Stacia Kane

So Jade Goody has died.

Of cervical cancer.

At the age of 27.

Cervical cancer is one of the slowest forms of cancer there is. If caught early, cervical cancer is nearly 100% treatable.

But Jade Goody’s cervical cancer was not caught early. You know why? Because Jade Goody was unfortunate enough to live in England, where regular (not annual, I hasten to point out, but regular, by which the NHS means every three years) pap smears are not given to young women until they reach the age of 25. Twenty-fucking-five.

Many forms of cervical cancer stem from strains of HPV, HumanPappillomaVirus. HPV is a sexually transmitted disease.

That’s why in the US, pap smears are recommended for all women once they become sexually active. Because sexual activity automatically increases your risk of HPV exponentially. And because even without HPV, you are still at risk (I get irritated when I see people behaving as though HPV is the *only* cause of/risk factor for cervical cancer. It’s NOT) once you become sexually active.

A loose scan of my memory gives me the names of three or four of my female friends, including myself (I’ll get to that in a second) who were treated at one time or another for cervical dysplasia–precancerous cells on the cervix. To a woman treatment was short and simple, and fairly non-invasive. Easy.

Pap smears save lives. Period. End of fucking story.

At least, it’s the end of the story for Jade Goody, dead at twenty-seven, leaving her two small sons behind. Who wants to be the one to explain to those boys that their mother is dead now because England couldn’t be bothered to spend the money for a simple test that would have saved her life? And, far worse, that rather than simply admitting they can’t afford it but urging women to get them anyway, by not even recommending the test until age twenty-five they imply strongly that the pap is a waste of time, that there’s no point in getting one before you hit twenty-five, even in a country with one of the highest teen birth rates in the world (Goody surely could have afforded private insurance or to get the test on her own, but she’d been told it was unecessary)? Which would certainly imply a very high rate of teen sexual activity, wouldn’t it? A country which decides to save money by crushing the lives of young women and treating them as though their health is unimportant, that the pap smear is unecessary and silly? Do you want to explain that to them? I sure don’t.

It’s not just paps, either. Right after we moved here my husband asked his doctor about getting an annual physical. At thirty-three, with histories of cancer and heart disease on both sides of his family, he’d been getting annual check-ups for three years as recommended. The doctor laughed at him. “Oh, yes, well, that’s just insurance companies in America wanting to make more money,” he said. “You don’t need an annual check-up until you hit fifty.”

(No, this is a different doctor from the one who told him, when he went in with bronchitis and could hardly breathe, “You look healthy enough. Give it a few more days, and if you start coughing up blood come back.” But the point is the same, isn’t it?)

So Jade Goody is dead at twenty-seven, because she grew up in a country that told her pap smears were a waste of time. Whereas I consider her death to be a waste of time; time she could have spent raising her children and living a life.

I got my first pap smear at eighteen, because I knew I was supposed to get them once I became sexually active; it was something which had been drilled into my head by teen magazines and Health teachers and the world at large. Because I didn’t have health insurance I went to Planned Parenthood and paid $35, if memory serves (they bill you on a sliding scale there. Years later I also went to PP for an HIV test, don’t remember what I paid for it; I didn’t think I was at risk for HIV and I wasn’t, but I am a bit of a hypochondriac so wanted to be certain.) It wasn’t too bad; it didn’t really hurt or anything. They sent me my results; all clear.

I got another at nineteen. Another at twenty, and twenty-one. Twenty-two I skipped, but went again shortly after turning twenty-three.

That’s when they dinged me.

I had moderate-to-severe dysplasia, confirmed by a biopsy done with a colposcopy (which is like a really bright light and a dye or something that shows the doctor where the “bad” cells are during the examination so he can take samples from those spots). My gynecologist–a fantastic man who went on to deliver both my children–booked me in for a LEEP biopsy, whereby a loop of wire with an electric current running through it was used to remove the cells. The only really unpleasant thing about it was the lydocaine shot; not painful, but I had an uncomfortable reaction to the lydocaine. It took about an hour.

I did not have HPV, by the way.

I went back every six months for the first year or two to get another biopsy & colposcopy. After three years I was considered “clean” and could go back to regular annual paps. Those have been clean too, ever since, although of course I’ve only had one since I’ve been (not pleasant; no chair with stirrups, you have to lie down, tilt your hips up and spread your legs, with no little paper blanket or anything, which is both uncomfortable and undignified) here because history of cervical cancer or not, the NHS considers women’s health to be unimportant (another friend of mine came up against a stone wall when trying to get a mammogram at thirty-five, after every other woman in her family had been disganosed at various times with early-onset breast cancer.)

My other friends who’d also had cervical cancer, who’d had crosurgery (freezing) or LEEPs like I had or cone biopsies? All had the same outcome. One incidence; closer checkups after, eventually sliding into regular annual checks again. We were all very lucky to live somewhere that paps are taken seriously. We were all very lucky indeed.

We were also all, to a woman, under twenty-five.

The youngest was eighteen. The oldest was me, at twenty-three.

Think about that for a minute. If I had grown up here instead of there, I might very well not be alive now. I might be alive but without my two children; had the cancer spread I probably would have ended up with a hysterectomy.

Dead or infertile by the age of twenty-five. All of us. All because in order to save money the NHS pretends there’s no point in doing a test, an important test which has been proven to save countless lives. Think for a minute about the women you know; have any of them had it? How old were they?

There’s been a movement here since the Goody diagnosis to lower the age for pap smears to twenty, in accordance with what the other UK countries do. Which is better, but not enough.

Pap smears should be done annually once you become sexually active. End of story. On a message board a little while back some women were having a discussion about this, and one was saying (at twenty-one, I think) that she was terrified to go get the pap, that she cried at the thought of anyone who wasn’t her fiance seeing her ladyparts, that she was panicky and sick and blah blah blah. And you know, I felt bad for her; I can’t imagine what that kind of fear would be like. It’s not one I’ve ever had. A doctor is a doctor. To me it’s no different than having my hands examined.

