For me, the best possible thing that fantasy as a genre can do is to say something important about our world and history, ideally while also commenting in some way on the traditions of the genre itself, and being a damn good read. Add to that a whole bunch of female characters who happen to be the central drivers of the plot and…

Oh, yes. Lords and Ladies is that good.

In some ways, this book is the last third of an unofficial trilogy (with Wyrd Sisters and Witches Abroad) featuring the original trio of Pratchett’s witches: Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick. In other ways, it’s the beginning of an unofficial trilogy (with Maskerade and Carpe Jugulum) about the mortality and power of Granny Weatherwax, with bonus Nanny Ogg at every turn (she doesn’t just steal scenes, she gets them drunk and makes them blush with dirty jokes) and the growing pains of Agnes “Perdita” Nitt.

But this is also, like so many of Pratchett’s best books, a book about stories. In this case, having taken on Shakespeare and fairy tales, he looks at the role of women in English folk songs and folklore. This is a story about cold iron and fairy glamour; of midsummer rituals and blood in the snow and dodgy jokes about morris dancers and maypoles. It’s a story about how practicality trumps romance every time, if you’re lucky.

Most of all, while it has much to say about witches and wives and mothers, this is a story about queens.

[MANY MANY MANY SPOILERS]

I love the progression of Magrat in this story, from finding herself in the unexpected position of being engaged to a king, to awkwardly tiptoeing around and through the question of what, exactly a queen is supposed to do all day. There are pointed comments about the double standard, how Verence can basically trot around with his arse out of his trousers, acting only slightly more regally than in his life before, and he automatically gets respect – but when it comes to queens, there are fashion requirements, and an odd juxtaposition between high status, and official uselessness.

Scenes where Magrat and her hapless ladies maid try to figure out the ridiculous clothes, her attitude to embroidery, and so on, are both funny and poignant. The worst of it, of course, is Magrat feeling that she has to leave all of her old life as a witch and healer behind, ridding herself of all the magical paraphenalia she had surrounded her with before. She literally steps out of one identity and into another, and understandably, it does her head in. Pratchett is excellent at pointing out how so many story tropes are actually ridiculous if you try to fit realistically ordinary people into them, and there is so much commentary here not only on the traditional portrayal of queens in mythology, history and literature, but also on the shifting nature of women’s identity when they marry.

The climax of Magrat’s personal journey is her discovery of Queen Ynci, the kind of queen no one had told her about, a warrior queen with spiky armour – and also her encounter with the royal beekeeper, who tells her the most fascinating details about the queens of that species. When the chips are down and her royal husband is in danger, Magrat emulates both Queen Ynci and the queens of beekind, becoming a true Slash! Stab! kickarse heroine. But the Pratchett ‘realism’ is still there, pointing out in the quiet mutters of other characters that acting like a character out of a folk song is a good way to get yourself killed, and holding a sword doesn’t mean you can use it. Luckily, Magrat isn’t just inspired, she’s also clever.

Part of the reason this story is so uplifting is because there’s also a very frustrating narrative line whereby Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg are trying to deal with the actual hazard – the elves returning to the Discworld – and are deliberately trying to keep Magrat ignorant of what’s going on because of their perception of her as a silly romantic airhead who is going to automatically think elves are sweet and romantic. And sure, that is her first reaction, and yes it does almost get her killed, because they don’t tell her any different. While this is deeply frustrating, it’s also a culmination of an ongoing character arc for the witches over the last few books. They’ve never taken Magrat seriously, and Granny being wrong in this instance is vital to the plot. Because this is also the book in which Granny Weatherwax dies.

She doesn’t, of course, and indeed this is the book that made the “I Aten’t Dead” sign so legendary, but this is one of several books in which the narrative leads Granny into her final battle – and, true to form, she survives it. But there’s a gorgeous ongoing storyline here about the other Granny in her head, the one who married instead of becoming a witch, and where that different path led to. Pratchett deals with what he likes to call ‘the Trousers of Time’ quite regularly, but this is the most compelling of his stories about alternate universes, and how a little knowledge of them can go a long way. It’s important that Granny is wrong about Magrat, because she’s human, and it shows her vulnerability, which suggests that maybe she might actually die. For many, many books, we’ve been told that witches and wizards know when they’re going to die – it’s one of the essential facts of the Discworld, and Pratchett is preparing a major fake-out with that information that, crucially, is not a cheat. It’s fascinating to see how he puts all the little pieces of this plot together, and how everyone’s story always comes back to the same themes, the same repeated icons, all tied up into a beautiful bow.

Granny’s impending (not) death is also prefigured by the introduction of bitchy teenage Diamanda, the girl who wants to be a witch but thinks it’s all about black nailpolish and looking glamorous, so of course she manages to loose elves across the world… Pratchett conveys a teen girl clique startlingly well, with the other girls dancing around Diamanda and desperate to copy her (much like bees around a queen, oh yes, THEME I SEE YOU) and we get our first introduction to Perdita/Agnes Nitt, who only appears in a few scenes, but shows herself to be the most pragmatic of the girls. And, of course, in a book that’s all about how practicality pwns romance, that means she is automatically awesome.

It’s also, of course, important that Granny is wrong about Magrat, but Magrat wins anyway, despite being kept in the dark, despite Granny not being there to catch the falling ball in time, because she is awesome and because she is actually far more practical than the older witches usually give her credit for. She’s romantic too, but she learns to harness that appropriately and not let it get in her way. I love the way that Pratchett celebrates the differences between the three witches, how each of them has a completely different method of doing things which is not necessarily wrong or right. And that most of the time, if one of them is caught out or embarrassed, it’s because they have realised that one of the others has figured out a quicker, simpler or easier way around a problem they thought was terribly difficult. This novel is very much about the relationships between women, the pecking order, the cliques, the rivalries, the loyalties, the generational divides, and how the memory of the girl she was can very much affect the choices of the old woman.

My favourite moment of this book (and it has much, much competition) is when Granny takes the unconscious Diamanda to Magrat.

