There comes a time when you look up from your constant work and open the windows to let the spring breezes of current events in and take a deep fucking lungful only to say:

What the fresh hell is going on in this country?

Trayvon Martin gets shot to death by a neighborhood watch who stalked him, decided his bag of Skittles was threatening, shot him through the kid’s tears and screams for help, claims self-defense, and the police don’t so much as arrest him? They don’t intend an investigation even though the shooter has fled the city, most likely the state, and disappeared?

NYPD just straight up beat OWS folks into the ground while hissing obscenities at them because they dared show up at Zucotti Park after a rally? Obviously no charges filed, because fuck those hippies.

Rick Santorum–RICK SANTORUM–the senator with the most notorious surname in politics, the one so crazy and mean the whole internet got together to make him no longer viable as a political entity, is winning primaries and might actually be the Republican candidate.

And apparently, APPARENTLY, all of that lovely talk about how American feminists should shut up because the battle is won and everything’s SUPER COOL and happyfunequalitytiemz now is just so much wishful thinking, because we are returning to fucking VAUDEVILLE levels of woman-hating right now. Want an abortion? Well, we’re going to need to violate you with this penis-shaped, condom-covered instrument then, just to remind you of the devil’s work you did to get into this situation in the first place. Nobody knows how birth control or a goddamn uterus works, we seem to be having an actual discussion about whether it’s appropriate to be on birth control as an adult woman, and though conservatives want to frame it as a health insurance issue, it’s really about taking contraception away entirely, as evidenced by the Arizona bill that wants to make it legal for an employer to terminate a woman because she’s on birth control. (No word on Viagra, of course. That’s for a serious medical condition! It must be covered!) Since women already get fired for being pregnant, the logical solution is don’t hire women anymore, and PRESTO CHANGO WE’RE BACK IN 1957 WHEN EVERYTHING WAS PERFECT AM I RITE.

And now, NOW, this asshole in Georgia wants to make it illegal to remove an ALREADY DEAD fetus from a woman’s body until she “naturally passes it” because “that’s what cows and pigs do.”

WHAT. WHAT?

It’s not even an abortion, it’s hazmat removal. To say a woman should risk death and incur obvious psychological trauma from carrying around a corpse as long as possible because cows and pigs do it? Ok, you’ve done it, you’ve actually blown my mind. It seems pointless to say a woman is not a cow or a pig, that anatomy is not identical across the animal kingdom, that it is cruel and beyond the pale to deny necessary medical treatment to a woman because it kind of sort of reminds you of abortion, that the default state of the universe is not Men = Human, Women = animals. That oh my god now not only are women’s lives not as important as fetuses, they are much less important than dead fetuses. And some people will vote for this! They will look at this thing and say: sounds good to me. A pig can make bacon, maybe we should start rounding women up for meat, too.

Is it seriously just that we have a black man in office, so conservatives cannot cast their reality-blocking bubble spell as completely as they did during Bush’s years? Because at least when Bush was around they weren’t telling me not to take birth control on the very flimsy excuse of supporting the Catholic Church, which most American far-right Christians think is a wretched hive of scum and villainy and also witches and idolatry. Is it that the very notion of reality including a black man in power so totally destroys the decency centers of conservative America that all their oldest, ugliest, most ridiculously old-timey sexism and racism comes flying out like psychic vomit? Men who can’t even bring themselves to say the word vagina are deciding what I can and can’t do with mine, and it’s not because the government should stay out of health care, it’s probably not even because babies are so sacred, it’s all about putting those whores in their place, which is not in the office, it’s not in college (else why keep calling women in college co-eds like it’s 1920 and they just let a woman into Oxford for the first time, whatever will the menfolk do? They’re students, you unbelievable jerks), it’s in stirrups, it’s in the kitchen, it’s out of sight and out of mind, with their icky, icky parts hidden away.

I get in trouble when I talk about politics on this blog. Back when McCain was running I posted a paragraph about how grotesque I thought he was and got a rash of comments and pingbacks about how authors should shut up about politics and stick to writing about elves. So most of the time I just don’t say anything, because I don’t want the grief. But things are getting unreal. The level of cognitive dissonance it takes to insist the Republicans are the party of small government while supporting their desire to legislate every aspect of the sexual lives of everybody (think straight men’s sex lives won’t be affected by women not being able to get birth control? Think again) actually hurts my brain to contemplate. Yet half this country blithely spouts it–and quite a lot of geeks, who would never call themselves conservative and certainly would like to get laid a whole lot, gleefully support Ron Paul, who’s so libertarian that he supports practically no government regulation EXCEPT ON THE LADIES AND THE GAYS YOU GOTTA REIGN THAT SHIT IN.

