On Being Told What to Write

 

So, here we are again entering the horrifying world of Prior Review and Content Control. I swear this topic comes up every so often as a matter of course these days, and nowhere is it more prevalent outside of politics than in the world of genre fandom. This particular incident was pretty extreme, reminding me of a certain Batman movie's devoted, fanatical base about twelve years ago whose ire and outrage resulted in several attacks when I posted a link to my review on the now defunct Yahoo! Message Boards.

This time was different, however. Not only did it take place on Facebook, but it also resulted in a volley of personal and professional attacks. The fanboy Battalion has mutated since those days of simply telling a person they were wrong and sending threatening emails to professional film critics for not liking a movie they adored. 

I wouldn't have even known about this if not for the fact that a Facebook friend had posted her views on James Gunn's "The Suicide Squad" by referring to it as basically a stupid failure. I concurred, posting my blog post/review to show her just how much. You can read that here. I saw a dissenting comment from a guy whose name shall remain undisclosed (I'll refer to him as "Soy" based on a comment another friend made) which I read and immediately forgot all about. However, at some point between me not being online for a while and finally going back on, my Facebook friend had unfriended and blocked this individual for comments she found obnoxious.

Like any juicy scandal-loving 'Murican, I decided to look him up. To my delight, I found that he had reposted the above review and written a disdainful commentary about it. This was so his like-minded, sycophantic followers could start making insulting comments about the review itself, the writing of it, and the various word choices they deemed pretentious. The post was public, so it was easy for me to jump in, first by thanking Soy for the repost and then responding to some of the comments about the review. I found it interesting how Soy kept trying to make it seem as if me seeing negative comments about something I wrote was some sort of turnabout is fair play situation instead of an expected part of being a writer...Almost as if he was some uber-nerd twit who didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

This suspicion was compounded by the fact that he seemed hellbent on telling me what I should have written, and how I should have written it. The review, in his opinion, lacked "nuance," a word he seemed to have just learned sometime this week and couldn't  wait to use over and over until he sounded like a special needs parrot. I began to wonder: What exactly had him so upset and offended? My dislike of the material, the way I presented it, or the fact that I didn't gently take him by the hand and explain every sentence and word choice so he didn't soil his diaper? I suspect it was all three.

In the midst of Soy's kiss-ass geek patrol calling my writing terrible and saying how much it sucked, he kept telling me how I should have written my review. Oh, and he used the word "nuance."

A lot.

I've dealt with guys like this before. They represent both cheeks on the political butt. Extreme righties tend to indulge the behavior more often, but extreme lefties do it, too. The tactic is to lure the person onto their page, insult them and then let their friends attack them from all angles while appearing to be the reasonable one "just trying to make a point." It is a tactic employed by both bully and bullied alike. It hasn't ever worked on me when dealing with people who were much better at it, and it sure as shit didn't work on me this time.

The intellectual lightweights on Soy's page were barely a distraction, but they definitely brought the entertainment value. Yet despite the constant back-and-forth with such gems as "I want to kill your high school English teacher 'cause you suck" and other award-winning zingers of the highest level, Soy was still telling me what and how to write.

Deciding I'd had enough fun with the dingleberries, I focused instead on the post's originator and his repeated insistence that my post lacked...sigh...NUANCE. 

At this point, I'd already had a relatively decent back-and-forth with the one person not necessarily following Soy's orders who had expressed an interest in knowing what my opinion of the movie might be now that the initial hostility had faded. And to be fair, I did give Soy one point: The review was not a *GROAN* nuanced take on the film. It wasn't intended to be; it was written as an extension of my Facebook live posting. Soy even admitted my views on the handling of Viola Davis' character were pretty accurate.

The conversation could have, and probably should have, ended there. We had found a point on which we agreed and did not agree on the rest because Soy had issues with the way it was presented. Fair enough. I've stopped reading many a novel for similar reasons. The difference is, I didn't contact the author and tell them how they should have written the novel. I moved on. It's what grownups do. Soy, on the other hand, chose this as a hill to die on, a cause he could not relinquish. He was, in essence, the fanboy cliché nobody can stand; a know-it-all expert on all things with no foundation in any of them who thinks he has the right to police content. 

