feel the need to say that outright because, sadly, when a woman says she doesn’t want to get married, the immediate response from some people is “oh, you must be gay then”(it was in highschool, anyway). Nor am I an asexual – I do have a sex drive, if not a very strong one, which is probably just as well. This is the life I have chosen for myself, and I happen to be content with it.
Unfortunately, though we’ve come a long way in the last few decades, there is still a perception that it’s somehow Not Right for a woman to choose a life of spinsterhood. A man who decides to remain a bachelor is also looked upon as either odd or immature in some way, but a woman who never marries is obviously mentally ill and will spend the rest of her life gradually accumulating a ludicrous number of cats. After all, if a woman doesn’t have a husband and kids, what else is she good for? Oh, a career? Well then she must be one of those ice queen bitches who scares men off on account of being way too steely-eyed and mannish. She probably also wears one of those skirt suits.
I, however, fit into a different stereotype: I’m an artist. I write novels, though not for a living (everyone in this business knows there’s no money in it). And even in the novel-writing business we encounter stupid stereotyping.
Some years ago I came across a comment online which really irritated me. I can’t quote it exactly, but as far as I can remember it was something on the lines of “way too many fantasy books are written by women these days, so it’s all male characters whining about their feelings”. The more I read that comment, the angrier I got. It would be easy to dismiss it as the stupid remark of some moron on the Internet, but it points to a larger problem: apparently, us girls are supposed to write a certain way, and if we don’t… then we’re not real women? I guess? And also, we don’t know how to write about men. You need a willy to do that, you know. Meanwhile it’s totally fine for men to write about women, or at least I haven’t heard any complaining about that.
As a matter of fact, at one point a reader I spoke to on a forum somewhere said that they thought I was a man (I go by the asexual nom de plume of K.J.Taylor), because of the way I write. I wish I’d probed them further on that point. Certainly, I don’t have much interest in writing romance into my novels (not having any in my real life, I tend to be a bit hesitant over writing about my characters falling in love – most of what I do write in that area is informed by a combination of instinct and what I’ve seen in movies or read in other books). In any case, while I have a tendency to write about tough, unemotional female characters and more vulnerable male characters (a result of my upbringing with a tough, unemotional mother and a dreamy, artistic father), I don’t think that I really do write about men (or anyone else) “whining about their feelings”. Yes, I do let my male (and female) characters cry when it’s appropriate (I do tend to put them through hell, so nervous breakdowns are only natural).
But apparently it’s Not Okay for male characters to cry or, you know, have feelings. In fact my American agent actually whinged about how my character, Arenadd Taranisäii, wasn’t “manly” enough to be a fantasy hero. Because, inexplicably, having brutally lost everything he had to live for and been thrown into a situation in which he had no real way of getting to his enemy and everybody believed his downfall had been his own fault – he plunged into depression and alcohol abuse, and started openly contemplating suicide. Because that would never happen in real life.
This makes me wonder – if Arenadd had been a female character, would my agent have complained that she wasn’t womanly enough to be a fantasy heroine? I frankly doubt it. Only women are allowed to have feelings in fiction, and that’s a stereotype that really bugs me. So in typical fashion, I ignore it. I did not do any revisions to make Arenadd more manly, because he was never supposed to be a square-jawed action hero type. He was a sensitive, thoughtful, insecure guy who reacted the way such a person would to his situation. Maybe my agent is Mr Big Shot with his office in New York, but I’ll take realistic characters before I succumb to that kind of pandering to expectations, thanks.
And on the subject of Arenadd, another personality trait I gave him is that he’s vain. Though the series he appears in his very dark (the first book was rejected multiple times for being too depressing), I drew some comic relief from the way he constantly fusses over his hair. There is even a scene in which (immediately after committing a horrific massacre), he starts giving the female protagonist haircare advice and lectures her about how curly hair takes a lot of work to keep it looking nice. I guess that’s another strike against him there – better revoke that Man Card on the spot, people. Only women are supposed to care about their hair.
And that’s one final thing that truly aggravates me about society’s treatment of women: the way we’re expected to obsess over looking pretty. If a woman ain’t hot, she ain’t nothing (recent case in point: that repulsive obituary for Colleen McCullough). In fact, despite the fact that I’m at a healthy weight, quite recently a guy who is otherwise very mature and sensible told me I’d sell more books if I lost weight and made my hair look nicer. To which I replied with a more polite version of “fuck off”. I mean, really – are male authors expected to work out so they can look nice and ripped at their book signings? I don’t hear anyone telling G.R.R.Martin to slim down and stop wearing that dorky hat and suspenders combo so people will take him seriously. Gah.
