Not your Man Friday.

Question:

Why the hell don’t more non-Caucasian American authors write science fiction and fantasy?

Seriously, I would love to know this. I love my sci-fi and fantasy authors regardless of their skin color, upbringing, what the hell ever, but as I look around the blogosphere, various social networks, writers’ conventions, I find myself in a distinct minority (no pun intended) of toasty-brown people among the significantly pigment-deprived. While I alone could easily represent at least four different ethnic demographics, I want to know:

Why don’t we write?

Legends such as Murakami aside, authors of diverse ethnicity seem confined to nonfiction, literary fiction, historical fiction, and ethnic romance. Those are all perfectly valid genres, and there are some amazing writers from all over the rainbow on those shelves (and atrocities such as Fifty Cent sitting next to them, with those notoriously godawful G-Unit books). But why the lack of interest in sci-fi and fantasy? Why does there seem a racial predilection to shy away from escapism into other worlds of fantastic magic and technology?

I can’t help but wonder if it’s because we can’t find anyone to identify with in the realms of speculative fiction. Let’s face it, 99% of the protagonists we read are white. They may be engaging, witty, wonderful characters with a sympathetic perspective, but they are, in fact, very white. Who are we in the novels? We’re the Man Friday, Gal Friday, the Tonto to the Lone Ranger. We’re the sidekick, the exotic love interest, the stereotype with a freaky made-up name and habits that seem at once barbaric and mystical. We’re the Magic Negro…and frankly, there’s nothing there for us to relate to. With nothing to identify with, we’re less likely to read speculative fiction, less likely to come to love it, and less likely to write it.

It’s a problem not just with what we’re reading, but with the readers themselves.

Being a bit of an ethnic pastiche myself, I have little trouble putting aside the skin color of the protagonist, forgetting their upbringing, and just enjoying their experiences. I wasn’t raised in any particular ethnic lifestyle, but rather in many cultures and in a middle-class suburban white neighborhood. I, for the most part, had a white kid’s upbringing with some influence from my varying ethnicities and more influence from the kids at school who didn’t know which box to put me in and so shut me out of all of them. I don’t see color, generally – but I’m well aware that others do. I’m aware that sometimes (but not always) white readers will feel disconnected from an ethnic protagonist. And I’m aware that ethnic readers will feel that same disconnect from white protagonists (again, sometimes but not always), especially if there’s a clear difference in lifestyle caused by differences in race. We’re often unwilling to embrace those differences, because they make the protagonist deeply alien to what’s familiar and comfortable to us.

It’s an unfortunate reality, but people of different ethnicities are raised in different environments and subcultures. Many of those subcultures preserve a rich history of beautiful traditions, but they also serve to isolate us by removing us from any sense of common experience. Yet sometimes the unique experiences of one’s subculture can bridge all cultures to tell a unifying tale of common, heartfelt emotion…which we should be doing that with science fiction and fantasy. It’s rather sad that in worlds where we cross lines of magic, technology, reality, unreality…we rarely cross lines of race to tell stories where people of all color and culture can take on significant roles and true, unique depth rather than simple token appearances as a typecast side character. Racial lines are blurring in our everyday lives. The things that divide us are changing, fading away…so why can’t that be reflected in popular fiction?

Maybe if more authors of diverse races and cultures delved into science fiction and fantasy, it might. Some people criticize white writers for the roles they give ethnic characters in their stories, but why should we put it on them to do it? They’re writing what’s in their comfort zone, and telling the best story they can from a perspective they understand, which is how they create believable, empathetic characters. Maybe we should do the same. With any luck we’d be able to open a window into our world, and help foster even more cross-cultural understanding while telling one hell of a story.

So if you’re out there, if you’re reading…what are you writing?

0074. Rift.

Vice stood at the edge of the rift, fighting the pain that scoured through his body like wildfire. Blood slicked his fingers, making his grip unsteady on the hilt of his blade. Across the rift, Delian smiled at him, hateful and cruel. The light from the split in the world’s skin shone blue and silver against his face, turning him into a sharp-edged sculpture of stone and night.

“Still standing, little boy?” Elegant fingers swept out and curled against the air; the pain in Vice’s limbs knotted, threatening to rip him apart fiber by fiber, bone by bone. He grit his teeth but held his ground, his knees shaking, his breaths rattling cold and harsh down his throat.

“I’m already dead,” he spat. “You can’t kill me again.”