I owe no one who isn't paying me for my work anything. The mere fact that he was ignorant of the difference between a journal-like blog post and a professional film review shows that he proceeded from a false assumption. I certainly don't feel obligated to some random shit-starter on social networking to accommodate him with my writing, nor am I fazed by a bunch of followers of this person to feel that I need to alter my writing style. Awards, positive reviews and over thirty published stories speak for themselves. Besides, anyone who gets that angry over someone's opinions about a silly movie has more emotional issues than I am qualified to deal with.

I will thank Soy and his too-cool friends for the blog post material. It's difficult to not write about someone who accuses me of getting upset about a post when the post I am responding to is literally the result of the person getting upset about a post, throwing a tantrum, and trying to gain validation. Pointing out a person's lack of self-awareness doesn't usually go well, and I wound up blocked for my efforts. 

However, in the interest of helping people get past their soft, squishy ego problems, may I submit for their use...

Oh, I almost forgot:

NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE
NUANCE

Review: "The Suicide Squad"

I've never been completely in support of Auteur Theory, but James Gunn's soft reboot/sequel "The Suicide Squad" might be the best argument against it in years. And while that particular attitude towards film has its positive outcomes in the works of Stanley Kubrik, Quentin Tarantino and Bernardo Bertolucci, Gunn ain't none of those guys.

What he is, however, is a gifted mimic who has fooled a lot of people into thinking he has a personal style. If you've seen his 2010 small budgeted takedown of the superhero genre "Super," you know what I mean. It's a good movie but it apes other directors' styles to the point of absurdity. 

People also forget that the first "Guardians of the Galaxy" movie was originally written by Nicole Perlman. Short memories aside, she was the one being praised for the screenplay when that film was released. Flash forward less than a decade and all anyone remembers is James Gunn. 

I was not among those praising Perlman's screenplay. I thought it was mediocre, dull and filled with terrible attempts at humor. Although, I wonder how much of the latter came from Gunn's work on the script. That brings us to "The Suicide Squad," a God-awful, unfunny, needlessly gory, thinly plotted pile of steaming crud from the "mind" of a man whose hackery really upsets me when I think about how he shares a name with one of my writing mentors.

The previous "Suicide Squad" film fell victim to what all DC Comics movies were dealing with in those not-so-long-ago days: Studio interference from imbeciles who had no concept of what they were doing. Thus director David Ayers, a far more gifted filmmaker than Gunn ("Training Day" alone cements that claim) saw his film sliced to ribbons. Despite this, it is still superior to Gunn's follow-up

With only four returning cast members from the first one, Gunn decides to populate his film with all the worst, stupidest DC villains in that company's history, because killing them off is funny to him. So, we get an entire opening sequence of disposable, useless idiots who die horribly so the so-called A-Team can emerge from the water to handle the mission. Who are they?

A big stupid bi-pedal shark played by a totally wasted Sylvester Stallone because Gunn can't seem to make an ensemble film without a bug dumb character that makes no sense. But this Shark is no Groot, who is at least a likable character with a soul. King Shark spends his time making idiotic comments like a slow-witted child, none of which are even remotely amusing. It's sad when the CW version of a character was vastly superior. 

Then there's Bloodsport portrayed by Idris Elba, who appears to have not gotten a good night's sleep in about eight years. He brings zero weight to this role, shuffling through like a zombie except when he's screaming "Fuck you!" over and over at his child.

Margot Robbie is back as Harley Quinn, the ubiquitous eye-candy psycho who really needs to be retired from comics for about a decade. Even she must feel this way based on her uninspired performance this time around. Her sub-plot involving a Central American dictator contains some of the worst writing and acting I have seen this side of "It: Chapter 2." 

There are newer characters as well, including John Cena as Peacemaker, a character Gunn single-handedly ruined by turning him into a joke. Cena has the comic timing of a clogged drain, and nowhere is this more evident than when he and Elba indulge in high wit by discussing eating a beach full of dicks.