But I told her something. She didn’t like it and probably still thinks I’m a big old bitch for it, but I didn’t apologize then and I won’t apologize now, because it’s true. If you’re not mature enough to suck it up and get a pap smear, you are not mature enough to be sexually active.

Seriously. Responsibility is part of it (the same holds for birth control). Pap smears are part of being a grown woman and not a child. I have two daughters, and you bet your ass they’re going to get their paps every year when the time comes, if I have to drag them in and hold them down on the table myself. Because they are so, so, so hugely important.

It’s just too bad the NHS doesn’t think so. And that now another young woman is dead because of it. I never watched Jade Goody on TV or really knew very much about her; reality TV isn’t my thing, in general. But I am absolutely furious that she is dead, when she didn’t have to die. I am furious that her government killed her by pretending she wasn’t at risk for a disease which strikes thousands of young women every year. I am furious that they behave as though my experience and the experience of so many others is unimportant or an aberration; I cry to think of all I might have missed had I been born and raised here instead of America.

A young woman is dead today, of an entirely preventable and treatable illness. And I feel sick about it. And I hope the NHS does too, because they should be fucking ashamed of themselves.

PLEASE, if you are reading this and you are female, or if you’re reading this and you know some females , PLEASE encourage them to get their pap smears. Please. It is so important.

NOTE: Last night I noticed Mrs. Giggles–whom you all know I adore–linked to this entry and wrote an excellent and very informative post about Pap smears and the types of cells/cell abnormalities found in them. It’s well worth a read. But more importantly, Mrs. G. makes a point that I neglected to make: whether or not you are sexually active, you should be getting your pap smears annually. I don’t care if you’re a nun, once you reach a certain age–Mrs. G suggests 18–you need to do them. And she is 100% correct. I’m ashamed that I didn’t mention this myself. Please…get the test, whether you’re having sex or not.

(I’ll be in a better mood tomorrow, I promise, and I’ll post the OMFGAWESOME cover and back copy for UNHOLY GHOSTS, and you do not want to miss those!!!)

Sigh. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

So, lately I’ve been seeing a lot of posts and comments and discussions online relating to the idea that ALL urban fantasy has become samey and dull. That it’s all circling the were-vamp drain, full of designer labels, with the same worlds and characters and plot devices.

And it puts me in a little bit of an awkward position, in a way. Because I totally, totally, TOTALLY disagree, but saying so makes me feel a little…weird. Like I’m putting readers down–which I never, ever want to do, ever, because readers are awesome–or jumping up and down in front of them screaming, “But, ME!! And ME! Look at ME!!” Which I also do not really want to do.

But, um, look at me.

No, no. I’m going to talk about my books a little bit, yes. But really I want to talk about other writers’ books. And I want to talk about how my opinion and image of urban fantasy is exactly the opposite: I believe the genre is about to make a huge, expansive leap, that the days of urban fantasy automatically equalling hot chicks in leather weilding guns and fucking vampires or weres are done with.

And here’s where it might sound like I’m scolding or yelling at readers, but that is not the case at ALL. Not one bit, never. But guys…the stuff is out there. The books are OUT THERE. They are. They’re coming. They’re in stores now. They’re in pre-release. They’re being signed by agents and they’re being bought by editors and they are in the works, and this genre is about to explode and I honestly believe that’s the case.

But you have to look for them, and you have to know where to look.

It’s not your fault, darling reader. It isn’t. You buy books based on a recommendation, or you see a cool-looking cover or read a review or whatever. And that’s the way it’s supposed to work. You don’t have time to play book detective and spend hours running around the internet looking for unfamiliar authors. And nobody expects you to, least of all me.

But here’s where I think the problem lies. You, as a reader, know what sorts of things you like, and I think in a way the system itself is geared to make sure you stay in your little reader box, if you know what I mean. Say you buy Caitlin Kittredge’s excellent Second Skin, which was just released and you totally should be buying immediately because we all know Caitlin is the awesomest. Anyway, you make this very sensible purchase. Say you make it from Amazon. Now, what does Amazon do? Amazon shows you more books about weres, because Amazon assumes you like books about weres.

This would be the case with any book you buy. But given that, yes, there are a lot of were & vamp books out there, and given that they sell well if they’re good (like Caitlin’s are)…it can seem as though that’s ALL that’s out there. Because it’s all you’re being shown.

I think the crossover between urban fantasy and paranormal romance is an issue as well. There are people out there who dislike UF because it doesn’t have that HEA (Happily Ever After, for the uninitiated) ending which is so necessary to genre romance. And you know, if genre romance is what you’re after then I totally understand that. You want a HEA ending. If that’s what you want it’s what you should get; it’s what you as a reader deserve. Why should you have to read something that isn’t what you want or are looking for? You shouldn’t.

But I can’t help thinking…maybe if you tried a non-HEA UF or two…you might find you don’t mind the missing HEA so much. You might be happy to wait for it, to get involved in a long and complex emotional relationship (not that genre romances don’t have complex emotional relationships, that’s not what I’m saying) that spans several books. Why not give it a try? Because if you’re looking for paranormal books outside the vamp/were area, UF has them in spades, and you might be surprised by the emotional depth of the stories.

And that goes for the fantasy fans who are unhappy that UF has too much emphasis on romance, that they are somehow a “girl’s genre” because the heroines have sex and look for love. Well, you know what? UFs have romance in them because whether you personally feel that way or not, the vast majority of people want romance in their lives. They want to find someone to share their lives with. They want to find love. Hell, they want to get laid. I’m always stunned when I see or hear people comment that they don’t like romance in books; to me it’s like saying you don’t want romance in life either (and by romance I simply mean love and passion, not flowers and soft music, neither of which I particularly like). These are basic human needs, people; why should UF heroines be any different? Most books, in any genre, have some sort of romantic subplot. What’s wrong with that?