“It’s all very well a potion calling for Love-in-idleness, but which of the thirty-seven common plants called by that name in various parts of the continent was actually meant? The reason that Granny Weatherwax was a better witch than Magrat was that she knew that in witchcraft it didn’t matter a damn which one it was, or even if it was a piece of grass. The reason that Magrat was a better doctor than Granny was that she thought it did.”

Even though Granny has grossly underestimated Magrat’s ability to be sensible in the face of elves, she still trusts her medical abilities over her own, which is a hell of a thing for a woman her age to admit.

And of course there’s that lovely undercutting reveal towards the end that Queen Ynci, whose armour Magrat dons to fight the elf queen, is almost certainly not real – and the armour definitely is not. A final iron nail in the coffin of folklore. But it doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not – the use of folklore to warn and educate as well as to entertain is all through this book, from the surreal Midsummer Nights Dream parody to the deadly morris dancers, the songs and stories, and the vicious nature of the elves themselves.

There’s also romance in the book – a romantic storyline for each of the witches – and yet it’s not the kind of romance that you tend to get in stories about fairies. We have the pragmatic, raunchy Nanny Ogg being courted by the younger and much shorter Casanunda the dwarf, who thinks he’s worldly and experienced until he gets a load of what’s going on in her brain. We get Ridcully the wizard, being soppy and sentimental about what could have been between him and Esmeralda Weatherwax in another lifetime, and almost getting them killed through his nostalgia, while she is hard-edged and practical, far more concerned with saving the world than getting all silly about a boy she once kissed. (oddly, that reminds me of the conversation Alisa and I had about Katniss and her blokes in The Hunger Games) Then there’s Magrat and Verence – again, practicality overwhelming romance. Their awkwardness and inability to have actual conversations with each other is balanced out by them slowly figuring out how to be a married couple, and what ‘king and queen’ rules are going to have to be chucked out. There’s a cute subplot based on the fact that neither of them are entirely sure how sex works and that he’s sent off for a book about it, but basically it’s a romance based on two people being terribly sensibly in love with each other, and I adore them.

There should be more stories that show how some of the best romance can be practical, rather than all dramatic and eyes-across-a-crowded-room. Plus, when it comes down to it, Magrat saves her man. So there’s a bit of epic folksong love story in there too. It’s just not the best bit.

Have I mentioned how much I love this book? It’s funny, clever, feminist and has so much to say about the power of story itself. The plot is perfect, down to the last detail. The relationship between beliefs and real magic is expressed powerfully, without suggesting that either of those things are more important than the other. And the romantic bits, such as they are, entirely serve the story of three extraordinary women.

“Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.”

Other posts in this series:
Pratchett’s Women: The Boobs, The Bad and the Broomsticks
Pratchett’s Women III – Werewolf Glamour and the Sexing of Dwarves in Guards, Guards!, Men at Arms, Feet of Clay
Pratchett’s Women IV – His Henpecked Voice (Jingo & The Fifth Elephant)

When Zeft first started teaching Kaia and I about Premier League football, and the new team we had pledged to support, the first story she told us was the story of Cesc, her favourite player. How he had come from Barcelona to play for Arsenal as a young teenager, and was now one of the best creative midfielders in the world. Even before I knew what a midfielder was, I knew that Cesc was an exceptional one. He had been our youngest ever player on the first team, and youngest goalscorer. He was ours.

In my first year as Arsenal fans, I saw the developing legend of Cesc for myself. I learned to watch the games and to understand them, and it was pretty damn evident that Cesc stepping on to the pitch made a difference, to everyone’s game. Also, he was adorable. Then Arsene Wenger took the captain’s armband off the badly-behaving William Gallas, and Kaia and I shared Zeft’s utter glee that it was presented to Cesc – at only 21 years old, though he was a five year veteran of the team. He was our captain now!

The way football works, and I don’t just mean the media and reportage, but in fandom itself, it’s all about the narrative beats. The story practically told itself: with our new young captain and a new lease of life, we’d regroup our strength and win something, right? Only we didn’t. Cesc was struck down with a knee injury for four months, and the season ended with us barely hanging on to our place in the top four. It was the same story every year – periods of hope that this would be the year that our young, hungry team would fulfil their potential, then injuries and disappointment and a lack of silverware.

Meanwhile, a different story started competing to have Cesc in the middle of it. Barcelona wanted their player back. From their point of view, Arsenal was the big bad team who had swept away their talented youngster. Regardless of his new position as captain, and his long term contract, they mounted a media campaign every summer, telling the world how much they wanted Cesc back. His would be teammates, his family, and even local politicians got into the act. The story of how much Cesc wanted to be back in his old home team was publicly discussed by everyone except the man himself, who was doing his best to respect the team that actually paid his wages.

The longer Arsenal went without winning anything, the harder it was to hold on to our talented wonder boy captain. But at the same time, the idea of letting him go home without having won something as Arsenal captain was just as painful. Each transfer period came and went, and we held on to him (just) because of that promise, because everyone wanted the story of Cesc and Arsenal to end with a triumphant climax, not a whimper.

(except, of course, we told ourselves, if we actually won something, well, he wouldn’t leave after all, would he?)

Last summer, he won the World Cup. He literally kicked the goal that won the final match for Spain. His charming colleagues forced a Barca shirt over his head during the celebrations, just to let the world know who he really belonged to. He almost left then, but our manager Arsene told him, no. We still need you. Give us one more year. So Cesc stayed, for one more year, one last chance. And you know what? We still didn’t win anything.

This was the worst summer. The rumour mill was at its fieriest, and everyone knew he was leaving. But Barcelona stuck to their plan to get him home at the least possible expense to themselves, so they opened negotiations with an insultingly low offer. It dragged on, week after week. Finally, reluctantly, Arsenal let him go on the eve of the new season, for a fraction of what they could have got selling a player of his quality (and with so many years still on contract) on the open market. Cesc went home, and broke our hearts.

