"Niche"

This morning I had a conversation with a friend of a friend in the publishing business.  (May I just say, I can’t wait to edge out that middle “friend” and have my own direct contacts for these things.)  She was giving me some advice to help me get my book published, and there was a refreshing realism to what she told me.  A few years ago, if I had been told that much of the burden of marketing and selling my books would fall on me, I would have felt sick to my stomach.  I would have expected the news that it would take another few years at least before I could see my book in print would depress me for days.  Instead, it’s given me a new determination.  I don’t want people to tell me how easy it will be, that it will just happen and all my dreams will come true at once.  I know the world better now, and I understand that it’s going to take some hard work.  I find myself excited as well as nervous at the thought of reaching out with my book, offering what I have to the world. 

There is one thing that bothered me, however, while we were talking.  As soon as I told this contact what my book was about, she introduced me to a new phrase that I was unfamiliar with, but which rather defines itself: “niche genre.”  In this case it refers to science fiction, though I imagine fantasy would be considered the same.  I don’t like this phrase.  To me, it implies readers who sit at home alone with this book, unwilling to bring it out with them for fear of another’s critique.  It implies genres which are not “widely accepted”, which most people don’t read.  Niche genres are the nerds of the written world, watching by the sidelines while the cool kids—“literary” works.  What does that even mean?—stride by.

I’ve faced this struggle for years.  I have a deep and abiding love for my alma mater, Hollins, but it was there that I first faced this prejudice, as I consider it.  I was attending a summer camp at Hollins when I met with negative feedback for the first time.  I remember mentioning my interest in writing fantasy, and I can see even now the old professor’s eyes angling downward, hear his sigh.  “I don’t consider fantasy and science fiction to be literature,” he said.

It broke my little thirteen-year-old-heart, scarred me so that for years I couldn’t bring myself to turn in my “real” work to workshops.  Oh, I etched out a few short stories set in this world, but to say truth I found them boring.  My heart was in the explorations I made into other worlds, in magic and wizards and unicorns, in spaceships and other planets and the endless possibilities of the future.  Somehow this fascination made me a fringe member of my writerly community, even though I could see dozens of others who were just as interested as I was.  Our numbers, however, didn’t seem to matter—we were still the niche, not the main stage.

Now I ask you: why is it this way?  Why, when I tell people that I write science fiction and fantasy, do I feel a sinking in my stomach, thinking that any interest they show after that revelation will be mere politeness?  Why do I feel that the vast majority of my acquaintance will not be interested in my work?  Why did my contact this morning automatically dismiss my novel as “entertainment”?  (She didn’t mean to offend, of course, and would most likely be horrified to hear I took it that way, but even so.)  She told me that niche genre work doesn’t have to be artistic, that artistry is not what these publishers look for.  I ask you, why is that so, when fantasy and science fiction are not concerned with the world as it is, but as it could be?  There is so much opportunity in these genres, chances to make real what could never be in our lifetimes.  My novel explores the very nature of what it means to be human, from the point of view of a character who is not human.  Where will you find that in a “literary” novel?  And for heaven’s sake, why can’t my sci fi book be literature? 

I think it’s past time that I put my foot down on this matter.  My book is beautiful—I say that with modesty, feeling as I do that the story didn’t come from me but through me, emerging from the very fabric of human experience.  I say again that my book is beautiful, as are many science fiction and fantasy books that I have spent my life devouring, and they do not deserve to be dismissed out of hand.  They are entertaining, yes, but they are also poetic and insightful and carefully, lovingly crafted.  They provide an opportunity for readers to broaden their minds beyond the confines of this world, to see the possibilities of humankind, and that is something that’s sorely needed.  And if that is not enough to make it “literature”, then I think it’s about time for that word to be redefined.

Digging Through the Button Jar

“Don’t worry,” she said, peering through the glass.  “If you die, we’ll just get new ones.”

I was there when my friend said this.  It was a cold comment, worthy of a femme fatale from one of my stories.  But I wasn’t concerned; I only laughed.  Because I am just as cold-hearted?  No, because my friend was talking to fish, and as cute as they are, it’s hard to love fish.  Besides, she bought them on a whim for less than a dollar each.

Context is everything.  This rings especially true for a writer.  As a writing project I’ve assigned myself, I’m going through all my old journals (I’m currently on volume fourteen) to see if any of the ideas inside inspire me.  And I am finding a great deal of inspiration.  These journals are riddled with half-ideas—newspaper headlines, quotes that caught my eye or my ear, pictures that intrigue me, recorded dreams.  But they’re only half-ideas because I don’t know where they fit yet.  A line of dialogue doesn’t mean anything unless you know who said it and why; a character doesn’t matter until you know where they come from and why they are the way they are.  Indeed, the reason I am a writer is I have a need to know the whole story.

