M/M in MY YA? It's more likely than you think.
By now I'm sure a lot of you have heard about this situation and this development. But a summary just in case: YA author Jessica Verday turned in a story to an anthology called Wicked Pretty Things that was 1) G-rated, 2) centered around a gay male romance. Trisha Telep, the editor, told her to change it into a heterosexual romance instead, so Verday pulled her story. And blogged about it. The editor showed up and gave a very unsatisfactory apology which included dog whistly bigoted words like "alternative sexuality," a bizarre assertion that she thought the press (which had published LGBTQ stories before, by the way) wouldn't accept it, and a whole lot of "oh dear"s instead of "I'm sorry"s. And something about her having wrestled a gay man in Glasgow once which, um, what?
Fast-forward to a few days later, and six of the anthology's 13 writers have pulled out because of this "kerfluffle," as Telep so charmingly called the situation in her first attempt at an apology.
I'm not going to go into an exegesis of Telep's statements and the heterosexual privilege behind them, because a lot of people have been doing that, and I don't feel compelled to retread ground in the discussion.
Instead, I'm going to write about my experiences and fears as an openly queer author, poet and editor who regularly writes about LGBTQ characters, edits LGBTQ-themed anthologies*, and is open to stories about LGBTQ people even if the anthology isn't LGBTQ-related. Folks, I love being a queer woman, I'm proud of my sexuality, and I've worked damned hard in my life to be able to say that.
But there are a lot of things in society that make being queer suck for me. And a lot of them can be found in the publishing industry. For example? Right now I'm shopping around a non-fiction proposal about the LGBTQ community in Utah. Since I love this community and think its struggles (and its hard-won victories) are incalculably important both nationally and internationally, I've wanted to find a large audience for this book, and to donate all the royalties I would receive from it to an LGBTQ organization in my home state.
While, admittedly, I haven't been shopping this around for very long, I so far haven't received any nibbles. Sometimes there is no explanation, but other times, the explanation is simply that they don't do books about LGBTQ issues--even if the press itself covers current events and/or regional politics. Given that 1) the LDS Church hierarchy (which is based in Utah) played a huge role in drumming up support for Proposition 8, 2) a documentary about their involvement that featured a ton of interviews from LGBTQ Utahns premiered at Sundance and won the audience choice award, 3) more than 1/4 of Utah's population is now covered under LGBTQ-inclusive housing and employment nondiscrimination ordinances, and 4) I'd be here for hours if I described all of the LGBTQ groups in Utah fighting for change, I'd say that this is pretty damned important both to current politics and to the Southwestern US**.
But many big publishers do not see it that way, and so the door is closed. And folks, it's a fairly heavy one--one that I see every time I sit down to write.
Right now, I have a lot of novel projects I'm working on, at least three of which feature lesbian or bisexual protagonists (one of whom, by the way, also has an anxiety disorder--a disability that people routinely see as either bullshit or hilarious). And I wonder, if I were to submit any of them to a large publisher, would they be rejected solely on the grounds of "we don't do books about your issues?" Yes, of course, big publishers have taken on LGBTQ books before (Malinda Lo's Ash comes to mind, obviously, as does Catherynne M. Valente's Palimpsest). But situations like the one Verday blogged about prove that anti-LGBTQ bias--intentional and unintentional--are alive and well in mainstream publishing.
Now, I love small presses. I really love LGBTQ presses and imprints (hell, I even run an imprint of my own). I would never want to stop working for or with them. Please don't misunderstand what I'm saying. But neither I nor any other author or editor of any sexual orientation or gender identity should have fewer options than writers/editors who deal with heterosexual material. Just like, for example, people of color, people with disabilities, or people who aren't Christian should have some options unavailable to them because they lack white, abled or Christian privilege and/or don't want to write or edit stories about a socially dominant group. Frankly, this hurts not only minorities of any kind, but the publishing industry and US society at large. It also hurts the world at large and no, this isn't hyperbole. As a writer and editor, I do believe that stories we tell and stories we give each other access to have world changing consequences for good and bad--just ask Joseph Goebbels and his "Big Lie" if you don't believe me.
Ultimately, I'm cheered that so many writers spoke out against Telep's behavior and pulled their stories. But when I think about all the writers out there (including several LGBTQ writers) who are getting that heavy door slammed in their faces day after day, who aren't getting nominated for awards, let alone noticed, who are getting verbal and psychological abuse for the stories they write in the form of anti-LGBTQ comments and death threats...well, it just feels like so many raindrops in an ocean sometimes, you know?
* Note: I have yet to write a transgender character or edit an anthology about transgender characters, but erm...let's just say that the former will happen and the latter is in the works?
** Someday soon I will write a post about how I think a lot of US media (LGBTQ and 'mainstream') caters disproportionately to LGBTQ people (and usually white, upper-class gay men) who live in either New England, the West Coast and large metropoli and ignores the rest of us unless we're getting bashed or having bills written against us--and sometimes not even then. I've been patronized by grown adults for being a poor oppressed little dyke from one of those backwards, flyover, fundie Red States. While I've been told that these grown adults probably were trying to sympathize, I nonetheless felt gawped at like a museum exhibit. I also felt like the concern they were showing me had less to do with real, honest solidarity and/or a willingness to learn about a queer person's experience that was different from their own, than with what I like to call "activist entertainment"--that is, being able to pat the supposedly downtrodden person on the head before going back to their happy Blue State with its civil unions and domestic partner bennies. You know, kind of like how one can go see a movie with a theme along the lines of "x group of people are human, too" and leave feeling special and proud of oneself for being so progressive and enlightened. In other words, regardless of what the intent was, I felt minimized, and I do not think my feeling can be attributed to my being oversensitive.