And all the while the only people who even want to talk about the mass financial crimes of Wall Street or the crises facing young people as the economy circles the drain are being beaten like dogs for opening their mouths in the same place that some tents were pitched last fall.

Oh, and it’s 75 degrees in March in Maine and we’re running out of oil and just about everything else. But the Bible doesn’t say that can happen so we should be fine. Don’t even think about researching alternative fuel! That’s not how we powered our Cadillacs in 1957! Therefore it’s suspect!

I don’t get it. I fundamentally don’t understand how in 2012 this is the country I live in. I want to believe it’s the last death throes of the old world, of the terrible, toxic ideas of the 20th century finally spasming out, but these people control a significant part of our governement, and Santorum isn’t even old. We can’t just sit back and say they’ll die off eventually. The earth will never run out of assholes. And this obsession with the essential goodness of the past, the need to not just live life by conservative principles but force everyone else to do the same so you don’t even have to think about anyone ever being any different than you…I can hardly think of an uglier instinct in humans. Rather, I can, but they all come from this same one. And we’re hip-deep in it–but anytime someone gets angry enough to speak out, they get a can of pepper spray to the face. (Seriously, who is training the police these days?)

It’s so much more fundamental than a single election. Hell, it contaminates other countries–the UK is considering, for some kind of insane reason, to scrap their NHS and adopt our system, a system that doesn’t work for us at all and harms our populace. A system so bad it’s the punchline of jokes. But it’s more than that, even. A huge part of the country I live in wants to silence and crush people like me–and that “like me” has multiple vectors. Female, queer, young, liberal, artist, techie. It goes on. I once thought you simply couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle when it came to a lot of these issues. You can’t force a nation to re-shackle itself. But maybe, if your hate is strong enough, you can do it piecemeal, bit by soul-killing bit.

We need an It Gets Better campaign for America–except I’m not sure it actually will.

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Last night I went to speak at a local elementary school about The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland. It was a good event with a nice turnout, with a bunch of really eager and interested kids who don’t often get to meet authors. Since the book came out I’ve spoken at a lot of schools, of every socio-economic level from incredibly posh private school to low-income public schools.

Now, I was educated at public schools–all the way from K to graduate school. I moved around a lot and some of my schools were better than others. I went to community college. But it’s always been public school for me and if it’s not too bold I think I got a pretty awesome education there, due in large part to phenomenal teachers. Mr. Danielson, Mr. Crossman, Mrs. Lamp, Mrs. Bonneau, Mrs. Bruch, Mr. Kanna, Mr. Wrightson, Dr. Schwartz, Drs. Edwards, Dr. Clark, Dr. Ringrose, Dr. Dubois–these people made me who I am.

I believe in public school. And I also know how difficult funding, teaching, and running a school has become.

Most of the schools that I go to are pretty well off, in good districts, private schools–because those schools ask. Those schools have had authors in the past. They can afford honorariums. One principal even gave me a silver bracelet as a gift for visiting the school. And those kids get a lot out of an author visit. They learn about publishing and about how a story gets written, they get a chance to see books as living things that grown ups are passionate about, they get exposure to the wider world and to art as a wage-making life choice. Peter Beagle came to my high school when I was in 10th grade. It had a profound and lasting effect on me.

And so I came to a decision last night while talking to the 5th graders in South Portland, and to their teacher, who shook her head and talked about how expensive it was to bring authors in, even to get them to do a Skype visit. That it’s just not possible for them very often. Because Maine, a state I love and have made my home, has a severely underfunded educational system. We have a lot of struggling schools, a lot of districts who could never afford to bring in speakers and writers for their kids. We have great teachers and librarians, but the state has been hit hard by every economic downturn and rarely buoyed by upturns that bring tech money to Boston and maybe even Portland, but certainly not to the vast interior of Maine or the outlying islands.

I live here. It is a place I want to see thrive. So from here until forever, I will waive speaking fees for any K-12 school in Maine that asks me to come and talk to their students.