My journals are like button jars.  The only reason to have a button jar is so that someday, when you need a replacement for that one lost button, you might find something that fits.  But until you do have the need, that empty space, those buttons are just decoration.  I have a wonderful character, Genevieve, that very villainess I mentioned a moment ago.  Her mother killed her fiancé, because she thought that he made Genevieve weak.  In retaliation, Genevieve killed her mother, but she continues to follow her mother’s belief that women define their own moral code and wield power through control over men.  All this is fascinating, but a stagnant picture of a person is only interesting to me for a short time.  (Maybe that’s why I was always so quick to get bored in museums.)  To hold my interest, the character needs to move, grow, change, evolve or devolve.  What happens to Genevieve?  How does she use her ill-gotten power—for good or for evil?  Does she ever meet a man she can’t control?  Who would he turn out to be?  All of these questions remain unanswered, and as long as they do, Genevieve is just a black and white button in a jar.

I write stories so that I can find out the whole.  Characters, ideas, lines and phrases—all these things only matter to me when a story gives them their true place.  That is when they come alive.

Sincerity?

I’ve never considered myself beautiful.  I’m close, maybe, but just a shade too round-faced, with my skin not enough like porcelain and my eyes a smidgeon too squinty.  This is not self-pity talking, I promise—I’m quite pretty enough for my own esteem, and beauty will only fade as time goes by.  Still, it’s been a long time since anyone aside from my mother called me beautiful.  Or it had been, before I walked into the laundromat this week and attracted someone’s attention.

He straightened up as I came in, an older gentleman in a white t-shirt and jeans, and his eyes widened.  “Wow,” he said.  “You are so sweet and beautiful.”

Now, I was probably overdressed for this errand.  I’d put on my new white shirt with the black lace down the arms, my bright blue pants, and my high boots.  My face was made up and my hair was fixed, because sometimes I don’t like to feel like a slob.  I was looking pretty good, and I knew it.  But it was still nice to hear it.  At first.

I thanked him, and the compliment did warm me.  People don’t usually say such things with such fervent honesty.  Most of them are honest only when it will not put them into any vulnerable place, or when it will benefit them.

“Really,” he told me as I moved past him to put my clothes in the dryer.  “You must be married.  Beautiful girls like you are always married.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Really?  Then you must have a group of boyfriends.”

“No,” I said, laughing with a little more trepidation.  I focused on my clothes as they flopped into the dryer.  “Haven’t found anyone worth it yet.”

“Really?  That’s a shame,” he said.  He was still looking at me.

Suddenly the admiration wasn’t so welcome.  I found myself wondering if there was anyone else in the building, though I didn’t want to look and find out. 

He offered to take me to dinner, said he would love to do it.  “I own my own house,” he told me, smiling.  I laughed as if he were joking.  I couldn’t meet his eyes, and I moved away as soon as I could.  And still his eyes followed me.  He didn’t look away even as he was leaving, not until the last minute.

Now, I don’t want to be unfair.  The poor man may very well have been joking.  He was significantly older than me, and he didn’t look at all as if he could harm me, much less have wanted to.  His compliment may very well have been sincere.  But the way he said it made me very uncomfortable, even frightened.

I think it’s a shame that we have as much trouble reading one another as we do.  Did he know how unwelcome I found his advances, however gentle?  Was he even aware of my discomfort?  Too often, I think, men don’t even realize how disturbing their admiration can be.  This man’s compliment, after all, was immediately followed by an expectation of something in return, and I think it’s a shame that he felt the need to press himself forward.

In the end, it was a harmless experience, but a sobering one.  I hope that if I ever have sons of my own, I can teach them to be sincere and selfless in their praise.  It is possible—or at least I very much hope so—to tell a girl she is beautiful without phrasing it as a favor she should return.  Maybe if more men did this, we would have more women believing themselves to be beautiful. 

How to Find The Circumference of An Idea

Higher education in America is a mess.  I don’t think anyone would disagree with me on that score.  Just look at the statistics of student debt, or the comparisons between the American system and some of those abroad.  I have been out of college for two and a half years now, and I can reasonably expect to be making loan payments for the next eight years.  That’s if I keep on schedule—it will be longer if at any point I have to defer.  And I’m one of the lucky ones.  I remember the panicked expressions on my classmates’ faces at the end of senior year when we attended those mandatory loan meetings.  Some of them faced twenty thousand dollars of debt or more.  In the current economy, where a college degree doesn’t guarantee you a well-paying job (I’m still working in a restaurant), that’s a huge number.  And tuition prices are only getting higher.  Now, there might be any number of reasons for this, and I’m no economist to speculate on what those might be.  But even I can read the alarming line graphs I see online and in the papers. 