As far as I am concerned, I am an author first and a woman second, or even third. My gender is really not that important to me, and I don’t think it should be important to anyone else. But those are the breaks, I guess. Welcome to the real world, which doesn’t operate according to common sense or logic. Quite frankly, I prefer to ignore it and write fantasy. At least them I’m the one making the rules.
Joyce Chng - Women's History Month
My love affair with Joan of Arc started in my childhood, when I saw King Arthur cartoons and wondered about the Middle Ages. At that time, it was all knights, horses and men on horses. And swords and shields and the idea of being chivalrous. I noticed that knights were all men.
When I began working on my MA, my area fell firmly and squarely in the world of Joan of Arc… and on the woman/knight/shepherd girl. My hypothesis focused on comparing the (similar) ways in which poets, artists and hagiographers portrayed Joan of Arc, and fictional lady knights of the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. So while I was charmed by Bradamante and Marfiza, my admiration for Joan of Arc grew. I ignored the sensationalized movie that came out the same year as my research and went straight into the court recordings.
She was a teenager. As much as I love YA, I often wince at the disdain that adults accord to teenage girls. YA fiction is full of brave, courageous and powerful teen girls who fight the odds and come out bloody and triumphant. Reality, however, is about girls who cannot do this, who cannot do that, and kudos to the moral conservative right who sees girls as weak and needs protecting. Weak also means foolish and in need of constant adult (and often, male!) guidance. For some strange reason, we cannot reconcile this reality and the YA girls who are full of fire.
But Joan was a girl with fire – with conviction. Never mind the Church accused her of witchcraft and psychologists would say that she heard voices. She had the guts, mind you, to lead an army. She could ride a horse easily and wield weapons. She was one tough gal. A woman warrior. Of course, her companions all about waived aside accusations of sexual attraction/tension: “She was just one of us!” or “I didn’t notice her breasts!”. That was the Middle Ages then, replete with misogyny (thanks to the Church) and its own dark little superstitions.
How do we handle girls with fire?
Do we literally douse them with water, both real and metaphorically? Do we handle them with tongs? Do we put them behind bars and put so many strictures that their fire is gone and they are forced to change? Do we just manage the fire? Or then again, how do we manage the fire? Would we get burnt, changed or both?
For me, Joan is an inspiration. A young woman with so much energy: she has accomplished so much. How do we now encourage the young women and men in our lives? Can we tell our kids, our students, our young people around us, that they can do stuff?
Joyce can be found online at A Wolf’s Tale: http://awolfstale.wordpress.com. She tweets too: @jolantru. When she is not busy herding students, she is either writing, gardening, baking bread and doing other assorted things like staring at the stars.
When I began working on my MA, my area fell firmly and squarely in the world of Joan of Arc… and on the woman/knight/shepherd girl. My hypothesis focused on comparing the (similar) ways in which poets, artists and hagiographers portrayed Joan of Arc, and fictional lady knights of the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. So while I was charmed by Bradamante and Marfiza, my admiration for Joan of Arc grew. I ignored the sensationalized movie that came out the same year as my research and went straight into the court recordings.
She was a teenager. As much as I love YA, I often wince at the disdain that adults accord to teenage girls. YA fiction is full of brave, courageous and powerful teen girls who fight the odds and come out bloody and triumphant. Reality, however, is about girls who cannot do this, who cannot do that, and kudos to the moral conservative right who sees girls as weak and needs protecting. Weak also means foolish and in need of constant adult (and often, male!) guidance. For some strange reason, we cannot reconcile this reality and the YA girls who are full of fire.
But Joan was a girl with fire – with conviction. Never mind the Church accused her of witchcraft and psychologists would say that she heard voices. She had the guts, mind you, to lead an army. She could ride a horse easily and wield weapons. She was one tough gal. A woman warrior. Of course, her companions all about waived aside accusations of sexual attraction/tension: “She was just one of us!” or “I didn’t notice her breasts!”. That was the Middle Ages then, replete with misogyny (thanks to the Church) and its own dark little superstitions.
How do we handle girls with fire?
Do we literally douse them with water, both real and metaphorically? Do we handle them with tongs? Do we put them behind bars and put so many strictures that their fire is gone and they are forced to change? Do we just manage the fire? Or then again, how do we manage the fire? Would we get burnt, changed or both?