There’s nothing more depressing than a story that trails off, none of its threads leading to anything. The season has started, and regardless of how obvious it might have been that he was really going this time, there’s still an aura of shock around our team, and our fans. It’s hard to look forward when we’re still waiting for a narrative pay off that will never come.

And, to be frank, it doesn’t help that the other Cesc story, the one about the wonder boy who left home to play in the Premier League and finally returned to wear Barcelona’s colours alongside his childhood friends, has a brilliant ending. He’s going to win trophies with that team, and become the legendary player that we always knew he was. He gets to be the hero of their story.

Someday, maybe, we can be happy for him. But I for one am not quite evolved enough to let it happen yet. I’m a football fan, after all, as well as being a writer. Neither of us are keen on the idea of waking up to discover that our protagonist is off plotting up a dream in someone else’s novel.

Dear Tansy,

Alisa

=========

Dear Alisa.

Thanks for getting in touch! Your question is just as overwhelming as it was when you first started trying to present it to me on the podcast last fortnight. I’ll try and work my way through it.

Here are some things I believe:

1. Science fiction should absolutely be innovative and inventive and inclusive.

2. Imposing rigid definitions on science fiction is a really good way to lose some of the most innovative and inventive work in or connected to the genre.

3. Most of my favourite works of science fiction are in some way fringe-dwellers of the genre, so if you reduce science fiction to too narrow a definition, then not only do some fantastic stories and novels drop off the edge and out of the science fiction sphere, then so do I.

4. One of the things I think it is important for science fiction to include is fiction which “speaks to” science fiction or its readers, even if it may not technically count in the genre. William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition, which frames then-current technology as if it is the building blocks of a science fictional world, is a great example of this. Another is Karen Joy Fowler’s story “What I Didn’t See” which forms a dialogue with James Tiptree Jr’s fiction and life history, and thus means more when read by a science fiction reader than a general reader.

5. I like books by women. An awful lot of books by women get argued or critiqued out of holding an identity as science fiction or as a particular type of science fiction, for being “about soft sciences instead of hard,” for mixing in unfamiliar ingredients such as sex or zombies, or generally not “feeling” enough like science fiction to count. I say that if science fiction readers do not welcome alien perspectives or alternative cultures, then who will?

6. I love awards shortlists, because even though I rail against reductionism and I am very aware that a lot of the stuff I consider most important or interesting is not going to make it on to shortlists, I also appreciate filters, and I think that awards shortlists present a useful if not always diverse statement about the field, and the people in the field.

7. I am always more interested in the shortlist than the winner. Once you reduce the fiction or science fiction or fantasy or books about mushroom darning down to a single title for a whole year, I feel the dialogue runs out of juice. Sometimes, what didn’t make the shortlist is even more interesting than the shortlist. Though I hate it when people say a work was “overlooked”. That’s insulting to those who made the choice. You don’t know that they overlooked it. Maybe they just didn’t like it.

8. I do believe that “the science fiction scene” (itself a mine of problems as far as definitions are concerned) genuinely believe that they are interested in innovation and invention, and even inclusiveness.

9. I also think that many people’s default definition of inclusiveness often boils down to “people whose work I know and like” and sometimes even “people I like” (and sometimes worst of all “people I was impressed by in previous years”) and that sometimes it’s hard to see past that, to acknowledge there are other corners of the world in your blind spot. Because when you like something, you really genuinely like it, and you shouldn’t have to apologise for that. (doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check your blind spot)

10. Yes, I do believe that science fiction publishing today is genuinely innovative, inventive and a hell of a lot more inclusive than it ever used to be. But then again, my definition of what is “science fiction” may be more inclusive than most.

I hope this answers your question.

Lots of love,
Tansy
Galactic Suburbia

Deborah Biancotti has written a gorgeous essay about how creepy, horrific, threatening and generally unfriendly she finds the Australian landscape. It’s a brilliant piece of writing, undercutting and at the same time contributing to a couple of centuries of problematic attempts by writers and artists to describe, capture and define something that is pretty damn alien.

I remember hearing a story of a “genius” English painter who came out to Australia to capture the landscape, only to discover that we had the wrong kind of green. Not in paint, you understand. The trees were the wrong kind of green. Traditionally, most 19th century Australian painters approached our landscape as if it was – well, England, only without the hedgehogs.

I’m sure every country and culture has an idealised literary tradition to rail against. (Have you read a Beatrix Potter lately? Jemima Puddleduck, for example, rivals Tess of the D’Urbervilles for a place on the list of “books that make you want to kill yourself.”) But there’s something about Australia – the combination of fear and dread and danger and shame… the fact that even someone my age was so swamped with British culture that I have struggled to understand or appreciate any of the Great Australian Authors.

I live in Tasmania, which is completely unlike most of the rest of Australia. The thing, though, about Australia, is that just about everywhere is unlike most of the rest of Australia. The idea of some kind of collective identity seems strange. I remember when I and the other ROR writers were putting our series bible and pitch for the Lost Shimmaron series – we all lived in different parts of Australia, but we needed a town to base all the stories in. For the sake of appealing to as wide a range of Australian kids as possible, we needed somewhere generic, but you know, there is no generic Australian town, or generic Australian experience. There’s a big difference between living in Queensland, or New South Wales, or Tasmania, and that’s even before you get to the great divide between the eastern and western states.

Everything about living in and with the Australian landscape is a struggle. Just about every English or imported plant is now classified as a weed. Something like the blackberry, which is innocuous in its home country (cold winters kill plants. our winters just don’t get cold enough, even in Tasmania) can be a deadly, choking hazard in Australia.

(I really like blackberry jam.)

It’s become fashionable and I’m sure, environmentally necessary, to hack out and get rid of many plantations of ‘introduced’ species. But the thing about English plants, for example, is that they make great fire breaks. Eucalypts burn.

(I’d rather sit under a willow tree than a gum tree any day of the week)

When I first started writing imaginary landscapes, I felt very much as if the English landscape was the default for fantasy. I’d read far more Arthur Ransome, CS Lewis and E. Nesbit novels in my childhood than Ethel Turner.