The government is trying to deal with this, inasmuch as the government can.  President Obama has instituted a debt forgiveness program that allows students who enroll this year to pay only ten percent of their income on student loans, and after twenty years all debts are forgiven.  As for the universities themselves, a new program is expected in time for the 2015-16 school year that will rate universities all over America and assign them financial aid according to those ratings.  Universities are up in arms about this, saying that there is no way of quantifying an education, and that deserving universities will slip through the net cast by the government rating tests, having a terrible impact on the quality of higher education.

I agree that it is next to impossible to measure the value of an education.  I wouldn’t give up my liberal arts degree for the world—if I could do it over again, I’d do it exactly the same way.  But I do admit that it doesn’t make me employable at first glance.  The problem is that federal programs like this require a homogeneous standard that can be measured, and education simply isn’t homogeneous.  Every student wants something different and needs different things from the school and its professors.  This is true at the lower levels, too—standardized tests may give the government the numbers and statistics it wants, but it doesn’t help those students who are dyslexic, or have learning disabilities, or who are kinesthetic learners.  All of these students may be brilliant in ways that don’t come up on the tests, and a good college education can give them the tools to hone that brilliance.  What happens if those good colleges are missed by the tests that only measure graduation rates and graduate income levels?

On the other hand, something has to be done.  A system that bankrupts its students for an education that they need to survive in the world is a system that needs to be changed.  Perhaps other factors could be added to the ratings list—range of options offered to each student, or number of awards received by professors, or even student happiness rankings.  Though these things are harder to measure, they are vital to the value of an education, and they have as much to say about the quality of a university as dollar signs and percentages.

The glory and the downfall of mankind, in my opinion, is how different we are.  Every human being on the planet has a little bit of a different idea as to what’s important and what needs to be known.  Our education is what teaches us those different ideas, and I would hope the government would remember that it’s not what our schools teach us that’s important, or at least that that’s not the only important thing.  What is the most vital thing a student has to learn is how to think for him- or herself, and I learned that in college.  I'd hate for younger generations to never have the chance to learn it at all.  

Some of the websites I looked at for this post: http://www.whitehouse.gov/issues/education/higher-education/ensuring-that-student-loans-are-affordable

https://studentaid.ed.gov/repay-loans/forgiveness-cancellation/charts/public-service

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Learning_styles#Neil_Fleming.27s_VAK.2FVARK_model

Also an article in Time, the April 28, 2014 issue, entitled "Should US Colleges Be Graded by the Government?" written by Haley Sweetland Edwards

Photo credit: https://searchingeyes.wordpress.com/tag/education-assessment-comic/

A Letter To An Unpleasant Man

Dear Sir,

I dislike you.

How difficult that is to say aloud!  Our culture doesn’t permit this sort of communication.  We’re supposed to be polite and kind, at least in our words.  To say this type of thing, we’re forced to rely on other methods of communication.  You, however, seem to be oblivious to those methods.  When you are standing too close to me, you don’t notice when I step back, when my body angles away from you as if longing to spring into the air.  You don’t see the exasperation and discomfort in my expression while you’re laughing at your own joke, the same one you’ve been telling all day (and all yesterday, too).   You don’t hear the hesitations before I speak, and you don’t understand what my pauses mean.  My carefully worded answers to your questions are works of art, so much energy and thought goes into every word and inflection as I try to express my true thoughts in a non-antagonistic way.  What a waste!  I might as well be talking through a gag.

Let me make it clear that your liking for me does not change my dislike of you.  In fact, it makes matters worse.  I see the way you treat my friends, have been standing next to them as you shout and roar for no reason at all.  That you later apologize to me, claiming your anger was not directed at me, does not make it better.  It was there, that senseless cruelty that demands the lowering of others, and I saw it, felt it on my skin.  I know it is in you, and your honey-sweetness to me sticks in my throat.  I would rather you shouted at me, too, so I might be justified in shouting back.

I recognize that your need for control is a desperate response to the lack of it.  Perhaps you do not like the way your life has gone, and for that I am sorry, but it does not give you the right to tell everyone that their way is wrong.  Allow me to inform you that I was here long before you arrived, and I was good at this before you came to tell me how I have been mistaken.  I hate especially that your logic makes sense when you first spill it at me, in that kindly, reasonable tone that makes my skin crawl, but it is a carefully constructed kind of sense that more often than not comes crashing down at a single question.  I have placed those questions before you once or twice, punching a hole in your perfect plans, and I could see so clearly the closed expression on your face, the irrefutable denial in your eyes as you pleasantly demanded that I do it your way nevertheless.  “Humor me,” you say.  Well, sir, my humor has long since expired.