I will pay for my own transportation, yes, even to Eastport or Presque Isle or Matinicus Island. I will provide any incidentals or technical equipment so that the cost to the school remains zero. Scheduling concerns notwithstanding, I am simply making myself available to Maine schools for free. This does include private schools, for all I’m a public school advocate. Even schools that can afford to pay me should get a break sometimes. Use the fee to buy new books for the library or to bring in a second author.

Why just Maine? Why not extend this offer to anywhere in the US, or the world? Kids everywhere need help, don’t they? Well, the simple answer is: I live here. I plan to for a long time. I feel it is vitally necessary to invest in my community, and for kids to see someone who lives in the same world that they do making something beautiful and putting it into the world. To see someone living and working in Maine becoming a New York Times bestseller with a book she wrote in Maine. More practically, I can’t afford to fly anywhere, anytime. This is what I can do, what I can give back to the place that has accepted me and given me so much joy and inspiration.

Maybe no one will take me up on this. Maybe they will. But I feel it is the right thing to do. Any teacher or principal can contact me through my website or my publicist at Feiwel and Friends.

I get asked a lot when I knew I was going to be a writer when I grew up. And the answer is not until I was already writing professionally. When I was a kid, up through college, I wanted to be a teacher. I wanted to get people excited about the things I was excited about , and do what all those amazing teachers and professors I mentioned (and many more unnamed) had done for me.

I went another way, and I’m not a teacher. But I hope I can give a little help to those wonderful, dedicated women and men who do the good work every day.

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The Etsy blog just posted this story about a woman’s quest to completely locally source a coat.

It’s presented as a great success, a doable thing (even though the coat cost $900) and a harbinger of, or at least an indicator for a possible mechanism for a new economy.

And here’s where your humble narrator goes: hrmmmmm.

Because if you read that article, you may or may not notice the several things that I did. Now, I’m not saying this lady is wrong and should feel bad–she’s fine, she went on a journey and this is what she found. But the triumphalism is a little odd. Look:

Just fifteen minutes from my front door, mills used to transform locally-grown fiber into beautiful fabric. All that capability is gone now, off-shored in the 1990s.

Yep, me too. Except…she’s in Sonoma Country, which was wine country by the 1990s, and not mill country in the way, say, the entire state of Maine was. But ok, sure, there was a mill there. But the vanishing of the textile industry (which went down in this country LONG before the 1990s, hell, Kerouac wrote about it) is presented as a tragedy here. A lost time of beauty and care, the creation of exquisite, handcrafted items loved by all.

That is not what a textile mill does. The idea that we’ve been expelled from the Eden of…mass-produced textiles that probably didn’t spend one second in Sonoma County before being shipped who knows where is fascinating, and indicative of where the local movement is going a bit awry. Yes, things were made there. No, they did not stay there, and if you’re longing for the Xanadu of early 90s manufacturing in California, well, I don’t even know. Sonoma County has become vastly rich doing exactly what locavores delight in: making wines. Locally. Charging a lot for them. I don’t think anyone there would trade the money of yuppie wine lovers for the return of the textile mills, with their cancerous fumes and river-polluting and punishing working conditions. BUT IT WAS LOCAL.

You know what part of the country would love to have the textile industry back, though? New England! Because in its wake, it left a hugely economically depressed region that has not been able to recover due to damn near perfect growing conditions for expensive wine! So I feel like I have a little bit of a handle on how to make a local coat, given that I live in Post-Apocalyptic CoatWorld USA. But back to that in a moment.

Because she doesn’t make her coat locally. If you pay attention, she admits that they “could not” locally source the following items: the silk liner for the coat, cotton thread, and magnets to use as a coat closure because the designer didn’t want to make buttonholes for some reason. I presume the olive oil soap used to clean the fiber was also not local, nor the muslin used to make the pattern.

Alright, so this is only a locally made coat in the loosest sense, isn’t it? In that: the alpaca was local. The felter and carder were local. The designer was local. That’s it. Every other aspect of the coat was made somewhere else, and in the case of the magnets, probably somewhere very else. And it cost $900.

Normally, I wouldn’t say anything, but this is specifically touted as “dress locally” and a new economy success story. All the comments are supportive of that read on it, and it’s the thesis of the article. Apparently this “new economy” still needs all the trappings of the old economy, but as long as you don’t think about it, it’s still morally pure.

So I started thinking about this, because I am a fiber artist who makes some of my own clothing. Because if asked the question: can you make a single locally sourced garment if price is no object? The answer is: of fucking course. (At least where I live. I find vocal locavore evangelists sometimes forget that not everyone lives in California, the Pacific Northwest, and other areas of highly fertile land and an affluent population that can support all of these high-priced, handmade, local $900 coat movements. If you want to eat locally year-round in Maine, I hope you really like dried beans, because the winter CSA will airlift a freaking crate of them to your door.)