(I’ve still never read a novel by Ethel Turner. Would you pick up a novel called “Seven Little Australians”? Sounds vile. I quite like Nan Chauncy, though.)

It was a big deal for me to introduce Australian (or at least, Tasmanian) elements into my fantasy. I got more and more comfortable with it, through stories like “Delta Void and the Unicorn Soup,” or “The Bluebell Vengeance.” It was particularly hard, I think, because I was mostly writing comedy, and the Australian landscape has always been better at grim, dangerous, angry and lost than, you know, funny. Finally, with “Siren Beat,” I threw myself wholeheartedly into it, constructing an urban fantasy world that felt to me as familiar as it did weird. Not coincidentally, it’s also one of the darker pieces I’ve ever written. Meanwhile, I’m working on my “writing actual non-fantasy set in Tasmania” fear, with a novel set in an imaginary North West Coast town that feels more real to me than Penguin or Boat Harbour. I wrote it in collaboration with Kaia, who has never set foot in Australia.

(Yes, we really have a town called Penguin)

Like Deb, I feel pretty estranged from the Australian landscape, for many reasons. I’m still pretty sure I don’t want to live anywhere else, though. And writing about it is, however problematic, never boring. Endless possibilities, right here in this one country. The weather is changing. We’re running out of water. It’s getting a bit scary over here. And yet, there’s a comfort in that Australia was never really a comfortable place to live.

Deb said it better. Go read her essay. And while you’re at it, buy her book. If you’re at all interested in the very problematic question of what an Australian writer is, this is a very good place to start.

Over the last couple of years, Ramsey has worked his way up from being a Welsh youth player with great potential to signing for Arsenal, one of the top four teams of the Premier League, to playing with the first team. He’s very young still, but he was building momentum and there was much talk about the career ahead of him. On the day in question, he was tackled by the Ryan Shawcross, the 22 year old captain of the Stoke team, causing his tibia and fibula to be broken. The injury was so horrific that the game came to a halt, players were sick and visibly shaken, and the incident was not replayed. Ramsey was stretchered off the pitch, and Shawcross was given a red card – which took him out of the game, with a three match ban.

The backlash began almost as soon as the game ended.

Players, fans and pundits excused Shawcross’s behaviour, insisting that he didn’t mean it, he wasn’t that kind of player, it was a fair tackle, he was crying when he saw what had happened, he felt really bad… The story even circulated that the ref himself didn’t think it was intentional, and had only felt he “had to” send Shawcross off because of the extent of the injury.

A media storm unfolded, with one side pointing out that, you know, they had a player in hospital who might take 8-18 months to recover, and this was in fact the third similar injury inflicted on Arsenal players in under four years. Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger said that the injury was “horrendous” and “unacceptable.” Shawcross’s supporters responded with “he didn’t mean to do it.”

Indeed, the sympathy for Shawcross began to snowball, taking on epic proportions. It was suggested that Wenger should apologise for suggesting that breaking his player’s leg was unacceptable, well before Shawcross himself had apologised for breaking said leg (there has still been no public apology though apparently a private one has been accepted).

One of the best posts on the subject I have read is this amazing, powerful piece on the Arseblog, which points out that in fact no one is saying that Shawcross meant to break Ramsey’s leg, but that the kind of behaviour he exhibited on the pitch (“he isn’t that kind of player” was also trotted out in 2007 whenShawcross broke Francis Jeffers’ ankle) makes the injury his responsibility. Arseblogger also points out the collective responsibility of the media and culture that enable and encourage dangerous play.

When Arsenal fan, actor Alan Davies, suggested on Twitter (immediately the incident) that Shawcross should be kept out of the game as long as it would take Ramsey to recover, he was met with a hail of hysteria and abuse. As Arseblogger put it: “the Shawcross ‘is not that kind of player’ brigade have been out in force.” Complaints were made that the whole incident was spoiling Shawcross’s delight in being called up to play for England, the day after the leg-breaking incident. (one blog compared Google hits for ‘feel sorry for Ryan Shawcross’ vs ‘feel sorry for Aaron Ramsey’ and even including websites which are saying things like ‘how the hell can people feel sorry for Ryan Shawcross’ the results are a little startling).

“There’s no way in a million years that he would ever, ever go out to hurt a person. He’s a lovely kid and he’s been exemplary since he’s been at this football club. It was breaking his heart coming off the pitch.”
(Stoke manager Tony Pulis)

“It’s a disappointing challenge and as I say it’s so ironic that Ryan’s involved in it because of all the players that we’ve got here he’s such a gentle kid, such a gentle lad.”
(Pulis again)

“There was no malicious intent from Ryan, he’s not that kind of player.”
(Stoke midfielder Danny Pugh)

“He’s a committed player, but he’s never going to go into a challenge looking to hurt someone.”
(Stoke player Rory Delap)

“I was with him at United for a couple of years and he’s not that type of player.”
(Wayne Rooney, striker for Manchester United and England)

“Shawcross has been called into the England squad and he doesn’t deserve the grief he’s getting.”
(Paul Parker, former England player)

“I’ve got to say I felt sorry for Shawcross. Not just because of all the hoo-ha over the challenge, but the fact it overshadowed one of the greatest moments in his life after being called up by England for the first time… I suppose the furore over the Ramsey injury is a bit of a spanner in the works, but the call-up is still a feather in his cap and he should go there and enjoy the experience as much as possible.”
(Lou Macari, sports journalist and former Scotland player)

It’s worth noting that no one has actually accused Ryan Shawcross of being malicious in his tackle. No one, not even Ramsey and Wenger and Arsenal’s most froth-mouthed supporters, has said that he deliberately set out to break the Welsh teenager’s leg in two places. Saying that a violent result of a tackle is unacceptable and was caused by reckless behaviour is not the same as saying that the result was intentional. And yet the backlash continually fights this straw argument, insisting that Shawcross is so nice, sweet, honest, gentle and kind to his mother, and more importantly, he didn’t mean to do it.

