Ingela Bohm's Blog, page 43

OMG is it a boy or a girl? *yawn*

I don’t know why people keep acting as if androgyny and the like is a new phenomenon. David Bowie wore a dress before I was born. Gender roles have always been pushed. The pendulum swings, and who cares how, where and in what direction people pee?

In defence of slur-using scumbags

Deep breath. This post is probably going to ruffle some feathers. I’m going to talk about slurs, and I’m going to push my usual “On the other hand…” perspective.

Some background: Language is an organic thing that changes over time, and we learn it through human interaction. The words we use come from our family and friends and, to a certain extent, the media we consume. There are words we don’t know because we never talk with certain people about certain topics – for me that would be lawyer jargon, Cockney slang, and so on. This means that no one can know every word in a language. There are areas of your mother tongue that might as well be Klingon to you*.

And this brings me to the subject of offensive language. Not swear words, I don’t care about those. I’m talking about words beginning with ‘N’, ‘T’ and ‘R’.

Now, some people know how to speak without being offensive, and others don’t. And I’m not interested in people who are hell bent on being offensive, even though they’ve been called out on it. They aren’t the issue in this blog post. I’m talking about the ones who accidentally say the wrong word because they don’t know any better – you know, the “piece of shit cishet white scumbag transphobes who should burn in hell”.

Well. I live in a small Swedish village, and I know some kind and generous people here. These kind and generous people sometimes say the “wrong” word, and still I wouldn’t call them either scumbags or transphobes.

Why? Because I have a Theory. (You knew I would, didn’t you?)

People who don’t fit in tend to move away from small towns and villages. This means that these smaller places end up with less diversity than the big cities. The people that remain may be haters, and they may not. Let’s focus on the non-haters.

Not all of the non-haters are specifically interested in LGBTQIA+ issues, so they don’t subscribe to that kind of blogs, and they don’t seek out information on their own – the same way I wouldn’t seek out information on Latvian politics. I have nothing against Latvia, and I hope their government does a good job, but you know. I have other interests.

So these people, who live and let live and wouldn’t dream of hurting anyone, still run a risk of doing so, because they learn language from the people they interact with. This means that if these people’s friends and family use words that may be considered offensive – simply because historically, that was how everyone spoke – they will too, unless told not to by someone they don’t know.

Let me say that again: they need to be called out by someone they don’t know. Someone outside of their circle of friends. Someone who probably never hears them speak at all.

What it doesn’t mean is that the accidental slur-users are automatically phobic of the people they’ve offended. Their only access to new rules about language is through TV and newspapers, so even though they don’t want to put their foot in it, they do. Because journalists and celebrities do.

Example: official LGBTQIA people in my country used our version of the ‘T’ word in a wildly popular movie a few years back. How the hell is the man on the street to know that it’s not okay anymore? Did ordinary, kind people turn into transphobes overnight because there was a shift in how language was used in Stockholm?

Another example: my first language isn’t English. Native English speakers tend to be impressed with non-natives’ language skills, but what they may not be aware of is that even if someone is a whizz at writing books about economics or giving lectures on gastrointestinal diseases, they may have linguistic gaps that they don’t even know about, simply because they don’t live in an English-speaking culture. This especially applies to banal, everyday social greetings and niceties that these non-natives don’t encounter in their daily lives. A Londoner with loads of friends is in a good position to learn about the latest shift in meaning and adjust their language accordingly. Do you think a miner in Laisvall has the same privilege?

Yes, I said it: privilege. Every single non-native English speaker in the entire world is less privileged than native speakers, because it’s the Lingua Franca of practically everything. In every business transaction and political deliberation, we’re the underdogs. Why did that Swedish CEO cause an uproar a few years back by using the phrase “little people” about I forget who, but probably ordinary citizens? Because that phrase is not fucking offensive in fucking Swedish, okay? We try, goddammit.

