Sunday, June 12, 2022
Book Review: The Tiger Flu
Wednesday, May 25, 2022
Identity Policing, Forced Outings, and my Thoughts on Coming Out in Publishing
Growing up as a queer kid in the 90s/00s in Canadian conservative country was, at the best of times, an incredibly isolating experience. There were no Gay Straight Alliances in my schools, many of my peers stayed in the closet longer for fear of rejection, and the bigoted jokes that played on loop across mainstream TV left the impression that I was a queer island in a sea of heteronormativity - separated from kin by thousands of miles. The only thing that helped bridge the seemingly endless distance was fiction - the few published books I could find featuring LGBTQ+ characters, as well as the budding online communities where queer folks could freely gather and share their stories.
I lived in those online queer spaces, but I kept going back to the bookstore, seeking out titles that maybe, just maybe, featured someone who felt like me. Whether the book was excellent or terrible, I found myself flipping to the author bios, searching for some evidence that the author was queer. I was always skeptical, and a little disappointed, when the author appeared to be straight and cis, or there was no indication as to their orientation. It felt like a sort of appropriation, and I was desperate to find the raw authenticity of queer stories told through an author's queer perspective.
So I get it. I get the queer fans calling for writers to come out. I get the editors and agents who are seeking the security of marginalized authors who write in their lanes. With a limited number of books that can be published in a year, everyone with stock in the game wants to ensure the author they’re betting on is a safe gamble. Everyone wants authenticity. They wants to know: who are you to write this story?
But do they have a right to know?
When I entered the world of publishing in the late 2000s, young, bright-eyed and bushy-quilled, the
concept of author brands was gaining traction. As social media took hold, many in the industry quickly recognized the value in an author's "personal brand” and began pushing authors to develop loyal fanbases that would follow them from book to book. Today, this expectation is thrust on authors more than ever. Even when it’s not written directly in contracts, there’s an expectation that authors do a fair amount of their own promotion through social media, turning them into quasi-influencers.Over the last ten years, there's also been a growing cultural acceptance of and expectation for LGBTQ+ representation in media. As more queer kids grow up seeking queer stories, publishers quickly realized there was more money to be made appealing to the interests of queerdos than burying any mention of LGBTQ+ characters or themes under vague back jacket blurbs. All of this, in turn, changed how editors and agents evaluated potential clients and acquisitions. Industry professionals began looking for writers whose potential (or already constructed) author brand would align with the target audience's value system, reinforcing a parasocial relationship that would boost sales. #OwnVoices launched with the intention of supporting marginalized creators and connecting fans to the authenticity they were seeking, but was quickly co-opted by industry professionals into a catch-all branding term that identified more "marketable" clients. Fan and writer communities also weaponized the hashtag against marginalized creators to scrutinize their identities, histories, as well as gatekeep communities. (If you want to read more, BitchMedia wrote articles on the pressures on queer authors and authors being forcefully outed by the industry. R29 also wrote on the effects of #OwnVoices on books.)
Despite the retirement of #OwnVoices, this pattern of identity policing shows no signs of slowing down. On the one hand, readers aren't wrong to ask what an author's relationship is to the community they choose to write about. Young readers may do this as they attempt to find the same safety and solidarity from within the book in the real world, so it makes sense they would start with the author of the escapist fantasy that has already comforted them. On the other, the expectation that some of the most sensitive parts of our identity must be integrated into an author brand so we may be "allowed" to publish stories about marginalized communities feels ridiculously authoritarian. Not only does #OwnVoices not guarantee authenticity or credibility (as two people with the same identity may have vastly different experiences and perspectives), but the enforcement of authenticity above all harms and chases away marginalized creators, while limiting an author's career. An author’s consent in disclosing their identity should be prioritized above all, and silence should not be assumed to mean they don’t belong. I do hope more authors reveal more of who they are for the sake of representation, especially for YA and MG authors whose audience are likely looking up to them as role models, but no one should be pressured to build their entire brand—or identity—around a single diversity trait. Maybe by policing author brands, we'll catch the occasional con artist who seeks to insert themselves into marginalized communities to profit off them, but we'll harm a far greater numbers of allies, closeted people, and marginalized creators in the process.