“I can enjoy trying.” Delian’s laughter flowed across the chill concrete rooftop like cracking ice. His fingers tightened into a fist, and Vice’s legs buckled as agony crippled him.

He fell to one knee with a snarling cry; the long, slender sword slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the roof, its sigil-marked blade gleaming like liquid moonlight. Vice stared at it blankly, struggling to breathe; his reflection stared back, washed pallid by the silvered surface. “Y-you…you w-won’t…”

“I won’t?” Delian echoed, mocking and cruel, and laughed again. “You’re an idiot, boy.” Vice closed his eyes against the sudden surge of light as the rift pulsed, swelled, its power hot and electric on the air, on his skin, choking with the scent of ozone and magic. “I already have.”

“No!” Vice gathered the last of his strength, grappled for his sword, and lunged.

Delian’s laughter rose, a physical thing that slammed into him like a shockwave. Still Vice fought even as the pain sang through him, playing every note in his body until it shrilled in vicious, debilitating harmony. Step by step he dragged closer to the rift, his steps scraping on concrete, his mind filled with the livid pulse of feral magic as he drew upon the last of his strength. Power poured from his fingers, rolled over the length of his blade in sizzling arcs of crimson light. He raised it with trembling arms, thrust it towards the rift–

“Not this time, boy,” Delian hissed, and breathed a word that shook the very anchors of reality with each forbidden syllable. The rift thundered, crackled, howled and shivered with terrible magic that sent ripples pouring across the plane of matter, warping the very world before Vice’s eyes. Time slowed, seconds ticking by in eternities as he flung himself at the light-bleeding chasm, saw with terrible clarity as it expanded to fill his world, felt its light tearing at his flesh and burning down to the bone. He thought he heard a drum beating, thick bass distant and sonorous and slow, measuring out the last few seconds of his unlife.

“It’s over,” Delian whispered into that last frozen moment. “I win.”

The drum beat one last time, a crashing, cracking roar that tore outwards in a rippling blast of light. Time moved again, quickly, too quickly; Vice threw an arm up to shield himself and raised his voice to speak his own words of power, words of salvation.

The light tore his voice from his throat, his breath from his body. It poured over him, senseless and hungry. White eclipsed his vision, drowning even the pain. The triumphant, reverberating bellow of unleashed magic filled his mind, shattered him, broke him.

The last thing he heard was his own anguished screams.

Brains? Braaaaaiiiins.

Another partially sleepless night, but still better than the last. Got most of my work done, and started reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

This book?

This book is sheer crack.

Copyright infringement issues aside, it’s hilarious, witty, authentic, enjoyable, and entirely tongue-in-cheek. It also makes me want to dig up my copy of the original and do a line-by-line comparison, but maybe later. For right now I’m enjoying it; it took quite a bit of willpower to keep from snortsnickering loudly enough to wake Hikaru at the ungodly hour of 3a. If you haven’t read it, I recommend it (well, based on the few chapters I read before I had to put it down to work). I can only imagine the look on the face of the frist editor to take a peek at the thing.

Also, for those of you who don’t have twitter: the IT event we got the tuxes for didn’t quite work out. Turns out everyone else took the “optional” in “black tie optional” very seriously, and the only people at the event in tuxedos were the hired help. People stared at us, and one guy flagged us down to ask where the bathroom was.

We made our escape within five minutes, went home, and had a quiet dinner without the uncomfortable penguin suits.

Next year we’ll know better.

Lastly, if my plotbunnies don’t leave me alone, I’m going to bite them. Stop flinging new ideas at me. You know I’ll never do anything with them and I need to stick with just one story.

Just a little bit.

Right now, my Lean Cuisine microwave macaroni and cheese feels like the last meal before that long, slow walk down Death Row. I have about ten minutes before I have to go shower, tie my (now fabulous, thanks to Mohammed at Yehia hair salon) hair back, and wiggle into that penguin suit. Naturally, I’m spending that last ten minutes stalling and pretending it isn’t happening. So, you get to listen to me ramble about story crap.

Last night I barely got two hours of sleep, because someone needs to start using his Breathe-Right nasal strips again. (I kid – I’d have tossed and turned even without your snoring, love.) While I laid awake, I ended up browsing Amazon – and I found out that there’s a ninth book coming out in Diane Duane’s Young Wizards series. You have no idea how happy this makes me; the eighth book seemed to be leading towards some final conflict, although the plot description of the ninth doesn’t seem to indicate that it’ll be the last. I never preorder books, but I preordered A Wizard of Mars. I love this series; it trends more towards middle grade than young adult (by today’s standards, as opposed to when it was first published) but it’s one of the smartest young readers’ series I’ve ever read. It’s intelligently written and tackles complex concepts and problems while still retaining its innocence, wonder, and simplicity.