But the only way us non-native speakers can learn English is through other people – friends, TV, books, and so on. And guess what? I learned most of the English I know when I was between eight and fifteen years old. This means that I learned the words I still use between 1983 and 1990. Has language changed since then? Of course it has. Has the world changed? Boy, has it. Have some words become offensive since then? I’m sure they have. But I learned English in that era, in that climate, which means that in some ways, I still speak and write in that era and climate.

Of course, I learn. As a writer, I have a responsibility not only to make my books intelligible but also non-offensive. But just like the people in small villages, I have a disadvantage: sometimes I don’t even know that there’s something I don’t know, and if I don’t surround myself with the right English-speaking friends or visit the right websites, I’ll never know that I’m doing something wrong until someone flips their lid at me. (This hasn’t happened, by the way, but I know it happens to other people.)

In a recent revision of a book, I stumbled on the ‘R’ word. Since I wrote that book, I’ve been educated in the offensiveness of the word, so I cut it – even though the character might very well have said it at the time, being who he was and times being what they were, but I just didn’t want the drama. To me, it’s just a word, I can cut it and no harm done. But am I an ableist piece of shit for writing it in the first place?

Sometimes there’s even a perfectly fine word in my own language that’s considered offensive in English. The same word, you see? Loan words and all that. But they have different flavours in different languages, and even though they sort of mean the same thing, they’re actually false friends.

So how much do you know about what’s considered offensive in Spanish or French? As far as I know, the word “gay” is fine in English – but is it okay in Swedish? We have the loan word, but when can you use it? What connotations does it carry? Who would you trust to tell you the “truth”? Me? And if not me, how many other Swedish people do you know? Which websites would you consult?

This sounds like whining. That’s not really my goal. It’s also not my goal to be defensive about any offensive slip-ups in my books, although to be honest, I kind of am. Sorry about that. My actual goal is to declare that language is a dynamic, ever-changing beast, and just because inner city hipsters get the memo on What You Can Say, everyone else (you know, the 99%) just doesn’t.

“The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment” (Shakespeare, Twelfth Night).

 

*Obviously this figure of speech doesn’t work if you know Klingon, but you know what I mean.

An ode to Hal and the histories

The Reduced Shakespeare Company’s Complete Works (abridged) is one of the funniest things I’ve seen. The “histories football match” made me laugh until I almost threw up. I adore the histories, I wrote a nerdy sixth form college essay on Hal, and Henry V once gave me an inappropriate case of patriotism by proxy, but maybe that’s why the football match is so hilarious to me. They reduce eight plays to a three-minute tussle for the crown, and in many ways, that’s what the histories can seem to be, especially the Henry VI ones.

But they’re also intricate studies of character. Falstaff and Richard III may be the most famous ones, but there are so many other fantastic roles in there. For me, the young prince Hal, who later becomes Henry V, remains the most compelling character of the histories.

Lookit! There’s my college nerd paper, complete with my fan girl drawing of Michael Maloney and Julian Glover on the cover page.

The reason I wrote that essay was that I’d read so many critics who painted him as a scheming turn-coat. I seem to have a thing for morally questionable Shakespeare characters (Coriolanus being another), so I set about to defend him against such slander.

 

For this was in the days of dot matrix printing…

For me, he’s the teenage Everyman who has to leave his carefree youth behind and shoulder his adult responsibilities. I don’t really have any sympathy for the Falstaff-huggers, since in spite of his larger-than-life persona, he’s actually kind of an asshole. He may have been a surrogate father to Hal, because the king is a bit low on the touchy-feely-o-meter, but he also has no scruples about deriding him in public or lying about killing Hotspur, who was Hal’s grand prize in the war. Sure, the old man is witty and charismatic, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good guy. Of course Hal has to leave him behind.

So much for the philosophy. Now on to the clothes. Adrian Noble’s fantastic 1991 production of the two parts of Henry IV didn’t just star Julian Glover and Michael Maloney, it also starred a costume designer named Deirdre Clancy (branded on my memory forever). Before seeing those clothes, I had no real appreciation for the texture of suede hose, the length of boots or the cut of shirts.

There are so many valid reasons to love Shakespeare, don’t you agree?