This is seriously the kind of Middle School-level dumbshittery that Gunn thinks is comedy!

In addition to the three heavyhitters mentioned above, there's the character of Ratcatcher 2 portrayed by Daniella Melchior. She is, without a doubt, a terrible actor and in possession of one of the most annoying voices. Her line readings sound just like what they are: Someone without talent reading their lines. There is a scene on a bus involving her sob story and some unconvincing graphics that is, ironically, the best scene in the movie. Then I realized it was because it ripped off the bar scene in the first one!

But I saved the "best" for last" The disservice Gunn does the great actor Viola Davis and the character of Amanda Waller actually tows the line of casual racism. Gone is the cool, calculating Waller of the first film and the comics. In her place stands a stereotypical angry, hysterical black woman who doesn't seem to know what the hell she's doing and is easily manipulated by her staff and the Suicide Squad. This is the same woman who stared down Batman and told him to watch his ass?

What can I say about the supposed plot and story elements? Gunn clearly knows nothing about his missions work. He has no grasp of Third World politics. Shit, he doesn't even know the difference between a nightclub and a strip club! 

By the time the Big Reveal takes place, one any comics fan already saw coming in the first reel, all it does it serve as a reminder that this guy doesn't get DC and should stay as far away from it as possible.

Who Knows What Hackery Ruins Great Characters? James Patterson Knows.

 

This disgusts me. Not only because of the so-called "author" who purchased the rights to arguably the greatest pulp era character in literary history, but also because Patterson doesn't even write the material bearing his ubiquitous name.

Oh, you didn't know that? It's surprising to me how many don't, including some librarians I have worked with in the past. That's right, kids. James Patterson is a brand name under which hungry writers toil  so he can appear as if he is the most prolific author of all time. Click here if you doubt me.

There are other authors whose names appear on books on a monthly basis. Nora Roberts a.k.a "J.D. Robb", Debbie Macomber, and Laura Snelling come to mind. There are also authors who haven't let a pesky little obstacle such as death keep them from cranking out book after book. Agatha Christie ain't goin' out like that and neither is V.C. Andrews, both of whom have been dead for a long time and still meet their, ahem, deadlines.

The quasi-con of publishing dead authors who didn't actually write the material being published has been going on for a long time. Unfortunately, so has the one involving writers who only wrote a few of their own books before hiring a virtual sweatshop of aspiring writers to do all the work under that person's pen name. Mack Bolan author Don Pendleton did it. So did Oprah's least favorite author/franchise  runner James Frey. So, Patterson certainly isn't an original in this regard. Actually, he's not an original in any sense.

For those unfamiliar with the Shadow character and its history, he is, quite simply, the superhero archetype. As a pulp era hero, he dealt with more grounded situations such as murderers, spies and the occasional misguided scientist. The radio dramas were hugely successful and, in my opinion, the ones where the character was portrayed by Orson Welles were among the best spoken word drama ever made. Without the shadow, there would be no Batman. 

The Shadow's two most famous sayings, "Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men? The Shadow knows" and "The weed of crime bears bitter fruit" could be seen as templates for nearly every costumed hero's philosophy over the past nearly one-hundred years. He is a character firmly rooted in the Depression era, steeped in noir-ish grandeur and filled with the charm of a more innocent but still very dangerous time. 

A brief perusal of the plot of this Patterson-endorsed Shadow reveals a ridiculously insipid tale of time travel and a character with super powers that were never in his box of tricks. The publisher disagrees with that, of course, as evidenced by this gem of a quote:

“James Patterson is the all-time master of the American thriller genre,” said Markus Grindel, Managing Director, Global Brand Licensing, Condé Nast. “The origins of that genre began with The Shadow stories of New York’s golden age. There’s a natural creative match at work here along with a significant through-line.”

If you want quality Shadow storytelling, look no further than the graphic novels published by Dynamite Entertainment. The writers over there understand the character and aren't trying to shoehorn him into idiocy for the sake of their own egos.