Speaking of YA, though…I tried reading Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones while sitting in the stylist chair letting Mohammed nearly yank my bloody scalp off. The setup is interesting, and the writing is pretty good in a rather lyrical way that reads more like impassioned, poetic fanfic than anything else…and it left the same cloying feeling in my mouth as fanfic. Imagine my surprise when I made that comment on Livejournal and someone told me that Cassandra Clare is a well-known fanfic writer who was embroiled in some huge scandals a few years back. Who’d have thought, eh? I don’t really do fandom at all, but I can tell fanfic-style writing. Makes sense, I suppose.

I may push aside my early prejudices and give it another try.

I do need to focus more on my own work, though. Last night Ken’s story wouldn’t leave me alone; I ended up working out some things focused around a new character in the series, and lingering on some things I had planned for Roman – working out the logistics, and expanding the concepts so they involve more primary characters than just him. As I plan things out, I’m seeing the storyline growing darker as Ken gets older, but we’ll see how that works out. Also, I’m scrapping the beginning I wrote before. It’s just…so overdone to start the first chapter with a dream sequence. I can keep the sequence and maybe work it in later, but I think I’m going to start the first chapter off differently. I have a few ideas, just no time to write them. Maybe this weekend, once I really get some bloody sleep. I just need to get through tonight and get through one more day of – ~shudders~ – work (it’s been getting bad again lately), and then I can relax.

Well, except for our tickets to see Aisha Tyler Friday night, but that’s definitely relaxing. I love the Improv comedy club.

…and their raspberry lemon drop martinis.

My time’s up, so I’d better go get ready. Bah. Well, I stalled as long as I dared. Wish me luck.

…and no. No pictures. I’ve gained weight since I moved due to compulsive stress eating, and I’d rather not have any of you seeing me looking like an orca trying to pretend to be a penguin.

0073. Djinnsense.

You know what’s ridiculous?

Ridiculous is when you go to get fitted for a tux, and your shoulders are so broad that 1. the tape measure won’t encircle your chest fully, and 2. you have to get a suit coat that’s three sizes too big just to keep from splitting the seams with said shoulders. I was swimming in the coat; probably could have fit two of me in there, yet it was still tight at the shoulders.

I don’t really have anything to say lately that hasn’t been said on Twitter. Learned a hell of a lot from #queryday, though I did find out that one thing all the agents were saying was an absolute no-no isn’t necessarily true…considering that I did it in my query and last week, the agent I submitted to (yes, only one, I’ve been lazy) requested a full on Shadow’s Breath. This makes me borderline giddy, but I don’t want to jinx it when she could all too easily say no after reading the full manuscript. She could also say yes but want revisions, or say yes and then never find a publisher willing to buy the book (especially in this economy). Although it’s still a step up (no one ever requested a full on EoE) and it makes me squee, I’m trying not to be too hopeful for the sake of realism. Baby steps.

Speaking of baby steps…I haven’t posted a snippet in a long time. So…first 2,000 words of Djinnsense/Lost Flames (title tentative, rough draft). Keep in mind that it’s targeted towards 8-12 year old girls, so it’s meant to be insipid and very simplistic and downright embarrassingly flowery. Something seems really off about it to me, but it is my first try writing girls’ fiction for this age group. It may turn out that I just can’t do it.

—————————————————–

The problem with wishes, Claire thought, was that they never came true.

She turned up the volume on her iPod, stared out the window of the hotel room, and wished with all her heart that her older sister, Jessica, would stop talking and hang up her cell phone. She didn’t. Claire wished harder; Jessica just laughed into the phone. Jessica had chattered nonstop for the entire long drive from their house in Richmond to the hotel in Virginia Beach. Claire didn’t understand how anyone could talk so long about nail polish, bikinis, and boys, but then Jessica was in high school. High school students were, to Claire, alien creatures – and after this summer, she’d be one of them. Maybe I’ll grow antennae and turn green.

“Claire? Honey?” Her Mom called from the bedroom. “Don’t you want to unpack?”