And, why is it that books written by women are judged by the amount of romance or sex in them, but books by men aren’t? Harry Dresden’s looking for love; I don’t see anyone putting those books down. In fact, it sometimes seems as though UF written by men doesn’t even figure into the equation when people talk about samey UFs. The Dresden books are nothing like Mark Henry’s fantastic zombies; Mark del Franco’s Connor Grey books aren’t like Anton Strout’s Simon Canderous books; Charles de Lint isn’t John Levitt. And none of those books are like my UNHOLY GHOSTS, or Jackie Kessler’s HELL’S BELLES, or Richelle Mead’s SUCCUBUS BLUES. They’re just not. At all.

It just frustrates me a little, I admit, to see the genre I love so much reduced to “They’re all alike; they’re all just rich vampires who own nightclubs and sleep on designer sheets,” or whatever. While I don’t deny those books do exist, they’re not the only books that do. There are so many stories and world and characters out there, and so many more coming. When I personally feel like we’re on the cusp of something so much bigger. In June Caitlin’s STREET MAGIC comes out; a fantastic, fantastic urban fantasy about mages and magic and a hidden London. In May 2010 (yes, we get to me now) my UNHOLY GHOSTS will be released, and I’m sure you can all recite with me what the book is about: punk rock, greasers, ghosts, black magic, blood rituals, witchcraft, drug dealers, ghettos…and not a were or vamp in either of them. My cast is all-human, baby, with a few ghosts thrown in for spooky good measure. So is Caitlin’s. And don’t forget Richard Kadrey’s SANDMAN SLIM, or Kari Stewart’s A DEVIL IN THE DETAILS.

And I know there are more. Tons more that I’m just not thinking of at the moment.

Remember my “Heroes” series? The simple fact is, books about dull people doing nothing out of the ordinary don’t sell. They just don’t. Do you want to read a book wherein your neighbor sits around watching TV all day? Do you want to read a novel about a complicated tax question? No, probably not.

And I firmly believe there is not another genre out there where the characters are as unique and exciting, the world as intricate, and the stakes as high as urban fantasy. And I firmly believe that in the next year or so we’re going to see the fruits of all those books that came before; they way they fired our imaginations and made us think of possibilities. Sure, there will always be a place for vampires and weres, because there are readers to buy them. I love vampires.

But weres and vampires are not the only characters in UF. Not at all. You just have to look for others. Visit the League of Reluctant Adults. Check out the Fangs Fur & Fey community on livejournal. Visit the fantasy section at the bookstore if you usually just buy romances, or pick up an urban fantasy if you usually read only trad fantasy or science fiction, and vice versa. Branch out. Ask people. Ask booksellers. Tell them what you want, like, for example, that they should order twenty or thirty copies each of STREET MAGIC and UNHOLY GHOSTS for all of their stores, because you’re going to get all your friends to rush in and buy them the day they’re released.

The books are out there. They *are* out there. You just have to look for them.

Hey, so I can’t think up a good title today, so what?

Actually, titling is an issue I’m having these days. I’m 2/3 done with the third Downside book and it is still saved in Word as “Chess3″ because the title I originally planned, CITY OF GHOSTS, was apparently a major film a few years ago and I’m leery of using something with that many Google hits. So that needs a title, bad.

I’m also just about 1/2 of the way through a new project which Agent Man and I both love, which has no title. It’s currently saved as BLOOD AND FAE, which is not really very good. Especially since while both blood and Fae figure in the plot, it’s not really about either of those things.

So anyway. The hubs and I were discussing titles in the car the other day, which led to movies, which led to movies that piss us off for one reason or another, which led us to A League of Their Own.

I hate that movie. I really, really hate that movie.

Or rather, I hate the ending of that movie. It pisses me off like almost nothing else.

What message are we supposed to take from that horrible ending, where in order to make her bitchy, miserable sister happy–to give her happiness she doesn’t deserve, as she is loathesome–the Gena Davis character throws the championship? Is my heart supposed to be warmed by that? Am I supposed to think that’s sweet?

Or am I supposed to think that if the Gena Davis character were my teammate, I would have ripped her eyeballs out of her head with a teaspoon?

Or, am I supposed to think that when it comes down to it, women just aren’t very good at competing, poor little dears, and they will always make emotional decisions rather than rational ones, and cannot ever get past their personal feelings and live up to their responsibilities?

Seriously. The fact that this ball of patronizing sexism was passed off as a movie for women to enjoy astounds me. It reads like something from a 70′s anti-women’s-lib screed: You can’t trust women because they can’t separate their emotions; you can’t put them in charge of multinational corporations because they won’t do what’s best for the company, only for themselves; they’re incapable of making sound decisions based on facts and not feelings.

And it was such a cute movie until then. I really enjoyed it. But what the hell good is it to have a movie where women are railing against sexism and determined to prove they can compete just as well as the men can–that all the silly little skirts and make-up tips are a big joke because women are tough and strong and can play a hell of a ballgame just like men–and then have the entire ending turn on the fact that at least one of them cannot in fact do that? So instead of having a film about how women really *can* do things, you have a movie about how women *say* they can do things but really are irresponsible and silly and will let their teammates down to make their sisters happy?

It just frustrates me and irritates me. Gena Davis’s character had a responsibility and she threw it away–threw away the hopes and dreams of people who supported and cared about her–in order to please someone who clearly did not particularly care about her because she was too busy caring only about herself.

I think this is doubly on my mind of late because I’m dealing, in the third Downside book, with a lot more emotional crap than I have in the first two, as my MC struggles with the consequences of hurting other people emotionally, and realizes that she herself does have those inconvenient things called feelings and that she can’t pretend she doesn’t. So there’s a lot of facing-up-to-things and a lot of thoughts and worries about feelings that, while they existed in the first book and a bit more in the second–Chess was never an automaton or someone so Tough And Hard she ate nails or anything like that–weren’t really focused on then.