As has been pointed out calmly and clearly by many people so far, intent is important, up to a point. It’s the difference between manslaughter and murder, for example (both of which are in fact crimes). But crude, clumsy and careless can still have some pretty horrific results without there being malicious intent. Think of the damage someone can do at the wheel of the car if they are crude, clumsy or careless, not to mention drunk, tired, distracted. If you hurt someone out of reckless behaviour you get punished for it by law even if you didn’t set out to cause injury. Everywhere except the football pitch, where intent can apparently erase even the most aggressively stupid mistakes. Where spitting at someone, swearing at them or breaking their leg in two places attracts exactly the same punishment.

But I can think of another example where, socially and through the media, intent can become the difference between an incident being considered ‘a crime’ and ‘something best put behind you, eh.’ It struck me right between the eyes when I saw the language being used. About how Shawcross wasn’t that kind of player, wasn’t that kind of bloke, that he meant well, he was a good egg, that we wouldn’t want to ruin his life over something that wasn’t his fault because, after all, he didn’t mean to do it.

It’s the language of the patriarchy protecting itself. It’s the language of the privileged, scrambling to excuse the inexcusable, on the grounds that he’s a young lad, a good lad, has his whole life and career ahead of him, you wouldn’t want to spoil it for him would you? After all, he didn’t mean to do it, therefore it doesn’t count.

(psst, can’t you see just by looking at him that he deserves special treatment?)

It’s the same language that is used to excuse rapists because the rape was “only technical” and his behaviour was “out of character” and he had “a good employment record.” The same language used when a judge is concerned that a man (who pleaded guilty) might be “marked with the grave offence of rape for the rest of his days” for having sex with an unconscious woman. Chris Brown’s sister told the media that he was “a good boy, never violent” shortly after he was arrested for beating and nearly strangling his girlfriend Rhianna, and it wasn’t long before she was being blamed for her own abuse. And let’s not forget how sorry we were asked to feel for child-rapist Roman Polanski when he wasn’t allowed to pick up his Oscar in person, let alone when he was finally arrested for his crime.

This is not in any way to equate recklessly violent football players with rapists. There is no comparison to be made in that regard. But it is absolutely worth looking at the way that certain people in society – those who are privileged for their gender or race or country of origin, and particularly those who are privileged because they belong to a particular class of celebrity (artistic geniuses and sports stars are pretty high on that list) – are treated differently when they do something wrong. It’s worth looking at the way that so many people flock to excuse them on the grounds of intent, past character, and in many cases, on the grounds that being called on their inappropriate or criminal actions might disrupt their incredibly privileged lives.

Apparently 300 Arsenal fans sent letters of sympathy to Ryan Shawcross. I can’t quite get over that.

Aaron Ramsey is young and white and good-looking and healthy (apart from the broken tibia and fibula, obviously) and a British footballer, so under most circumstances he would be the most sympathetic party in a media skirmish. But Shawcross is all those things and he plays for England. Which, apparently, beats Wales. So it’s not his fault, and he’s a good bloke, and the most tragic outcome of that particular game is that the experience of being called up for the England team might be spoilt. The patriarchy has chosen a side, and closed ranks.

The patriarchy is not just a cultural phenomenon that raises men and their values above women and theirs. The patriarchy harms men, too. Particularly men who step outside the culturally approved masculine behaviours. More importantly, it protects men against what others might see as appropriate consequences for inappropriate behaviours.

Intent matters. It’s important to have good intentions, and particularly important not to have malicious, violent or abusive intentions. But intent is not everything. And it really is time that people stood up and said – no, actually. You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself right now. You might have had a hard week, but your victim has had a worse one. The fact that you cried when you saw what you had done is in fact less important than the fact that his leg will take seven months minimum to heal and that his first season playing as a starter for a Premier League football club is over four months early. Assuming, of course, that he does come back as anything like the same player he was before. Injuries like this can ruin careers, and lives, before they’ve even got started.

You don’t get cookies for not meaning to hurt someone when you have, in fact, hurt someone. Whatever the circumstances.

And maybe, if you’re not willing to change after three incidents of seriously hurting people on the pitch, maybe you actually ARE that kind of player.

“I had a tough weekend, but to come and join such a great team was absolutely fantastic. Just to have been involved with the squad has been great. All the England players have been fantastic about what happened with Aaron Ramsey. They’ve got my mind on football really, nothing else. I’ve enjoyed their company and it’s been a good experience… What happened will not be a factor when I next play again for Stoke. Whenever I pull on the Stoke shirt I have to be 100% committed and the same as ever. Hopefully, when I am back from the suspension, I can do well again.”
(Ryan Shawcross)

So in the interest of giving some actual examples, a variety of strong heroines I have been thinking about lately:

Emma Donohue in White Tiger and other novels by Kylie Chan

I once had a long conversation with someone about the lack of mothers in fantasy – and whether you could have a mother as an epic fantasy heroine. The problem with this of course (and the reason Xena didn’t get to keep her baby) is that taking a child along on a dangerous adventure is completely irresponsible. Chan was one of the first authors I found who had a solution – what if the child is immortal/powerful in her own right but still needs parenting? Emma develops powers and martial arts ability throughout the books, but which she isn’t technically a parent, she does fulfil that role throughout the books, and the juggling act of trying to sort out the school situation when you and your child are embroiled in a supernatural war was actually pretty awesome.

Briar Wilkes in Boneshaker by Cherie Priest

Another mother hero! In this case, a woman almost entirely defined by her relationship with men – Briar goes in search of her teenage son, who is himself hoping to clear the names of his father and grandfather. I’m still only halfway through the book, but after reading so much steampunk centred around boy heroes I’ve been really enjoying the novelty of a middle-aged heroine with a complex past.

Polly & Eileen in Blackout by Connie Willis

The Blitz is famous as a time when everyday people had to cope with the most extraordinary horrors while still keeping the shops open, putting food on the table, and trying not to fall apart. In this time travel novel, stranded historians Polly and Eileen learn more than they intended about the fragility of life and survival in wartime. While their male counterpart Mike gets tangled up in the “manly” dramas of Dunkirk and military hospitals, Eileen and Polly show us the day to day stresses and challenged of living through the Blitz. Just something as simple as the constant interrupted sleep… with a new baby’s habits still fresh in my mind, I’m surprised the whole population of London didn’t just go insane.

