Malinda Lo
Blog
Jan 23, 2012
The Lesbian Question
A question from a reader:
“Setting aside the tangled web of labels of low, dark, high, heroic, etc. fantasy (or speculative fiction) — do you consider yourself to write ‘lesbian’ books, or books that happen to be about lesbians?”
Source: www.strangesisters.com
I’ve been thinking about how to answer this question for some time now. It’s about categorization, and I think that writers are sometimes the worst people to ask about what kind of books they write, because they may be too close to the story to tell. Usually, I think that categorizing is best done by the book’s publisher, because it’s basically about marketing: Where does the book fit best in the bookstore, so that it can be found by people who would want to read it?
However, there are some problems with that theory, too. Because often books about minorities are categorized as minority books even when they might fit into a broader genre. That has the detrimental effect of limiting their audience and ghettoizing the writer. (For a great analysis of why this is a problem, read N.K. Jemisin’s post, “Don’t Put My Book in the African American Section.”)
I think that with the increase in online and e-book buying, categorizing books becomes both more important (for discoverability through search) and more flexible, because more than one category can be applied. Many books, after all, fit into multiple categories. I think that my books do.
Both Ash and Huntress are fantasy novels, but there are other categories they could fall into: young adult, most obviously; fairy tales (for Ash); high fantasy (for Huntress); speculative fiction. They also could be categorized as lesbian books, but that depends on what you mean by “lesbian books.”
Are they books about lesbian main characters? If so, we need to ask the question, “What do you mean by ‘lesbian’?” On the surface this might sound rather simplistic, but it’s a complicated and politically charged issue. In Passions Between Women: British Lesbian Culture, 1668-1801, Emma Donoghue argued: “Certainly, it was not until the late nineteenth century that the sexologists cemented a selection of such elements into the stereotype called ‘the lesbian’ (tall, flat-chested, intellectual, frustrated); however, a wide variety of lesbian types had been described in texts of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.”
Donoghue’s point is that even if the contemporary words we use to describe lesbians were not common before the nineteenth century, that certainly doesn’t mean that women who who loved women (sexually) did not exist before then. Similarly, while I don’t believe that any of the characters in my first two novels would self-identify as lesbians, that doesn’t change the fact that they do, in fact, engage in same-sex relationships.
(Why wouldn’t they self-identify as lesbians? Because that concept does not exist in the world of Ash and Huntress. They’re fantasy novels set in an alternate world where there is no word to describe same-sex relationships, because they are not considered abnormal. Things that are normal become default and are not marked as other or called out as exceptional. Their love is not “gay love,”; it is love.)
So … while none of the characters in my first two novels would identify as lesbians, I wouldn’t object to categorizing them as lesbian books, given Donoghue’s point.1
But the whole question was: “do you consider yourself to write ‘lesbian’ books, or books that happen to be about lesbians?” Putting aside the debate about what a “lesbian book” is,2 my answer is no, I don’t consider myself to write “lesbian” books, but nor do I believe I write books that happen to be about lesbians.
The reason I don’t believe that I write “lesbian” books is because I don’t actually set out to write books about being lesbian. I guess even though there’s plenty of room for flexibility in discussing what a “lesbian book” is, personally I believe a “lesbian book” is about the lived experience of being a lesbian: coming out, dealing with the real world’s homophobia, telling insider lesbian jokes, going to lesbian bars, etc. I’ve definitely lived this kind of lesbian life before (especially when I worked at AfterEllen), and my books are so far from that experience. So far. That’s why personally, I can’t see them as lesbian books. I’ve read books that I consider to be lesbian books and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed them. But I haven’t written any.3
Secondly, the idea that a book could be about a person who happens to be a lesbian doesn’t work for me. I know that plenty of readers are seeking books featuring minority characters but aren’t about the experience of being a minority, and sometimes those books are identified with the “happens to be” tag. (E.g., “This is about an awesome demon/werewolf hunter who happens to be Asian!”) But I don’t believe that sexual orientation (or race) just “happens to be” to anyone. I think it’s very deeply ingrained in a person’s whole being, and it is in all of my characters. I have read books in which a character’s minority identity feels tacked on as a “happens to be,” and those books disappoint me. (No, I won’t name them.)
So, in conclusion … it’s complicated. I’m fine with others identifying my books as lesbian novels, even though I don’t personally believe I’ve written any lesbian novels. I know that the lesbian label does help my books find new readers (often, lesbian readers). I know that it also turns some people off (usually people who are uncomfortable with lesbians), but that’s inevitable. I hope that the benefits of the label outweigh costs.
- There’s another way to think about “lesbian books.” There’s a whole category of publishing devoted to LGBT fiction. It has its own conferences, its own LGBT-focused publishers, its own awards and superstars. These books tend to be shelved in the LGBT sections of bookstores, and I think this category of publishing arose out of a time when mainstream publishers did not widely publish books about LGBT people. So there’s a real history of activism and community support in LGBT publishing. My novels are not published by these LGBT-focused publishers, and I haven’t been an active part of that community of writers, but I know that my books were able to be published partly because of the work that these publishers have done in the past. [↩]
- Or, are “lesbian books” books written by lesbians? If so, my books do qualify, because I identify as a lesbian. But there are so many books about lesbian characters that aren’t written by lesbians, and vice-versa, that I don’t believe this is the right definition. [↩]
- That doesn’t mean I won’t! [↩]
I would definitely agree that Ash isn’t a lesbian book, with the definition that ‘lesbian book’ means a book about the lived experience of someone who self-identifies as lesbian in some context at least in reference to the here-and-now. Unfortunately, because we are all writing in the here and now, whatever we write is positioning itself against reality, and your choice to make the world one where sexuality is not binarized, (in fact, in Ash, at least, it seems that sexuality is not conceptualized at all) is in fact making a statement that suggests sexual binarity is not necessary in any culture. I think this element could have been stronger, if it had been interesting to you.