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As much as the idea of turning yourself into a 'product' still makes me uncomfy as all hell, I've seen a lot of value from building a brand that centers on you. I tend to be a bit of an oxymoron when it comes to self-disclosure. I don't like to talk about myself, but I wear everything on my sleeve, no secrets here. When considering my own brand, both as an author and a freelancer in the industry, I had to seriously consider how much of myself I wanted to place on the internet for public consideration. How to balance privacy and minority representation. How much I wanted to build a community centered around my LGBTQ+ identity vs other aspects of my personhood. How much of my career history I wanted to sacrifice to preserve my privacy.
Some identities are easy to hide. Some aren't. Some minorities can walk into a room and blend, while others have it literally written on their skin. Being trans lets me exist in a strange reality where I'm both. At a certain point, I will pass enough that most people won't be able to tell that I'm from a minority group. Other times, it is painfully impossible to hide, and I have to put my safety in the hands of strangers in public spaces, hoping my identity doesn't upset those around me. But my personal brand grants me an opportunity: I could delete my blog, let go of my contacts and twitter, and essentially start my brand and business from scratch. It would completely disconnect me from my old name, gender, etc., yet I'd also sacrifice over ten years of work just to keep this part of myself hidden, while also surrendering a chance to provide representation for other transgender individuals.
When put like that, the answer felt simple. At least for me.
So, hi. I'm Kyle, a transman. Nice to meet you. Come in, take a seat. I’ve got cookies around here
somewhere.I've been coming out slowly, tactically, in each new environment, like a solider behind enemy lines, and finally I've come to storm the online trenches. For me, being open about who I am and the changes I’m going through grants me the space to be a more authentic writer, which is why I’m choosing to publicize this change and my thoughts with this blog post, instead of quietly changing over my name and hoping no one notices. During my rebranding, I seriously considered whether I wanted a trans pride flag in my new banner, an easy way for other trans people to recognize the solidarity and connect, if they wanted to. Yet I hesitated, and ultimately chose not to include any identifiers in banners or bios, other than the vague title of "queerdo.” I know I’ll talk about it quite freely, so it will by no means be a secret, but I don’t want to advertise myself based on that feature and build an expectation with my audience that LGBTQ+ rights are a main focus of my art. Cause they are and they aren’t, and I don’t want to pigeon-hole myself artistically or have to publish under multiple pen-names, each with their own authorial branding.
While coming out in this way works for me, the expectations of author transparency need to change. That disclosure of identity should be treated with respect – as the gift that it is, instead of something we’re entitled to. To help let go of this entitlement, the reigns need to be loosened on who "owns" what stories, and we need to let go of this desperate grab for an imaginary supreme authenticity. I believe very strongly in research, authenticity readers, and seeking to elevate representation of minority groups, but that can be achieved through criticizing the work, not the person. Somehow, in our push for more diversity, we expect marginalized individuals to act more alike than ever: conforming to single narratives about what it means to be gay, lesbian, Indigenous, an immigrant, etc. and labelling others as "bad rep" for not assimilating their own experiences into the dominant narrative. Author consent and autonomy needs to be central if we want to reverse the assimilation trajectory and get back to, you know, actually supporting and celebrating diversity.
As Alanis Morissette would say, "Isn't it ironic..."
Friday, March 11, 2022
Book Review: Indian Horse
Tuesday, February 22, 2022
Book Review: Empire of Wild
She turns, and there Victor is. The same face, the same eyes, the same hands. But his hair is short and he's wearing a suit and he doesn't recognize her at all. No, he insists, she's the one suffering a delusion: he's the Reverend Wolff and his only mission is to bring his people to Jesus. Except that, as Joan soon discovers, that's not all the enigmatic Wolff is doing.
With only the help of Ajean, a foul-mouthed euchre shark with a knowledge of the old ways, and her odd, Johnny-Cash-loving, 12-year-old nephew Zeus, Joan has to find a way to remind the Reverend Wolff of who he really is. If he really is Victor. Her life, and the life of everyone she loves, depends upon it.
