Malinda Lo
Blog
Nov 28, 2012
Heteronormativity, fantasy, and Bitterblue – Part 1
Earlier this week I read a post discussing Kristin Cashore’s Bitterblue on School Library Journal‘s blog Someday My Printz Will Come, which is devoted to analyzing YA books that librarians think may or may not be contenders for the Printz Award. This post went up on Oct. 29, so I’m a bit behind, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I decided to blog about it.
In the post, the blogger, Sarah Couri, wrote that she enjoyed Bitterblue as a fan, but thought it was too flawed to be a serious Printz contender. All well and good. The interesting part of the post, to me, was the discussion in the comments that followed. (Go here to read the post and comments in full.)
SPOILER WARNING: Spoilers for all three of Kristin Cashore’s novels, Graceling, Fire, and Bitterblue, although I don’t think they’re major spoilers.
Also, before I go any further, some disclaimers: I am a YA author who writes fantasy, and I am a big fan of Kristin Cashore’s novels, though I don’t know her personally. I’ve only met her once, and I was totally nervous like a fangirl! I do read her blog posts, but that’s the extent of my knowledge of her. Despite my fannishness, I don’t believe her books (or any books) are flawless. I’m trying to approach this post with openness and generosity, and though it sounds cheesy, I hope you will too.
OK, so let’s continue: The first comment after the post was from Tatiana (The Readventurer) who disliked Bitterblue and felt that it was “too obvious in the delivery of its liberal agenda.” Then came these comments in response that really made me sit up:
Followed by this further explanation:
And this counterpoint:
I want to also point out Tatiana’s clarification of her own position:
I want to note that I don’t believe Tatiana’s comments were homophobic. In fact I agree with some of her criticism of Bitterblue, but you’ll have to wait till tomorrow when I post part 2 to get into that, because this post is just way too long!
Anyway, two topics emerged from this discussion that I found very fascinating:
- What constitutes “subtlety” when it comes to describing same-sex relationships in fiction?
- Is it believable to have same-sex relationships in a medieval-esque fantasy world?
I’m going to begin with number one: the issue of subtlety. I thought that Tatiana’s comment here was very telling: “it is a statement of how the author doesn’t trust her readers to get the message (like we did in Graceling where Raffin and Bann’s relationship was not even defined as romantic) and chooses instead to hammer it in.”
First, kudos to Tatiana for understanding the nature of Raffin and Bann’s relationship in Graceling. I don’t think that all readers get that Raffin and Bann are in a romantic relationship because Cashore does not overtly state it. She only hints. The fact that Tatiana gets it indicates that she’s a careful reader and is also open to the idea of gay relationships. She sees them, which is more than some readers do.
For me, I found the hinting about Raffin and Bann’s relationship in Graceling to be disappointing because there’s a fine line between “subtle” and “the love that dare not speak its name.” For much too long, speaking openly about homosexuality was verboten because it was considered morally wrong. For me, hinting about someone’s sexual orientation simply smacks of negative judgement.
I’m not saying I believe that Kristin Cashore was negatively judging her characters. What I’m saying is that by only hinting about Raffin and Bann’s relationship, Cashore has fallen into the trap of the closet. She has cloaked their love in a negative context, even if that’s not what she intended.1
The solution to avoiding the closet trap? Coming out. That’s what Cashore does with same-sex relationships in Bitterblue, and I really appreciated that as a lesbian reader. Because Bitterblue openly and straightforwardly acknowledges the existence of same-sex relationships — and because it’s clear that Bitterblue doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with them — the reader is positioned to read those relationships positively.
In this case, I think that subtlety is the wrong choice. I think that direct clarity is sometimes preferable, especially when writing about potentially controversial subjects such as sexual orientation and race. Subtlety in these cases too often leads to misunderstandings on the part of readers because contemporary mainstream American culture heavily favors a straight, white narrative. If you’re not writing a straight, white narrative, you as the writer (I believe) have a responsibility to come out about it. In other words: just say it.
When you just say it, you do run the risk of some readers believing that you’re not being subtle enough. However, “not subtle enough” in this case is, I believe, an example of heteronormativity in action.
