i talk about music a lot, & have a tendency to post songs that are stuck in my head in the hope that they will get stuck in your head instead. you're welcome.
Grandpa Slowpants has decided that HBO Go is the cure for what ails him. He thanks you crazy kids for your advice about the electromagraphic signals tubing to his computerhoozits.
Now, in response to an anonymous query about the term “soap opera,” hell yes. Soap opera. A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE / GAME OF THRONES is the biggest and most glorious soap opera in the history of soap operas. It’s soap opera for people who like swords, magic, dragons, and sexy brooding people in armor. Next time you get some jackhole telling you he doesn’t like “girl stuff” (relationships, emotions, animal companions, family concerns!) in fantasy, see if you can catch him enjoying GAME OF THRONES. Then ask him HOW HE LIKES HIS FUCKING SOAP OPERA. Try “HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR HUGE-ASS SWORD AND SORCERY TELENOVELA, YOU GIRL-STUFF LIKING MOTHERFUCKER, YOU?”
You know who likes girl stuff in fantasy? George R.R. Martin. You know who could build a suspension bridge to the moon knitted entirely from ten-dollar bills? George R.R. Martin. I’m just sayin’.
Now, it’s undeniably true that male writers (including yours truly) are generally and commercially allowed to write about “girl stuff” without being penalized for doing so. In part this is the same old shit it’s always been… I’ve said before that men who write mostly about men win prizes for revealing the human condition, while women who write about both men and women are filed away as writing “womens’ issues.” Likewise, in fantasy, the imprimatur of a dude somehow makes stuff like romance, relationship drama, introspection, and adorable animal companions magically not girly after all.
In a sense, we male fantasists are allowed to be like money launderers for girl cooties.
There is no easy solution to this because self-satisfaction is nearly always less work than empathy. All we can do is point out the obvious and try to do better, bit by bit, book by book, reader by reader.
When April 6th rolls around, we can also ask the more obnoxious girly-stuff disdainers if they’re enjoying their fucking soap opera. I for one can’t wait for my soap to come back.
Have you ever noticed your cat softly purring to the tune of “The Rains of Castamere?” No? Uh… uh, me neither.— Scott Lynch (@scottlynch78) March 5, 2014
[His email went something like] “Hey dude, let me rescue you from yourself. You’re a prisoner of political correctness. What are you doing? You don’t have to put black people in your fiction,” like I had been brainwashed or forced to do it, and it wouldn’t have happened otherwise, like I could be free with all the other free white writers who don’t have to write about black people in their work, so I snapped. It’s fucking offensive to me. I live in the 21st century and if you want to sulk and pretend that we don’t, that’s your own business, but don’t tell me to participate in your bullshit.
It was that whole, “Well, now I’m not going to tell my friends to buy your book.”
“Fine. Don’t tell your racist fuck-head friends to buy my book.”