Ce’Nedra, in The Belgariad by David & Leigh Eddings.

Yes, yes, an Eddings heroine, I know. But I’m not talking here about Ce’Nedra’s disturbingly wily feminine wiles, that she shares with all the other wily Eddings women (men! men are to be trapped!) When I was thinking about kickass women, and talking with Marianne de Pierres and Nicole Murphy about the motivation often ascribed to such women (they are kickass because they were TRAUMATISED and are BROKEN) I couldn’t help thinking about Ce’Nedra in the final books of the Belgariad. Having been a whiny, stompy, brattish princess for most of the books, she comes to accept her betrothal to Surprisingly Unqualified Boy King Garion remarkably fast. He then sneaks away in the middle of the night to Save the World, in the hopes of averting a war. Left behind, Ce’Nedra realises that war is inevitable, and she’s the only one left who can serve as a figurehead for the armies of the world to come together.

What follows are some incredibly powerful scenes in which this flibbertigibbert teenage girl orders herself some shiny armour, talks the various Men In Charge into letting her do her thing, and sets off on a journey far more epic than that of her errant husband-to-be. She goes from place to place, giving speeches, talking herself raw, waving swords and generally being awesome. What really worked for me was the way that she put her own nervousness aside and put herself so deeply outside her comfort zone in order to do what she perceived as her royal duty. It’s still one of the most memorable examples I can think of a princess being useful, and actually using her aristocratic education to good effect.

Atia (Polly Walker), Rome (HBO)

The important thing about strong women, is that they don’t always have to be nice. Atia is powerful, sexy, ruthless, vulnerable, controlling and oh, just a bit evil. Her rivalry with Servilia and the nasty streak they both showed in dealing with each other (that just got nastier as the stakes got higher) was masterful television.

Wendy, Bob the Builder

How awesome is Wendy? She builds shit, she manages the team, she dresses sensibly and she exudes confidence. I love Wendy.

In closing, apparently Libba Bray has signed a new deal to write a 1920′s supernatural series featuring a female lead reminiscent of Zelda Fitzgerald and Dorothy Parker. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am. I heard the news via Twitter and thought it was that she was writing a series ABOUT Zelda and Dorothy fighting supernatural crime. I’m sure Libba’s series will be all kinds of awesome, but I want Zelda and Dorothy fighting supernatural crime!!!

I first started turning this over in my mind when I read a piece on critiquing groups in one of the Wiscon Chronicles by a woman who struggled because her female characters, who acted logically within her own cultural context, were being criticised for not being more active, aggressive, “kickass”.

And I wondered if the kickass heroine had maybe become a millstone around our necks.

The kickass heroine has become a mainstay of SF films and gaming. She has led TV series such as Xena, Alias, Buffy. She is Sarah Connor, Ellen Ripley, Lara Croft, some other characters played by Angelina Jolie, Kate Beckinsdale in Underworld…

She is tough, violent, uncompromising, ruthless, broken. You don’t mess with her.

There are many things to like about these women, particularly because they provide such a contrast to the kind of female roles that have generally been available in SF and fantasy. But it concerns me when these become the only kinds of women that there is room for in speculative fiction – particularly in SF films where Ms Kickass is the only female character, and her appeal seems to revolve around the fact that she acts like and is accepted by all the men, plus bonus boobs.

I talked about lone princesses here – I think the same can apply to Ms Kickass. Don’t get me wrong – if there’s only one woman on screen I’d rather she be kicking arse and taking names than throwing up, screaming and being rescued… but do they all have to be wearing leather trousers and tramp stamps?

There is a fine line between empowering, and objectifying. Sometimes the difference comes down to who is holding the camera, and who is sitting at the keyboard.

It’s worth noting that less than fifteen years ago, the idea of an action tv show with a female lead character was seriously revolutionary. But Xena worked, and Buffy worked… and part of the reason that they worked is because both lead characters were tough, powerful women. They were also complex, well developed characters – and they had relationships that made them feel like more than just action heroes with breasts. Characters like Gabrielle, Ephiny, Cyrene, Aphrodite, Eve, Willow, Joyce, Cordelia, Anya and Tara showed that there were many different kinds of female strength, which freed up the leads of both shows to be as tough and arse-kicking as was appropriate to the character. Both shows featured cheesecake shots and emphasised the hotness of the lead characters, though they did their best to portray this as just another weapon in their arsenal. (it’s interesting to note the contrast in Buffy’s character in images from the show vs. photoshoots and press releases)

Both TV shows carried out a constant dialogue about femininity. Both had some rocky, awkward moments, trying to shoehorn in reminders that hey, these kickass heroes are GIRLS, look, cheerleading uniform, look, flirting with a farmer! But ultimately both shows relaxed into their own skins. I still get a bit breathless watching season five, in which we see an armoured, heavily pregnant Xena still fighting her way through the world, because it doesn’t just stop. I still get resentful and angry that the show didn’t let her have more than a few episodes of being a warrior with a baby on her hip… there is a marvellous scene where a warrior sneaks up on her while she is breastfeeding in the forest… and you just know she’s not vulnerable.

But then, you know, both shows went away and we got Heroes where the women are either cheerleaders, hookers, evil matriarchs or doomed…

Ahem. I don’t want to lose the kickass heroine. But I do resist the idea that she is all that speculative fiction has to offer, and it annoys me when ‘kickass’ is used as an alternative to actual characterisation, or where it gives a writer an excuse to write her exactly as he would a man, as if that’s something cute or new or edgy to do.

I suspect that if readers do have ‘Ms Kickass Fatigue’ it’s more from a perception of the genre than from reading it – ie, those covers, with those leather trousers and those tattoos. Just like people think they know what every fat fantasy trilogy ever is like, because all the covers are similar.