Fast-forward to a few days later, and six of the anthology's 13 writers have pulled out because of this "kerfluffle," as Telep so charmingly called the situation in her first attempt at an apology.
I'm not going to go into an exegesis of Telep's statements and the heterosexual privilege behind them, because a lot of people have been doing that, and I don't feel compelled to retread ground in the discussion.
Instead, I'm going to write about my experiences and fears as an openly queer author, poet and editor who regularly writes about LGBTQ characters, edits LGBTQ-themed anthologies*, and is open to stories about LGBTQ people even if the anthology isn't LGBTQ-related. Folks, I love being a queer woman, I'm proud of my sexuality, and I've worked damned hard in my life to be able to say that.
But there are a lot of things in society that make being queer suck for me. And a lot of them can be found in the publishing industry. For example? Right now I'm shopping around a non-fiction proposal about the LGBTQ community in Utah. Since I love this community and think its struggles (and its hard-won victories) are incalculably important both nationally and internationally, I've wanted to find a large audience for this book, and to donate all the royalties I would receive from it to an LGBTQ organization in my home state.
While, admittedly, I haven't been shopping this around for very long, I so far haven't received any nibbles. Sometimes there is no explanation, but other times, the explanation is simply that they don't do books about LGBTQ issues--even if the press itself covers current events and/or regional politics. Given that 1) the LDS Church hierarchy (which is based in Utah) played a huge role in drumming up support for Proposition 8, 2) a documentary about their involvement that featured a ton of interviews from LGBTQ Utahns premiered at Sundance and won the audience choice award, 3) more than 1/4 of Utah's population is now covered under LGBTQ-inclusive housing and employment nondiscrimination ordinances, and 4) I'd be here for hours if I described all of the LGBTQ groups in Utah fighting for change, I'd say that this is pretty damned important both to current politics and to the Southwestern US**.
But many big publishers do not see it that way, and so the door is closed. And folks, it's a fairly heavy one--one that I see every time I sit down to write.
Right now, I have a lot of novel projects I'm working on, at least three of which feature lesbian or bisexual protagonists (one of whom, by the way, also has an anxiety disorder--a disability that people routinely see as either bullshit or hilarious). And I wonder, if I were to submit any of them to a large publisher, would they be rejected solely on the grounds of "we don't do books about your issues?" Yes, of course, big publishers have taken on LGBTQ books before (Malinda Lo's Ash comes to mind, obviously, as does Catherynne M. Valente's Palimpsest). But situations like the one Verday blogged about prove that anti-LGBTQ bias--intentional and unintentional--are alive and well in mainstream publishing.
Now, I love small presses. I really love LGBTQ presses and imprints (hell, I even run an imprint of my own). I would never want to stop working for or with them. Please don't misunderstand what I'm saying. But neither I nor any other author or editor of any sexual orientation or gender identity should have fewer options than writers/editors who deal with heterosexual material. Just like, for example, people of color, people with disabilities, or people who aren't Christian should have some options unavailable to them because they lack white, abled or Christian privilege and/or don't want to write or edit stories about a socially dominant group. Frankly, this hurts not only minorities of any kind, but the publishing industry and US society at large. It also hurts the world at large and no, this isn't hyperbole. As a writer and editor, I do believe that stories we tell and stories we give each other access to have world changing consequences for good and bad--just ask Joseph Goebbels and his "Big Lie" if you don't believe me.
Ultimately, I'm cheered that so many writers spoke out against Telep's behavior and pulled their stories. But when I think about all the writers out there (including several LGBTQ writers) who are getting that heavy door slammed in their faces day after day, who aren't getting nominated for awards, let alone noticed, who are getting verbal and psychological abuse for the stories they write in the form of anti-LGBTQ comments and death threats...well, it just feels like so many raindrops in an ocean sometimes, you know?
* Note: I have yet to write a transgender character or edit an anthology about transgender characters, but erm...let's just say that the former will happen and the latter is in the works?
** Someday soon I will write a post about how I think a lot of US media (LGBTQ and 'mainstream') caters disproportionately to LGBTQ people (and usually white, upper-class gay men) who live in either New England, the West Coast and large metropoli and ignores the rest of us unless we're getting bashed or having bills written against us--and sometimes not even then. I've been patronized by grown adults for being a poor oppressed little dyke from one of those backwards, flyover, fundie Red States. While I've been told that these grown adults probably were trying to sympathize, I nonetheless felt gawped at like a museum exhibit. I also felt like the concern they were showing me had less to do with real, honest solidarity and/or a willingness to learn about a queer person's experience that was different from their own, than with what I like to call "activist entertainment"--that is, being able to pat the supposedly downtrodden person on the head before going back to their happy Blue State with its civil unions and domestic partner bennies. You know, kind of like how one can go see a movie with a theme along the lines of "x group of people are human, too" and leave feeling special and proud of oneself for being so progressive and enlightened. In other words, regardless of what the intent was, I felt minimized, and I do not think my feeling can be attributed to my being oversensitive.
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