And it’s difficult to find a balance, between trying to write an awesome, creepy, scary, exciting urban fantasy (trying to write, I said; I’m not claiming my books are any of these things although I certainly hope they are), and trying to write a book where people are having emotional issues and those emotional issues feel organic and real; which is to say, the characters think about them even at inconvenient times, and are confused about them, and hate having them, and want certain things emotionally and feel embarrassed and silly for wanting those things, and generally don’t know how to deal with them. Especially as they’re emotional issues with which the characters have never dealt before, and that makes them vulnerable.

How do you decide which decisions are practical and which are emotional? How do you handle making an emotional decision when you know you should be making a practical one but can’t help yourself?

For me the difference is in how the character themselves feel about the decision they’ve made. My biggest issue with that stupid League of their Own ending was that we as the audience were seemingly pushed into feeling that Davis made the right choice; her disgraceful, disrespectful, cruel little trick on the rest of her team was played off as the moral and caring choice. I found that offensive, personally; I wouldn’t have had such an issue with the film had her character been castigated for what she’d done–the way she deserved to be.

So I work hard, generally, to show that there are consequences to incorrect decisions and that emotions breed complexity. You can’t just tell someone you’re sorry and have that make everything okay. You can’t ask for forgiveness and expect to be given it immediately. You don’t get to make all of the decisions in emotional situations involving other people.

It’s a fine line to walk, I think. And I hope I’m walking it well, that my characters’ emotional issues aren’t overpowering the rest of the story but aren’t suddenly disappearing and reappearing, leaving the reader to wonder what the heck is going on. I guess we’ll find out.

How do you handle your characters’ emotional decisions? What is your favorite book or film in which those decisions were made?

And sigh again.

I wasn’t going to talk about this, I really wasn’t. Because I don’t want to piss off or upset people. I certainly don’t want to make readers, the lovely people who spend money on books, angry with me.

But I just…It’s like the opinion is a pot of coffee, percolating in my chest, and it’s going to explode. (Incidentally, I feel kind of weird thinking that nobody uses percolators anymore. My parents were never coffee drinkers, but my Grandpa was. And when he would come visit the smell of coffee and especially the sound of the percolator, that particular burble-sploosh noise, would wake me up in the mornings. I used to really like it; I was fascinated by the percolator and could never figure out quite how it worked, you know? All those childhood machines that seemed like magic to me, and none of them are in use anymore. The percolator, the 8-track tape, the flashlight that ran because of how fast you squeezed the trigger thingie…anyway. No time for this; this is going to be a little long anyway.)

So everybody knows about this Stephen King/Stephenie Meyer thing. Basically, Mr. King said in an interview that Ms. Meyer “can’t write worth a darn.”

And for reasons I cannot fathom, it’s being treated like he said Hitler was a really good guy or something, or that in his spare time he enjoys molesting children.

Leaving aside the truth or lack thereof of his statement itself, and leaving aside the fact that although he claimed Meyer can’t write worth a darn he did say he understood the appeal of the books…

So what?

There seem to be two schools of thought among the “Fry him! FRY HIM!” crowd. The first is that he’s jealous of Meyer’s success, which is, IMO, patently ridiculous. Stephen King is arguably the most successful writer the world has ever seen (and no, you cannot bring up the people who wrote the Bible or the Talmud of the Koran or whatever). No, I’m serious. Think about it for a minute. How long has the man been writing bestsellers? How many of his books or stories have been made into major films? Adapted for television? Turned into series? How many of those film adaptations have garnered Oscar nominations in any category?

Now think of one other author, living or dead, which that kind of success. ONGOING success. I suppose it’s possible to argue that JK Rowling hits it, but King’s written something like thirty books. JKR has not. Tolkein had massive, unprecedented success, but again, not as many books.

So the idea that Stephen King is jealous of Stephenie Meyer is silliness. I’m sorry but it is, and there’s another reason why it is, and it ties into my whole feeling about this.

I suspect womanhood has something to do with it, yes I do. And that something is, everyone saying these things seems to be female, and more importantly, seems to be upset not that one writer is commenting on another writer’s work, but that the commenting writer has a protruding pee-pee and the one being commented on does not.

I know.

King said some not-very-nice things about a few male writers in that article too, but nobody seems to be jumping up and down all over the internets to say how Mr. King is just jealous of Mr. Patterson. In fact, no one seems at all bothered by the fact that not only did King call Petterson “a terrible writer,” he didn’t even qualify that statement anywhere by saying he sees the appeal of Patterson’s work, or that Patterson has very cleverly tapped into something in his audience’s collective subconscious.

So…why? Why does it seem okay for King to criticize Patterson, but not Meyer? Why isn’t anyone throwing “jealous” around?

Yeah. I think a big part of it is that Meyer is a woman. And I think there is a very ugly assumption beneath this, which is that a woman cannot take criticism. And sadly, I think there is a segment of the female writing “society,” for lack of a better term, which truly cannot take criticism, who flounce around saying things like “If you’ve never written a book you can’t criticize” or “It’s hard work to write a book and the author deserves something for that and it’s mean to say her book isn’t very good” or whatever other whiny little excuses these namby-pambies toss around to justify their own total and complete lack of professionalism.

We’ve seen these people online. We see them all the freaking time, in fact. They’re the ones who stalk Amazon reviewers or decide to name transexual AIDS-riddled prostitutes after people who give them mediocre reviews (and let’s keep in mind, btw, what sort of person thinks “transexual” is a worthy insult) or send nasty emails to reviewers or start blogs where they put up nasty cartoons or send hate mail or have hissy fits in comments or whatever the fuck it is, and thus make all female writers look as though we too have never progressed beyond the 9th grade.

This attitude seriously makes me ill. You know what, gang? I seriously doubt Stephenie Meyer gives a fuck what Stephen King says. And good, because she shouldn’t. I love Stephen King. I think he’s fantastic. And I would love to think he’d read my work and enjoyed it; that would be a huge thrill. But you know what? if he loved it, that’s just one man’s opinion. And if he hated it? That’s still just one man’s opinion.