What I love about the urban fantasy genre is that it tells the story from the POV of the kickass female protagonist, instead of presenting her as someone hot to look at who acts conveniently exactly like all the guys in the same story. Where she is at her most effective, Ms Kickass has a network of supporting characters who show her as a complex, three dimensional character, more than just a montage of karate chops, cleavage-in-vinyl and hair-not-tied-back-while-kicking-arse-omg. Sadly she is still, very often, the only strong woman in a man’s world. I love it when she isn’t.

There is also plenty of urban fantasy/paranormal romance that isn’t about those kinds of characters, and that’s okay too. I enjoy the fantasy chicklit that is the lighter side of these stories – Shanna Swendson, Mindy Klasky. These stories have come to the genre via romance rather than via horror/crime, which means that they haven’t had to push their way through narratives that default to a male protagonist, and don’t have to dodge tropes such as “lose your virginity and die” or “the bad girl is always brunette except when she’s blonde.” Though of course they do have to deal with “if he loves you it’s happy ever after” which is just as problematic in many ways.

The female protagonists in urban fantasy, as in modern crime fiction, have taken back the noir. I don’t want them to give it up. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want more. We can have it all, right?

This is, quite simply, the Connie Willis novel that her fans have been waiting for. With novels such as To Say Nothing of the Dog and The Doomsday Book, with stories such as “Fire Watch,” her interest in World War II history and in particular the Blitz has been evident – but it has taken until now to produce her Great Blitz Novel.

The bad news for fans is, this is only half of said novel. The second half is being released as All Clear at the end of 2010. Little concession is made to the gap between publication, with Blackout simply pausing on a very minor cliffhanger, as if there has been a paper shortage. But, you know, those of us who have been waiting a decade for a Willis novel will naturally suck it up and wait the extra ten months or so.

Blackout covers familiar ground, introducing us to the gentle future England we have met in earlier books, the kind of science fiction that might be imagined while lazily punting down a river in 1930′s Cambridge. There has been no Spike in this version of the mid-twenty-first century, which is peopled with earnest time-travelling scholars so completely wrapped up in the minutiae of their favourite time period that they don’t seem to notice the lack of wireless internet and iPods. (I’m pretty sure they all write notes with fountain pens)

In charge of it all is Mr Dunworthy (does anyone else mentally subsitute that for Dumbledore?) who has obviously been so traumatised by his appearances in Willis’ earlier time travel books that he has become snappish and irritable, determined to protect his students, who are all equally determined to go back in time and get themselves blown up in air raids.

I’ve always liked the ingenious system of time travel that Willis created for this universe – historians who are only allowed to observe, or to reclaim objects that might otherwise be destroyed. A net-like ‘drop’ which will not let them through to points of great historical fragility or significance, and which re-opens regularly to allow their return. Slippage, the technical term used when historians don’t quite make the time and place they meant to go, and which is always assumed to be time itself ensuring that disasters do not occur.

Ironic, really, because in a Connie Willis time travel novel, disasters always occur. In this case, three eager young historians: Eileen, observing the most horrendous evacuee children ever devised; Mike, posing as a reporter to learn about the Dunkirk spirit; and Polly, whose research project is the life of shopgirls during the Blitz, all get separated from their drop points. Which would be fine, if they had a back up plan to contact Mr Dunworthy back in the future. Or indeed, each other.

But that’s okay, it’s time travel – surely there will be a rescue team along to pick them up. Some time today. Surely. Okay, maybe tomorrow. Huh.

The pleasure in Blackout is, as is to be expected, the wealth of detail about this particular time period. It is a love letter to the Blitz, describing what it would be like to hide from air raids, flirt with soldiers, swap nylons, and deal with cranky landladies. It’s crossword puzzles and Tube station sleeping and knitting and rubble. It’s marvellous. Of course it is. But sadly, just as we finally seem to be launching into action beyond day to day survival … did I mention the book just stops?

So basically, I’m waiting. I don’t know what is in store. The thing about a Connie Willis novel is – there’s always comedy, and there’s always romance, and there’s always drama. And sometimes she leaves you feeling happy and fluffy and cheerful, and sometimes she leaves you (okay, me) a gasping, sobbing puddle of goo on the bed because sometimes, just sometimes, her books reach through the ribs and rip your lungs right out of your chest.

I’d kind of like to know which kind of this book is, but I won’t until All Clear is on the horizon.

My response to the film is not just as a woman, someone who generally enjoys Disney movies and a feminist, but also as the mum of a little girl who adores Disney Princesses and has bought into the brand lock stock and barrel.

The movie itself is great – beautifully drawn, with good crunchy characters and probably the best Disney romance since Hercules and Megara (or, if we’re talking romances for Disney princesses, Belle and the Beast). I have no way of knowing if 1920′s New Orleans is being presented here in an authentic way, but there was a surprising depth of cultural details that I certainly enjoyed. The music contributed to this, and blended very well with the story (more so than in most Disney movies of the last 15 years where a couple of ‘big’ songs are thrown haphazardly in between dialogue). Even the random stuffed-toys-in-the-making animal helper characters had interesting personalities and story arcs (I shed a tear over Ray the firefly).

But never mind the story, it’s the princess that parents everywhere will have to live with. Let’s look at Tiana…

I’ve heard people complain that we finally get a black Disney princess, and she not only spends most of the movie as a frog, but also has to work for a living instead of just getting the fantasy romance. While these points are valid, there really isn’t much to worry about in this regard. Tiana’s image as a young, pretty, glamorous black Disney princess is everywhere. She only appears in her iconic green dress for about thirty seconds in the film, and already in the last 24 hours I’ve seen it on a storybook cover, a movie poster, birthday cards and a doll. In some ways, it doesn’t matter what’s in the movie at all – it’s the image that will survive, and the image of Tiana treats her as an equal to the other major princesses (as opposed to the minor leagues, such as Pocahontas and Mulan, who are given lesser status in official merchandise because they’re not technically princesses and not because of any other cultural or racial reasons, honestly)

Also – who wants a Disney Princess who lies around eating peeled grapes anyway? Tiana has far more personality than most of them have in their little finger – my favourite before now has been Belle, not only because I liked her movie before I had a daughter, but because she’s brunette and reads books, has her own personality and gets a decent romance rather than just being hurled at the nearest prince. Tiana is my new favourite! I liked that there are so many positive messages in this film – but the one that stands out most is that there is no one destined path, but if there’s something you want/wish/dream then you might not get it the way that you think you will. It’s a far more interesting message than any other Disney film.