For me, Joan is an inspiration. A young woman with so much energy: she has accomplished so much. How do we now encourage the young women and men in our lives? Can we tell our kids, our students, our young people around us, that they can do stuff?
Joyce can be found online at A Wolf’s Tale: http://awolfstale.wordpress.com. She tweets too: @jolantru. When she is not busy herding students, she is either writing, gardening, baking bread and doing other assorted things like staring at the stars.
March 9, 2015
gillpolack @ 2015-03-10T10:03:00
Things are still slow due to bushfire smoke. There's a lot of mopping up to do with energy I lack for about half (as far as I can estimate) of emails I'm sent don't arrive first attempt and most people don't realise that I haven't received them and we all go into damage control. Plus we still have someone breaking into mailboxes and stealing stuff. They must have keys, for mine is always locked. I know I've been hit because my electricity bill didn't come this month. I paid it online in time, so that's fine, but I wonder what else I'm missing.
Every book I have out I learn more. For instance, I've just discovered that books by UK publishers still take two months to arrive in Australia and maybe a little longer to reach Australian bookshops using normal distribution, for they are printed in the UK and shipped out here. I was talking to a book distributor and we swapped much interesting information. The other bit of interesting info he gave me is that Amberly are now distributing in Australia, which is a boon to everyone who loves English history. If I am sent any interesting books as a result, expect posts on them. (I had intended to get back to talking about books on my author blog once my own books were past - this is going to kick me in that direction.)
Early copies of the Beast will be available online on the regular release dates, but bookshop copies in Australia (supporting local wonderful people) will be there later. One cannot eradicate 10,000 miles terribly easily. Apparently only the big 6 have the resources to do local print runs of UK books.
By this you will know that the Beast is my first ever UK book. And that after June 28, I will be published on three continents. Actually, I've already been published in Finland and Croatia (in Finnish, in Finland, which makes me very happy for Finnish is a frabjous language and has twelve declensions) so I have reached three continents already. It's just that a book is a bit different to a short story.
And thus life happens despite bushfires and mail thieves. Now I shall dwell on the adventures of Bunyip Bluegum, for mail thieves and puddin' thieves occupy the same tail end of society.
Every book I have out I learn more. For instance, I've just discovered that books by UK publishers still take two months to arrive in Australia and maybe a little longer to reach Australian bookshops using normal distribution, for they are printed in the UK and shipped out here. I was talking to a book distributor and we swapped much interesting information. The other bit of interesting info he gave me is that Amberly are now distributing in Australia, which is a boon to everyone who loves English history. If I am sent any interesting books as a result, expect posts on them. (I had intended to get back to talking about books on my author blog once my own books were past - this is going to kick me in that direction.)
Early copies of the Beast will be available online on the regular release dates, but bookshop copies in Australia (supporting local wonderful people) will be there later. One cannot eradicate 10,000 miles terribly easily. Apparently only the big 6 have the resources to do local print runs of UK books.
By this you will know that the Beast is my first ever UK book. And that after June 28, I will be published on three continents. Actually, I've already been published in Finland and Croatia (in Finnish, in Finland, which makes me very happy for Finnish is a frabjous language and has twelve declensions) so I have reached three continents already. It's just that a book is a bit different to a short story.
And thus life happens despite bushfires and mail thieves. Now I shall dwell on the adventures of Bunyip Bluegum, for mail thieves and puddin' thieves occupy the same tail end of society.
Mary Victoria - Women's History Month
I put off writing this blog post for a long while. Well, I didn’t exactly put it off: it slipped between my fingers, scuttled away and wriggled under the bed like the tricky thing it is. I’ve been trying to coax it out with treats.
I thought of telling an inspirational story about becoming a writer, then put the thought aside. I thought of telling an inspirational story about survival, and family, and the everyday ordinary heroics that characterise ordinary women’s lives… and put that notion aside, too.
None of my stories seemed inspirational enough. It’s not that they bored me: I am deeply grateful to the survivor in me, that little plodding character who tries to balance the budget, cook nutritionally varied meals and educate her child in the face of a soul-shredding market economy in one of the most expensive cities on earth. Good for her, top marks, bells and whistles.