Claire was tempted to pretend she couldn’t hear her Mom over her music. Unpacking meant settling in, and settling in meant admitting that she was stuck here all summer – away from her room, away from her computer, away from her friends, with only sand and more sand for company. She didn’t understand why her parents had wanted to vacation in Virginia Beach, but she hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

“I’ll unpack later, Mom.” Claire pulled her earbuds out, wandered into the bedroom, and stood on her toes to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I’m going for a walk.”

Her mother smiled tiredly and brushed her disheveled hair from her face – the same hair Claire shared, fiery red and loosely tumbling. “Don’t go too far, all right? And if you find your father, send him back this way. He’s probably lost again.” Her mother grinned wryly. Claire laughed despite herself.

“If I find him.” Her father could get lost walking a straight line from point A to point B. “He’s probably in a linen closet somewhere. Be back later.” With a wave, she let herself out – freeing herself from Jessica’s shrilling laughter – and caught the elevator downstairs.

Outside, tourists crowded the sidewalk in a circus of Hawaiian shirts, flip-flops, and straw hats. Her music thumped in her ears, counting out her steps as she broke into a jog, heading down the sidewalk towards the beach. It was hard to remember to sulk when the sun warmed the bare skin of her tanned, freckled shoulders while the crisp, seaweedy tang of sea air breezed over her. Claire had loved the ocean ever since she was a child, and had even pretended to play with imaginary selkies and mermaids. Not even the prospect of a whole summer away from her friends could dampen her rising anticipation when the wave-tossed skyline drew into sight.

As pavement blended into sand, she wove across the crowded beach towards the water. The shallows looked like human soup, so thickly peppered with people she could hardly see the water. She’d never be able to swim there. She hated swimming in front of others, anyway. No matter how often her mother told her she was pretty, she still felt self-conscious in her plain one-piece – which did little to hide the softness of her arms, stomach, and legs. Her mother called her cute and curvy, but Claire would have given anything to be able to wear a bikini like Jessica’s.

Frowning, she turned her music off and made her way further down the beach until sand turned into gravel, and then gravel trailed off into damp, grass-strewn rock. White breakers crashed against dark stone, nearly drowning out the cries of gulls overhead. Claire clambered over the rocks carefully, picking her way further along the shore until the noise of the summer tourism industry faded at her back.

Finally. She plunked down on an outcropping of rock with a satisfied sound. She’d found a comfortable little cove, just a slim crescent moon of beach cradled within sloping arms of black rock. Green-black, soggy clumps of seaweed speckled the shore, picked over by crawling hermit crabs. The curve of the shoreline hid the main beach from sight, giving her the illusion of privacy. She smiled and watched the waves, tipping her head back as the wind blew spray against her cheeks.

Now that she had a moment to herself, Claire wasn’t in such a hurry to dive into the water. She’d have all summer to swim, after all. And not much else, she thought morosely, her pleasure somewhat dampened. Although if she was honest with herself, she wasn’t missing much back in Richmond. With Mark at band camp, Lisa shuffled off to her aunt’s in Portland, and Jenny suddenly obsessing over boys, Claire would have been just as bored in her room with her books and video games – but at least there she had her books and video games.

“Ow!” A voice tore Claire from her thoughts. She jerked her head up and blinked as a lanky figure came dashing over the rocks, stopped just before tripping over Claire, then slipped on the wet stone. A startled screech rose as the girl – thin and pale and looking to be near Claire’s age – tumbled forward with arms flailing and landed face-first in the sand.

“Whoa!” Claire scrambled to her feet and climbed down the rocks as fast as she could without tripping herself. She dropped to her knees at the girl’s side. “Hey – hey, are you okay?”

“Ow,” the girl repeated, groaning. She pushed herself up. Sand stuck damply to her pert, pixie-like face and littered long tangles of black hair. An ugly bruise colored her forearm. She shook herself, blinked at Claire, then gasped. “You can see me?!” Before Claire could reply, the girl stumbled to her feet and whirled to stare up at the top of the rocky slope, her bright blue eyes wide. “Wait, wait, nevermind that – where’s the ghul?”

Confused, Claire gaped at her. “The what?”

“The ghul, the ghul!” The girl waved an arm wildly. “It was following me!” When Claire only blinked at her blankly, the girl scowled. “Oh, nevermind. Silly human. Just go away.”

Claire frowned, torn between puzzlement and irritation. “I was here first.”

