My year in SFF for Strange Horizons

My year in SFF for Strange Horizons

I’m in the first part of the Strange Horizons reviewers’ year in SFF:

2018 began with fae hunting mortals under an angler-fish moon, and ended with warrior shamans making devastating choices in the aftermath of genocide, so as worlds go, I might even take my chances with the fae. Almost all this year’s most resonant works for me probed or confronted the histories that shape whose stories are told. Between Jeannette Ng’s Under the Pendulum Sun and R. F. Kuang’s The Poppy War, I enjoyed Aliette de Bodard’s In the Vanishers’ Palace, dramatising the intimate politics of language, colonialism and filial piety in its f/f healer/dragon romance; Heather Rose Jones’s new-to-me Alpennia novels, with queer magical scholars in not-quite-early-19th-century-Switzerland resolving sapphic longings and slowly changing aristocratic mores; and the comprehensively feminist worldbuilding and plotting of Kate Elliott’s Black Wolves. Vestiges of younger Catherines were delighted there’s now a Catherynne Valente novel about Eurovision (Space Opera) and that Doctor Who now stars a woman, while The Wicked + The Divine wrapped even more layers around the premise and aesthetic that first captured my imagination four years ago as it unfolded its prehistory and introduced its final arc. The Bodleian Library’s ‘Tolkien’ exhibition and the British Library’s ‘Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms’ combined to ask how early medieval poetry became today’s fantasy, and Black Panther turned franchise superheroics into political art. Book of the year: The Mere Wife, Maria Dahvana Headley’s fierce, multivocal reimagining of Beowulf— for what it tells about heroism and violence, for how it tells it, and for who I had the pleasure to read it alongside.

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My short SFF recommendations for 2018

As rounded up for Twitter, here are the short SFF stories I most enjoyed in 2018:

  • Izzy Wasserstein’s intertexual atlas of ‘Unplaces’, recorded by one desperate queer woman for her lover, recovered from the ruins of Kansas City after an all-too-imaginable theocratic war (‘Unplaces: an Atlas of Non-Existence’, Clarkesworld)
  • This diary of time travel gone wrong from Premee Mohamed, whose marooned palaeontologist must fend for themselves in the prehistoric past. Turns out there’s not much good eating on a trilobite. (‘More Tomorrow’, Automata)
  • Eleanna Castroianni’s story of asylum management on a space station at the edge of conflict and ecological disaster, with unmistakeable echoes for me of how today’s refugee crisis has hit the Aegean. (‘Without Exile’, Clarkesworld)
  • Elizabeth Bear’s quite literally searing portrait of the destructive relationship between a knight-errant and the dragon she set out to kill (‘She Still Loves the Dragon’, Uncanny)
  • Bogi Takács working Hungarian and Romani folk song into this story about a non-binary interplanetary marine biologist (‘On Good Friday the Raven Washes its Young’, Fireside Fiction)
  • Not So Stories (ed. David Thomas Moore), an anthology of writers of colour taking back the Just So Stories, including Joseph E Cole’s ‘Queen’ about a lioness resisting her captivity (Rebellion Publishing)
  • Alix E Harrow’s portal meta-fantasy of librarian witches helping their troubled patrons to escape through hidden books (‘A Witch’s Guide to Escape: a Practical Compendium of Portal Fantasies’, Apex)
  • In transcript form, Nino Cipri’s haunting story of an ethnographer breaching ethical boundaries and hunting down ghostly urban legends in her girlfriend’s home town (‘Dead Air’, Nightmare)
  • The first new Maria Dahvana Headley piece I read after finishing the incredible The Mere Wife: a seedy birthday-party magician has the worst day of his life in Idaho (‘You Pretend Like You Never Met Me, And I’ll Pretend Like I Never Met You’, Lightspeed)
  • Sarah Gailey’s devastating ‘Stet’, where the action is all in the margins in this dissection of the politics of AI and ethics of self-driving cars (Fireside Fiction)
  • Kate Heartfield’s ‘A Thousand Tongues of Silver’ weaves together Ostrogoth Ravenna, Queen Christina’s Sweden and the life-story of a purple-stained manuscript (Lackington’s)
  • Sabrina Vourvoulias’s story of post-apocalyptic urban witchcraft could easily have been the setting for something even longer than this (‘Toward a New Lexicon of Augury’, Apex)
  • T Kingfisher’s ‘The Rose MacGregor Drinking and Appreciation Society’ cocked a Pratchettian snook at Highland fantasy (Uncanny)
  • The rising stakes and against-the-odds queer desire of Isabel Yap’s ‘How To Swallow The Moon’ (Uncanny)
  • Cassandra Khaw’s Monologue By An Unnamed Mage, Recorded At The Brink Of The End’: ‘What matters is that I love you and that I will always love you, and I won’t let them have you, even if I have to husk myself of all that I am and splinter the universe again’ (Uncanny)
  • Perhaps I should have been alarmed by how relatable I found Zen Cho’s story of a studious imugi determined to become a dragon, and its early-career academic lover (Barnes and Noble)
  • And an honorary place for Rose Lemberg’s ‘The Desert Glassmaker and the Jeweler of Berevyar’ (Uncanny, 2016): the epistolary romance I needed to delight me this year.