But she doesn’t strike me as being an Inspirational Woman. Perhaps I’m becoming cynical in middle age. Perhaps I’m inspirationally challenged, but surely this plodding housewife character hasn’t suffered what others in her acquaintance have suffered, and survived – with style. She hasn’t been thrown in prison by corrupt government officials, with the aim of confiscating her property for bail. She hasn’t dealt with life-changing illness or seen her family wiped out by an unchecked epidemic. Nope, no Ebola in the UK, despite the immigrants. Sorry, Farage.
Look around you, I say to London housewife me. (We don’t speak much these days, we’ve had something of a spat.) You live in a country which still offers the basic democratic freedoms, however steep the price of milk. There’s a right-wing braying on the breeze but it’s drowned out by the sound of laughter. There are still decent people in the world. We’re clinging to the outer edge of sanity here, just about.
In fact you should be happy, deliriously happy, dancing down the aisles at Tesco’s because look, they stock fresh milk. You should be enthusiastic about the MP for Watford sending you his flyer about the upcoming election, for nowhere on your voting form does it yet ask you to declare your religious affiliation. You don’t risk violence every time you step outside your door because of your gender, ethnicity, something you do or do not wear, or some obscure and unliveable law dragged from the dustbin of history by a priest suffering chronic toothache. You may wonder if buying latkes at the local deli will one day result in your being blown up by a passing lunatic, but he will be just that: a lunatic.
Sad. Lost. A minority.
So this is cause for celebration, I tell housewife me. Get your glad rags out and dance, woman. Dance like there’s no tomorrow. Perhaps there will be no tomorrow. Consider Phlebas, who was once as handsome and tall as you.
Phlebas was a man, sulks London housewife me. And a Phoenician. You have no idea what you’re saying.
And so, put duly back in my place, I find myself where I started, coaxing out the story. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.
Now, that is heroic.
Mary Victoria currently lives in London with her husband, daughter and an unusually patient cat. Or maybe it’s the husband who is unusually patient. You can find more of Mary’s writing on: http://maryvictoria.co.uk/
I thought of telling an inspirational story about becoming a writer, then put the thought aside. I thought of telling an inspirational story about survival, and family, and the everyday ordinary heroics that characterise ordinary women’s lives… and put that notion aside, too.
None of my stories seemed inspirational enough. It’s not that they bored me: I am deeply grateful to the survivor in me, that little plodding character who tries to balance the budget, cook nutritionally varied meals and educate her child in the face of a soul-shredding market economy in one of the most expensive cities on earth. Good for her, top marks, bells and whistles.
But she doesn’t strike me as being an Inspirational Woman. Perhaps I’m becoming cynical in middle age. Perhaps I’m inspirationally challenged, but surely this plodding housewife character hasn’t suffered what others in her acquaintance have suffered, and survived – with style. She hasn’t been thrown in prison by corrupt government officials, with the aim of confiscating her property for bail. She hasn’t dealt with life-changing illness or seen her family wiped out by an unchecked epidemic. Nope, no Ebola in the UK, despite the immigrants. Sorry, Farage.
Look around you, I say to London housewife me. (We don’t speak much these days, we’ve had something of a spat.) You live in a country which still offers the basic democratic freedoms, however steep the price of milk. There’s a right-wing braying on the breeze but it’s drowned out by the sound of laughter. There are still decent people in the world. We’re clinging to the outer edge of sanity here, just about.
In fact you should be happy, deliriously happy, dancing down the aisles at Tesco’s because look, they stock fresh milk. You should be enthusiastic about the MP for Watford sending you his flyer about the upcoming election, for nowhere on your voting form does it yet ask you to declare your religious affiliation. You don’t risk violence every time you step outside your door because of your gender, ethnicity, something you do or do not wear, or some obscure and unliveable law dragged from the dustbin of history by a priest suffering chronic toothache. You may wonder if buying latkes at the local deli will one day result in your being blown up by a passing lunatic, but he will be just that: a lunatic.
Sad. Lost. A minority.
So this is cause for celebration, I tell housewife me. Get your glad rags out and dance, woman. Dance like there’s no tomorrow. Perhaps there will be no tomorrow. Consider Phlebas, who was once as handsome and tall as you.
Phlebas was a man, sulks London housewife me. And a Phoenician. You have no idea what you’re saying.
And so, put duly back in my place, I find myself where I started, coaxing out the story. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.
Now, that is heroic.
Mary Victoria currently lives in London with her husband, daughter and an unusually patient cat. Or maybe it’s the husband who is unusually patient. You can find more of Mary’s writing on: http://maryvictoria.co.uk/
March 8, 2015
gillpolack @ 2015-03-09T00:39:00
Some weeks are more trying than others and this is one of them.
