Nicola Griffith's Blog, page 105

Do you want a Hild ARC?

My box of Hild ARCs* arrived on Friday.

Many of them are already spoken for but I have a handful extra. So who wants one?

If you're a loyal reader, I'll be doing a random giveaway later just for you, just because. I'm saving two copies for that purpose. But the rest of the non-earmarked ARCs are for Influential Book People: reviewers, book and feature editors, producers, booksellers, librarians and professional readers with a blog and/or big following on some a book-friendly social media platform. Sorry to be blunt but these puppies are expensive to produce and I've promised to distribute wisely.

So if the Influential Book Person label fits you, and if for some reason you don't plan to get hold of an ARC through the usual channels, i.e. Farrar, Straus and Giroux's sales and marketing department, my agent (Stephanie Cabot, The Gernert Company), or my publicist (Kathy Daneman, FSG), read on.

Please fill in the nifty Google Docs form below. There are only eight questions. (All responses will come directly to me and will be completely confidential; you won't be added to any lists.) I'll let you know in a week or ten days if you're going to get an ARC.

Loading...
And as a reward for filling in the form, or as consolation for not being eligible at this time**, enjoy these photos.
Hild spread Hild tower Hild henge!If I'd had more time—and books—I'd have tried a whole henge. Though perhaps that's something for the sturdy hardcover. Meanwhile, hey, a mastaba is probably doable...

* Advance reader's copy. The text hasn't been proofread, it lacks a map, Author's Note, and Acknowledgements, but it's essentially the same novel you'll get in the final edition.
** But everybody will be eligible for the giveaway in a few weeks. And I mean everybody. I'll pay for shipping to Russia, or China, or Australia—though it might travel slowly, and if you're on the International Space Station we'll have to get creative...

Two ways to look at the restored Rijksmuseum

There's the Economist's blog article on the brilliantly restored Rijksmuseum, with thoughtful, luscious videography.

And then, when your Sunday latte has woken you up, there's this splendid flashmob:



Happy Sunday!

Hild ARCs!

So, the Hild ARCs are here. That is, I only have one right now but hopefully next week I'll get a boxful. Which means I'll have one or two to give away.

I'll decide the who, when, why, how, and why of the giveaway when they arrive. For now let me whet your appetite.
I love the subtle pattern in the spine and back copy. And as you see the cross has a trompe l'oeil effect.
Here's a shot of the back, too, because, well, I just love the whole thing. If you expand that last photo you'll see some of the stats on the book. Stay tuned for next week's giveaway.

The personal consequences of growing up queer

I just watched this video, the stories of LGBT seniors' lives :



Most people who meet me think I'm lucky to have escaped the prejudice of the world. I don't look damaged. I don't look like a victim. I don't behave—or write—that way.

But every year or two I wonder: who would I be, how might my life have turned out, if I hadn't grown up facing a strong wind and having to walk uphill?

Some years ago I had a conversation with a friend (she is still a friend; she will remain nameless) who thought that prejudice was a thing of the distant past, something for the history books that maybe only happened to a vague and shadowy group of Disadvantaged. I told her that, no, it happened a lot. It happened to me. She just couldn't accept it: I don't look or behave like a victim. I'm not a victim, I said. She asked me some questions.

This is a paraphrased transcript of our conversation.

Well, have you ever been physically injured because you're queer?
Yes. I was beaten by several men in a club and ended up in the emergency room with a broken nose, concussion, etc. Also, three men tried to burn the house down, and rape me to show me what I was missing. Oh, and someone threw a brick through my window (I got out of bed and cut my feet to ribbons). And two men shotgunned the bedroom window of the flat I'd just moved out of. And, well, the list, frankly, is almost endless. (Seriously, one day, when I have nothing better to do, I'll write it all down. I bet I could come up with more than a hundred incidents.)

Have you ever been denied education for being queer?
Yes. I had to give up my degree course because my parents wouldn't fund their part of the cost (this was in the UK before there were such things as student loans). "Why bother?" my mother said. "No one will give a lesbian a job, anyway." And the fact is, no one would give me a job.