But back to the more cerebral stuff. The funny thing is that the histories aren’t very historical. For example, Henry IV says he wishes his infant son had been replaced with Hotspur:

O, that it could be proved

That some night-tripping fairy had exchanged

In cradle clothes our children where they lay,

And called mine Percy, his Plantagenet!

But at the time Hal was a baby, Hotspur was already grown up! And the histories are filled with inaccuracies like that – either because Shakespeare didn’t know any better, or because he didn’t care. I’m leaning towards the latter.

In the same vein, I’ve had the characters in Rival Poet speak in a modern way, because I didn’t want the action and the vibrance of the tale clouded by arcane language. Of course, this may be jarring to some readers, but I chose to do it because I wanted the story to feel as if it took place right now, out there in the street or at your local corner pub.

And now I’m comparing myself to old Willie himself to rationalise it…

I’ll end this rambling post with a film tip: The Hollow Crown. Especially Richard II with Ben Wishaw in the title role is absolutely magnificent. That play isn’t even among my favourites, but he does the king with such… I don’t even know. He brings him to life. Makes him understandable, even though he’s kind of weird.

In fact, I think I’ll try to persuade the husband to celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday tonight by watching it in our cinema!

Spelling schmelling: Will sorts out the function and the form

Ingela Bohm's gay romance

Please give a warm welcome to William Shakespeare, today’s second guest blogger (the first was Christopher Marlowe).

Good morning Willie lovers,

I’m going to talk about language. Because language is a funny thing. When urged to define it, many people would probably say that it’s a vehicle for information, but it’s so much more. Phrases like “It’s cold out” or “How are you? I’m fine, thanks” are not exactly packed with piping hot news, are they? And still we say them, along with loads of other stuff that has nothing to do with conveying facts. Rather language is a social glue, tying us together like the act of picking of nits among our fellow primates.

Which brings me to another form of nit-picking: many people pride themselves on their language skills, which is all very well. Words are a wonderful playground for those so inclined. However, sometimes this pride…

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Shakespeare novel giveaway

For a chance to win a copy of my m/m romance Rival Poet, comment something Shakespeary or Marlowy below. A random winner will be picked when Shakespeare’s birthday is over in all parts of the world.

Marlowe on fashion and fodder

Today I have the great pleasure of welcoming Master Marlowe to the blog for a guest post on… well, I’ll let him do the talking, okay?

Good morning Hell Kittens,

I’ve come to understand that clothes and food are among the most conflict-laden topics of today. Huh. It all sounds strangely familiar to an Elizabethan like me. There may not be any state sumptuary laws anymore, but in practice, those who deviate from the grey-suit/meat-and-two-veg norm will be punished.

For example, people gasp in horror at breeches that hang too low on the buttocks. Why? I think it’s a wonderful practice, and one that I would gladly have introduced in my day if I’d thought of it. Instead, we had those stupid balloony things so you couldn’t assess anyone’s ass before you were too far gone to say thanks but no thanks.

And food? There are whole religions devoted to bacon, and crusades directed against it. Fat people should eat this, poor people should eat that, no cookies for the unworthy.

Well, here’s an idea: let people eat what they want. Let people wear what they want.

I know. Scandalous. I mean, if everyone is allowed to wear purple velvet, even though it should really be reserved for nobles, the whole Chain of Being will unravel. Right? Right?

Ridiculous. In particular, I find the current horror surrounding torn clothing laughable. My clothes were always torn! How else could I show off the expensive fabric underneath?

And another thing: we were supposed to ‘cover our heads’ in church, but nowadays it seems it’s polite to take your hat off. Don’t you see? It’s all bollocks! They just want to keep you occupied, worrying about crap, while they plan the takeover of the fucking world. Don’t buy into it. Keep that hat on in the classroom. Wear that ridiculous thing on your head. It’s your head, isn’t it?