You will remember that I did amazing amounts of work to clear the decks so that I could get amazing amounts of new work done before I did something I hadn't explained but that was important? Well, that something starts on Saturday and is promotion for the new novel. If anyone has always wanted to ask me about my cursed novel and what Prevert's role was in it and why on earth would I do dreadful things to morris dancers and why I set a second novel in the city most Australians hate, I'd be delighted to be a guest on your blog, at a time of your choosing. I'd rather have questions than a guest post (for I like being asked questions) but I'm willing to do either. I haven't got round to asking anyone directly, however, because bushfire smoke has intervened.
I've not done nothing this weekend, but I've done less than I intended. I will only have read 2 books by the end of tonight, and will have left the big intellect things until tomorrow or Tuesday. They have to be done, for life will catch up with me if I don't do them, but the weight of the smoke makes me ponderous and somewhat miserable. We have four fires outside Canberra - all planned, all for the common good, and all sending smoke into Woden Valley.
The market this morning was a hurried affair due to the smoke, although I did manage to buy duck eggs and fresh peaches. The lady selling the amazing dairy products had a special on creme fraiche, which she admitted was for IWD. I admitted to her that IWD was why I was buying it. The jam lady wants to buy my new book (which is unexpectedly delayed, because it's the cursed book and wasn't going to behave, and we knew this but pretended all was well) and the egg people have promised me a goose egg around October. They can sell me feathers now, if I want. I might take them up on it if the Game of Thrones people want to try writing with and without the feathery bits stuck in their faces and if they want to learn how to trim one.
So my life isn't bad, just burdened by smoke. Everything is slow and a bit sorry. I've done ten out of thirteen things today, but have a growing pile of library books accumulating in the library rather than at my place because walking up the street in smoke-filled air is not very healthy (and, as we all know by now, the bus routes have changed and there are very few buses, so walking is my only option on the weekend) and when I collect them all, I'll have to read five in a day, just to catch up. Because they all have to be read before Saturday.
In good news, my course on writing your very own Game of Thrones style novel (which is my excuse to teach all the coolest writing skills and critical skills) has the requisite number. I think it starts about the time the food history course ends. Let me check... It starts on 28 April, so I may even get a break between them. I also have the super-sessions I'm giving (advanced professional training for writers who want history in their fiction) at the Historical Novel Society conference in March. And there's a reading and folk dancing event next Saturday, then a library talk the week after, and... you can see why I need to move faster than I am currently doing and why I'm very annoyed at the smoke for slowing me down.
I'll let you know when the cursed novel appears (very soon! seriously, last report it was on the verge) and if anyone wants to ask me all the unaskable questions, I will answer them in the interest of PR. Although for some reason I had entirely forgotten until today that I originally envisaged the book as an extended metaphor. It struck me that this needed to be done, and that I needed to totally undermine quest fantasies in the doing. Because that's the kind of thing one does in a second novel, isn't it? I'd never do anything like that now, of course. I've outgrown all my high serious. And dead morris dancers. I no longer kill morris dancers. (They may have their revenge in June, I realised today. Smoke slows me down and leaves space for such thoughts.)
And now you know why I'm slow. Also muddled. I need a Granny Weatherwax sign explaining that just because I look pale (which I do, very) and do not move (I actually do move, but I'm very slow and you need much patience to identify it as movement), I'm not actually dead.
You will remember that I did amazing amounts of work to clear the decks so that I could get amazing amounts of new work done before I did something I hadn't explained but that was important? Well, that something starts on Saturday and is promotion for the new novel. If anyone has always wanted to ask me about my cursed novel and what Prevert's role was in it and why on earth would I do dreadful things to morris dancers and why I set a second novel in the city most Australians hate, I'd be delighted to be a guest on your blog, at a time of your choosing. I'd rather have questions than a guest post (for I like being asked questions) but I'm willing to do either. I haven't got round to asking anyone directly, however, because bushfire smoke has intervened.
I've not done nothing this weekend, but I've done less than I intended. I will only have read 2 books by the end of tonight, and will have left the big intellect things until tomorrow or Tuesday. They have to be done, for life will catch up with me if I don't do them, but the weight of the smoke makes me ponderous and somewhat miserable. We have four fires outside Canberra - all planned, all for the common good, and all sending smoke into Woden Valley.