Have you ever been denied benefits for being queer?
Yes. I had to fight for five years to be able to get my Green Card. It cost somewhere between $15,000 and $20,000 (at a time when, between us, Kelley and I were earning less than $30,000 a year; we maxed out three credit cards). My case made new law. It took years to get free of the psychological stress (I had nightmares) and the burden of debt. If we had been legally married it would have been smooth and automatic and virtually free. In addition, I couldn't get health insurance on Kelley's employee ticket; this was before domestic partnership provisions. We were monumentally broke. I couldn't get a job. I was sick. I had no health insurance. All because I'm queer.

Have you been been denied access to healthcare for being queer?
Yes. A gynecologist once tried to refuse me a Pap smear. Also, once in a very scary health situation, Kelley was told she would have no say should anything go wrong. Fortunately, we could leave. We did. (Again, I could make a list.)

There were many other questions with the same basic thrust: Did I really have a hard time? And all my answers were the same: Yes, I really did; I have been harmed physically, mentally, emotionally, legally, financially.

I don't generally dwell on this. I am not a victim. I am not a pitiable figure. I choose—willfully, daily—to focus my energies on moving forward, on staying open, on interacting with the world as humanly as possible. I've seen what it does to those who get bitter and wary and overly defended. They retreat further and further from the mainstream. They become even more Othered. I honour activists who live in the war zone, and I understand those who retreat behind their fortress walls, but that's not my path. My choice is to remain as undefended as possible, to share—in person and through my work—how it feels to be me, to help others understand and empathise. To be human not Other.

Perhaps because so many of us have somehow managed to weather this tide of prejudice without visible damage it's easy for some to believe We're All Equal Now. We're not. Yes, as a class queers are becoming more politically significant. But those who argue (go listen again to the Supreme Court arguments about same-sex marriage) that we don't need to dismantle prejudicial legislation right now are wrong. Individuals can and do still have a very hard time. Anti-queer prejudice is real. The legal and therefore social issues involved in the fight for marriage equality go far beyond being able to have a fabulous wedding.

Anti-queer prejudice in most parts of the US and UK is less than it was, certainly. But many of us over a certain age carry scars that influence our interaction with the world. I am smart. I love my work. I have a partner I trust with my life and heart. I have a home. I have a community (I have several interconnected communities). I have a vocation. I have friends and family. In most ways I am lucky. I have a magnificent life. And still, sometimes, every few years, I wonder how it might have been. I wonder how the world will change when we have marriage equality and its concomitant rights. A change in the law will lead to even faster and deeper change in the culture. It will make life easier, safer, richer (literally and metaphorically). It might help some of us let down the barriers, just a little. And then, oh, the world will need to get ready. There will be such a flowering of human art and joy and innovation...

For me and millions of others, tens of millions still to be born, this is not an academic exercise.

Arguments in United States v. Windsor, some thoughts

Having listened to and read arguments in United States v. Windsor I'm now even more glad I'm not on the court. I'm intensely curious about what the justices will do.

This, as (I think) Justice Kennedy points out, really is "uncharted territory" (or maybe "waters", honestly can't be bothered to go back to the PDF to check; I have a lot to do today). As questioning made clear at the beginning, on the issue of standing (that is, before they even arrived at the merits of the case), it is really, really odd that this case is before the court at all.

Both the government (the defendant) and Edie Windsor (the plaintiff) agree that DOMA is unconstitutional. The appeals court that heard the case agrees it is, too. Normally, that would mean that the government would just pay up, DOMA (at least section 3) would go away, and federal benefits would accrue to lesbian and gay married couples as they do to their heterosexual counterparts.

But, no, the Obama administration wants SCOTUS to rule on this case once and for all. And the court is--understandably--annoyed about this. If they do, it sets all kinds of precedent. If they don't, they look like mealy-mouthed wusses.

I bet there's been some bad language in the SCOTUS equivalent of the Green Room. (Tiring room? Robing room?)

On top of that, the conservatives on the court, e.g. Scalia and Alito (I can't speak for Thomas, the man never even speaks for himself; Roberts is too canny to read) are between a rock and a hard place. I know in my bones Scalia would love to find a way to not permit marriage equality...but there's that pesky states' rights question: who the fuck is the federal government to declare rules about marriage? (I'm talking about DOMA, of course.)

This is a fascinating case.

However, I'm more sure than ever that by July lesbian and gay couples who are legally married will have access to the same federal benefits as straight couples.

Then the games really begin.

What happens when a couple marries in Iowa and goes to lives in Texas and demands insurance benefits from an employer?What happens when a domestic partnership couple in Oregon demands federal benefits?What happens when a couple in Mississippi sues the state to allow them to get married?
Marriage equality is inevitable. The big question, though, is how it will actually happen. And when.