New at Autostraddle: queer 1990s fashion with Accidentally Lesbian Celine Dion

New at Autostraddle: queer 1990s fashion with Accidentally Lesbian Celine Dion

Talking of little queer ideograms, or the people and stories and images we identify with even before we know ourselves as queer, I’ve published my first piece at Autostraddle,

In the early 1990s, Canadian pop music gave questioning queer girls an icon who performed what they couldn’t yet express: angsty, apprehensive subtexts about the wrong kind of love sometimes being so, so right sung by a diva in is-she-or-isn’t-she pantsuits and short, sensible dark hair.

And then it gave them kd lang as well.

Before Titanic, before the backwards tuxedo, and before the Instagram videos and red-carpet triumphs that left Buzzfeed calling Celine Dion “the number one supermodel in the world,” Celine’s early 90s remarkably often had more in common with 20th-century lesbian aesthetics than her haute-couture camp today.

Flip popular culture’s buried queer aesthetic codes on to the surface, and many of Celine’s hesitant, regretful ballads sound approximately as gay as a glance over the glove counter of a New York department store.

But pre-Tumblr and pre-Livejournal, when most young lesbians and bi women were puzzling out queer aesthetic traditions on their own, queer and maybe-kinda-genderqueer teens could take years to understand — far less accept — why they identified with the lyrics and looks they did.

Which is why my several sublimated, self-destructive years before accepting I was queer began in 1994, when I was 12, wearing out a Celine Dion cassette that contained a track genuinely called “Refuse To Dance.”

Click through to find out which songs:

  • Paid much more attention than you’d ever strictly need to pay to other women and their outfits at a dance you didn’t even want to go to
  • Had titles that all could have belonged to a good Catholic girl in Québec City wondering why she couldn’t stop thinking about that cute biker chick
  • Consisted entirely of gazing at the camera looking confused, tired, upset, angry, determined, and all those other things you look when your movie-director girlfriend is leaving you for the choreographer she met at Alla Nazimova’s sewing-circle on Sunset Boulevard
  • Looked, like every other performance on the same live album, like what would happen if Rachel Maddow hit the Dinah Shore Weekend karaoke in a three-quarter-length leather coat and leather pants
  • Felt Too Much
  • Were based entirely around wanting to be the masculine forms of occupational nouns, bragging about affairs and constantly changing your secretary
  • Were half about witchcraft, half about promising she’s not like the other women
  • All came down to women’s fleeting gazes, communicating exactly how much they don’t dare say

There might even be a reparative bi reading of ‘The Power Of Love‘.

The woman who fell to Earth: tinkering with masculinity, the first female Doctor, and her fans

The woman who fell to Earth: tinkering with masculinity, the first female Doctor, and her fans

‘Never mind a TARDIS full of bras,’ I thought last summer as Twitter memes made fun of what even by Daily Mail standards had been a particularly misogynistic reaction to the first ever woman being cast to play the Doctor, ‘what about a TARDIS full of coats?’

No matter how often I reread the near-complete run of Target novelisations my grandmother had brought home from her charity shop, no matter how immersed I was in the lore of the Doctor’s universe for a child who was still just too young to stay up for what seemed like they’d been the last ever seasons (exception, after much inter-parental negotiation, two Sylvester McCoy stories a friend of my dad’s had worked on; luckily, killer robots going wild in a luxury tower block weren’t judged too frightening, though I’d be whisked quickly to bed two years later when the villains of the second story turned out to be evil clowns)…

…it never occurred to me, even when I was compiling a list of inconsistencies to send in nine- or ten-year-old’s handwriting to the long-suffering author of The Universal Databank, to wonder why the Doctor couldn’t regenerate into a woman too.

Although, once the show had come back in my twenties and David Tennant was installed as the Tenth Doctor, I did start being careful (as a queer woman with short brown hair I still insisted on trying to stick up, who’s never worn a suit tidily in her life) not to wear pinstripes and Converse at the same time, in case that made it too obvious what I’d been thinking of.