They also used to tell me I couldn’t eat meat more than once a week. Oh, and in case anyone’s wondering, that’s ‘meat’ in the mutton/beef sense. In the figurative sense, they wanted me to choke on cock and go to hell. (I did choke a few times, but I didn’t end up in hell, so I guess that’s a stalemate.) And since I wasn’t allowed to eat meat more than once a week, of course I gorged myself on it 24/7. Because fuck them. Today, I would probably be vegan. Anything to piss the tossers off.

It’s all made up. It’s all just shit wank rules someone made up so they could win at a game the rest of us don’t have to play. So go out in the world, my dear Hell Kittens, and remember to keep your hat on.

/Christophorus Merlino

Card-carrying Coriolanus psychopath

I’ve heard it said that you need to be a psychopath to love Coriolanus, and I suppose that’s as good a reason as any to write a blog post about him. He might be a violent, selfish, disloyal bastard, but something about this character once grabbed my eighteen-year-old attention, and has never let go since*.

What is it about this man who, upon receiving the news of his banishment, simply retorts, “I banish you”?

This is not, after all, a lovable character. The play shows a man who’s too proud for his own good. He has fought for Rome and almost single-handedly won a great battle, but in order to become consul, he has to perform a ritual to win the love of the people, whom he quite blatantly despises.

Submitting to tradition because of his ambition and because he can’t say no to his mother, he forces himself to stand in the street, wearing the ‘gown of humility’ and begging passers-by for votes. Because it’s not enough to have talent (albeit, in his case, for killing), or to have done service for his city: he has to sell himself, too. As he puts it, “the wisdom of their choice is / rather to have my hat than my heart”.

Those words still ring true to me. As I watch modern politicians quibble and equivocate for the sole reason of staying in office, the integrity of that old Roman’s reluctance to be a media whore is brought home to me with all the éclat of a divine revelation. It’s not enough to be talented, or to do something worthwhile – indeed it’s well-nigh mandatory to be mediocre! – the main thing is to be prepared to make a fool of yourself in public.

The shortest way to a book contract is through a reality show. Flagging music careers aren’t saved by developing your song writing skills, but by appearing on game shows.

Well, good for them. They have donned the” gown of humility”, and they’re repaid with votes. Just remember that beneath that populistic exterior is just another Coriolanus psychopath who wants to get ahead. If one of them ever admitted to it, I might just respect them as much as I do the tragic hero of Shakespeare’s play.

 

*I’m not going to lie. Toby Stephens in the title role may also have had something to do with it.

Gatecrashing celebrity parties and being hijacked by a dead poet

Ingela Bohm's gay romance

A good friend of mine once said that writers are people who still have imaginary friends as adults. I have always believed this to be true, but it became really obvious when I started writing about Shakespeare. Even though I’m used to having fictional people clamoring for attention in my head all the time, I wasn’t at all prepared for being swept off my feet like I was by Kit Marlowe.

It all began in Liverpool, of all places. My husband and I went to a concert with a singer that he has admired since his teenage years. After the gig, we stalked one of his friends and gatecrashed the post-gig party. Now, I’ve never wanted to meet my idols, since I just know I would make a fool of myself. But my husband isn’t quite such a coward, so he went over and introduced himself. The singer was really…

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My love story with the Bard (abridged)

So yes, I’m going to be a snot all day and post/reblog oodles of Shakespeare and Marlowe stuff. If there’s one day of the year when your obsession looks normal, it’s today, right? Even the prating coxcombs on breakfast TV try to appear educated, so… no holds barred for the truly smitten.

My love story with Will began when I was ten. With… Troilus and Cressida. Unusual suspects, to be sure. But I’d been innoculated with opera for four years, so I was used to not understanding what the people on stage were on about. According to my parents, I “looked at the pictures” and I “understood everything”.

Since then, I’ve lost that level of scholarship.

Anyway, yes, Troilus was the first play I saw, with Anton Lesser and Juliet Stevenson. I remember him lounging on a pianola and, um, not much else actually. Oh yeah, a bunch of white-haired men discussing maps.

And yet I was hooked.

Or was it when I saw Midsummer Night’s Dream a few days later? That would be typically banal, wouldn’t it? But then we were in the first row, and I remember Hippolyta getting up from a sofa with an expression of disdain on her face when Theseus gave Hermia her punishment. I remember thinking, “How is it possible to act like that? How can someone convey something so lifelike when it’s all fake?”