The market this morning was a hurried affair due to the smoke, although I did manage to buy duck eggs and fresh peaches. The lady selling the amazing dairy products had a special on creme fraiche, which she admitted was for IWD. I admitted to her that IWD was why I was buying it. The jam lady wants to buy my new book (which is unexpectedly delayed, because it's the cursed book and wasn't going to behave, and we knew this but pretended all was well) and the egg people have promised me a goose egg around October. They can sell me feathers now, if I want. I might take them up on it if the Game of Thrones people want to try writing with and without the feathery bits stuck in their faces and if they want to learn how to trim one.
So my life isn't bad, just burdened by smoke. Everything is slow and a bit sorry. I've done ten out of thirteen things today, but have a growing pile of library books accumulating in the library rather than at my place because walking up the street in smoke-filled air is not very healthy (and, as we all know by now, the bus routes have changed and there are very few buses, so walking is my only option on the weekend) and when I collect them all, I'll have to read five in a day, just to catch up. Because they all have to be read before Saturday.
In good news, my course on writing your very own Game of Thrones style novel (which is my excuse to teach all the coolest writing skills and critical skills) has the requisite number. I think it starts about the time the food history course ends. Let me check... It starts on 28 April, so I may even get a break between them. I also have the super-sessions I'm giving (advanced professional training for writers who want history in their fiction) at the Historical Novel Society conference in March. And there's a reading and folk dancing event next Saturday, then a library talk the week after, and... you can see why I need to move faster than I am currently doing and why I'm very annoyed at the smoke for slowing me down.
I'll let you know when the cursed novel appears (very soon! seriously, last report it was on the verge) and if anyone wants to ask me all the unaskable questions, I will answer them in the interest of PR. Although for some reason I had entirely forgotten until today that I originally envisaged the book as an extended metaphor. It struck me that this needed to be done, and that I needed to totally undermine quest fantasies in the doing. Because that's the kind of thing one does in a second novel, isn't it? I'd never do anything like that now, of course. I've outgrown all my high serious. And dead morris dancers. I no longer kill morris dancers. (They may have their revenge in June, I realised today. Smoke slows me down and leaves space for such thoughts.)
And now you know why I'm slow. Also muddled. I need a Granny Weatherwax sign explaining that just because I look pale (which I do, very) and do not move (I actually do move, but I'm very slow and you need much patience to identify it as movement), I'm not actually dead.
Pamela Freeman - Women's History Month
My guest today is Pamela Freeman, who also writes as Pamela Hart.
The woman who changed the hospitals
My mother-in-law, Doris Hart, is one of my heroes.
Born in West Bromich, and trained as a teacher because teachers were given scholarships, she married Ben Hart, a divorced man (shock! horror!) in 1951 and followed him to Singapore where he was a teacher at the RAF base.
There my husband was born, and there were problems – he had severe talipes (that is, the feet were twisted inwards) which, after unsuccessful treatment in Singapore, hastened their return to England where he underwent a groundbreaking operation at the age of two.
In those days (1959), if your child went into a hospital, you left. You would be allowed to visit, but not necessarily even every day. Some children’s hospitals only allowed parents to visit on Sundays, because the visits ‘upset the children’. No sitting on the bed, no taking the kids out (even if they were long-term patients), no filling the room with toys and balloons and crayons. No pinning drawings on the wall. You were lucky if you got in for more than an hour.
My husband survived and recovered and eventually the family, including his little sister but not his big one (she had joined the RAF before they left) came to Australia.
And in the 1970s, Doris was one of the founding members and the inaugural National Organiser of the Organisation for the Welfare of Children in Hospital (OWCH – pronounced Orch).
With funding from the Whitlam government, OWCH lobbied for change in hospitals which treated children. Not just children’s hospitals – all of them. Doris went all over Australia, speaking to hospital administrators, women’s groups, anyone who would listen, drumming up support from pediatricians, psychologists, and other specialists, as well as from parents who, as she had, were suffering through separation from their sick children.
It wasn’t easy to convince the matrons and hospital administrators. It seems obvious to us now that kids are better off if they have their family near them; but in those days hospitals were run for the better efficiency of the staff, not the psychological well-being of the patients.
So if you’ve ever sat by the bedside of a sick child in a hospital room; or stayed past visiting hours until your child was asleep, or (as I did once), climb onto your child’s bed so he can snuggle up and be comforted, then thank Doris Hart and the other people from OWCH.