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While many women fans say they’ve always longed to be able to watch a female Doctor (or rather, given how little we still know about Gallifreyan gender, a Doctor played by a woman, who’s read as female by everyone or almost everyone she meets on Earth), my engagement with the figure of the Doctor must have been a queer speculative pleasure of a different kind, less about seeing a woman represented, more about imagining how the Doctor’s bricolage of masculine style would translate into a woman performing it instead.

Our first sight of Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor was the one-minute trailer where she pushed back one of Peter Capaldi’s hooded jumpers on her way to rediscovering the TARDIS in a forest, once the key had vworp-vworped back into her hand – a moment that might not even fit it into the season as we know it, but immediately inspired Thirteen’s first wave of fan art.

Last November’s costume reveal, on the other hand, seemed to be harking back to the motley of the Sixth and Seventh Doctors, with cropped trousers held up by clownish braces, and a gallimaufry of rainbow stripes, mustard yellows, and different shades of blue.

Back when I was supposed to be watching Playschool and Playdays, not a man in a straw hat with question marks all over his sweater (and, I’m reminded now, red braces) outsmarting a power-crazed architect’s out-of-control robots and reconciling Toyah-Willcox-esque girl gangs, Thirteen’s signature outfit would have said ‘1980s kids’ TV presenter’ – or even Mork and Mindy – much more than ‘Time Lord’.

Overthinking style like I do, I couldn’t help having misgivings about us being offered a suddenly-less-serious Doctor at the same time as casting the first woman in the role – but artists and cosplayers took her look to heart so quickly that they invested it with their joy; a rainbow stripe can’t not signal queer-coding, in 2018, even though we’ll have a right to be disappointed if this season bottles out of acknowledging on screen that this female-presenting Doctor has a wife; and one could always believe the TARDIS had met this new Doctor with an outfit like that because so much of what she’d learned about walking on Earth as a woman had come from Sarah Jane.

In fact, as the first episode confirmed, the Doctor hasn’t even been in her TARDIS since she fell out at the end of the Christmas special. (Before anyone kicks off about lady drivers, every other Doctor since the reboot has crashed their TARDIS on regenerating too.)

‘The Woman Who Fell To Earth’ – one huge David Bowie reference to throw on to the lampshade when we’re already dealing with a mysterious genderfluid alien who inspires humans, changes their lives irreversibly and travels through the stars – isn’t even introduced to us until we’ve seen the slice of multicultural, confidently diverse 21st-century Britain that Doctor Who sets up as normal life: a unit of family and friendship that centres around school-leaver Ryan, the bond between his mother Grace and her new white husband Graham, and Ryan’s ex-classmate, a Muslim probationary police officer called Yasmin Khan.

It shows how much mistrust the Moffat years had instilled in me about the show’s ability to tell any story about women that didn’t just exist to give a man an intellectual epiphany or to subject him to pain that the reveal of the actors playing the new companions (or now the Doctor’s ‘friends’ – with one regrettable absentee we’ll talk about) had left me thinking they and Whittaker could just as easily be the cast of a sentimental ITV Sunday night drama about an adoptive family as they could be the new stars of Doctor Who. If this Doctor can really have all the same kinds of stories told about her that past production teams told about her male incarnations, why does she need to be accompanied by an older white man?

Though it’s the Sheffield characters who have the plot function in the first episode of reminding the Doctor where she is – and whose actions create the story-space where the Doctor must confront the villain and express who she is – once the show moves off earth, the Doctor will symbolically hold this group based on kinship and affinity together. So have other Doctors when the TARDIS has had large casts: but even though the regenerated Doctor is unflappable at realising that on Earth she’s now a woman, gender will matter more to the gaze of many viewers, placing her in a maternal rather than paternal role.

But asking what does it look like when a woman embodies the qualities conventionally projected on to fathers? is perhaps closer to the particular kind of queerness that enters the narrative when a woman is cast as the Doctor – and, itself, is just a subset of the question what does it look like when a woman embodies the qualities conventionally projected on to men?

(Which, put that way, doesn’t even have to mean taking up any of the material signs of masculine gender expression – though many of the queer women of Twitter have been longing ever since August 2017 for the sight of the Doctor in an equivalent to many of their previous regenerations’ signature frock-coats.)

Many of the activities and institutions the Doctor typically involves themselves with are already coded masculine, because they relate to technological, political and military power. Every regenerated Doctor has different dominant aspects to their character: what this Doctor lends herself to, or distances herself from, are as much of a story about gender politics as the stances for or against different kinds of combat and warfare that Wonder Woman takes.