Actually, there’s a lot of Disney meta in this one, from the ‘wish upon a star’ cliche through to the little girls who are obsessed with princess dresses. None of it is hamfisted, and all of it contributes to a movie that genuinely feels like progress is being made, rather than more of the same. Just as Beauty and the Beast offered a more complex and sophisticated story for little girls than the Snow White/Cinderella/Sleeping Beauty films, or even its closer peers like The Little Mermaid (Jasmine from Aladdin is pretty awesome for a love interest, but that’s basically what she is, she barely gets her own story arc), Tiana and the Princess and the Frog have levelled up.

Prince Naveen was likeable but flawed, and like the Beast has some maturing to do before he’s worthy of our girl. I liked that his learning curve matched Tiana’s (she worked so hard she was missing out on life; he played too hard and had no purpose in life) but that ultimately he supported her dream rather than the other way around. He fell harder and sooner than she did, and made the greater change in what he thought he needed to be happy – but never actually changed his personality, just his goal-posts.

Also, Tiana has strong parental influence – her mother is still alive HOORAY and generally awesome, and they have a great relationship. Tiana’s dad dies before the main story begins but we do get to see him early in the film and how his personality and his death have shaped who she is as a person – which makes her feel more real than any other Disney Princess. We never find out a thing about Belle, Jasmine, Ariel, Cinderella or Snow White’s missing mothers in the films (I think some of the supporting material addresses this, for Ariel at least) and I’m pretty sure Sleeping Beauty’s mother is just window dressing, while her father gets whole scenes of comic relief and a duet which he shares with the Prince Phillip’s father.

Finally – and this is the big one – Tiana has a friend. Not a male plush toy (yes Sebastian, Flounder and Jasmine’s Tiger, I’m looking at you) but an actual female friend. I understand Nnedi’s skepticism about why there had to be a white girl in the movie at all, but Charlotte with her blonde bob, pink princess dresses and screechy voice, is just wonderful. Sure, she’s a parody of Disney princesses, but she’s also a good and loyal friend. Gloriously self-obsessed and man-mad (she has her cap set on the prince long before Tiana even knows he exists) she nevertheless has two strong scenes in which she sets aside her own needs to help her friend, without even a hesitation. While Charlotte is after the prince (and indeed Tiana spends most of the movie thinking he also wants to marry her, if only for her money) she is still instantly supportive when she realises Tiana has fallen in love with him, genuinely glad her friend has found the fairy tale rather than being jealous that she did not.

Do you have any idea how rare this is? In any movie, actually, but in princess girl movies especially. No Disney princess has ever had a best friend who was a girl, let alone one who was a rival for her man but does not let that in any way taint their friendship. The closest thing any of them have had to female friendship (discounting older female helper characters like the fairy godmothers or Mrs Potts) was Pocahontas, whose best friend spends most of the film angry/jealous at her, and Ariel, whose sisters don’t understand her at all. Mulan gets female friends in her sequel movie, and I haven’t seen all the sequels to the other princesses, so I can’t discount those for certain, but – yeah. Charlotte is a big deal. I suspect many will hate her, because she displays many traits that tend to be bitch magnets, but I hope there will be plenty of parents and daughters who appreciate how cool and rare it is for a Disney princess to have a supportive best friend.

Sadly  godiyeva‘s eldest wasn’t feeling well enough to come along, so I don’t have any evidence on how well this film will appeal to the boychildren (and the unprincessable girlchildren), but I suspect it will go down well. Not least because the glorious princess outfits are balanced out by swamp adventuring, comedy animals, spooky magic and lots of fun music. Raeli found it quite scary in parts, which is a good sign for the less nervy children. There’s a very good balance of action and comedy in between all the romance, and given that the romance happens between two frogs anyway (there’s an awesome scene involving tongues that I’m kind of surprised they got away with!) it should be pretty accessible.

This is a great post, and raises one of the issues that I know I need to keep in mind – when complaining about the imbalance of women in the arts, it’s very easy to render invisible those who are and always have been a part of the scene. That’s one of the reasons that I like to review books that I read, even though it adds extra pressure to the whole reading-as-a-hobby thing (ha!).

The most memorable and important class I took at college (grades 11 & 12, not university) was Art Appreciation, which I chose purely because I had already signed up for the maximum number of history and english classes that could count towards university, and this was an essay-based subject. I had a great teacher, Wayne, who introduced us to a whirlwind of art history, and had a particular interest in pointing out female artists, and the use of women as subjects of art. His passion that year was artistic depictions of Judith slaying Holophernes, and this led me to Artemisia Gentileschi, still my favourite artist and the one who is most important to me. I chose female artists as my year-long project and wrote about Artemisia, and Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, and Judy Chicago, and Georgia O’Keeffe. My eyes were well and truly opened to women in the world of fine arts, and the way they are so often overlooked, and that has always stayed with me.

Anyway, read Mari’s post, it’s awesome and layered with all sorts of things that I know I should think about more – like the way that people assume that any artwork that is anonymous is male, and that if it wasn’t made by women, it’s not art but ‘craft’.

And since apparently this is the day of awesome posts about gender, Overland have one over at their blog, too. (via @TalieHelene on Twitter, I love that people send me this stuff directly now!) This post picks up on a few other discussions about invisible sexism in literature and asks some important questions:

• Is there a difference between what women and men write?
• What do we judge as good writing?
• Where do we get these ideas about good writing from?
• How important is voice and experience to good writing?

All good stuff, and that distracted me nicely from my appalling strep throat and paranoia that the antibiotics aren’t kicking in for at least twenty minutes. Thank you, internet!