And jealous? Why is this argument so rarely brought up when two men are involved? Why do we hardly ever see someone claiming, for example, that Steve Jobs is just jealous of Bill Gates? or that, I don’t know, Javier Bardem is just jealous of Benicio del Toro? Not that I’m aware of these men making comments about each other, but really, can you imagine it? So why then, does this crap come up when women are involved? Stephen King is a grown man, people, and I don’t know about you but I’ve never seen anything before that would lead me to believe he’s the kind of man for whom jealousy of other writers is a problem. Have you?

Stephenie Meyer is a published author; she’s written four enormous bestsellers. Let’s give her a little credit, shall we? Let’s assume she’s mature enough to shrug this off and go on writing, and not behave as though she’s crying in the bathrooms by the gym and she won’t come out until Stephen writes her a note that says he’s sorry and gee, golly, the dance is tonight and she was our ride and we’re gonna get Stephen and pants him in the cafeteria?

We’re all entitled to our opinions. (In fact, one could argue that Meyer is one of the few people Stephen King can actually criticize *without* looking like a bully; who else is big enough?) And in the grand scheme of things, this is such a non-issue it’s not even funny.

I was going to tell you about a book I bought the other day, which I haven’t finished, but which is so well-written my jaw keeps literally dropping open–but that will have to wait until next Monday, because this is so long already. Sigh.

I was going to do another post about the RWA today, specifically focusing on their stated purpose, which is “…[to] support the professional interests of its more than 10,000 members…” and “…to help its members pursue a career in romance fiction…” (which is a bunch of bullshit, is it not? Since they have no interest in helping ALL of their members pursue a career in romance fiction, only those who write romance without that dirty sex stuff in it) and on their Code of Ethics, which, in light of the new RITA rule, is a total and complete joke.

Check this out (it’s the middle “principle” of ethical conduct an RWA member should exhibit):

“RWA members strive to treat fellow members, RWA staff, and others with respect.”

There’s also one about adhering to RWA’s bylaws, to which I no longer have access since I decided last year to stop throwing my money away by giving it to them as “membership dues”. Last time I read the bylaws they didn’t allow discrimination, but my memory could be faulty. Either way, I hardly see telling writers who qualify for PAN that despite qualifying (by earning over the minimum “professional” amount–in other words, RWA considers PAN members to be professionals and thinks they should be treated as such), they’re still not allowed to enter the RITA, respectful. Or honest. I certainly don’t think the rule belongs on the same website as the words “integrity” or “honesty”.

Oh, members are also not permitted to engage in “conduct injurious to RWA and its stated goals”–that of helping members pursue careers etc. etc. Seems to me that the new RITA rule is awfully fucking injurious to a lot of writers’ career goals, and that that might be something a group of those of you who retained your membership in order to “change from within” might be interested in looking into–why not get that change started now? Why not DO SOMETHING from within the organization?

There are disciplinary actions in place, you know, designed to deal with violations of the Code of Ethics.

I’m just thinking out loud here.

See, here’s the thing. I know I’m actually blogging about the RWA when I said I wasn’t going to. But there’s something I realized a while ago, and it’s something I think is worth sharing with everyone else.

The RWA is a writer’s organization–at least, it’s supposed to be. Membership is not obligatory for success. It’s a nonissue. The RWA board is made up of writers. Not agents. Not editors. Not anyone who makes any decisions as far as your career is concerned.

You do not have to be an RWA member to get an agent. You do not have to be an RWA member to get published. You do not have to be an RWA member to have a long and successful career.

The RWA is a straw man. So many writers are, I think, a little afraid of speaking out against the RWA. And I understand it, I do. We all hear so often that editors and agents are reading blogs and paying attention to our conduct, and that if they get the slightest whiff of us behaving unprofessionally we’ll be blackballed. No more contracts for us! We’re done.

But it’s not true. Not at all. The RWA has NO power other than what writers give it. None. And while I’m sure most agents and editors are happy to attend RWA events and genuinely enjoy them, I really don’t think they’re going to leap to defend the organization as a whole and decide writers who speak out against the disrimination in the organization–discrimination against paying members who have done nothing wrong except write the word “cock” a few too many times in their books–are Bad Eggs, unprofessional attitude problems they don’t want to deal with. In fact, I imagine it would be extremely difficult to find an agent or editor who actively CARES what anyone says about the RWA; and I bet you’ll find one or two agents out there who represent writers who are also epublished, who are just as angry about this on behalf of their clients as I am on behalf of friends of mine who are hurt by this.

The RWA is NOT the publishing industry. They’re not. They’re just a group of writers. In the past they have gotten together AS WRITERS and done some good things–forcing Harlequin to give up rights to pen names, for example. But they didn’t do that as Publishing Movers & Shakers. They did it as writers. Because that’s all they are.

They don’t make decisions about your career. The board members don’t spend their days on the phone with agents and editors discussing in what direction the industry should go. CEOs of publishing houses do not have them on speed-dial to ask them for advice.

In other words, speaking out against their shameful discriminatory policies is not going to get you blackballed from publishing. It just isn’t.

The only reason they have ANY power, any at all, is because their members give it to them. And by saying that I don’t mean the RWA is like Freddy Krueger, gaining power from fear and becoming stronger and stronger with every scream (well, okay, maybe I do mean that a little.) But what I really mean is, they are powerful because you give them power in numbers. If the RWA was comprised of fifty people nobody would give a shit what they did (well, a lot of people still don’t give a shit what they do, but you know what I mean). But because they’re so large, they have power. Because they tell people they’re there to help and advocate etc. etc., and people believe it, that gives them power. Because they have somehow managed to spread the propoganda that belonging to the RWA is an important part of having a professional career in romance writing, a lot of people join believing it–and stay even when they’re not sure what they’re getting out of it.

But their scope is so limited. The RWA has power over the RWA’s members, and that’s it. Not over any individual, not over the industry as a whole. They just don’t.

So don’t be afraid to speak out and insist that the RWA–which is your organization, and you should have a voice in it–account for itself. Insist they live up to that Code of Ethics. Insist they start treating their members equally according to their own rules (PAN members are RITA-eligible if they released a book in the last year, period.) Insist that they represent ALL their members, not just the ones of whose books they approve.

