Dear girls of the world today;
There is nothing wrong with you.
Everything I see, everything I read, everything I hear, is geared toward telling you that something is wrong with you. You’re too fat. You’re too thin. Your skin is terrible. You look too young. You look too old. You’re too smart, you’re too dumb, you talk too much, you don’t talk enough, you’re broken, you’re flawed, you’re bad. And all those things are lies. They are exaggerations. They are designed to pick on the things you feel insecure about, and convince you that you will never be happy unless you force yourself into their standards of perfection.
They will tell you that you are weak; that girls can’t deal with spiders or do math or love snakes or run nations or be scientists. They will tell you that you must be indecisive, flighty, more interested in the interests that are chosen for you than the ones that you choose for yourself. They will tell you that you have to change yourself to suit them, and then they will keep moving the goalposts, so that you’re never done changing, and you’re never allowed to be you. And they are wrong. They are so, so wrong, and you are better than the lies they tell you.
If you are a girl, you are a girl. Period, finish, end statement. It doesn’t matter what you look like or what you enjoy doing. It doesn’t matter what your assigned birth sex is or was. It doesn’t matter who or what or why you love. All that matters is that you love, and that you accept that you are you, and you are awesome.
It’s okay if you love pink. Some girls genuinely do. I genuinely do. Once, we would all have been viewed as cross-dressing and weird for liking pink, which was a male color. Times change. If you want to own your own pinkness, do, and don’t let anyone tell you that makes you less of a feminist.
It’s okay if you hate pink. You’re not denying your gender or letting down the side, or anything else like that. You’re a person, and there are a lot of colors out there to fall in love with. I recommend orange, green, and anything that sears your retinas.
Frills and lace and high heels and makeup are all fine. So are denim and combat boots and tattoos. So is everything between those extremes.
Collect dolls or knives or books or interesting rocks. Watch horror movies or romances or cartoons. Run races; go to spas. Eat cake or lettuce. Buy yourself a toy light saber and make your own wooooom noises while you wave it around; build a cardboard castle and chuck plush mushrooms at your would-be rescuers. Live your life, the way you want to live it, and understand that no one can kick you out of “the girl club” for doing it wrong, because you’re not.
You’re doing it exactly right, and I love you for that.
Corn maze love,
Me.
seanan_mcguire: Dear girls of the world today…
Today in reasons why I fucking love Seanan McGuire.
(via shiyiya)
Brilliant writer and even more brilliant person.
(via cptprocrastination)
“Oh?” I asked, interested despite myself. “What did they say?”
“That you were all insane.”
“Ah.” I sat up again, grinning at him. “That’s pretty much true. We’re all crazy. But crazy has its benefits.”
“What benefits are those?” he asked warily.
“Crazy gets all the knives."
Rise up while you can. -Georgia Mason
The year was 2014. The year we cured cancer. The year we cured the common cold. And the year the dead started to walk. The year of the Rising.
The year was 2039. The world didn’t end when the zombies came, it just got worse. Georgia and Shaun Mason set out on the biggest story of their generation. The uncovered the biggest conspiracy since the Rising and realized that to tell the truth, sacrifices have to be made.
Now, the year is 2041, and the investigation that began with the election of President Ryman is much bigger than anyone had assumed. With too much left to do and not much time left to do it in, the surviving staff of After the End Times must face mad scientists, zombie bears, rogue government agencies - and if there’s one thing they know is true in post-zombie America, it’s this:
Things can always get worse.
BLACKOUT is the conclusion to the epic trilogy that began in the Hugo-nominated FEED and the sequel, DEADLINE.
98 days, says my countdown ticker. Why does it have to be so far away? At least I can console myself with Discount Armageddon, due out on the 6th. March once again proves to be the most wonderful month of all.
But those books did tell me I didn’t have to hate myself, and they did tell me that there was nothing wrong with me, and they did make it easier on everyone involved, because here was something I could hand to Mom and go “See? It’s not just me, and it’s not the end of the world, and it’s not the only thing that defines me.” Supposedly, ten percent of people are gay or bi with a tropism toward their own gender. It stands to reason that there should be positive non-hetero relationships in at least ten percent of YA literature. And they’re not there. And things like this are why.
"- Seanan McGuire aka my new hero (via takenoverbyrocknroll)
Not only is she an awesome writer, she’s also an awesome person. ♥
(via tdfangirl)
I love that woman.
(via goddessofcheese)
I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently.