Heteronormativity is a worldview that is shared by the vast majority of people on this planet, in which heterosexuality is viewed as normal and homosexuality is marginalized as abnormal. This is not the same as homophobia, which is a straightforward fear or hatred of homosexuals. I don’t believe that having a heteronormative worldview makes you evil, but I do think it can blind a person to the possible existence of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people in many situations.
The problem for the writer who is writing a narrative that includes LGBT people is that most readers exist in a heteronormative world. They expect most characters to be straight. In certain contexts — especially historical contexts or fantasy novels set in apparently premodern time periods — it can feel anachronistic to have LGBT characters living openly gay lives.
This doesn’t mean that people in the Middle Ages never engaged in same-sex relationships. People who loved other people of the same sex have existed throughout all of history and in every culture. However, being “gay” as an identity is a modern concept that did not truly exist until the early twentieth century.
So, is it unrealistic to have gay characters in a medieval-esque setting? No … and yes. There probably weren’t any “gay” people in the Middle Ages, at least insofar as we contemporary Americans understand the term “gay.” There were no Pride parades, Dyke Marches or stereotypes about gay men being extremely stylish dressers. But there were people who had same-sex relationships, sure.
However, I don’t think the average reader of novels is going to sit around thinking about this — and they shouldn’t. Part of the writer’s job (especially in fantasy) is to create a fictional world that is convincing, and no matter what the real-world facts are, you can’t get around someone’s feelings. Of course, there’s no way to predict what every reader will feel about the world you create, but you have to take a stab at it in order to make sure they understand the story you’re telling.
That’s why I don’t think that Tatiana’s reaction (which is not unusual at all) is entirely due to heteronormativity. I also think it’s related to Cashore’s world-building. And that brings me to point number two: Is it believable to have same-sex relationships in a medieval-esque fantasy world?
Because this post has gotten so long, I’m going to stop here and continue with point number 2 tomorrow. Stay tuned! (And here’s part 2.)
- And I don’t believe that’s what she intended, because in one scene Katsa obliquely acknowledges Raffin and Bann’s relationship and has no negative feelings about it. However, that is my interpretation of her intentions, which only she knows for sure. [↩]
Having not read Cashore’s books, I can’t comment on that.
In response to part 2 (Is it believable to have same-sex relationships in a medieval-esque fantasy world?), I quite like it where (especially if it’s emphasised fantasy rather than religion-backed-medieval) two people are together and their genders aren’t of any importance. Looking forwards to part two
I’m glad you posted about this because I had exactly the reaction to Bitterblue as Tatiana had. I thought Cashore used the book as a vehicle to showcase her ideals, rather than allowing her ideals to flow into the book naturally. How many “forbidden” or “minority” issues does she bring up? Same sex marriage, virginity, female masturbation, disabilities, race, and issues with democracy. In her previous books, Po was fine with his disability but Cashore realized how she had glazed over that as an able-bodied person. As someone who is straight, she probably felt the same way about how she had dealt with same-sex relationships.
But I felt like it was too much in Bitterblue. Like she REALLY wanted the reader to know that life is not easy for people with disabilities. That people who are black can be awesome and amazing and have their own societies. That it’s totally normal for girls to masturbate.
I would have felt better if all of these things she had included somehow furthered the story, instead of being there just to prove a point. It felt like an after-school special.
It’s a fine line that I’m sure writers come across all the time – how do you make social issues a part of your story without hitting the reader over the head?
Lcasey3 — That is a really good question and very difficult to answer. I might get to my response in part 2, but I’m starting to think I might have to write a part 3 to address whole agenda thing! Neverending discussion!
Thank you for this post! I haven’t read Cashore’s books, but frankly, for me, 3 queer couples out of what I presume are many pairings is about reflective of my actual life (if not under-representative). Personally, I think it’s sad when any queer couple in a book is seen as part of some greater “message,” and I agree that this interpretation reflects heteronormativity on the part of readers, where “straight” is the unmarked default and “queer” is agenda building.
(Speaking as a bisexual author whose first book has an admitted liberal agenda.)