But I think that one of the real problems with a lot of YA literature these days, is that it accepts the cultural definitions of sexuality and doesn’t problematize it at all. Romance novels have always been a place where you could go to find the idea that a romantic moral sexuality was necessary to have a full life, but literature was where you could explore different, complex, immoral perspectives. I may have been reading too much Theory lately, but it seems that one thing about great literature is that it doesn’t subscribe to the easy definitions. These days we want to have heterosexual, homosexual, and bisexual characters without ever wondering if these definitions can ever describe an individual rather than merely demarcate some sort of group.
If we say our character ‘identifies’ as one or another of these words, that’s different, because they’re defining themselves, and they have to deal with exactly how this external category interacts with how they are as an individual. If the author defines the character as a lesbian (or whatever), without considering what that means for them, they have created a caricature instead of a character.
In full fledged fantasy, of course, we can change these things. We can make the words mean something different and unexpected. We can suggest that they have no meaning at all. But I think, to really communicate with our readers, we have to remember that their world is not the one we imagine. And to create full characters, we must let them engage with their identities, whether that is sex, gender, sexuality, race, class, caste, species, etc.. The one thing that, when writing about humans, that we can’t change, is that the human experience is engaging with the external forces of language and culture and society, and bringing them inside to invent an interiority that creates itself as/with/against the external definitions.
(And I’m totally going to use some of this in my response to “Bodily Inscriptions, Performative Subversions.” Sorry for the crazy.)
The fact that a book set in another world is being read by people in this world is one of the stickiest things ever that a writer of fantasy/scifi has to deal with. And I have made certain writing decisions based on that conundrum and blogged about it elsewhere on this site. However, I don’t agree that Ash is “in fact” making the that sort of statement. It’s a very intriguing and entirely valid interpretation, but it is still your interpretation of the text.
If I think about my own personal beliefs about the concept of a sexual binary in contemporary US culture … I was about to explain what they were, and then I realized: My own personal beliefs may or may not have any actual impact on the text of the book itself. As a writer, I sometimes write things about characters who do things that are completely the opposite of my own beliefs. So I’ll refrain from stating them. Basically, I’m arguing for the death of the author.
I do see this in a lot of YA. But I also see it throughout all of popular media: television, film, celebrity culture, etc. YA is not the only place where definitions of sexuality are rarely challenged.
Your comment really interested me because I see it coming from a very particular, critically engaged position. And that is lovely! But oh so far removed, IMO, from my instinct-rooted position of a writer telling a story. I can absorb these kinds of critical issues and they really excite me intellectually, but I’ve realized that as a writer, I cannot write from any place but my gut. I strongly resist the idea of consciously politicizing fiction. Even though I may agree with many of those political views in real life.
Of course you’re right. An interpretation is an interpretation, (though
no longer being a literary theorist, and coming at it from the perspective of a writer, I feel a little more freedom to not slay all my authors) and to be honest, it wasn’t even my interpretation while reading the book. (i was actually much more worried about the class aspect, both an upper and a servant class did exist in the world, but Ash herself seemed to be liminal to both worlds, assuming that others saw her as a servant, but never allowing herself to embrace that identity. Sorry.)
“I can absorb these kinds of critical issues and they really excite me intellectually, but I’ve realized that as a writer, I cannot write from any place but my gut.”
Now I find this to be a very interesting point. In a way, as a writer, I want these ideas to become deeply enough ingrained that they are part of my instinct, that whenever I reach towards a cliche or an obvious stereotype, I can pull back and take a different path. (Or at least catch it on the revision). Because it’s true, actively thinking about these things while drafting is a really good way to never write anything again. But I think one of the things that I enjoy about critical theory is that it tells me, in plain (or not so plain) words, things that I’ve already been shown in fiction. My favorite books have always been ones that held revelations, big or small, and I think, for me, to be able to write the sort of books I adored, I have to be conscious of what I’m doing and what I’m saying. (But not too conscious.)
I also think there’s a difference between politicizing fiction and conceptualizing it. (This is using conceptualizing on par with politicizing, i.e. make it more conceptual, rather than think about it in the abstract). Writing a gay character because you think there ought to be more of them, that’s politicizing. Writing a gay character because you want the opportunity to show something about humanity and that’s the way the story will do it best? I hope that’s conceptualizing. Of course, my real ideal is the story that’s saying something amazing and is also just telling a kick-ass entertaining tale. If it’s got girls kissing in it, all the better.
Thanks for responding to me. I had a good three year break from critical theory and I just stuck my toe back in on Monday. I’m still a little high from it all. Don’t mean to be spilling it all over your comments section.
I think some people do write much more intellectually than I do. As you probably know, the only rule in writing is “what works, works.” I think the distinction between politicizing and conceptualizing doesn’t really work for me, because they’re both about being conscious of something. Honestly, I’ve never written books about queer characters for any conscious reason other than those characters were queer to begin with. They came out queer, without any conscious thought — especially the characters in Ash. As a writer, I tend to be more interested in queer than straight characters, and I know that’s because I’m queer. But there’s no real conceptualizing about it, at least for me.