I would like you to know that you have changed a warm, open environment into a place that makes my stomach sink whenever I arrive.  You have used your power to place yourself on a pedestal, but let me warn you that you will not stay over my head long.  I stop short at implying that you will be dragged down—God knows that many men worse than you have remained all their lives in a place they do not deserve.  No, what I am telling you is that your power over me is far more limited than you know.  I am more than you see in me, oh so very much more, and fear will not hold me in your shadow.  I will walk out into that cold world rather than become as small as you think I am or want me to be.  Do not think of my discretion as weakness.  You, sir, will be very much surprised.

Sincerely,

A woman whose power was not given to her by someone else

Many Steps To Go

“The only courage you ever need is the courage to live the life you want.” Oprah

I saw this quote on my friend’s coffee cup at work last night.  It took me a moment to figure it out, possibly because I was about as sleep-deprived and spacey as it is possible to be and still be functioning.  But I think a larger portion of my confusion comes out of the fact that, as good as the quote sounds, its logic is a bit flawed.

The implication here is that all you need to do is make a leap of faith to get the life you want.  Take risks, chase your dreams, the usual motivation we hear from graduation speakers.  The implication is that if you have the courage to defy expectations, to ignore “common sense” and turn down that job selling insurance, you’ll be able to build a life doing exactly what you want.  It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it?  A very American ideal—take charge, pull yourself up by your bootstraps, find the right door and burst right through.

Image from http://therefinedimage.wordpress.com/

When we are young, we believe that we’ll step off the college campus and right into a four-bedroom house, a six-figure job, and a happy marriage.  In college, we dream of world travel, of art and culture and fine dining.  The reality is much more complicated than that, as most realities are.  What we don’t realize until we are out in the world is that those lives we imagine for ourselves have to built from the bottom up.  To buy a house or even rent an apartment, you need money, and that takes years of carefully stockpiling your wrinkled singles and diving for every penny you see.  To get that amazing job, you need to make connections with the right people (or even the wrong people), send out dozens of resumes that often disappear into the ether, and tear your hair out in frustration.  And when it comes to relationships, you may find yourself in a string of losers (of either sex), be trapped in an interminable pairing with someone who isn’t right, or even find yourself standing alone, wondering if there’s even one person in a hundred miles who is not repulsive or taken.  The old adage doesn’t say that a journey of a thousand miles can be accomplished with a single step.  There are many, many more steps that have to be taken before we reach our destination—assuming that you even know where you’re going, which is not true at all for most of my generation.  I know how tempting it is to take an easier, if less inspiring path.

True courage for me, then, is in those who just keep walking.  Those who don’t let the long hours and sleepless nights wear them down.  Those who take rejections and hang them on their walls to motivate the next try.  Those who show up at their dead-end job every day and do their best at it.  Those starving artists who neatly stack their pennies so they won’t actually starve.  Those who come home at three in the morning, rub their eyes, and sacrifice sleep to the dream.  Those who don’t let this cold, crowded world drag them down into the rut of doing work they hate to make more money to be able to continue doing work they hate.  It’s true courage to live on that line, compromising common sense and foolish hope, trusting that yes, you will have enough shifts to make rent and enough free time to make you happy.  And honestly, though it may be terrifying sometimes, I can’t see any other way, because for me, the cost of accepting the easier path is far too high.

The Shape of Our Containers

"Every configuration of people is an entirely new universe unto itself."  Kristin Cashore, from her book Bitterblue

The identity is a complicated thing.  I am a different person depending on my surroundings and my circumstances.  With my family, who have known me the longest, I am a goofy and young, rather naïve, and a bit clumsy.  Perhaps more than a bit.  With my friends, I laugh a lot, but I also am a great deal quieter, smiling and listening more than I speak.  At work I am professional, rather more sarcastic than elsewhere, with long fuses of patience that cause large explosions when they burn out.  And at home I am silent, thoughtful, and I often speak to myself. 

It is truly impossible to fully understand a person.  The intricacies of who we are and what has shaped us are so complex that we have trouble keeping track of ourselves, much less others.  With each person we meet, we become a little different, responding to their responses to our actions and words.  We build layer upon layer of awareness and behavior, then tear those layers down when a new person comes into view.

This is the adaptability that has placed us at the top of the evolutionary ladder.  In the physical world, humans had all the best tools to survive, and now in this world of hearts and minds we have done the same.  We have made ourselves malleable, liquid personalities capable of surviving any challenge of hatred or fear or inquiry that others may present to us.  And in so doing, we create our own struggles, because these constant changes make it all that more difficult to understand ourselves, to know what that odd little word “I” really means.