The woman who changed the hospitals
My mother-in-law, Doris Hart, is one of my heroes.
Born in West Bromich, and trained as a teacher because teachers were given scholarships, she married Ben Hart, a divorced man (shock! horror!) in 1951 and followed him to Singapore where he was a teacher at the RAF base.
There my husband was born, and there were problems – he had severe talipes (that is, the feet were twisted inwards) which, after unsuccessful treatment in Singapore, hastened their return to England where he underwent a groundbreaking operation at the age of two.
In those days (1959), if your child went into a hospital, you left. You would be allowed to visit, but not necessarily even every day. Some children’s hospitals only allowed parents to visit on Sundays, because the visits ‘upset the children’. No sitting on the bed, no taking the kids out (even if they were long-term patients), no filling the room with toys and balloons and crayons. No pinning drawings on the wall. You were lucky if you got in for more than an hour.
My husband survived and recovered and eventually the family, including his little sister but not his big one (she had joined the RAF before they left) came to Australia.
And in the 1970s, Doris was one of the founding members and the inaugural National Organiser of the Organisation for the Welfare of Children in Hospital (OWCH – pronounced Orch).
With funding from the Whitlam government, OWCH lobbied for change in hospitals which treated children. Not just children’s hospitals – all of them. Doris went all over Australia, speaking to hospital administrators, women’s groups, anyone who would listen, drumming up support from pediatricians, psychologists, and other specialists, as well as from parents who, as she had, were suffering through separation from their sick children.
It wasn’t easy to convince the matrons and hospital administrators. It seems obvious to us now that kids are better off if they have their family near them; but in those days hospitals were run for the better efficiency of the staff, not the psychological well-being of the patients.
So if you’ve ever sat by the bedside of a sick child in a hospital room; or stayed past visiting hours until your child was asleep, or (as I did once), climb onto your child’s bed so he can snuggle up and be comforted, then thank Doris Hart and the other people from OWCH.
March 6, 2015
Sharyn Lilley- Women's History Month
Gillian and the Cursed Novel
This Women’s History Month, Gillian has asked us to talk a bit about our own histories. She may well regret that – my recent history is going to bring her front and centre to my post. I met Gillian online well over a decade ago; she already had Illuminations out, and laughed about her cursed novel, The Art of Effective Dreaming, while doing easily 30 or 40 other projects at that time. Neither of these will surprise long time readers of Gillian’s blog – the sheer volume of work she accomplishes whilst claiming to be very lazy, and the easy laughter about a novel whose publication date kept being knocked around by hurricanes and life and death situations. Life happens; you have to laugh at it – or make bad puns. You can see a pretty good example of both things in Jason Frank’s interview with Gillian, here.
But there was one other thing that made Gillian stand out from my online friends, her understanding of pain, and dealing with chronic illness, and the need to keep creating as one worked their way through each day. This is somewhat unusual in my experience. I exited a car via a windscreen thirty three years ago, and ended up wrapped around a bridge support post. I have not had a pain-free day since. My injuries will, eventually, degenerate so badly I’ll need mobility devices. I accept that, but I’m doing everything I can to delay that moment. Top that with twenty five years of living with a chronic illness that has lead to other health issues – including four years of collapsing without warning, and you know when I say that people with Gillian’s level of understanding are rare, I am speaking from a wealth of experience. Of course, Gillian came by her understanding the same way most of us do – from living with her own.
Through the years, as one thing after another delayed publication of the cursed novel, and I morphed briefly into one of Gillian’s publishers, with Life Through Cellophane, and Baggage, amongst other things, we also did fun things like be on the organising committee for Flycon with participants from all around the world, and some amazing authors of whom I am in awe. (fun might not be the best word, but it was fun :) I’ve written about it for a previous WHM blog post, you can find it here, just ignore the links to the Eneit Press site, for Eneit Press no longer exists)
But throughout, her encouragement for me to keep writing and creating never stopped. Last year I had the first of my science fiction series published through Snapping Turtle Books. I wrote about the process, and the steps I do not recommend an author take on the path to getting published, I said that I didn’t want another year like that one. And the universe was listening, and it answered me – by making this past year much worse in a health sense, to the point of needing surgery that should have entailed just an overnight stay in hospital, and finished with me being in the acute care ward for six days. All this while doing all the things a mother has to do, and I’m only about 20,000 words from book two in the series being ready to go to my publisher *happy sighs*.