You do not answer to the RWA. They answer to you. Without you they’re nothing. Make sure they know it.

Our old friends, the RWA.

Well, to be fair, it’s not the entire RWA by any stretch. Just the ones who make the rules.

These women; the RWA board. (Although to be fair I don’t know if the President-Elect or the District Heads have any say or not.)

Published romance authors all of them–in other words, people who depend upon YOU for their living–who have nothing but contempt for readers who enjoy reading ebooks, particularly erotic romance ebooks. They think your tastes are too lowbrow; they think the books you enjoy reading are garbage; they think the fact that you prefer (often [but not always] less expensive) environmentally sound and convenient ebooks means you aren’t really reading books. They think what you like is low quality. Beneath them. They think you are obviously not capable of recognizing good writing or good stories. They think you’re rabid, filthy onanists who spend all your free time slavering over porn and wearing out batteries or giving yourself carpal tunnel.

And they are determined–DETERMINED–to see that the books you enjoy will never gain any sort of respect, because such books are no-good crap. And your opinion matters not one bit to them. They are going to make absolutely goddamned sure that you realize how nasty and gross they think you and your tastes are. The fact that you might enjoy them? The fact that you might find it difficult to read books because the print is small and you can make it larger on your ereader? The fact that you live in a small house and don’t have much room to store books, so you buy ebooks instead? Perhaps you’re an environmentalist. Perhaps you simply are a fan of certain ebook authors. Or maybe you just enjoy reading really hot explicit romances.

The RWA board has one thing to say to you: Fuck off. The books you like are shit. (Okay, that’s two things. But still.)

Do you wonder what’s brought this on? How I know that the RWA board–people who sure want you to buy their books–thinks this way of you?

I’ll tell you why (like you thought maybe I wouldn’t.) I might have mentioned this before, I don’t recall exactly. But there was a new rule added to the RITA contest this year. This rule was NOT given to the general membership for voting; it wasn’t even mentioned to the general membership. No one was warned it would be in there. It was simply sneaked in under the wire, because the RWA board didn’t want to openly discuss it–they didn’t want to take any chances that RWA members might hear about it and point out what a disgusting and contemptuous way this is to treat paying members of an organization, and the fans of those paying members, or readers who simply like ebooks.

These are the RITA-specific rules:

“Books entered in the 2009 RITA contest must:

Be a work of original fictional narrative prose.”

On other words, no ebooks allowed. Only mass-produced books, books with print runs, are good enough to enter the RITA.

The purpose of these rules, in general, is to ensure the contest is fair; but more than that, rules about non-vanity, non-subsidy publishers are there to make sure RITA judges don’t get snowed under by a flood of self- or vanity-published, unedited books. In other words–deliberately inflammatory ones–to make sure they don’t get snowed under by a bunch of crappy, poorly edited books.

And apparently ebooks qualify, in the eyes of the RWA board, as crap.

That’s right, readers? That ebook you read that touched your heart and made you happy? That kept you on the edge of your seat? That made a long train journey more enjoyable?

The RWA board thinks it’s garbage, and you’re a dipshit for enjoying it.

It’s possible right now that you’re thinking, “But that just means the RWA board doesn’t consider epublished books really published, right? Isn’t there another contest for unpublished authors? Maybe this is ebook discrimination, but in a different way; maybe they’re not saying ebooks are crap, just that they don’t consider that ‘real’ publishing. Which is bad, but, y’know, not quite as bad as telling a whole bunch of readers that the RWA board thinks the books they like are shitty.”

And that might be a fair assumption, except epublished books are not eligible for the Golden Heart contest for unpublished writers.

See here:

“The Golden Heart contest is open to writers who have not accepted a publishing offer from a non-Subsidy, non-Vanity Publisher for a work of original fictional narrative prose of 20,000 words or more by the contest entry deadline.”

See? It doesn’t say anything there about a book not being considered “published” if it’s an ebook.

And to further clarify, RWA’s President, Diane Pershing–a woman who wants you to buy and read her books, remember–had this to say:

“The phrase “mass-produced” as it pertains to the RITA contest, is intended to define eligible books as those that are produced in sufficient quantity by the publisher to be offered for sale to the trade (booksellers and librarians) at standard discount rates and returnable.”

So there you go. The RWA thinks its dues-paying members who write ebooks should not sully their precious fucking RITA with their dirty, substandard books. And because those books are dirty and substandard it stands to reason, then, that people who LIKE those books are somehow themselves dirty or substandard. Ms. Pershing thinks you’re an idiot, in other words, with bad taste in books. You don’t know what romance really is, according to her; you wouldn’t know a good story if it bit you on the ass (although, don’t say “ass” around her because that’s one of those filthy words.) Your tastes are crap; you are incapable of judging the quality of a book or story, and she wants nothing to do with you (oh, except, of course, hopefully buying one of her books! Because you need her help to learn what a real book is, you see; hopefully one day you’ll wise up and learn that what you like isn’t good enough.)

This is bullshit. This is the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever seen in my life.

Why is anyone standing for this? Why the hell are epublished writers still paying dues to this organization that clearly thinks they’re a bunch of useless hacks? And why the hell would romance writers, women who spend so much of their time feeling forced to defend their genre to snobs of every other genre, turning around and being such insufferable, unapologetic, discriminatory snobs themselves?

And seriously, why does anyone bother being an RWA member? As I’ve said before on numerous occasions, aside from the local chapter meetings (which I gather some people enjoy, but I still think you could organize a good writing group without the RWA sticking their lousy noses into it), the RWA offers NOTHING. It does NOTHING. I can quite honestly say that being a member did not advance my career one iota. Not one bit. It did nothing for me, at all. The RWA provides not one bit of information that cannot be had online anywhere else for free.

As it is? It seems to me paying dues to the RWA is like having a store tell you they won’t hire you to work the register because you’re (too short/too fat/blonde/black/a woman/a man/Asian/insert some other offensively discriminatory adjective here) and then continuing to do all your shopping there.