Now we wait...

Arguments in Hollingsworth v. Perry, some thoughts

I've just finished listening to (and reading the transcript of) arguments in Hollingsworth v. Perry before the Supreme Court.

If I were one of the justices I suspect I'd be thinking that the easy way out would be to deny standing to the proponents of Proposition 8. This would mean that the California district court ruling, that Proposition 8 is unconstitutional, would stand. In other words, same-sex marriage in California would be legal. But there would be no impact on the rest of the country.

Is that what SCOTUS will do? No idea. But it's difficult to see what else they could do without sweeping national reform which I think most of the court would rather avoid. (I wonder if the justices who decided Roe v. Wade might today make a different choice with the benefit of hindsight. If that case had gone differently you could argue that there might not be such entrenched partisan feeling about abortion in this country today--not sure I believe that but you could at least make the argument. There again, you could also argue that many, many lives would have been unhappily affected if abortion had remained illegal in many states.)

In terms of tomorrow's case, as a Supreme I'd strike down Section III of DOMA and ensure that in those states where same-sex marriage was legal all married people would have equal access to federal benefits. I can't imagine too many people getting bent out of shape about that, and many, many people benefiting.

My thinking, in this hypothetical case, would be that in three or four years someone in, say, Mississippi would try to get married to her girlfriend, not be able to, and sue, and that case would end up at the Supreme Court. Where--with public opinion moving so fast in our direction that I believe many, many more states will by then recognise same-sex marriage--it would easily and not terribly controversially be found unconstitutional to deny marriage to said couples. And, lo! Nationwide marriage equality! Without entrenchment and political battles for the next fifty years. But I'm not a Supreme...

...And today, frankly, I'm glad. This whole notion of greatest-benefit-for-greatest-number-in-the-long-term, while sensible to a degree, is infuriating and unjust to all of us now, today. Solomon had it easy.

It'll be interesting to listen to tomorrow's arguments. At which point I'll probably change my mind about everything...

Marriage equality hearings at the Supreme Court

Tomorrow the Supreme Court hears arguments in Hollingsworth v. Perry, the Proposition 8 case regarding the legality of same-sex marriage in California. On Wednesday it's United States v. Windsor, which is all about the federal Defense of Marriage Act and federal benefits (social security, immigration for legally married couples. Unusually, SCOTUS will be releasing same-day audio of both marriage equality cases. Tomorrow's will be up by 1 pm, Wednesday's by 2 pm.

These recordings of the arguments won't tell us what the court will decide; we have to wait until late June for that. But I'm going to listen to arguments anyway.

Right now I'm betting that the court will overturn Section 3 of DOMA by at least 6-3 and that federal benefits will then apply to legally-married same-sex couples.

It's the Proposition 8 case that's wide open. There are at least five different ways that case could go. Listening to the arguments might help me make some guesses about how wide or narrow SCOTUS's ruling might be. Exciting times ahead.

Bonus: According the forecast it's going to be sunny and in the low 60s all week here in Seattle. I envisage time this afternoon sitting in the sun, drinking tea, eating chocolate, and either playing the ukulele (the strings are beginning to settle down) or reading Patrick O'Brian (I made the mistake of looking at the first one the other day for a recent blog post and got snared, again; I'm now on Book Five, Desolation Island).

Extra bonus: these flowers arrived yesterday from an ecstatic Sterling Editing client. (Kelley's client, not mine, I hasten to add.) It's all very gratifying.
my office yesterday afternoon, the lawn this morning, flowersSo, hey, life is good. I hope things are going equally well for you, wherever you are.

The qualities of a great historical novel

From: Pat

Surely you've read Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond Chronicles, yes? Although a male protagonist, they are a corking good read. I've hand-sold and recommended them for years...

If not, you are in for an addictive treat: six volumes of seat-of-the-pants stuff, and language to die for...

I loved the first one, Game of Kings, but as the series progressed I felt less enamoured. All the books seemed to all rely on the same device: Lymond isn't who he plays on the public stage—or is he?