A Brief Excerpt from a work in Progress

 My novel, "2012/2021" hit a stall due to work obligations but I am now reading what I've written so far and resuming work on it. It is my hope that it will be "Slaughterhouse Five" or "Breakfast of Champions," which is what "Dreamers at Infinity's Core" was originally intended to be.

Below is an excerpt:

I nodded. It made sense in a...nothing-makes-sense-anymore kind of way. Tampering with the laws of nature, interrupting the flow of what Taoists call “The Way” had to come with repercussions. I had practically winked myself out of conscious existence. I couldn’t do shit about vanishing physically, so of course some meathead from the Bronx had arrived to cause me further distress.

You could set your watch by it, if people still used their watches to tell time.

Anyway.

I suppose some part of my rational being knew that didn’t explain a pudknocking thing. The very notion that the two had anything to do with each other was absurd, sort of like clown porn. It sounded interesting until the floppy shoes and wigs started bouncing up and down.

10 Spec Fic Novels that Have Altered the Landscape

 Recently, a Facebook friend posted a Polygon article titled, "15 Most Recent Sci Fi Novels that Forever Shaped the Genre." As usual, I disagreed with the choices. In fact I'd only started reading two of the fifteen, and neither of those compelled me to finish them. So, I decided to write my own list, which ironically includes one of the authors on Polygon's but an entirely different novel.

Mastai's debut novel covers a topic rarely, if ever, seen in science fiction these days: The Utopian future. More to the point, how easily one selfish, angry person can cause a reverse Butterfly Effect that destroys the optimistic future correctly (in this novel's conceit, anyway) predicted in all the pulp magazines and "Jetsons" episodes of the past. Mastai balances human relationships and larger sci-fi concepts beautifully without one ever over-shadowing the other.

If there's one thing there's no shortage of in science fiction written by Gen X and Millienal males, it's daddy issues. Also, meta-fiction doesn't always receive the credit it deserves in our self-aware, cynical era. If you want to read novels about time travelers trying to fix the past, this ain't one of them. Our protagonist actually kills himself when he sees himself emerging from a time machine, thus setting off a chain of fascinating ideas.

Neuvel swiftly became one of my favorite authors with his "Themis Files" trilogy concerning recently unearthed giant statues that are more than they seem. The author's manipulation of structure and form are far more palatable than what's to be found in the work of Mark Z. Danielwski because it serves the plot rather than it being the point of the novel. Neuvel's approach shouldn't work, making it all the more glorious to experience. 

 The prevailing wisdom when it comes to alternate history fiction these days is, if you're going to write it, make it big. From a United States perspective, it doesn't get much bigger than a modern era where slavery never ended. Winters presents a future where slavery's enduring presence permeates all parts of American society, especially corporate America. In fact, the ending  is easily up there with "Soylent Green" in its horrifying yet utterly believable revelation.

 "Who Fears Death" is one of those novels that challenges the genre status quo in all the best ways. Featuring a young Nigerian girl-later-woman as its protagonist, taking place in Africa (Sudan, to be exact) and written by someone of Nigerian descent, it is quite literally not the novels of the Grandmasters of Science Fiction. It is a refreshing boost to a stagnating genre and its mixture of cultural richness, fascinating speculation and unexpected moments make it a genuine experience. Even though there is so-called sorcery involved, it is the result of genetic manipulation. Okorafor has chased this story's greatness several times since with novels that unfortunately feel like imitations of its brilliance, but this one and its prequel "The Book of Phoenix" are the ones to read.

 

 No novel receives short shrift more than David Wong's (real name Jason Pargin) "John Dies at the End" because, frankly, I'm not sure readers older than Generation X know what to make of it. It is meta as all hell, it self-references like crazy, and it transgresses all of the known tropes by creating new ones to also transgress. Never has there been a tale of inter-dimensional monster hunters rooted so firmly in gritty reality. 