Past Doctors could enter the corridors of the White House in McCarthy’s America or the battlefields of the First World War and have nobody question why white British-accented men like them were there, only why their suits were cut so strangely for the time or why they weren’t in uniform; this Doctor, entering most such settings on our Earth, will have to cope with the fact that someone her gender is expected not to be there, certainly not in a role that takes control, and that her appearance will be scrutinised much more harshly for how well it conforms (or not) to the period’s norms about gender and sexuality, since women’s sexual morality has so consistently been more policed than men’s.

(That’s if the show even goes historical this season: fans are pretty certain one episode will be set in the USA during the Civil Rights Movement, and since this is the first year Doctor Who has hired any writers of colour, we have to hope that episode will be in Malorie Blackman’s hands.)

The Doctor’s relationship with war and command, for instance, is always a theme of their character, even more so since the reboot (when the ‘Bad Wolf’ slogan was echoing through the time-stream as a mystery for Nine, I half-expected it would allude to some kind of paramilitary group with whom he’d committed acts that still haunted him in the Time War). Would the narrative cast this new Doctor as being more peaceful just because she was a woman, via that same assumption that women are ‘just better at’ peacemaking that we see in fields from international development to telefantasy? To simply make the Doctor more peaceful at the same time as making her a woman would, I’d suggest close down the even queerer stories about war and gender that a Doctor Who season like this could offer us – and which, as a viewer, I want it to offer us, because it can.

This Doctor still stands her ground, faces down obstructive or indecisive humans, and fights the monsters, performing her ethics in those brief moments where she gives her adversaries time to relent. But, from the little we have to go on in the first episode, she sees ‘good’ as manifesting despite, rather because of, the organised sovereign power to use force.

‘Right then, troops!’ she says as she moves through the train carriage to investigate the unidentified alien presence that’s trapped Ryan, Grace, Graham and Yaz on the train. ‘No, not troops. Team? Gang? Fam?’

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The route to companionship she offers Yasmin involves disregarding the structures of the police force that hasn’t trusted her to take her own cases, rather than working within it; it remains to be seen whether this Doctor, potentially TARDIS-less for as long as Jon Pertwee’s Three, will follow him and most of his successors in joining in the internationalist fantasy of UNIT, the global UN task force responsible for Earth’s defence that offers telefantasy’s longest-running representation of the cosmopolitan military.

But what most fills out this Doctor’s relationship to her gender, her body, and society is newness. ‘We’re all capable of the most incredible change,’ she tells the teeth-studded Strenza warrior she’s cornered up a crane. ‘We can evolve while still staying true to who we are. We can honour who we’ve been and choose who we want to be next.’

Her words are just as applicable to a long-running cult series changing the gender of its hero as they are to giving a cruel hunter-killer one last chance to change his ways. But they also echo many gender-variant people’s relationship to gender itself as they change how they present themselves to the world and then negotiate how the world sees them.

The Doctor’s words when she describes getting to know her regenerated body, Magdalene Visaggio writes, could equally describe how many trans people balance their future and their past, so that even though it could apply to every regeneration it gains so much extra meaning (for those who understand it) because of how it seems to resonate with so many trans lives:

The Doctor’s tinkering and making skills, which let her create a new sonic screwdriver with little more than a blowtorch and some stainless-steel spoons (not even knives or forks, with their points and blades, but spoons), allow girls who aspire to be scientists and engineers, and older women who grew up being told they never could, to put themselves in the centre of the story – and also have more than a little in common with the eccentrically-dressed, begoggled Holtzmann, the breakout character from the all-female reboot of Ghostbusters and the queer revelation of (that first, more hopeful part of) 2016.

The resourcefulness it takes to see a heap of Sheffield spoons and imagine them combined into a sonic screwdriver is the same resourcefulness, I’d even suggest, with which queer women and some other gender-non-conforming people have seen the figure of the Doctor: the resourcefulness of unscrewing and reassembling masculinity, of breaking it down into its component parts so that you can see which ones have prevented you being yourself and which ones belong to you.

The Doctor has not just the resourcefulness, but the courage and the knowledge, to make a reality out of this bricolage, whether it’s re-forging the most ordinary piece of metal on the dining table into a cosmic wand, or dealing as matter-of-factly as this Doctor with the fact that humans are now seeing them as a woman.

The defining sentence of this Doctor’s character, as agreed by the gif-makers of the internet, is likely to be a line she delivers while still wearing Peter Capaldi’s waistcoat and rolled-up sleeves, in the tiled underground lab where she improvises her new ‘sonic’: ‘When people need help, I never refuse.’