My Review: For a genre with a capacity for incredible flexibility, urban fantasy often finds itself stalling over the same set of overused tropes that inhibit innovation or creativity. Compared to some other genres, urban fantasy isn't wrapped up in as many restricting 'hallmarks,' yet it constantly pulls from the same pool of myths and interprets them through near-identical white and western perspectives. Fantasy often likes to sand off the cultural markers of mythology to make the narratives more accessible to wider audiences, but this generalization often robs these myths of their more interesting aspects. Watering down mythology has had successes, but it's pervasiveness has also left authors in a creative slump where they don't know how to present this mythology in fresh ways, leading to a stagnation in the genre.
Wednesday, January 19, 2022
Book Review: Parable of the Sower
Wednesday, December 1, 2021
Book Review: Brother
Book Review: Brother by David Chariandy
Goodreads Description: With shimmering prose and mesmerizing precision, David Chariandy takes us inside the lives of Michael and Francis. They are the sons of Trinidadian immigrants, their father has disappeared and their mother works double, sometimes triple shifts so her boys might fulfill the elusive promise of their adopted home.
Coming of age in The Park, a cluster of town houses and leaning concrete towers in the disparaged outskirts of a sprawling city, Michael and Francis battle against the careless prejudices and low expectations that confront them as young men of black and brown ancestry -- teachers stream them into general classes; shopkeepers see them only as thieves; and strangers quicken their pace when the brothers are behind them. Always Michael and Francis escape into the cool air of the Rouge Valley, a scar of green wilderness that cuts through their neighbourhood, where they are free to imagine better lives for themselves.
Propelled by the pulsing beats and styles of hip hop, Francis, the older of the two brothers, dreams of a future in music. Michael's dreams are of Aisha, the smartest girl in their high school whose own eyes are firmly set on a life elsewhere. But the bright hopes of all three are violently, irrevocably thwarted by a tragic shooting, and the police crackdown and suffocating suspicion that follow.
My Review: "One morning, I peered with Francis into a newspaper box to read a headline about the latest terror and caught in the glass the reflection of our own faces."
Just picking up Brother and flipping through it to write this review, my heart sank into my stomach. It's one of those amazing books that leaves you speechless, but the senseless tragedy of what takes place guts me just thinking about it. It is honestly the first book in a long time to make me full on sob by the end. Not just a few tears, but a full on, heaving, sobbing mess. You have been warned. Prepare your heartstrings.
If this book could be summed up in a word, it would be grief. From it's opening pages, the feeling hangs oppressively between the characters as they dance around an unspoken hole in their lives. Brother tells the story of a police shooting that stole a brother and son, and left a family reeling with PTSD. Naturally, the book touches on some very heavy topics, but counters it with gentle, loving characters that unfortunately also amp up the tragedy of the loss.
Though told through Michael's point of view, the story focuses on his older brother, Francis, and the events that lead up to his death. Most of the book takes place in the past, contrasted with the 'present,' ten years after. Through this recollection, Chariandy exposes the systems that failed Francis long before his death: the school system that abandoned him, the systematic racism, cycles of poverty, toxic masculinity, etc. All of these build on one another until the night of his murder, when he's already too beaten down to play his part any longer. In this way, Chariandy makes the reader fully empathize with the experience of many people of colour in Canada who face these same systematic failures.
Chariandy's writing is also exceptionally beautiful. He takes time to highlight the beauty in a gritty, urban setting. He utilizes a lot of showing language that does not push 'politics,' but merely reflects the reality of the character's experience, such as the number of times the police drive past their house. There were so many lines, such as the one quoted above, that imparted so much weight through metaphor that they communicated much more than they seemed. Chariandy also manages to cram all of this into a measly 177 pages, while most other books I've seen on the topic need twice as many pages to cover half as many topics.
All in all, wow. Suffering through the tragedy is worth being witness to the poetry of this story. I'd highly recommend this book for anyone interested in an intense empathetic experience, or anyone seeking understanding on how the intersection of oppressions take root in a person's life.
TL;DR: 5/5 stars. A devastating tale of grief and healing.
Wednesday, August 25, 2021
Book Review: Terminal Alliance
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Today on the blog, on the release date for the Glass Gauntlet, I have the privilege of hosting Carter Roy, as well as a giveaway of hi...
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My contest to win Bumped by Megan McCafferty and The Duff by Kody Keplinger is still going strong. Enter now , before time runs out! Anyw...
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So, I know I mostly blog about writing, but I have a lot of FEELS and they won't fit on twitter. So, I've been at my job in social...