Sometimes the best science fiction is written by authors who aren't necessarily fans of the genre. "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan" comes to mind. Mullen's novel, second in quality only to his "The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers," concerns a perfect future of a different sort than the one found in "All Our Wrong Todays." In this future, history is considered so sacred that the average person cannot know about it for fear of repeating the mistakes of the past. There is no hunger or poverty or war, but nobody knows who they are or where they came from. Naturally, there is a group hellbent on altering the past and it's up to Zed to stop them, no matter how horrible the events are. 

Whenever an author can take the wackiest conspiracy theories believed by our fellow human and work them into a disturbingly plausible novel, it's worth pointing out. Brilliantly using a missing person case as the springboard for all the craziness yet to be experiences, Renner somehow weaves dementia and humanity's capacity for massive self-destruction into something truly awe-inspiring and terrifying. Novels this ambitious are often a mixed bag, especially when they only clock in at 300+ pages, but "The Great Forgetting" isn't one to...here it comes...ever be forgotten!

Without fear of hyperbole, Claire North (real name Catherine Webb) may well be the most brilliant and talented author of speculative fiction to come along in a generation. Each of her novels displays a level of talent that fill me with equal parts awe and envy. In this novel, the concept of time travel is upended by the reality of reincarnation that, in itself, is more a form of tribal memory that an actual return to life. The tale is riveting and all-too human and North writes with a literary urgency that feels meticulous rather than rushed. 

Unlike Max Brook's "World War Z," the multiple narrator approach in Wilson's novel never wears out its welcome or feels gimmicky. Perhaps that's because robotics is a real thing and Wilson has a PhD in it. There's an authenticity to the proceedings and a logic involved in what's happening that makes all of the shifting perspectives feel entirely natural. Without this novel, it's doubtful "Sleeping Giants" would have been as well-received.

A Poem Upon Returning

 Concrete Beat

By

Christopher Nadeau

Stretching, spreading, growing,

Everywhere at once.

Weeds between the cracks, mothers with broken backs.

Cold. Hot. Always changing,

Footfalls echo, fade, recede, back and forth,

Blood everywhere, unnoticed, unrecognized, unacknowledged.

Bodies soften the surface for those whose feet,

Rarely tread upon roughness.

Sounds fill the air, the mind, the soul,

As dim light hits the eyes just right.

Addictions abound, stenches surround,

Who cares?

Does anyone care?

Did anyone ever care?

It has always been here, unfolding, enveloping.

Leading nowhere, sometimes somewhere, rarely and always

Everywhere. There. Up ahead. 

More.

Enormous, jutting things, filled with

People. Empty, unfulfilled people.

Dwelling and toiling inside the same

Material that leads to them.

Who cares?

Who gives a fuck?

Where does it end?

Shall we go for a stroll?

When The Darkness Internal was a Thing

 With all traces of the once bi-monthly magazine I used to edit slowly vanishing from the inter-webbings ether, it's gratifying to still find a link that hasn't. 

Click here for proof that the Darkness Internal did indeed at one time exist.

The above link is from when D.I. was a special edition, as evidenced by the description below:

Voluted Tales is currently reading for its first special edition, entitled “The Darkness Internal” which is hosted by guest editor Christopher Nadeau. Christopher is looking for the following kinds of submissions

“The Darkness Internal”- Looking for stories that are outside the norm. They can be horror, dark fantasy, science fiction or even mainstream lit as long they meet the following criteria: Tales of inner darkness. Think Kafka or Phillip K Dick or any U.S. Congressional hearing. Stories should focus on an internal struggle or occurrence. Not looking for genre staples such as vampires, werewolves, and especially not zombies. More interested in tales of torment and struggle as defined by the classic “Man Versus Himself” approach to writing. Still, if you can find a fresh and exciting way to tell the story following the criteria and using those fabled beings, knock us out!

Rediscovering Vonnegut, Rediscovering Me

It's been a while since I posted anything here. New job responsibilities and a decision to go on a writing hiatus made it seem pointless. I even made the announcement on Facebook that I was going to stop writing for an indefinite amount of time. Then something truly miraculous happened: The world somehow went even more batshit crazy than it had before. At least, the sizable corner of it known alternately as the United States of America and 'Murica did. It was those who tend to employ the latter term whose insanity and gullibility were on equal display January 6th.