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That line could have described the Doctor ever since William Hartnell (sometimes their help works; sometimes it might have been better if they had refused), and indeed Thirteen is the first Doctor I can really imagine running away with the TARDIS, as we’re supposed to believe happened in dour Hartnell’s youth.

The politics of how to help, especially when one’s embodied on Earth as a white woman, are something we’ll have to wait and see whether Doctor Who can dramatise or even recognise. Two of the companions this Doctor will be taking on her adventures are young people of colour (one of them a young dyspraxic man who, so far at least, has been shown living with his disability as a fully formed character): the new showrunner Chris Chibnall and his scriptwriters, including Blackman and Vinay Patel, will have had to grapple with how different their experiences would have been compared to an unconventional white woman’s in various aspects of Earth’s past, just as Russell T Davies’s episodes at their best voiced through Martha Jones.

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The end of this season’s first episode doesn’t give confidence that, on showrunner level, the production team is aware enough of racist tropes in popular culture to be able to avoid them, let alone subvert them: killing off Sharon D Clarke’s Grace, the only black woman among the companions-to-be, so that Graham and Ryan can mourn her afterwards and so that the Doctor has to deal with the consequences of her adventures on human beings speeds along both roads of the race and gender intersection at the sametime, crashing straight into the junction of ‘Women in Refrigerators‘ and ‘Black Dude Dies First‘.

(It doesn’t even matter whether, as some websites have hinted, Grace is due for some kind of supernatural return: viewers of colour who know how often this happens, and to a less visceral extent even white viewers who are bored with stories that can’t hear the mood music, have already had to feel the punch in the face of seeing her die.)

It isn’t until the very end of the episode that we see the outfit that fan art and cosplay have already turned into the new embodiment of the Doctor, when Yaz takes Thirteen to a charity shop and helps her find the (extremely fashion-forward) pastel raincoat, rainbow t-shirt, cropped trousers, braces and boots ensemble that we’re going to have to associate with this Doctor from now on.

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Her certainty that this new style, not even created by a TARDIS wardrobe but through a fallible human gaze expresses the self she wants to embody means I have to affirm it – but we wait to see what further stories can be told about this new Doctor, and what further stories queer women and other gender-non-conforming people might use this new Doctor to tell.

Making Medusas: interview at the Institute of Classical Studies blog

Making Medusas: interview at the Institute of Classical Studies blog

Appropriately enough for an interview like this, Liz Gloyn’s research interests in classical reception, my creative interests and even some themes in my academic work have snaked around each other since we got to know each other on Twitter talking about teaching practice several years ago…

Liz’s essay on Medusa appears in Making Monsters right next to my story ‘The Eyes Beyond the Hearth’, which revisits the myth through the theme of the ‘monstrous’ queer female gaze by imagining a woman who wants Medusa to see her, so it was a pleasure to talk with Liz about reinterpreting Medusa to tell a story of my own…

This interview originally appeared at the Institute of Classical Studies blog on 24 September 2018.

LG: What drew you to work with the story of Medusa?

CB: Initially, I didn’t want to work with Medusa at all – as soon as I saw the Making Monsters call, its interest in reworking female monsters from marginalised perspectives including queerness spoke to me, because queering up archetypes is A Thing I Do. I knew I wanted to explore what makes queer women want to identify so often with the witch or the monster or the sorceress. But Medusa’s the archetypal classical female monster, and I knew the editors would probably get more Medusa submissions than anything else, so couldn’t I find something more original than that? After weeks trying to think of female monsters in traditions I knew well enough to handle who’d also convey themes I wanted to work with, I gave in and accepted Medusa was who it was just going to have to be.

And Medusa brings the terror of her gaze, which I do know something about. So how could I start inverting the reader’s expectations enough to start telling a story of my own, and align it with themes of recognition and re-enactment that I like to work with? Let’s ask what kind of character would want to be looked on by Medusa, when that’s exactly what her myths forbid you to do… and that’s how I knew the story would start with Nysa, the protagonist, waiting for Medusa to turn her eyes on her. What’s made her long to be transformed like that? We’ll find out…

 LG: What did you find challenging about working within a story that has been told so many times before?