So: I am a knitter. I have the most rudimentary of sewing skills. I still think I can make this happen for under $900 and be, you know, actually local.

So, first, the yarn. Nothing to it. I can drive 15 minutes out of town and get all the alpaca fluff I want, in pretty much any direction. I can card it myself, and though my spinning skills are probably not up to making the fine yarn needed, there is an amazing spinner on this very island I could give it to to turn it into yarn for me. While she’s at it, she can spin some thread that I can send to the nice lady in California. I am baffled at the notion that thread must be cotton, or that cotton is somehow not a crop that grows and is for sale in central California, the most fertile place on earth. If the spinner is not available, I suppose I could just practice a little more and do it myself.

I am fully capable of designing my own pattern and knitting it–I highly suspect the lion’s share of that $900 went to the clothing designer and the three fittings, not to the alpaca farmers, though of course I could be wrong. I am capable of this because I’ve spent four years knitting and learning, and the article is absolutely right that that knowledge is always factored into any price. But I promise, you can do it, too.You can also felt your knitting in your washing machine for approximately $0.

At this point, we come to the lining. Now, I question the need for it to be chiffon silk to begin with–when attempting high-grade localness, sometimes you have to make do with linen like a plebe. But ok, sure. Let’s pretend it has to be silk, because it’s not just a local movement, it’s an affluent local movement, and what would the other Whole Foods moms say? Well, a quick Google search did not turn up any silkworm farms in Maine. Sad face! Turns out the state subsidized silkworm farms in the mid 1800s but since they only eat mulberry leaves and mulberry trees don’t dig the frigid cold, it didn’t take. Hilariously, though, searching for silkworm farms in Maine turned up as the fourth hit a silkworm farm in Fallbrook, CA, which is a bit rough for the local tag at 500 miles from Sonoma, but you can also contact the UC Davis cooperative, as they farm them, too, and that’s not even 100 miles from Sonoma. (Also I went to high school there. Go Aggies!)

So, they could have gotten locally sourced silk, but I cannot. However, there at least five or six serious weavers on my island and I’m pretty damned sure I can get a nice piece of fine linen to line my jacket with and I would somehow be able to face my silkless image in the mirror every morning.

For buttons–and I cannot comprehend a designer that, knowing the goal is to make as locally sourced a garment as possible, decides she doesn’t want to cut the fabric and make buttonholes because fuck buttonholes I guess, and goes for magnets. Which they didn’t even try to locally source–even though Southern California boasts several magnet manufacturers (remember, mills are awesome, so it doesn’t matter whether those magnets are made in terrible conditions, they are made in-state) and the Mountain Pass Mine, the largest rare metals mine in the United States–specifically metals used in the creation of magnets. Now, that mine just opened last year. Maybe it won’t be as rich as we think. But you can make magnets in middle-school science class, for reals, guys.

Yeah, I’ll think make some buttonholes.

Then I’d go to my local yarn store (owned by an islander!), who carries beautiful pewter carved buttons from a Portland metalworker. Or I’d make glass buttons myself with my lampworking setup at home. I can even manage the olive oil soap, as there is actually an olive oil press outside of Portland, and they make soap.

I would estimate my total materials and someone-else’s-labor cost for the coat at about $150, much less if I spun the fleece myself, maybe $220 if I had to buy the yarn already spun up (which I could still do locally). Does the experience and knowledge of 2-3 humans plus my time knitting the coat add up to a $700 markup? I don’t know. Maybe. Probably not, if we’re really trying to show what local economies can do.

Her coat wasn’t knitted at all but felted straight from the fleece. Knitting takes longer, but knitting for felting can go pretty quickly. Call the whole thing $300 to sell, not to make–which is being very generous, because I’m positive that with my New Economy shoes on, I could barter for the weaving and the spinning. 66% off, and not far from what you’d pay for a good alpaca coat from the mall. Still not cheap, and I didn’t support any local clothing designers except, I guess, me. (Designers do good work, too! But the experiment here was simply to have a locally-sourced coat, not a runway-ready one.) I’m lowballing the profit margin…because I recognize that people do not have that much to spend. I don’t make coats for a living, obviously. I believe strongly that the benefit of localness has to be weighed against the cost to that very community, and we can’t all sell each other $1000 clothes. Again, the issue was never to make a fashion-forward coat of awesome that would make the drag queen angels weep. It was: can you dress locally. And the ease with which the affluent can insist a pricetag like that is reasonable and scalable enough to change the way our economy works bothers me on a deep level.

