Men in Fiction

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been doing a good bit of reading on the subject of feminism and humanism and I’ve come to a rather unexpected conclusion about men and writing male characters. The men get the short end of the stick, and so do the writers.

Male characters are expected to act “manly” at all times, and displays of emotion are very tricky to write unless they involve sexual desire or rage. The reason runs deeper than tropes and genre expectations.

Let me preface this by saying that while it may seem odd that the study of feminism and humanitarian issues would lead me to conclude that men are short-changed in fiction, it’s really not that far of a stretch. Women make up just slightly over half of the population, and any systematic negative impact on that large a portion of society is going to invariably make waves and effect the rest. It’s not that I’ve lost the plot of women’s suffering and paternalism and privilege and the other bits of jargon people like to throw around in the comments of skeptic, humanist, and feminist blogs. It’s simply that I’ve always been aware of that aspect of gender. I intentionally write female characters to step outside the comfortable realm of female gender roles, to be strong and capable and sometimes even stoic while maintaining their femininity. As a nurse primarily working with newborns and new mothers, as a doula (trained, professional childbirth assistant and postpartum advocate), as a lactation counselor advocating and supporting breastfeeding women, and as a woman myself, the issues of female oppression, mutilation, abuse, and gender-based societal ills have been on my radar for a while. They are made no less important by my recent realization that anti-woman cultures hurt men almost as much, if not just as much, as they hurt women.

Before any rabid mouth-foaming types  jump on that last statement, let me acknowledge that privilege decidedly also benefits men, but let’s be real here. Unless we’re talking about a hermit who was raised by wolves, every man is impacted by the suppression of his mother, of his female relatives and friends, of his coworkers and neighbors, if not directly, than in other ways.

Some of the ways men are also oppressed by the continuation of sexist roles:

  1. Domestic violence is commonly perpetrated by men who were exposed to domestic violence as children, as well as effecting the same increased incidence of mental health disorders and substance abuse problems later in life on both boys and girls.
  2. Men are raped, too, in numbers that most people would find astounding, particularly in war, prison, and other hostile situations. Most of the social supports and strides made in the last hundred years toward helping female victims of violent sexual assault are intentionally made unavailable to male victims, which I find utterly abhorrent on a personal and humanistic level. In just about every online discussion on rape and rape culture I’ve found (and I’ve been looking widely), men are unilaterally painted as the perpetrators and male victims are shouted down on the rare occasion when they come forward.
  3. Men are expected to be emotionally stunted, a stance that is enforced both by other men and by women. Deviation from the stoic standard can lead to humiliation, harassment, and negative consequences in relationships, social circles, and the professional realm.
  4. Bisexual and gay men are discriminated against even more than bisexual women and lesbians in many parts of the world, partially in relation to the so-called “gay plague” that increased discrimination against gay men in the 1980’s which continues today. I’ve never heard “That’s so lesbian,” as an insult, but “That’s gay” is such a common part of the speech that it’s beginning to fade into the background noise.
  5. The under-utilization of societal resources holds the progress and betterment of the entire species back – men included.
  6. Even when men break the pattern of misogynistic treatment of women, they are continually subjected to reinforcement from men and women alike, often more so from the women in my experience (see below).

That list is by no means exhaustive, and as the mother of a young boy, even this limited list frankly scares the shit out of me. As a writer, it poses particular difficulties when attempting to create gender-neutral societies. The prejudices on both sides of the fence are so ingrained that it’s all but impossible to separate them out.

Consider the source.

Gender roles are largely learned behaviors, but let’s look at the overall picture, not only of the ways in which men are taught to be the oppressors, but also at the ways that continuing to pass along unreasonable gender roles by both men and women also oppresses men who might otherwise aspire to gender equity.

That’s right. I said it. Women have a share in passing on gender inequality. This was never so clear to me as when an older female relative (whom I adore) spent a couple of weeks in my house. After she left, my husband who is very much on equal footing with me commented that he really hated that she treated him like he should get whatever he wanted, that she continually insisted on serving him, that she constantly pushed me to serve him in the same way (to which I said, “He’s got legs” more often than not). He said she made him feel like an ogre by treating him as if he was some harem-master patriarch.

She didn’t intend to elevate him onto a pedestal or imply that she or I were  inferior to him; she simply tried to press the two of us into the mold of way the world worked for her. As a mother of nine, she taught her sons and daughters that the world worked that way. She is not an evil or malicious patriarchal enforcer. She is simply a woman who has internalized the roles society set up for her and others, and who is reasonably attempting to avoid cognitive dissonance by pressing every other relationship she sees into that same pattern. She did this, by the way, while praising how thoughtful, sensitive, and wonderful my husband was for not acting like the very man she was trying to teach him to be.

Gender roles are bending among the younger generations, but they are still being systematically reinforced by everyone around us, men and women alike. As a writer who has tackled the idea that women are as strong and stable and capable as men in my writing, I have always tried to portray men as “real” in the sense that they are also vulnerable, both emotionally and physically. My recent foray into feminist blogging has reinforced for me the need to treat men as being vulnerable culturally as well. After all, they’re part of the world in which women live and while not all men are victims certainly, many men feel constrained by the very societal expectations that feminists rail against.