Any other market or group or whatever in the world would react to this type of discrimination with outrage. Any other market or group or whatever in the world would not countenance this type of discrimination, period. “Some are more equal than others” isn’t permissable anymore, not in this day and age.

Now, I know I’ve said before that readers don’t need to care about the RITA. And I still feel that way, to a large degree. But this isn’t about the RITA itself. It’s about the books you love, and how a group of writers of other books has gotten together to tell you they don’t consider those books to be worthy of their time or their awards, and that as writers in the genre you read, they think you ought to be toeing their line and reading what they want you to. They think your judgment is bad; they think you and your favorite books suck, and you can all fuck off.

I am hugely, HUGELY offended by this, and you should be too. Because what the RWA board is saying, very clearly, is that they do not want members who write ebooks, and they do not consider readers who enjoy ebooks to be readers they are interested in. They don’t want to give the books you love awards; they barely tolerate authors you love as members. They do not want to invite the writers you love to signings or events. They don’t think the writers and stories you enjoy are worth their time or effort; they think you have bad taste and are not particularly smart.

And what’s particularly funny about that is, this is the same group of writers who not only have never bothered to learn anything about epublishing, but who STILL cannot figure out how to define “erotic romance”. WRITERS. WHO DON’T KNOW THE MEANING OF BASIC WORDS. Who after three or four YEARS still haven’t figured it out. They don’t want to have to give awards to erotic romance, because remember, they don’t think books with sex in them are “real” romance; they think you erotic romance fans are just dirty, filthy consumers of dirty, filthy porn, and they want nothing to do with you. (Wow, that definition thing inspires a lot of confidence in their ability. Is that like a professional violinist who can’t find F-sharp?)

Oooh, this pisses me off. I am so glad I let my membership lapse. I had actually considered entering the RITA this year, but I’m glad I didn’t, because I will never, ever give the RWA another penny of my money until they change this shameful policy.

So. So so so so so.

Finished (almost) line edits for Unholy Ghosts over the long weekend, which was awesome. I love edits; I think they’re so much fun. And it’s made me even more excited aboutthe book than I already was, and I have ohsomany plans for its release (date TBD.)

This sort of (but not really) ties into something else. Well, several things. Almost.

First, I was reading Empire magazine earlier. I hardly ever read Empire anymore. It used to be really good; lately there have been errors galore–shit people writing about movies really should know. Like the time they claimed it was the Jerry O’Connell character in Stand By Me who threw up blueberry pie all over the people at the pie-eating contest, when everybody knows it was Lardass who did the vomiting, in a cunning revenge plan. And you know, a movie magazine should not be making that kind of stupid mistake, especially not when at least two people would have had to read it. There was another one, too, but I don’t remember what it was. I think it might have had to do with The Breakfast Club. Anyway.

They did an article about this new movie with Johnny Depp and Christian Bale, which is going to be kind of like Heat but about John Dillinger. And they had some pictures of Depp and Bale and several other men, in costume. Which included hats.

Why, oh why, did men stop wearing hats? They look so good. So sharp and sexy; tough and sophisticated at the same time. But it’s nearly impossible to find a man in a hat these days–and by “hat” I mean a real hat, a fedora or a porkpie or a snap-brim, not some fucking baseball cap. Baseball caps can be just fine, say, on an actual baseball diamond, or when doing work outside in the sun; I will never forget watching the hubs and my roommate (who was my ex) putting up plywood over the windows (hurricane coming) at our house, both wearing baseball caps. It was quite pleasing to see, I admit. Especially since they were both sweating profusely (summer in South Florida, remember.) While I hovered around, bringing drinks and taking advantage of the fact that not only am I a girl, I’m a petite girl, and thus was of no use at all to two men, both of whom stood over six feet (and, uh, still do of course), when it came to drilling holes in the walls and doing heavy lifting and stuff like that.

Sorry, I digressed a little bit there, didn’t I? My point is, I wish men still wore real hats. One of my favorite bits in the book The Way You Wear Your Hat–which is an awesome book, btw–was the discussion of Sinatra’s many hats, and how he loved them.

So I want to do something for hats. I think when I have signings and stuff I’m going to bring along special gifts for men wearing hats. I seriously doubt I’ll get any takers, but it would be cool, wouldn’t it?

This weekend is the formal Xmas party for hubs’s work, so looking forward to that. Last year only one or two other women beside me actually dressed up; I have no idea why, considering that the men were all in tuxedos and it is a black-tie affair. I seriously considered dressing down this year, and possibly wearing something where people could actually see my legs. But my conscience refuses to allow it. If my husband is in a tuxedo it is inappropriate for me to be in a dress I might wear just as easily to the mall or something, and all the Cosmo articles in the world about making accessories “dress up” your look fail. Formal is formal. So I have a skirt (which requires a crinoline–luckily I own several) and a corset with a ruffle at the top, and I am ready to go. (Yes, I will post pics as soon as I have them.)

And there are two other cool bits of news!

First, Mark Henry–my fellow Reluctant Adult and great pal–has unveiled his new website!! MarkHenry.us is a treasure trove of fun stuff, music, little lists and funnies, info about Mrk and his (awesome) books–make sure you check it out, and be ready to spend some time! It’s as full of zombie goodness as an all-night Romero film festival.

AND. This Thursday, December 4th, I’m going to be spending the day over at Bitten By Books, chatting and answering questions and generally having fun. My event starts at 8 am Pacific and runs until the same time the following day (although as I have the party and have to leave my house Friday morning for it, I’ll have to come back to get to any comments I might have missed on Saturday). I’m even giving away a prize–a $25 Amazon gift card. They’re lovely over at BBB, and it should be a good time, so make sure you come by to hang out! (I will post this again on Thursday.)

And that’s pretty much it. Thanksgiving was okay but the turkey was dry; I tried something new and it was Not Good. But we watched our movies and hung out with the kiddies and generally enjoyed ourselves, so it doesn’t matter. And, as I admitted in the comments to my previous post (on blogger), I don’t really like turkey much anyway, so no big loss.