“And you’ll be lunch when the ghul catches up.” Dusting herself off, the girl stalked towards the water line. Claire watched her with a raised eyebrow. She wore odd clothing: a dark blue cropped top with tinkling silver bangles, thin silver coil bracelets and anklets, and loose, gauzy blue pants that swirled around her legs and rode low on her skinny hips. She looked like a belly dancer, with her bare feet leaving little toe-prints in the sand. The sunlight caught on her skin, highlighting a subtle, silvery-blue sheen dusted over her outer arms, jaw, and the curve of her bare stomach. Claire blinked and squinted; it almost looked like translucent scales blended with skin. Was that body paint?

“Where earth and sea are one,” the girl muttered, pacing along the waves. She seemed to have forgotten Claire completely. Her every step jingled with light, silvery sounds of clattering bracelets. “Earth and sea are one…here’s the earth, there’s the sea, where’s the portal?!” She kicked up a puff of sand in frustration.

“Did you hit your head?” Claire asked skeptically. The girl rounded on her, pouting, hands on her hips.

“Don’t you start with me, human; this is not my day! First my wish went wrong, then the ghul showed up, and now the portal isn’t where Jihanni said it would be! I’m going to fail my assignment, and it’s – ”

“Quite unfortunate.” A smooth, dry voice interrupted. The girl froze and blanched. Claire gasped, scrambling to her feet and turning. She’d felt the voice on her skin, like teeth on unglazed porcelain, scraping and jittery. The crawling menace dripping from every word roused her instinct to run.

The man who stood at the top of the slope, looking down at them, only reinforced that instinct. His sallow, unhealthy-looking skin carried a green tinge, and his stained lips stretched like rubber around a yellow-toothed grin. Lank hair, wet-looking and green-black, straggled into his craggy face. From neck to toe, his body was wrapped in faded, dark rags. To Claire, he looked half-dead – and very scary.

“Go away, ghul!” The girl clenched her fists and glared up at the man. “I’ll set your toes on fire!”

“I’m terrified,” the man deadpanned, then smirked. “Go on, then, little marid. Set my toes on fire. Are you hiding an ifrit somewhere?” His eyes, an eerie milky white, flicked to Claire. She gulped, fear fluttering in her stomach, as he took a few steps down the slope. “Or does the human have a matchbook?” Then he paused, peering at Claire more closely and frowning. “What an odd little girl.”

Claire’s face heated; she felt her temper flaring, but stomped it down. I’m not a little girl. “Look, whatever is going on with you two, I’ll just leave.” Defending her little niche wasn’t worth getting tangled up with this, not when that man looked so creepy. She started to back away, then turned – and squeaked when she found the man standing right in front of her. How had he moved so fast?!

“Stay,” he purred, leering down at her. “We haven’t had a chance to play just yet.”

Claire stumbled back, nearly falling. Her heart raced, almost as loud as the crashing surf. She would have tripped if the girl hadn’t caught her arm, dragging her upright with surprising strength. Claire took a few more hasty steps back, but the man prowled closer.

“Hurry,” the girl hissed at her shoulder. “Make a wish!”

“What?!” Wishing wouldn’t do anything!

“Make a wish! Something, anything, just wish to get us out of here!”

“Yes,” the man mocked. He nearly stalked them, matching their every backward step with another step forward. “Wish for help. Wish my head to explode. Or wish for something you really want. A pretty dress, perhaps? A pony? Little girls do still love ponies, don’t they?” There was something terribly hypnotic about his voice. His white eyes held Claire, numbing her legs and her thoughts. “Or maybe you’re too old for ponies. Maybe there’s a boy you’d rather have, instead. Make a wish, little girl, and I’ll grant it.”

“Don’t listen to him!” The girl sounded frantic. She grabbed Claire’s shoulder, shaking her hard. “Wish us out of here – fast! Say it!”

“I – I – ” Claire snapped out of her daze and realized how close the man was. This time she did fall as she jumped back, lost her footing, and landed hard in the sand. “I wish – ”

“Wish for your heart’s desire,” the man hissed. “I can give you anything. Popularity, prettiness – anything!”

The girl growled. “He’s lying! He’ll twist your wish and use it to hurt you. Oh, by the Flame, you’re hopeless! Just say ‘I wish to be somewhere safe’ – and hurry!”

Claire gulped. What was going on? “I – I wish…I wish to be somewhere safe?” she stammered. The man’s smile vanished, leaving a mask of livid fury. The girl laughed with triumph, reached down, and curled her hand in Claire’s.

“Coming right up,” she said, and the world imploded into bright blue light.