Normally, I wouldn’t make such a stink. I would maybe Tweet about it. Locally made garment. Cool. But this article made such a big deal about the very special localness of this experiment in the new economy, when really, only one item used in the making of the coat was locally sourced. What the word “local” means has always been a sticking point for me as this movement has grown–often the big showy items are local, but the invisible stuff, cookware to prepare that meal, spices, salt, thread, magnets, plates, require the entire apparatus of the industrial economy to be in full swing. Yes, it’s a good thing to invest in your community and get things locally, in no small part because it often tastes a hell of a lot better if it’s food, but to pretend like this is the New World while benefiting greatly from the presence and continuation of the Old World puts my nose out of joint. It also ignores that people in other communities also matter, and need jobs, like to be able to make money off of their farms, their art, the work of their hands. I assure you, much of the state of Maine would be happy to make your coat with the love of the common man in their hearts, weeping righteous tears right into the fabric. But that wouldn’t be local if you live in California. And the word, the dare we say label, has become more important than anything else.

What I think we want when we say we want localness is story. We want to know about the things we use because we’ve become very disconnected from those things. We want to feel some affinity with what we use, what we eat, what we wear. We like knowing the names of the people who made it, because that makes us feel more human, more invested in the world. It makes us happy, because we are creatures who seek company, tribes, and depth. And if you can get those things, maybe it matters a little less how few miles they came to get to you. I got a necklace from Etsy today. It came from Sacramento. Not local–but still made by a human girl whose name and face I’ve seen, if only in a photograph.

But the pricetag of the coat gets in my grill too. Nothing that involves a $1000 coat is a harbinger of a new economy. It’s the old economy, where the rich can afford to have beautiful handmade things and the rest of us are priced into manufactured t shirts. There’s a crack in bloody Gosford Park about that little socio-economic turn of the tide. It happened around the year 1900. It is OH SO Industrial Revolution. The article admits this, but, because it’s the Etsy blog, asks whether you wouldn’t want to be paid $900 to make a coat? Well, we all want things. But if your new economy of local, communal friendship and cooperative manufacturing relies on someone else being wealthy enough in the old economy sense to want to pay you in cash during a Depression what a goodly portion of us pay in rent? Then you’re not out to change the world. You’re just out for your share from the bad old system as it is.

And that’s fine. It really, really is. We all need to make our way. But it’s not an Etsy-messiah triumph of local economies nor does it prove anything about a new way of living.

That article asks: Can you make a locally sourced garment? It believes that it has answered yes. It is super excited about the answer being yes! My point is that the story as presented actually says no. But the real answer is still yes, it just takes a little more research and time. But not more money, necessarily.

Some of this may have seemed harsh, and I really have no beef with the author of the article. She seems really nice and enthusiastic.

But she’s not wearing a locally-sourced coat.

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For reasons almost entirely irrelevant to this post, I have been mucking about with Westerns of late. I’ve seen a rather obscene number of That Sort of Film due to having grown up in California (they’re history! Srsly!) and having a Western-obsessed ex-father-in-law. I’m less hep on the literary front, but no slouchy stranger to it, I promise.

So I come from a place of some authority when I tell you that True Grit is really, really good. Both the book and the recent film adaptation–let us not speak of the original movie. Look, I know it’s JOHN WAYNE ZOMG and a classic and whatever, but it’s a ridiculous over the top movie that robs the novel of all it’s uniqueness and power. It cannot trust the words of the book, the simple power of the story. And they CANNOT STOP with that horrible theme song. Dmitri turned to me and whispered: “Did they…back then…did people just not know how to act yet?”

I think that says it all. Yeah, I don’t care for the Duke. What a shock. Clutch your pearls.

Whereas the Coen Brothers flick is pretty freaking great. It is miles more loyal to the book, which is GREAT, because DAMN, that book. It’s got this dialect thing going that is just easy and fluid and fabulous, it’s a tight, emotional, gorgeously written thing. A perfect marriage of style and content.

And what do you know, there’s a Strong Female Protagonist in it.

