My Writing Manifesto or My Cry for Feminism

I’ve had other posts planned. I was even going to post something yesterday, but I stopped. This post is probably going to be link heavy, and it may offend you or make you upset. If it does? Good. It offends and upsets me too.

When people talk to me about my writing and ask me what I do (which is strangely a lot lately), I have always been clear. I am a woman writer. I am writer who is a woman. I am not an American Woman Novelist as Wikipedia would have me. I am a writer. I am a feminist writer.

I tell stories about women. I tell stories for women (and men, too, if you believe it). This world would have you believe that there are boy stories and girl stories. Boy books and girl books. That is a lie. There are good stories, and bad stories. Good books, and really awful books. Films, comics, video games. Only good and bad, not boy and girl.

I have been telling stories since I knew how to speak. And as far back as I can remember, I’ve had people telling me I should I write about boys because people actually read about boys. I’ve sat in workshops where people I really respect and who should know better, have said things like “I would have found this more believable if your character had been a man.”

I am a feminist writer because we need feminism. The world needs feminism. Even when it doesn’t look like feminism (NSFW), we need feminism. I write and tell feminist stories because the world needs feminist stories. Feminist stories are just stories. They’re stories that cut out all the sexist, stereotypical, boring bullshit. If you only click on one link, please oh please let it be that one.

Writing a horror story about a girl who doesn’t fall for the man who tries to save her should not be a radical act.

The SFWA blew up last weekend. And then like typical old people, a bunch of old people made it all about them and tried to reframe the issue as ageism. Because that’s helpful. Never mind the cover from SFWA Bulletin #200. That was in poor taste, but wasn’t a scandal. But then two men pissed all over #202 about how its their right to treat women like objects and they totally have a woman friend so it’s okay. And Jean Rabe resigned. Which puts me in the most awkward position ever because she’s supposed to help me get my shit together but now we’re stuck on two different sides of the fence.

But don’t worry kids, that’s only the most awful news coming out of the writing world. I haven’t even gotten to the legal murder of a prostitute in Texas yet. Which brings us to yesterday. I don’t know what terrible thing will happen today, but yesterday was enough.

I cried yesterday. And that doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t make me a woman. It makes me human.

I started writing a story over a year ago. It was about the oppression of women and how that oppression really oppresses entire societies. This was after trans-vaginal ultrasounds, but before rape-victims being biologically able to stop pregnancies. It was before binders full of women. It was before Steubenville. It was before my birth control became ‘whore pills’ and Sandra Fluke was a ‘slut.’

I scrapped that story because it wasn’t ready. But then, in April, it was. And I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Silly me kept wondering if my story would still be relevant when I finished. If, by the time it is published, people will still care. If the world will still need that message.

Three Days of Night will be out in August for your reading pleasure. I somehow think it will still be relevant.

I wish it weren’t.

Share your thoughts. Go on, do it.
  1. Jamie Becker says:

    I like the unexpected in your stories oh and the brutal honesty 🙂 and unabashed nature 🙂

    Reply

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