As I see it written down, I realise that I was posing the exact same question as Hamlet when he heard the Hecuba speech.

So. A passion was born, and each summer after that, I was treated to the best of the best in both Stratford and London. I saw Sean Bean as Romeo (that bloody worked!), Antony Sher as Shylock and Jeremy Irons as Richard II before I had acne. I realise this puts me in the privileged-beyond-belief box, BUT we lived on Mother’s Pride the rest of the time, so swings and roundabouts, okay?

When I was fifteen, my father deemed it time to take my education to the next level. That summer, we were going to watch As You Like It, Richard III and King Lear (both with McKellen in the title role – feel free to gnash your teeth), and my father put a couple of Cliffs Notes in my hands. Making me go, “Whoa! You mean there’s more to it than pictures?”

Yep, there was more to it. A lot more. Before I knew it, I had graduated to the actual texts in Arden editions, and my obsession with language history was a fact.

To this day, I wonder how the actors do it. How they can make something so fake – and in verse, too! – look and sound so natural. You think Iain Glen shines in Game of Thrones? He filled a completely empty stage as Henry V, making me believe he really was a king. Oh, and on the subject of GoT, Owen Teale, who plays Ser Alliser Thorne, was Hotspur in the best production of Henry IV that will ever be made – the one that made me realise the importance of directors (and costume designers, but that’s for another post with slightly more nsfw flavour).

So yeah, I’m a bit of a Shakespeare nut. Not that I haven’t had my moments of doubt. Once, I tossed my Complete Works in a spring/depression cleaning gone haywire, but luckily I hadn’t inherited the Arden editions back then, and my stash is reupped by now. I understand how people can think it’s unbearably boring, and sometimes it is. I’m not a fan of the Olivier era, and so much acting is still over the top and yawnworthy. There are idiotic puns and long-winded speeches and pointless interpolations (I hope!), and if anyone can see the dramaturgic arc in the Henry VI’s, please let me know.

And yet I just can’t stay away. A few years back, my obsession metamorphosed (ha! see what I did there?) into an urge to write about him. Ever the enabler, my husband bought me the ultimate Christmas present: a trip to London for a week-long Shakespeare course. I took the opportunity to nip off to Stratford for a look at the Birthplace – which, weirdly enough, I’d never seen despite my many trips there. I spent hours in that house, interviewing the guides and taking notes and imbibing the atmosphere, so when I wrote the domestic scenes, I had a complete picture in my head of every single room.

Sadly, those scenes didn’t make it into the book, because in the end, it wasn’t Shakespeare’s story at all, but Marlowe’s. *sigh* Trouble-maker and quicksilver madcap, knavish sprite and prince of cats. He ruined and salvaged everything, and I’ve written about that whole mess here.

I guess writing about Shakespeare’s whole life was just too big a project. My version of his childhood and youth will always live on in my head, but the 200K megastory was just too unwieldy to publish. For the abnormally interested, I’ve posted some deleted scenes here.

All that remains (because I really should go help M plaster a wall now) is to raise a glass on this the 452nd birthday of the Bard, and in the words of Petruchio in The Shrew, “Be mad and merry or go hang yourselves!”

As You Like It: the fulfilment of a promise

Ingela Bohm's gay romance

In Rival Poet, Will makes a solemn promise to Kit that he will show two men dressed as men kissing on the English stage before he dies. In the first version of the novel, I showed him making good on that promise, but those scenes were ultimately cut, along with many others. However, while they didn’t fit into the finished book, I was loath to part with them, and they’ve been lurking in a folder marked ‘Old’ since then.

And now the time has come to share.

 ***

Even before he opened his eyes, he knew what day it was. The 30th of May, 1603. Ten years to the day. A brand new morning in a brand new world. Nothing special.

He sat up. Last night’s beer still stuck to the back of his throat. Swallowing drily, he walked to the window, opened the shutters and looked out at…

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