In case you're living in an alternate universe that I would very much prefer to live in, you know that was the day a horde of Donald Trump's supporters descended upon the U.S. capital and did their best French Revolution impression. People were hurt, some died, and property damage and theft rounded out the horrific triumvirate of insipidity. We had, to my way of thinking, officially entered a time where all the surface-level  BS would never return to its subterranean depths again. It was here to stay and it was only going to get worse before it got...I didn't know that it would ever get better. However, the writer in me watched with cool, dispassionate interest, cataloging and extrapolating.

I had no idea he was doing any of that. Having dived headlong into my new job, a job I love, by the way, I had, much like Luke Skywalker in "The Last Jedi," cut myself off from the Force. But the Force has other ways of reasserting itself. Much like how the character of Rey came into Luke's life to rekindle his heroism, another type of powerful influence returned to me in the form of a seemingly random audiobook selection on the shelves at work.

Those who know me, those who have read this blog, and those who have read my first novel all know my first real literary hero was Kurt Vonnegut. Despite an apparent hipster-led assault on his literary reputation over the past decade, he remains the singular influence on my writing voice and sensibility. The elitists can go to hell of they want to diminish me for that. 

Ever since the global pandemic started, I have experienced the urge to reread Vonnegut. I own most of his work. The urge usually occurs whenever I am feeling lost or needing to find my center. Other authors have come along since that fill a similar niche, but none has the powerfulness of Vonnegut's simplistic prose and grand yet grounded notions about the human condition. For most, his best work is "Slaughterhouse Five." It was the first thing I read thanks to an English Lit class. Of the five short novels we read in those 7 1/2 weeks, his was the one that prompted me to run out and buy another novel of his during the semester. 

My favorite Vonnegut novel remains "Breakfast of Champions." My own novel, "Dreamers at Infinity's Core," was an attempt to mimic the approach of Vonnegut's work and put my own stamp on it. I believe that time has come again. 

I've been listening to the audiobook during my drives to and from work. Read by gifted actor Stanley Tucci, the reading is nothing short of incredible. Unlike Ethan Hawk's ponderous monotone on "Slaughterhouse Five," Tucci understands how Vonnegut's prose should be read. Somewhere in all that brilliance, I heard the basis for a novel I have wanted to write for several years. I didn't know it until recently, but I have grown tired of treading the same familiar ground. I want to write a novel that is about something, not just reacting to it. I want the idea to be the thing, not the plot device to propel characters from scene to scene. I want dialogue to be simple but resonant, meaningful. 

Most of all, I want to write about what's going on in my head before it takes me over. And yes, I mentioned the insanity of January 6th because it will be one of two framing devices for this novel. The other is the Mayan calendar. I already know the title and it isn't going to change:

2012
2021

It's time to make Vonnegut proud~

In Mourning

 

My mentor, Golden Age science fiction author James Gunn, has passed away. I have no words right now to describe how important his guidance was to me. Maybe in a few days, but not right now. 

Writing for the Interwebs: The Perfect Way to Watch your Work Disappear Forever

 Readers of this blog know I have published both fiction and non-fiction, much of the latter online. There is an accepted axiom in today's culture that "the internet is forever" but that's only true if some third party decides to take a screenshot of your work. At least, in some cases. Sometimes that person is me, but more often than not, I don't bother and my work vanishes into the ether from whence it came.

I first realized the internet was not forever when a website I'd written dozens of articles for suddenly decided to shut down and gave all of is "content generators" thirty days to grab our shit and go. In the virtual world, that equates to finding ways to screenshot all of your work before it is unceremoniously wiped from all existence.

That's not to say that print is forever, but I've reached the conclusion that there is more of a likelihood that some physical copy of one's work will still be out there somewhere. 

What prompted this, you ask? Lately I've been listening to an audiobook about Robin Williams' life and tragic demise. When he died, I was writing for the now defunct The Movie Network, whose editors encouraged every single writer to flood them with Williams articles. It was that rare moment when repetition was desired and most of us rose to the challenge. And it was a challenge.