So, to sum up:

1. Empire is not as good as it used to be.
2. Men should wear hats.
3. I am dressing up properly on Friday.
4. Mark Henry’s new site rocks.
5. I am hanging at Bitten By Books on Thursday
6. Cooking the turkey upside down for the first hour or so is the best way to get a juicy turkey.

So, first, happy Thanksgiving everyone! We’re celebrating here, of course; turkey (all they had was a fifteen-pound behemoth, so we’ve got plenty of turkey, oh yes), mashed potatoes, cornbread, green bean casserole, rolls, corn, cranberry sauce, and of course, homemade pumpkin pie. Ahhh. With fresh whipped cream. (We can’t get Cool Whip here, and call me a philistine, but I love Cool Whip and don’t care that it’s made of inorganic substances. It’s not like we eat the stuff every day.)

And of course, we’re watching the news and keeping an eye on the terrible tragedy in Mumbai. And we’re horrified, and distressed by it.

But you know what? We’re still having Thanksgiving. I’m still blogging (and doing line edits for Unholy Ghosts, yay!) We’re still going to watch Jaws and L.A. Confidential later–our traditional Thanksgiving movies–along with Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.

And I refuse to feel bad about that.

Just like I refuse to feel bad about getting caught up in whatever the internet scandal du jour is when the economy is having problems and there’s a war on or whatever. Just like I refuse to feel bad about doing Christmas shopping when there was a tsunami. Or about taking my girls to the park or the play center when…well, insert-very-serious-issue-here.

I’m sure you’ve seen this, too. A little conversation starts on some blog or something about, say, Michelle Obama’s election-night dress. Or Britney Spears. Or any one of thousands of inane and silly–but fun and diverting–discussions. And there’s always got to be some grumpyass, more-intellectual-than-thou person who comes along and chides everyone for “wasting [our] time” talking about clothing or recipes or whatever, when “the economy is in the toilet/there’s a war going on/people are dying/seals are being clubbed/whatever.”

And oooh, does that ever piss me off.

You know what? I’m perfectly aware that there’s a lot of misery in the world. I’m perfectly aware that thousands of people go to bed hungry, or that right at this moment someone could be dying, or losing everything they own, or someone could be measuring themselves for a pretty white seal-sin jacket. And yes, it bothers me. I hate it. Of course I worry about those things, of course they upset me.

But I cannot spend my entire life focusing only on Serious Issues. And neither can you, or anyone else. We’re human; there’s only so much we can take, you know?

Not to mention, even those topics cannot possibly take up entire days and weeks of conversation. You cannot spend your every waking hour writing, talking, or thinking about those topics because they are simply not complex enough to require it.

And what would be the point, anyway? I don’t make government policy and neither do you (well, maybe you do; I know I have some readers in the DC area. *waves*) So we can spend our every waking moment involved in serious discussions about rainforests and ice caps and indigenous peoples, and it won’t make a damn bit of difference–oh, except, apparently, to make us feel superior to others and prove how intellectual and above-it-all we are.

Because really, that’s what’s behind those comments. I love it when people inform me that my interests are silly and my conversations a waste of time–taking time out from their busy schedule of Judging Others and Improving Their Minds, it seems, to drop in and educate the Little Stupid People on what we should really be concerned about. Um, hey, if you have so many Serious Issues on your mind, why are you dropping by here anyway? Did you think perhaps over at the TalkAboutBooksandClothes blog (which I just made up) conversation has suddenly turned to terrorism and its root causes, and your input is sorely needed? Don’t you have anything better to do, like maybe setting up a soup kitchen in your backyard and learning how to weave fabric so you can sew fresh clothing for everyone who needs it? Or maybe you’d prefer to make yourself some clothing–a t-shirt that says something like “I am superior to you in every way, as I only think of serious issues and am very, very smart. This makes me a total boor, but I don’t care because I’m above all that too.” I mean, that is the message you’re trying to get across to us all, right? That you’re better than we are because you’re smarter and more serious, whereas we’re a bunch of flighty idiots? And how dare we have discussions that don’t meet your criteria, or interests that don’t coincide exactly with yours?

I am a human being, and so–I presume–are all of you reading this. And you know what? I have a very wide range of interests and opinions, and I imagine you do as well. I think we ALL do. And while some topics may be more serious than others, I don’t see any reason at all why we should all force ourselves to sit gloomily around, staring at each other and occasionally talking about unemployment.

We NEED diversions. We NEED things to remind us that life goes on. That the world is more than just a vale of tears and misery. There’s good things, too, like high heels and french fries and great books and silver nail polish and action movies where the good guys always win and comedies where you laugh so hard tears roll down your cheeks and music and beer and fast cars and…any one of thousands of other things. That things might be bad now, but that doesn’t mean they’re never going to get better–and that maybe they’re not as bad as we think. We need to remember that even in the midst of tragedy, one of the amazing things about being human is our ability to feel complex emotions; we can laugh through tears, or wear a bittersweet smile. We are perfectly capable of discussing many things, of feeling and thinking many things, all at once.

We’re not one-note beings. And there is nothing in the world wrong with that, just like there is nothing in the world wrong with visiting Go Fug Yourself for some diversion from the misery we see on the news. Just like there is nothing wrong with trading gossip with friends because it’s fun and we need a little break; something to take our mind off our problems.

Just like there is absolutely nothing wrong with being thankful today, even as we spare a thought for the victims in Mubai and their families. And there is nothing wrong with sitting down to a big feast today. There is nothing wrong with planning to go shopping tomorrow to take advantage of all those sales.

Because we need the break. We need the relaxation. We need the comfort of having our families and friends close to us. We need a laugh. We need to remember that in the midst of the bad, there is good, and that we can still laugh and talk and smile; our hearts can still lift, our heads can still clear, and above all, there is still hope in the world.

Because life goes on. And quite frankly, if you don’t know that…maybe you’re not as clever as you think.