Watching TG for the third time–and it’s few enough movies I can do that with and not be bored–it struck me that this is a novel written in 1968, about the mid 19th century, in a genre notoriously hostile and uncaring toward women, by a dude who was born in 1933, and it’s got a complex, interesting, active female protagonist who is never punished for being a girl, who tells everyone who talks down to her to fuck right off, who moves the plot herself and in fact gets to shoot the man who wronged her. She is the point of view character and though she ends up a spinster, she dismisses any notion the audience might have to feel sorry for her or see that as a meet end for a girl who steps out of place, saying she never had time to fool with marriage. Her sheer amazingness does not preclude the presence of Rooster Cogburn, a compelling and iconic male character, nor the badassery and redemption arcs of the men in her company. It simply exists. (Though oddly I’ve seen people refer to Mattie in both film adaptations as a sociopath, which seems to miss the point entirely and say something quite ugly about the kind of people who think a girl doing what everyone in revenge plays have been doing since they were invented means she’s a sociopath.)

Yes, she’s 14, and many writers have fallen into the trap of believing a young/sexually immature woman can be allowed a freedom and level of interest older/mature women cannot, but I used to be 14 (crazy!), and I’ll tell you what, that’s well past the innocence of pre-adolescence. Mattie Ross, without a chain mail bikini or a giant sword or any need to reassure you that she’s just a girly girl at heart, tee hee, kicks ass. She does not give two fucks, and the text supports her in not giving them. It gives her space to work out her own story. She is neither impossibly strong, superpowered, crazy hot, nor wishing for a boyfriend.

You know, in 2012, the number of films and books that allow women to do this are vanishingly small.

Aliette de Bodard wrote an excellent post about the invisibility of women in Sherlock–but even more about how this is kind of a new thing, male writers just erasing women from their fictional cosmoses entirely. If you look back at Doyle, his contemporaries, his predecessors, though women might be harpies or evil or simply rewards for men, they were never just absent the way they are in portions of current television and film. People had mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, and so did everyone they knew. You couldn’t just blot them out because you weren’t “interested” in them–every Greek play has one, some several, Shakespeare even at his bro-iest (surely Love’s Labour’s Lost?) still has multiple chicks on stage. Yes, older works are often misogynist and ugly. But the disturbing trend of showing only dead, silent, or supremely unimportant women briefly and then rushing back into a universe peopled only by hot men is (perhaps) our own special invention. At least it’s the addiction of a significant number of creative minds.

And I can’t help thinking that even in Serenity, the Future!Western authored by the Sainted Whedon who can do no wrong, does not allow River to fight the Operative herself. She can mop up Reavers offscreen–Reavers who are brutal but not official representatives of the government that harmed this girl nor out to get her particularly–but the great man-to-man battle that decides the narrative of the film, that’s for the big boys, kid.

A 1968 novel does better. The sheer centrality of Mattie, given that she has the classic bromance Big Men swordfighting with their egos around her, astonishes me, even though it shouldn’t. If Steven Moffat got ahold of this, she’d be a petulant, shouty superhot annoyance while the real story became Cogburn and LeBoeuf, who would naturally get all her best lines. Eventually we’d find out that Mattie’s brother sent her to do all this in the first place and planned it all. (I still cannot forgive that assassination of Irene Adler.)

All this is depressing as hell. Encouraging, I suppose, that the Coen Brothers made this film in 2010, that movies like Hanna still get made.Television is a worse state, and frankly most popular SF/F is incredibly dire on the sheer visibility of women, let alone any kind of 201 treatment of their stories. What. the. hell. It should be better by now. It was supposed to get better.

But I never thought I’d say that I wish more creators displayed the feminism of a 1960s Western.

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Tonight I am reading at the NYRSF event at the Soho Gallery for Digital Art!

It’s an Under the Moons of Mars event, so I’ll be reading from my Barsoom story. I hope to see some of you there–I have been trying not to overbook myself while in NY, with the effect of not seeing as many friends as usual. Also: must acquire soup dumplings to complete my travel tradition!

Also, my story Urchins, While Swimming is now up at PodCastle! It’s beautiful, and has singing!

I’ll be back home tomorrow. It’s been a good trip, with much fun. But my own bed awaits. I had a dream that we had to evacuate earth and populate another planet due to s comet or whatever and they made us leave our pets behind. So I’ll be needing to cuddle my dogs and my cat!

Lastly, seanan_mcguire’s new novel Discount Armageddon is out today–go find yourself a copy if you know from awesome!

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