Is it easier to put everything else aside and just write if you are a man? I honestly don’t know, for we all have challenges, but men don’t usually have to deal with the extra societal pressure to present the spotless home and well-fed, clean children. It’s odd, some of the most passionate foodies I know are men, and they are often treated with awe for knowing how to cook well and loving the process. To me, no matter what gender you are, if you love doing something, then do it. My disabilities meant I couldn’t do it all, so I had to get help in to present the clean home side of things, and I deal with the ongoing feelings of failure for having to do so. I kept the things I love doing. And my writing, and music, for those things are as essential to me as breathing. This is where the encouragement of a friend like Gillian shines.
But, that cursed novel? Gillian tells me the curse has finally been broken. In fact, in a short while she should be able to share cover art images with us and after all this time I think it will feel like seeing an old friend come to life.
Mother of seven, voracious reader, author, and former editor & small press publisher, Sharyn is currently being published by Snapping Turtle Books as Ryn Lilley. The first novel in the Underground series was serialised before being released in full, you can find her work here.
This Women’s History Month, Gillian has asked us to talk a bit about our own histories. She may well regret that – my recent history is going to bring her front and centre to my post. I met Gillian online well over a decade ago; she already had Illuminations out, and laughed about her cursed novel, The Art of Effective Dreaming, while doing easily 30 or 40 other projects at that time. Neither of these will surprise long time readers of Gillian’s blog – the sheer volume of work she accomplishes whilst claiming to be very lazy, and the easy laughter about a novel whose publication date kept being knocked around by hurricanes and life and death situations. Life happens; you have to laugh at it – or make bad puns. You can see a pretty good example of both things in Jason Frank’s interview with Gillian, here.
But there was one other thing that made Gillian stand out from my online friends, her understanding of pain, and dealing with chronic illness, and the need to keep creating as one worked their way through each day. This is somewhat unusual in my experience. I exited a car via a windscreen thirty three years ago, and ended up wrapped around a bridge support post. I have not had a pain-free day since. My injuries will, eventually, degenerate so badly I’ll need mobility devices. I accept that, but I’m doing everything I can to delay that moment. Top that with twenty five years of living with a chronic illness that has lead to other health issues – including four years of collapsing without warning, and you know when I say that people with Gillian’s level of understanding are rare, I am speaking from a wealth of experience. Of course, Gillian came by her understanding the same way most of us do – from living with her own.
Through the years, as one thing after another delayed publication of the cursed novel, and I morphed briefly into one of Gillian’s publishers, with Life Through Cellophane, and Baggage, amongst other things, we also did fun things like be on the organising committee for Flycon with participants from all around the world, and some amazing authors of whom I am in awe. (fun might not be the best word, but it was fun :) I’ve written about it for a previous WHM blog post, you can find it here, just ignore the links to the Eneit Press site, for Eneit Press no longer exists)
But throughout, her encouragement for me to keep writing and creating never stopped. Last year I had the first of my science fiction series published through Snapping Turtle Books. I wrote about the process, and the steps I do not recommend an author take on the path to getting published, I said that I didn’t want another year like that one. And the universe was listening, and it answered me – by making this past year much worse in a health sense, to the point of needing surgery that should have entailed just an overnight stay in hospital, and finished with me being in the acute care ward for six days. All this while doing all the things a mother has to do, and I’m only about 20,000 words from book two in the series being ready to go to my publisher *happy sighs*.
Is it easier to put everything else aside and just write if you are a man? I honestly don’t know, for we all have challenges, but men don’t usually have to deal with the extra societal pressure to present the spotless home and well-fed, clean children. It’s odd, some of the most passionate foodies I know are men, and they are often treated with awe for knowing how to cook well and loving the process. To me, no matter what gender you are, if you love doing something, then do it. My disabilities meant I couldn’t do it all, so I had to get help in to present the clean home side of things, and I deal with the ongoing feelings of failure for having to do so. I kept the things I love doing. And my writing, and music, for those things are as essential to me as breathing. This is where the encouragement of a friend like Gillian shines.
But, that cursed novel? Gillian tells me the curse has finally been broken. In fact, in a short while she should be able to share cover art images with us and after all this time I think it will feel like seeing an old friend come to life.
Mother of seven, voracious reader, author, and former editor & small press publisher, Sharyn is currently being published by Snapping Turtle Books as Ryn Lilley. The first novel in the Underground series was serialised before being released in full, you can find her work here.