CB: The resonances of other ways the story has been told – because even when they worked against what I wanted to tell, I couldn’t pretend they weren’t already there. Every retelling of a myth, and every act of identification with a figure from myth, is crafted for a purpose – people select the aspects of the myth that best make their intervention for them, attach what they’re bringing from outside the myth, and what they do with the myth becomes part of the complex of associations that the hero or the monster drag behind them. Medusa has been reclaimed so often as a symbol of the monstrous feminine, or how women and their bodies terrify the patriarchy, that it was challenging just to devise a plot that wouldn’t have to go down the railroad of the sinister anti-patriarchal Goddess taking back her power. And I struggled with whether feminist reclamations of Medusa and her monstrousness had been so linked to the idea of taking back power for the cis female body that a Medusa story would end up with that kind of essentialism embedded in it.

The two resonances that constrained me most were, firstly, Perseus, and secondly, the idea of the Gorgons as the nearest thing Medusa has to an identity bigger than herself. Either Medusa had to meet her death at Perseus’ hands, or she’d have to escape her traditional fate and that would be the climax – divergence is the currency of retelling, and deviating from the myth that much would cost most of what the story had in its purse. Whatever Perseus stands for, Medusa has to embody its opposite, because that’s what the hero – if he is a hero – goes to slay. The Gorgons almost undermined the entire idea of writing about a protagonist who identifies with Medusa. Because in trans and feminist history, the Gorgons were an armed and dangerous group of anti-trans radical feminists who threatened to kill the trans sound engineer Sandy Stone in the mid-1970s if her all-women record label, Olivia Records, brought her on tour to Seattle. (Stone went on to write a foundational trans feminist essay that inspired another trans theorist, Susan Stryker, to write an essay and performance piece about her own affinity with Frankenstein’s Monster.) Knowing that history, how could I write a protagonist who wanted to become like Medusa, the most (in)famous of the Gorgons, without aligning her with violent hatred against trans women in the mind of a reader who’d remember that history when they saw the Gorgons’ name? That’s one reason why this story’s Medusa is a singular, feared woman, not one of a known species of monster, and it’s certainly one of the reasons that made me want the action to look ahead to future transformations of Medusa’s image, to tackle those and other resonances directly – while making sure the story had a trans woman in its world whose womanhood would be affirmed by the narrative itself, and spaces where other gender-variant people like her could exist.

LG: Medusa’s gaze is what makes her monstrous; how did you approach that in your retelling?

CB: Even before we get to the gaping wide mouth or the snakes-for-hair, let alone the translated naga tail that modern Medusas keep ending up with somehow, it’s because Medusa’s gaze is monstrous that we’re supposed to dread her. Nysa seeks out that monstrous gaze instead. She wants to have its terrible power turned on her. Because she’s had to learn that by the standards of her home environment – or what she perceives as the standards of her home environment – her own gaze of desire towards other women is recognised as a monstrous thing itself. What Nysa projects on to the myths she’s heard about Medusa reminds me of one of those secret chords of growing up queer: wanting to identify with the monster, because you’ve already been made to feel the deepest and most indescribable part of yourself is monstrous. And Nysa wants her outward form to reflect the monstrousness she’s certain that she carries inside, just like Medusa’s own form notoriously does …

…while in some ways, on her journey to find Medusa and become what she aspires to become through her encounter with her, she’s almost a counter-Perseus. Or at least, her own journey depends on three women (none of whom fit well around the heteronormative hearth) who all lend her their sight…

LG: How do you think your Medusa expands our sense of what she can be and what she can tell us?

CB: Integrating Medusa into a repertoire of themes that resonate with the kinds of queerness I’ve wanted to write about turned out to involve making sense of the feminisms that have reimagined her as much as it did making sense of her: until I understood what traditions I was inserting myself into, and what positions I wanted to take in relation to them, I didn’t know what ‘my’ Medusa could even have the possibility to be. Medusa isn’t a figure who’d ever been personally significant to me in the rolodex of mythological and historical archetypes I’d enjoyed transforming (whereas Athena, Artemis, Atalanta… I know, I know). My Medusa exists in the space of what we don’t know about her: where she might have come from, how she’s meant to look. And her meaning as a monster is already being constructed before the action even starts, by the people who have told stories about her around their hearths, and by the women who have whispered other stories as they recreate hearths of their own…

Making Monsters: micro-interview with The Future Fire

Making Monsters: micro-interview with The Future Fire

Over on The Future Fire‘s Facebook page, I had a quick chat about ‘The Eyes Beyond the Hearth’, my story in the Making Monsters anthology (which is out now!):

FFN: What does “The Eyes Beyond the Hearth” mean to you?

CB: The desperation of being a young queer person without your own way to make in the world, afraid of your own desire and scared of your own sight, embracing the only identity you think is left to you. Also, switching from Dead Can Dance to ‘Monsters’ by Saara Aalto every time I was done writing for the night.