But that first one is very, very good. I reread it periodically. Dunnett has a great ear and a gimlet eye for human particularity. I love her descriptions of the natural world, and the seamless integration of sixteenth-century mores and systems into a thundering adventure. Here and there she made me work rather hard to understand what was going on—but in a way a native of that time and place who was a stranger to the particular situation might. Great stuff. In this way, she's very like Mantel ( Wolf Hall  is set a generation or so earlier than Dunnett's novel) and O'Brian (the Aubrey/Maturin novels, beginning with Master and Commander, are set in the early nineteenth century). All three authors assume the intelligence of the reader.

Assume the intelligence of the reader is one of my (many) writing mantras. But assuming intelligence is not the same as assuming knowledge.

I've been thinking idly about the seventh century since the 1980s. I've been researching seriously for nearly fifteen years. I've been living there, in work and dream, for the last five. I know a lot. Not nearly as much as professional historians of the period, of course, but a lot—certainly more than the majority of my readers. What is perfectly obvious and usual to me will be entirely new to my audience.1

My editor for  Hild , Sean McDonald, pointed out that readers new to the seventh century might, on first encounter, confuse, say, an ætheling and an Æthelfrithing. Here's a paraphrased phone conversation:

"And what exactly is an ætheling anyway? A prince?" he said.
"Well, yes."
"Then why not just call them princes?"
"Because they're not princes in the way we think of princes now. They don't have Prince Valiant haircuts or wear ridiculous crushed velvet tunics and pointy shoes. Words matter! They're like icebergs. Most of their meaning is invisible, but it has mass, it has—"
"—momentum, I know, I know.2 So just make it clear in the text."

So, being an obedient author3, I did—though even my subtlest explanations felt to me like being hit over the head with giant blobs of info-dump or "As you know, Bob" dialogue. I began to worry. One evening I talked to Kelley about it:

"I'm treating my readers like morons!" I said. "Readers like to do a little work!"4
"Yes, but I've been listening to you talk about the seventh century for a decade, and I don't always know what something means."
"But you can figure it out! Hilary Mantel doesn't have to bring the narrative to a screeching halt to explain—"
"Honey," (hint of exasperation) "anyone who's even heard of England will have an idea who Henry VIII and Cromwell are. But the seventh century is new. They won't know an Iding from an Iffing or a seax from a sword."

Well, huh. I hate it when I'm being an idiot.

Another of my mantras is: Never, ever confuse the reader. Fool them? Yes. Misinform? Of course. Deliberately puzzle with mystery? Well, hey, a whole genre is built on that. But confuse them? Only at your peril. And by them I mean, of course, us. I am first and foremost a reader.

Reader discomfort and uncertainty can be cumulative. We're perfectly happy to glide over one unknown thing in the first chapter and trust that we'll figure it out as we go along. We're willing to deal with a second if we're enjoying the writing hugely.5 But by the third we're furrowing our brow. At the fourth, we're squirming like puppies. At the fifth, we toss the book on the sofa and wander off into the kitchen. We might or might not return to it.

I've known this consciously for twenty years.6 But with this book I needed reminding: as I've said, I know a fair bit about the seventh century, and I'm a good writer who trusts the intelligence of her readers. If I write about bronze-stringed harps on one page and gut-stringed lyres in the next I assume a reader will know I'm not being inconsistent but am sending a signal: we're not in the land of the culturally British (Brythonic) anymore, we're with the Anglo-Saxons (Anglisc).7 I had to explain this to the copy-editor (who turned out to be utterly marvellous, the best I've ever had)—I also explained the change from gods to god to God and the metamorphosis of the mene wood to her mene wood to Menewood...

I'm talking about a time almost a thousand years before Dunnett's and Mantel's milieux. There are few reliable written sources about this time. (Or none. Or one. Depending on your notion of reliable.) In the early seventh century the pace of change was bewildering (some examples: belief in multiple gods becomes belief in one God; a barter and gift-exchange economy turns to coin-based trade; a few priests knowing a few runes becomes many priests, and women religious, being able to read in more than one language. (And, oh, if after finishing Hild you think access to extra-somatic information was not an exceptional change then I have not done my job.) Add in delineating the development of a singular child into an extraordinary woman—complete with acquisition of a variety of languages, sense of self and sexuality—and, well, things get...dense.

But density can be an obstacle to reader enjoyment. If the reader has no space to play, mentally and emotionally, no room to add their own personal touches, they can feel stifled or shut out. Trying to read an overly dense novel is like trying to live in a house furnished and decorated by someone else in an overpoweringly fussy style. It just doesn't work.