Having anticipated that every other writer working for the site would come up with some "What Robin Williams meant to me" article, I decided to watch the movie everyone was relating to his apparent suicide, "Father of the Year." I used my review of the film (Spoiler alert: I thought it was brilliant!) as a way of talking about my own father, whose adoration of Williams had been a strong influence on my childhood. I realized rather quickly that losing Robin Williams felt like losing my dad all over again, a mixed, jumbled torrent of conflicting emotions and uncertainties once more manifesting themselves in my mind. I was older now and better equipped to handle it, but it was no less significant.

I poured everything I had into that piece and while I was paid for it, I wrote it because I had no choice. These were thoughts and feelings I had to express or risk going mad(der). I considered it one of the better things I wrote for them, and I wrote over 200 articles for them in a six month period. Don't worry. I was well-compensated. I know you were worried. But more importantly, I was pleased enough with my body of work with them, the film reviews in particular, to guide readers to them even after several of us were unceremoniously and without warning, no longer needed.

The articles remained up for years and I suppose I gave into a false sense of eternity. How easily that sense is dispelled, however, for it is gone, gone, gone. Not just the article, mind you. The website itself. Gone as if it has never existed. I don't even have an original copy of the review; my fault entirely. I am often rather lazy when it comes to my non-fiction. 

My fiction has fared better in the longevity department, but it was particularly painful when the entire website that supported one of my high water marks in the writing world vanished seemingly forever. Voluted Tales, which published six issues of my beloved "The Darkness Internal" is, alas, no more. Most of the issues featured the works of other authors but I wrote an editorial for every issue. I also conducted all of the author interviews...HEY! More lost non-fiction! See how that works?

It hurts to know so much of my work will never be read again. That doesn't mean I won't continue to have stuff published online, however. There really isn't much of a choice to be had these days, but I will hopefully be a bit smarter about preserving my work in the future.

Sex Workers of the Literary World Unite!

 As I've mentioned on this blog in the past, I subscribe to an online group called The Horror Tree that sends out emails alerting writers to potential anthology, periodical and novel publishing opportunities. Every so often there's one that grabs my attention not necessarily because I want to send the publisher my work but because something in the description draws me in. This time, the anthology in question is called "Beast Volume 1."

It is yet another furry horror collection, a sub-genre whose existence I find endlessly fascinating and sometimes downright terrifying. I'm still trying to fully wrap my brain around the concept as well as the sub-culture whose existence doesn't baffle as much as the fact that there have now been more than one furry horror anthology and apparently more on the horizon.

However, this time around at least, it isn't the reality of furries that has drawn my attention. It's the sentence below:

BIPOC Authors, Queer Authors, Disabled Authors, Authors who are currently or former Sex Workers are strongly encouraged to submit.

Forgive my Midwestern ignorance, but  when exactly did Sex Workers fall under the category of marginalized minority? I'm not saying the perspectives of Sex Workers both former and current aren't valid or even something that needs to be seen. On the contrary, there is a wealth of experience and outlook there that is a potential literary goldmine. I'm also no prude when it comes to, ummm, that thing that...men and woman do when it's dark and never speak of once all the sinning is over in 30 seconds. 

So, as someone who has been on the other side of the editorial wall accepting submissions and desperately hoping for something unique and different, I get wanting fresh perspectives. I even commend whoever thought of including Sex Workers as a valid fiction-writing group. What I don't get, however, is including them in a long sentence that mentions marginalized people who have faced discrimination. Much like the logical assertion that there is no such thing as a "Blue Life" because it's a career, can the same not be said for Sex Workers? Yes, many of them are not working willingly or even because they always wanted to work in the skin trade, but still...it's not a race or a gender or sexual preference.

If we muddle the definitions of things to suit our own points of view, we risk rendering the very real issues in society meaningless. 

That said, I look forward to seeing Sex Workers do more!

(That really didn't come out right, did it?)