FFN: What is the idea, thought or fight that you’d like to pass to the next generation?

CB: Remember how easily we can have our pasts erased, and how hard we can fight for them not to be.

FFN: What are you working on next?

CB: I’m querying a queer fantasy novel about pop-culture magic and rewriting myths, set in London between 1991 and 2012, and my next short story might have something to do with a brave radical librarian searching for a mysterious giant cat…

Making Monsters is out and available to order online or from your local bookshop now.

30 questions about the Queer Magical Doorstop

30 questions about the Queer Magical Doorstop

At the beginning of May, Twitter user @KMWhite18 posted a month’s worth of questions about LGBT-themed works in progress, so writers could tell each other more about their books.

Months are important in the WIP I’ve started to call the Queer Magical Doorstop (more about it here, and it will be, very much, each of those three things). Characters have superstitions about midsummer. They project myths on to the calendar like Robert Graves did when he invented a symbolic year around his pseudo-Celtic cycle of folkloric trees. Two women who are each other’s reflections are doomed to confront each other like the oak-king and holly-king of old as the year turns, so that one can reign supreme. Or that’s what stories not written by queer women say has to happen.

Months, and rituals, are important in this book. So of course I didn’t start answering anything until the middle of May.

This is more or less what I told Twitter.

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#1: Introduce yourself!

(yes, I know it’s already the 19th of May): genderqueerish lesbian writer born in London, living in Hull these days, probably became an academic because I never found a blue police box.

(Actually, I do have one, which looks a bit like this; it just doesn’t go vworp vworp any more.)

#2: Pitch your WIP

I always want to say ‘lesbian JONATHAN STRANGE & MR NORRELL with a WICKED + THE DIVINE complex’ but then I’m never sure who reads , so I’ll say it here instead.

#3: Your main character in five objects

There are two MCs.

Meet Maria… and there’s a reason most of these are broken.

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And meet Anya, who’d have overthought these even more than me. (I’m still not sure I’ve got her the right trees.)

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#4: A line capturing your WIP’s atmosphere

‘The shadow falls across her eyes and mine, companion to hero, heir to king, double to double, or newcomer to star.’

(Or we could go with someone sounding off about the mythological resonance of Shakespear’s Sister.)

(That quote’s in Anya’s voice, though. Maria… does not sound like that. Though she can sound off about the mythological resonance of Shakespear’s Sister.)

#5: Does your WIP focus on the ‘queer experience’?

They’re lesbian magicians trying to make their mark on 20 years of queer history and fashion, and stop the government mastering magic before they do. So, a little bit.

#6: What inspired this WIP?

The short answer involves seeing this comic panel in 2015 and realising how close it came to a character I already wanted to write about, who’ll turn up in here.

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The long answer involves wanting to hurl a Robert Graves book across an airport departure lounge.

#7: Are the protagonists based on you?

It felt a bit like drawing blood every time I did give either of them a trait I had in common. So I hope not.

That said, protag #1 makes her name in a magical duo called Glenarvon, so hang as big a lampshade on that as you want.

#8: Why do you love this WIP?

Because I needed to read it, and to meet characters whose magic wasn’t just a metaphor for being queer, it intersected with the queer experiences they’d really have had.

#9: Do you consider your WIP to be #ownvoices?

Both protags are roughly in my corner of sexuality and gender expression, so yes.

(Though they belong to queer generations I don’t, I’m writing across a class difference with one of them, and across more differences with the supporting cast, so that’s a reserved yes, now I have more space.)

#10: A line where a character talks about their identity

‘”May King isn’t right, May Queen isn’t right,” said Caro, “where do you put me?”‘

(Magic works by re-enacting myth; here’s a non-binary magician, on verge of stardom, working out which ones they’ll reimagine…)

#11: What could tempt your protagonists to the dark side?

One of them’s already going to spend more time there than she’d ever have imagined at the start – it’s more a case of what could tempt her back

#12: Talk about your antagonists!

One siphons celebrity chaos. One is a paparazzi witch. One is a landed second son, taking back new magic for old power.

And then there’s Anja, the second: think Lexa x Ruby Rose, but Anya’s double, who’ll make Anya more powerful than she ever was alone.

(Or: come to the dark side. We have statement coats.)

#13: Who are your protagonists’ soulmates?

After those last couple of answers, that would probably be telling. Sorry.

(Some of these characters would start a magical war to stay together. Some of them might start one so they didn’t have to.)

#14: What are you most excited to write?

I’m querying agents now, so… whatever the next stage of revision is. If I’m lucky enough for that to happen.

#15: What’s your ideal cover?