What does work, in addition to intelligence, is texture: specificity, particularity, generosity. Also emotional energy: Dorothy Dunnett and Patrick O'Brian have dash and brio, they're laugh-out-loud funny, and O'Brian can exalt me and cast me down in the space of a chapter; Mantel has sly wit. The former are light and whippy in places, rapier fast, whereas Mantel is more like an orrery: her plots and people follow what feels like an inevitable locking together of orbits. Both styles, of course, have their place. All three authors not only entertain me but also teach me something of the human heart, the human mind, human history.

Hild has—I hope—these qualities and more. I hope the novel has some of the qualities of Hild herself; something unique. As the author, of course, I'll never know. You'll have to judge for yourself.
---

1. This is one of the reasons each draught was longer than the last.
2. He's been my editor for three books now.
3. Oh, ha! Ha ha!
4. This was one of those conversations that began with lots of exclamation marks...and ended with lots of beer.
5. My aim with every piece I write: for readers to enjoy themselves and be immensely satisfied—in more ways than one.
6. Ammonite is 20 years old this month.
7. Or, more specifically, the Loid and the Elmetsætne. Who, bafflingly, live in exactly the same place, Yorkshire. It's just that the Loides were culturally Brythonic and the Elmetsætne culturally Anglisc. Confusing if not laid out with terrifying clarity. This is why every writer needs a team, to point this shit out. But editorial teamwork will have to be the subject of another post.

Good lesbian science fiction novels

From: MP

I was wondering if you would be willing to recommend good lesbian science fiction novels. I find those are hard to come by.

I am sure you've been asked this before but I haven't found a post about this in your blog. If I missed it, I apologize.

I have finished all the Aud books. I'm starting Slow River.

And congrats on becoming an American citizen.

Thanks for the congrats. I've just got my passport: now it feels very real. All those terrible immigration battles of the 90s are really, really behind me. Later this summer, assuming I'm correct in my predictions about SCOTUS's opinion on the same-sex marriage cases before it, no one in my position will ever have to make new law again. Immigration into the US for same-sex couples will be as easy (and not) as for opposite-sex couples.

I've just searched my own blog and couldn't find any recommendations for lesbian sf. I need to fix that. I remember what it's like to search and not find. I wrote an essay about it, "War Machine, Time Machine," (written with my partner Kelley Eskridge).

Let's define terms. First of all, lesbian. I've written elsewhere (ranted, really) that there's no such thing as a lesbian novel. But, eh, we all know what what we mean by the term: book-length fiction with a woman protagonist who generally prefers to have sex with women. And by sf I mean speculative fiction: an umbrella term that covers most genres of fantastical fiction. Yes, the many genres (science fiction, fantasy, dystopia, horror, alternate history, paranormal etc.) are quite different but as there is precious little really good stuff I don't see the point of this kind of subdivision—plus it's often difficult to decide which subgenre a story belongs to. Oh, and I find I'm prejudiced in favour of work whose writers appear to have come up through the sf genre rather than the lesbian genre. But see below.

Let me be the first to admit that I often don't keep up with sf; there are serious gaps on my shelves. However, there are several sites that do keep up. Try, for example, Science Fiction for Lesbians, and take a look at their four- and five-star books. (My books only get four stars, huh, but Kelley's get five, so their ratings are not utterly insane...)

My recommendations are broken into two short lists: four very recent books, and six classics, for a round total of ten. You asked for novels but I'm going to include anthologies. Anthologies are useful because they expose you to different styles and attitudes. It's a good way to find writers whose work, er, works for you.

Recent
I'll begin with Heiresses of Russ, edited by Connie Wilkins and Steve Berman (2012), which is a snapshot of last year's best short sf by or about women who love women. This book amazes me: there are enough speculative fiction stories with queer female characters to make an excellent anthology of selections from one year. One. Single. Year. Wow. Times really are changing. This is the book that made me realise there's no longer any way to keep up with the genre; there's too much. I am smiling as I say this: there's too much lesbian sf!