I’m not suggesting that writers pick a favorite soap box and harangue their readers about it for 400 pages, by any means, but considering the culture and our own internal standards, roles, and stereotypes can only help us create more realistic and rich characters. Portraying both women’s and men’s issues, flaws, and trials accurately is my goal as a writer, because truth resonates with readers, and it is that resonance that I am looking for as a writer.

What social or cultural issues do you tackle in your fiction? In what ways do you strive to portray truth in characterization?

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What’s in a Name?

There’s been a decent amount of talk lately centered around the humble pseudonym, primarily in relation to sites like Facebook and Google+, which specifically require people to use their “real” names, sometimes in relation to work or parts of who they are that don’t necessarily mesh with their real lives.

Authors, artists, musicians, and so forth are affected by this policy, but even more are the people who are concerned about privacy or safety. Imagine living in a country where to express an idea can lead to criminal and/or inhumane punishment. It is still illegal to be gay in dozens of countries, for instance. To express unpopular political beliefs can be a death sentence in some locales. Even in the USA, people have been threatened and terrorized for disagreeing with fanatical belief systems and institutions. Authors of books that criticize religion, political movements, governments, and more have been harassed, threatened, and even killed.

And even when human lives don’t hang in the balance, consider the impact on a person’s livelihood if he or she teaches grade school and makes a little money on the side writing erotica or dark fantasy. Consider the impact on a teenager who is found out as being gay or an atheist or a democrat in certain families where such individualism or diversion from the family ideal is squashed. Kids and young adults have attempted and succeeded at committing suicide over being accidentally or forcefully outed on the internet.

As an author, I fully intend to use a pen name when and if I publish. Why? Because I am a nurse and I don’t want those two career paths to overlap. Because I live in the Bible Belt and a lot of the things I write about would be condemned by my neighbors. Because my neighbors’ kids have already shown time and again that they’re willing to punish my son for anything they see as deviant, and having a mom who writes “those” books is something he shouldn’t have to endure. Because certain quarters of my family wouldn’t understand that I can write about violence, magic, and alternate worlds and religions without being evil. Because my mother and brother are evil, awful people who have no qualms about using social media to stalk and harass anyone they can make miserable by doing so, myself included, and I’d rather not having their vile tongues wagging in the direction of my professional life as a writer.

The pseudonym question will be very important to me someday, but even if it weren’t a personal issue, I think there’s a lot to be said for the ability to separate our internet personas from our real life roles. The freedom to express ideas is inherent to the modern culture of the US, though there are limits even to that, just ask Penn & Teller, Larry Flint, or Molly Norris. Anonymity on the internet allows people to be jerks and jackasses in ways they might (might) hesitate to be if they were associated with their real names, but the detriment to free expression and the danger to those who choose to follow the rules of corporations who are incapable of providing protections to these same people far outweighs the benefit of holding human detritus (aka internet trolls) accountable for their comments.

 

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The Good Life

I followed a link from Twitter (thanks, @JustineMusk) tonight to a blog post called How to Cure Deep Procrastination. It poses what seems like a very simple solution to curing real, problem-inducing procrastination, like the kind that gets people bad grades, trouble with their bosses, parents, or spouses, or no book progress in months. *ahem*

The author proposes that we have to justify ourselves to a part of our minds that haven’t quite kept up with the evolutionary chain. That little monkey-brain doesn’t so much care about our surface goals and just wants to be happy, or to put it more succinctly than the author, to eat, fornicate, and be comfy. So to get the monkey-brain on board with doing complex things like getting good grades in a class you don’t like, or writing a novel, you have to rationalize how this thing you’re putting off will eventually make your monkey-brain happy. The first step to rationalizing this is to answer the question.

“What makes a life good?”

The author suggested fairly simple answers to this question. Religion is a good starting point, or you might try philosophy if you’re spiritually uncommitted. But I think that does a complete disservice to the question, and that it probably won’t work anyway. Monkey brain doesn’t really care so much about philosophy, I’m guessing.

Almost two years ago, I lost my identity. My heart problem started in September 2009, and over the next several months I was forced by my declining health to quit my job, abandon my career, lose my contribution to the family finances, rely on my husband and son for my most basic needs, sacrifice my independence, give up on my goals for the future, and put away my passions. In order to survive, I gave up nearly everything that I had once used to define who I am. So without knowing that, how could I answer the question:

“What makes a life good?”

It’s a difficult thing, when you realize that you’ve forgotten what you’re living for. No wonder my writing was stalled. How could it work? The very things I once poured into the words – my passions, my personal meaning, my themes – had, if not died, then at least gone comatose.

I genuinely had no answer to the question. I mean, there are the expected things, like being a good wife and a good mother, and those are definitely true, but they aren’t enough. I love my husband and son too much to put the burden of carrying my self-concept entirely on their shoulders. I firmly believe it’s better for all parties for me to be a balanced person, rather than a soul-sucking, emotional singularity fueled by their need of me. The answer, then, needed to include other people, but it needed to be about me.

“What makes a good life?”