I haven’t even dared think about it. I’d love to see a designer do something clever and queer with the main characters’ images and the doubles theme. Or pick out an object that can stand for their magic and use that.

#16: What scares you about this WIP?

That a story following these two women and the whole of London over 20 years wanted me to tell it, and now I’m responsible for getting it out as polished as it can be.

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(Is it time for some worried porgs? It’s always time for some worried porgs.)

#17: Post the protagonists’ theme songs!

Once they discover how to turn magic into performance, magicians literally have those. This’ll be Maria’s. She has a thunderstorm thing going on.

Anya’s training an up-and-coming team of celebrity magicians to harness mythic resonance using queer style. She directs from the background. But here’s her song.

And ‘Stay’ by Shakespear’s Sister might as well run through the whole book. You better hope and pray you make it safe back to your own world, etc.

#18: Weirdest thing you’ve researched

What took longest, for least reward, was almost certainly trying to work out what wine the it-girl heiress of postmodern occult London would probably have ordered in 1996.

(I could have said the exact projected running times for each bit of the London 2012 opening ceremony, if I hadn’t had them from a work thing years ago…)

#19: A line that shocked you

(I spent far too long over this one. ‘What line did you write that surprised you as you wrote it?’ was the prompt. So eventually I chose:)

‘Anja, among all the artisans, is whom you call on to guide a chisel or a pen to say one thing as it says something else.’

Which showed me she was basically a patron of queer-coding in her world’s mythology.

#20: Are you jealous of your MCs?

Yes in terms of the power they’ll have at their fingertips by the end, if I’m being honest. No in terms of what I put them through so they could get it.

#21: Has working on this WIP changed you?

Yes, actually. Somehow I’m much more able to express Queer 401-level stuff about how we want people to see us anyway, after powering through a whole book about how that could work as magic.

#22: How does your WIP’s setting handle queerphobia?

It’s wherever history put it. Next-generation magicians were at school under Section 28; AIDS devastated the 1980s occult fashion scene; one protagonist’s bi father was almost blackmailed out of his job at a defence laboratory, researching artefacts the arch-antagonist military family had acquired but didn’t understand.

#23: Post your characters’ pride flags!!

Difficult one. Neither MC grew up identifying with any in the 70s and 80s (which is partly what drives them to create a magic scene where they belong). One has a major choice about a flag to make near the very end of the book.

In the supporting cast, some magicians would have their Pride badges and pronouns down the sidebar of their Tumblrs by the end, others could be my age and still not be able to tell you if they’re bi or pan.

But this is a book where having a name for yourself is powerful.

#24: Post the scariest/darkest line

That depends if you want the terror one or two of these characters could turn moving-image magic into, or the terror that history would already perceive.

‘She’d be a husk of a replacement for her target; she could be one.’ That’ll do for the first kind.

For the second kind, this action will be unfolding across two decades where people were already learning to use live video for ends more frightening than fiction.

#25: Who should play the MCs in a movie?

Resemblance amplifies magic, so even the claims they stake about that could be acts of power.

(Though I did hold my breath when Phoebe Waller-Bridge was in the frame for the 13th Doctor, as that would have spookily triangulated with the vibe for someone in this book…)

#26: Queerest moment in your WIP?

Well, besides ‘most of it’, probably the one where a woman and her alter-ego lover, in each other’s outfits, are watching each other take each other’s roles to re-enact part of the myth of Joan of Arc…

#27: Advice for your protagonists

‘And then you said, “Bone to bone, blood to blood, joint to joint, so may they be mended.” You fixed it, because gods fixed the wound that way before.’

(One of them learns that from her new-age lesbian video witch lover. Then, the race is on.)

#28: Post some sexy lines 😉

Someone would ask, wouldn’t they?

‘Her touch releases me. Her sight consumes me. Her body ignites me and her reciprocity regenerates me.’ (I’m not going into which couple that’s about.)

#29: Is this WIP breaking ground?

It’s a saga of magical discovery, told over 20 years of London’s recent history, centred on queer women, the myths they rewrite and the families they find.

So, yes, it’s breaking ground.

#30: What’s your FAVOURITE line?

I want this to be one that encapsulates the whole book, like you could just tap it on a table and the entire story would spill out.

But it might be where the MC still living off her chaotic ’90s pop-culture-magic glory gets taken to an otherworld she’s always refused to believe in, spots its pulsing red castle walls, and asks its guardian, ‘You got an emerald one of these as well somewhere?’

#31: Wrap up!

(And that was probably the most I’d ever talked about this book on Twitter at once, so thank you to the month of May for that…)