Beyond Binary, edited by Brit Mandelo (2012), is a collection of genderqueer and sexually fluid fiction. I gave it a long blurb, which reads, in part:

These writers--the vast majority identify as female, a thrill all of its own--play with many versions of queer. The stories range from a 35-page novelette that begins at the raw edge of loneliness and ends in exuberant human connection, to a 6-page blink of quantum weirdness encompassing all possibilities. The stories teem with gay, trans, lesbian, bi, polyamorous, asexual, unspecified, and imaginary people--as well as aliens, angels, and androids. But each ends with some oh-so-human satisfaction, resolution, or glad understanding. Beyond Binary is peopled by those who are brave, who say Yes to joy--and not only survive but thrive.

Some of these pieces are truly strange. Some are delicious romps. But in the end this is the rarest of anthologies: the sum is greater than its parts. Read it. Read it all.

I'm guessing you'll find many writers to explore further. That 35-page piece, for example, is "Eye of the Storm," by Kelley, collected in Dangerous Space . (Kelley also wrote Solitaire—a New York Times Notable Novel, and science fiction.)

One novel from last year that I found intriguing is  In the Now , by Kelly Sinclair. It could be labelled science fiction—or a reincarnation thought experiment, or perhaps a trans fantasy. My guess, though, is that Sinclair hails more from the lesbian end of the writing spectrum than the science fictional. The prose is mostly workmanlike, though lacking in real beauty and brio. (There are weird narrative grammar glitches and several narrative time hops that I found mildly disconcerting.) But I really enjoyed the clear separation of gender and biological sex. And I liked the characters. And if you give the author initial suspension of disbelief over the possibility of life after death, she uses science well—and consistently. An odd book, but, as I say, intriguing. Definitely worth a look.

I can recommend Santa Olivia, by Jacqueline Carey (2009). It's an absolute blast. Here's what I said when I read it:

Lesbian boxing mutants, woo hoo! It was also peculiarly one-dimensional in places. But, oh, what assured narrative; so lovely to be in competent hands. I knew nothing of this book before I started it and haven't read anything about it since. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that this, like the King (Stephen King's 11/22/63), had its genesis at the dawn of the author's career. It has that fresh-new-writer-in-the-world feel to it. Also like the King, I was initially worried about the story trajectory. But, again, it ended well. Perhaps a little too well. It's obvious Carey is writing a sequel, and I feel about that the same way I felt about the Phèdre books: Kushiel's Dart was wonderful, the sequels unnecessary and a dilution of the original premise. But that's just the kind of reader/writer I am. If you can tell the story with one definite spear thrust, then you don't need endless dancing and jabbing. Mileage varies. (I know lots of readers would love to have a sequel to Ammonite...)

Of course, when it comes to series novels I have no room to talk. I wrote three books about Aud; unless something goes horribly wrong there'll be more than one book about Hild. But back to Santa Olivia. In science fiction terms, this isn't exactly hard sf. There's a lot of hand-waving and pointing away from thin ice. But it's fun and a fast read.

Classics
I think the heyday of lesbian sf is still to come. I think it will be astonishingly good, partly because it won't need to be about being queer. That battle is ending. It's essentially won. (Lots of tidying up to do, of course.) It was a battle named and begun by the mothers of our genre. Here are a handful of the classics, from the 1970s to the 1990s. The first two are short story collections, the rest novels; I've talked about several of them, and others, on my enormous List of Things I Like.
Her Smoke Rose Up Forever, James Tiptree Jr (aka Racoona Sheldon, real name Alice Sheldon). Stories. Some of these pieces will rip your heart out; some will make you think; some will help you see the world anew. Tiptree does love and science, dire warnings and the real world in equal measure, and she has no peer.Extra(Ordinary) People, Joanna Russ. Short science fiction, including "The Mystery of the Young Gentleman," which is, for me, the most fun hey-gender-is-a-game story ever. And I suspect "Souls" might have had a tiny bit of influence on Hild.The Chronicles of Tornor, Elizabeth A. Lynn. This is a loosely connected sequence of novels starting with Watchtower. Fantasy, but no magic, unless you call love and aikido magic; I think this book influenced the way I write about bodies in the real world; it certainly paved the way for to learn aikido a few years later.Gossamer Axe, Gael Baudino. Fantasy. An ageless Celtic harper forms a heavy metal band to free her lover from the faerie. Great music and magic writing. No holds barred lesbian romance (but definitely with a fantasy lineage). Fabulous. When I picked up this book I read the very first writer's bio that said something like, Baudino lives with her lover xxxx in xxxx. (I can't find my copy or I'd quote.) And I knew, right then, that I wasn't the only writing dyke in the genre world who felt no need to hide.The Holdfast Chronicles, Suzy McKee Charnas. Sequence of dystopian novels. The first and most important (in my opinion) are Walk to the End of the World, and Motherlines. Charnas is ostensibly a straight writer, but she gets dykes and gay boys right. I couldn't have written Ammonite if this book, and work by Tiptree and Le Guin and Russ, hadn't come first. The first is an unsettling dystopia, but not claustrophobic—like, say, Atwood's Handmaid's Tale—and a ripping good read.Thendara House, Marion Zimmer Bradley. Science fantasy. Set on Darkover, a recolonised world of spaceports and native polities, Free Amazons and psi powers, swords and energy weapons. Fabulous stuff. Occasionally clunkily written. It is a sequel to The Shattered Chain, but I read TH first and like it better.I could have chosen any of another couple of dozen, but these struck me as representing the heart of the (US) genre. (There are many wonderful UK novels—Fairbairns' Benefits, Jones's Divine Endurance—and Australian, and Canadian, and others.) I'm hoping readers will have some suggestions in the comments below—not just for good lesbian sf but good lists of same.