Do I define myself in concrete terms? By the roles I take on and the successes I achieve? What happens if I fail? What happens if I get what I go for and it’s not what I wanted? Well, the answer to that one seems pretty clear, considering that’s basically the mistake I made last time. I defined myself by my success as a nurse, as a student, as a caregiver, etc.. My self-concept revolved around stuff I did and people I took care of. The card house came tumbling down when my heart misbehaved because I built it on a foundation of the roles I played, rather than a core concept of the person playing the roles. It was a painful fall I’d rather not repeat.

“What makes a life good?”

It took a while for me to come up with an answer. It took writing this entry and eight pages of hand-written material on the subject. It took some soul searching. I think I finally found the answer, though. My personal answer, anyway. Not for mass consumption.

What makes a life good… is living with honor.

Not that old, naive version of honor that is all about knights and gentlemen and who draws first, but honoring the things that create happiness and well-being in my life.

  • The body – with proper exercise and nutrition, to stay strong and functional
  • The mind – by being creative, curious, productive, and hungry for knowledge
  • The heart – by rediscovering and engaging my passions, and by nurturing the self
  • The Other – contributing to my family and my world through generosity, shared knowledge, compassion, and kindness

It was a very short leap to rationalizing my writing as a means to the end result of living a good life after I came up with the answer. Just picking up the pen every day will help me live the good life, honoring my creativity, my curiosity, my passion, and my newly found sense of self.

And oddly enough, my broken writing may have been the catalyst to mending another little piece of my broken heart*. It’s hard to argue with that.

* The metaphorical one this time. My real, not-so-broken-anymore heart is doing a bang-up job of keeping me upright these days, which is awesome. I’m still careful not to over do it, but 98% recovered by my own, completely subjective measurement.

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Writing Tool for Readers

When I was a kid, I was a voracious reader. I also grew up in a house that didn’t have a lot of books, where the only adults were functionally illiterate, and where going to the library was just one more pipe dream. Books were more than just pleasure or luxury for me though. They were an escape from the oftentimes painful life I led as a child to a very callous, abusive, and neglectful mother.

I filled out the 2 books a month card from the inside of one of my aunt’s Harlequin novels when I was six and secreted the books that arrived in my bedroom to read over and over again. Though who would send out books to a handwritten card filled out by a six year old… When I was a preteen, I found the library’s mail service and read every book in their catalog in a summer. When I was 12, I ran away from home to go to church and then to the library — I know, I was a real rebel — and my grandfather started taking me to both on a regular basis. It wasn’t long before I’d read everything my small town library had to offer but the encyclopedias. By the time I was 18 and living with my grandparents (whom I now call Mom and Dad), I owned more than 2,000 books, most bought at Friends of the Library sale for $1/bag. You could say that books are kind of important to me, but unlike a lot of people I know who accummulate books, I’m not very sentimental about them. If I were, I’d need a bigger house. My book-stash gets weeded through on a regular basis and donated to nursing homes, hospitals, friends, and charities like Books for Africa.

Recently my book habit has slowed down a lot. With the hectic and crazy schedule I’d been keeping for the last decade and then my health issues, I was lucky to get in a dozen new books a year (though rereading the older titles is one of my favorite ways to pass a lazy afternoon). Still, I kind of shied away from the ebook experience for a long time. My husband, who reads as many books a year as I do in a good couple of weeks, bought twice as many ebooks as I did in the last three years.

But then my sister was hospitalized and dying. I downloaded six books in 10 days and read several dozen sample chapters for more. Books became my escape again. I read while sitting in the ICU waiting room. I read at her bedside. I read when I was too tired to sleep in the hotel I rented a room at, mostly to get Mom to sleep. Reading on the iPhone was my solace, but it was also painful. My eyes gave out before my appetite for books did.

I’ve been contemplating getting an eReader ever since. Last month my husband and his parents went together to surprise me with a new Kindle. I have to say, I loved reading on it. When my first unit went dead, Amazon was kind enough to replace my week old Kindle free of charge, shipped on their dime, when Wal-mart refused to exchange it.

After several weeks of steady use, I have to say that it was one of the best gifts I’ve gotten. Not only do I have an eye-friendly way of reading that lets me shove my entire library into my purse, but I also have a writing tool that I’ve found to be invaluable already.

Writing on the Kindle? What is this strange idea?

I don’t draft new stuff on the Kindle, or at least I haven’t yet. I imagine that would be a long and painful process. That said, line revisions and scene tweaks were easy, quick, and wonderfully efficient. Much better than printing and 3-ring binding my novel and having to lug that around with a bag full of colored pens, highlighters and such. I do major revisions on my netbook at home, turn the Word files into Kindle documents and load them directly from my netbook, then do line edits and the final read through on the Kindle when I’m out and about or when I just want to sit on the deck and the glare is too bad on the EeePC.

I’m still experimenting with the Kindle as a writing tool, but I have to say that so far, I’m loving it.

 

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Too Cute for Summer

Well, with the puppies growing (and chewing up the furniture), I’m not getting a lot of writing done. Thought I’d work on my photography skills instead. My favorite shot of the day:

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