Some of you may have breathed a sigh of relief when you realized that you had entered a relatively feline-free zone. “Finally,” you said. “She’s going to talk about something that doesn’t meow.” Others may have been concerned. (I’ve heard from the concerned contingent, not from the relieved, but I have no trouble with the idea that both sides exist. Honestly, I don’t demand that anyone be interested in everything I have to say, and that includes my cats, machete collection, horror movies, the X-Men, and candy corn.) Even more of you may well have been confused, given how focal cats have traditionally been around here. But I haven’t been blogging about my cats.
John Scalzi has just made a lengthy post about the shit female bloggers get that he doesn’t get. Go and read it. I’ll be honest: after more than a decade on the internet, I find his experiences to be pretty spot-on. I make a controversial comment, I get death threats, comments about my weight, accusations of bitchiness, comments about my weight, offers to “fuck the stupid” out of me, comments about my weight, insults, comments about my weight, and, best of all, people swearing up, down, and sideways that I deserve whatever I get. It’s been a few years since I’ve had a really bad troll problem, but when I had one, it was…
It was bad. It was “Kate monitored my journal and deleted comments before I could see them” bad, with a side order of feeling sick every time I considered getting online. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, and I was scared all the time. It’s invasive, and it’s scary. Cracks about my weight aside, I’m not that big, and if someone wanted to fuck me up, they could. Easily. (Is this a motivator for my large and oft-discussed machete collection? Possible! Anybody comes to my house with the intent of doing me a mischief in the woods, they will not be thrilled by the results.)
And I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently.
I’ll be honest: I understand people being dicks for the sake of being dicks. We’re all a little mean when we’ve had a bad day. My mother used to snap at me, even though she loved me. Sometimes I pick fights with my friends, or snarl at my co-workers. Human nature sometimes trends toward asshole, and no matter how hard we work to control it, it’s going to happen. What I don’t understand is why being a dick towards a woman on the internet so often turns into a) threats of violence, b) sexual insults, c) threats of sexual violence, or d) comments about perceived attractiveness/weight. Or violence toward the things that woman loves.
I haven’t been blogging about my cats recently, because someone has been sending me email, from dummy accounts, threatening to kill my cats. In graphic detail. They know what my cats look like, thanks to the amount of blogging I have done in the past, and they’ve been able to get really, really specific in what they’re going to do. Why? Because I got my cats from a breeder, and not from a shelter, and that means I need to suffer in order to understand the suffering of the cats waiting for adoption. “Bitch,” “cunt,” and “whore” feature heavily in these emails, which is always a nice seasoning for my rage and terror stew. It’s all very gender-specific.
And they’re threatening to kill my cats.
So no, I’m not going to talk about them right now; not until this email stops, not until the trolls find something else to chew on. And yes, I realize that making this post may reawaken some of my old trolls (and oh, Great Pumpkin, I hate it so much that I even have to take that into consideration), so I’m going to be watching comments carefully. Anything insulting will be deleted. Anything malicious will result in an immediate banning. I mean that. I am not going to let that shit stand.
We need to stop acting this way toward one another. We need to remember that there are humans on the other side of all those keyboards. We need to be decent human beings, because otherwise, everything is going to fall apart.
And none of this changes the fact that if the fucker who’s been telling me what he’s going to do to my babies comes anywhere near them, I will probably be going to prison for assault.
Some days I hate being a girl.
Just preordered Seanan McGuire’s latest book, One Salt Sea, the fifth in the October Daye series.
I adore these books and the world McGuire has built, and fully recommend them to any urban fantasy fans who enjoy fast-paced story-telling, creative but faithful use of folklore, and kick-ass heroines with pointy ears and caffeine addictions.
I this infer,
That many things, having full reference
To one consent, may work contrariously:
As many arrows, loosed several ways,
Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;
As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;
As many lines close in the dial’s centre;
So may a thousand actions, once afoot.
End in one purpose, and be all well borne
Without defeat.Henry V, Act I, Scene 2
I’m a big fan of the October Daye books, written by Seanan McGuire. They’re urban fantasy, with all that entails: pixies and cait sidhe, changelings and mortals, magic and bloody murder.
But McGuire also writes under a pseudonym, Mira Grant. Grant’s only got one book out right now: FEED, the first in her Newsflesh trilogy, but the second, DEADLINE, will be released May 31st.
The Newsflesh novels could probably be described as political zombie thrillers, but they’re so much more than that. They combine politics and zombies with virology, journalism, technology, blogging, humour, and heartbreak. I don’t mean for this to turn into a book review post, but I adore this series, and I highly recommend it.
And here’s a good way to tell if you’ll like it: to celebrate the publication of DEADLINE, Grant is posting daily short stories on her blog. These detail some of the incidents that lead to the rise of Kellis-Amberlee, the virus that causes the dead to walk, and they’re fascinating looks at the story behind the story.
Take a look.