ETA: Make suggestions! I'll compile a list in a follow-up post. I had an original list of three dozen books but that seemed too long (and I didn't have time to hunt down links for all) so I cut it to ten. But a big list would be fab!

Lesbian novel? No such thing!

Here's a rant I wrote fifteen or twenty years ago. I'm posting now because I want to link to it tomorrow.
---
There is no such thing as a lesbian or gay book. Novels are not sexed at birth by some strange gowned and masked obstetrician at the publishing house: "Yup, this one has a womb (or two X-chromosomes, or no penis, or a sweet smile). Toss it on the women's pile. And make sure it doesn't rub up against any of those other female volumes. Could be a lesbian book."

There are no lesbian novels. There are only stories. Stories of our lives; our hopes and dreams; our loves and losses and daily victories over that callous and indifferent thing called the world. We write to tell our truth, so that someone ten miles away—a hundred, a thousand—can pick up a book and read it and think, "Oh, yes, I see. Of course. How true."

Stories are for connecting people, one to another: lesbian to straight, old to young, me to you. But it takes two to make a story. A novel is merely the beginning, a sketch. Like a blue-print of a house, the writer may have penciled in where the walls ought to go, and the doors; made a note about the size of the windows; but it is the reader who takes that sketch and makes a home. The reader decides which room will be the living room and which the family room; fills the corners with things she has collected over the years; and makes it her own. Moral of the story: if you don't like the look of the blueprint, don't bother trying to build the house. No one can write a book that will please everyone.

It's my personal belief that both gender and genre are creations of the insecure. People who are confident of themselves and their place in the world see people first, gender second; those who have no worries about their own taste, discrimination, or fashion sense see fiction first, genre second. It's the insecure, those who need to feel superior ("Someone—at last—who is less hip than I am!"), who sneer at, say, women or people of colour or science fiction, at gays or romance novels or people in wheelchairs. "Not us," they say, "not worthy, not real."

Those who love fiction—who love the discovery of fine writing, characters who will suck you into their world with their dilemmas and attempts to solve them—approach the work without artificially constructed preconceptions.

You wouldn't believe the number of people who pick up Ammonite or Slow River and say, "Well, science fiction is rubbish, but I liked this..." What they really mean, of course, is: "Science fiction is pulp rubbish, so I don't read it. But I read this book, and it's good, so it's not really science fiction, is it?" It doesn't matter that what they enjoyed so much is set in the future; if they liked it, it can't be science fiction.

These are the kind of people who have probably never read anything by Mary Renault because it's historical fiction. Nothing by Audre Lorde because it's black fiction. Nothing by Willa Cather—after all, she only wrote about the prairie... Perhaps they have never realized that Shelley's Frankenstein is science fiction. As is Aldous Huxley's work, and that of Geoff Ryman, Joanna Russ, Ursula Le Guin. So, for that matter is The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood*, and her The Handmaid's Tale. Then there are the fantasists like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, William Golding and Toni Morrison...

Ah, but critics and reviewers and academics who actually like this fiction set outside reality call it Magic Realism, or Social Commentary, or Dystopia... Anything, in fact, but fantasy or science fiction. What, I wonder, are they afraid of?
----* Not everyone agrees with me on this. We'll get into it another time.