My Seven Realms world is medievalesque, but it is not a real place, except, hopefully, in the hearts and minds of readers. Thus, IMHO I can do whatever I like with social mores and conventions. Much of the history of the middle ages, in Western Europe, anyway, is colored by Christian conventions and commandments. The Christian church doesn’t exist in my fantasy world, so I feel no need to conform to those conventions. Same-sex relationships are accepted in the Fells; but not in the Kingdom of Arden to the south.
I think Cashore can build whatever kind of world she wants.
That said, I think any time fiction is written to a mission, the story suffers. Theme should arise naturally out of story.
Hm. It all sounds rather dull. When will it be time to stop focusing on the orientation of the relationships and their ‘agendas’ and focus on the psychological and emotional impact of those interpersonal connections instead. Smacks of a lack of literary sophistication. Sexuality should feature, but I feel like the unending debate is passé at this point. Heteronormativity is so uncool. Stop confusing originality with authenticity. Originality is not nearly as important.
One of the first reviews of my second book said, “I stayed very confused if Ty was a man or a woman–could be because I was reading too fast. That kind of drove me crazy…”
This is how Ty is introduced: “In his mid-forties, he was tall, blond, and handsome, in impeccable physical condition.” He (along with my main character) was in the Marines, about which I say, “And in Ty’s case, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’ hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t told but he hadn’t been as careful as he needed to be either. He’d never get the position as intelligence specialist that he’d been up for, and now that the service knew…well, his military career was dead.”
That doesn’t seem subtle to me. And yet, it was too subtle for at least one reader. I should probably mention that he’s also married, with a husband and a toddler. Still, the only way to be confused about that is if your worldview absolutely doesn’t accept the possibility of homosexual marriage.
If Kristin Cashore had been writing a strict historical, then she would have needed to accept the “conspiracy of silence” that our history has forced upon LBGT people. The wikipedia entry for Richard the Lionheart, probably the most famous gay guy in medieval England (or at least the first one that occurred to me), refers to a hermit of the time, who warned, “Be thou mindful of the destruction of Sodom, and abstain from what is unlawful”, which makes it clear that in our history, same-sex sex was sinful and illegal and therefore hidden. So yeah, in a straight historical, you need to hide the gay people. But when you’re writing fantasy, and building a world, the world doesn’t need to have all the same rules. People who say “this imaginary world needs to follow my rules” should be encouraged to question their rules, IMO, not supported. (Especially when their rules are narrow-minded, but really, always.) When I lived in California, three gay couples out of the many would have been nothing. The ratio in my circle was definitely closer to 50/50.
And in our world, I could have followed my reviewer’s rules, in which men don’t marry men and don’t have children together. I didn’t. No regrets, despite the negative bit of review.
It seems to me that books dealing with social issues can start to feel like Issue Soup because that’s sort of the way these things work in real life, too. Once you start looking at how government works, for example, you start looking at class, and then you start looking at dominant v.s. minority culture, and then you might start looking at sexuality or ableism or sexism or a whole host of other things. When I read Lcasey3′s list above, I definitely saw the point about potential overload in Bitterblue. But it also seems to me that everything in that list is interconnected in various ways in our real lives, and I’d guess that’s what Cashore is going for.
Maybe that’s the key balance writers have to strike: How do you include all these messy, interconnected “issues” in a way that speaks to our real experiences without weighing down the story? What themes make organic sense for your book, and which ones should be edited out to keep the plot running?
For fantasy writers, I think a lot of these decisions are tied to world-building as Malinda suggests. If you can get that part down, the Issue Soup will feel like a reflection of a real and complicated world, not like a forced “agenda.” But doing that part right is definitely not easy. I know, because I’m currently brainstorming and doing world-building for a fantasy, and I’m discovering that this story probably is going to touch on almost everything in Lcasey3′s list. So, that might be fun. Or it might be kind of terrible. Hopefully the Part 2 post will help me out a little.
Gay characters are becoming more common in books, including fantasy books. Kristen Cashole, Cassandra Clare, Tamora Pierce, and Mercedes Lackey are all strait, fantasy writers with gay characters. Personally I feel Tamora Pierce brought it up the most naturally without detracting from the plot. One of the reasons Ash is one of my favorite books is that it was the first book with a gay heroine that I’d read, and she was able to have her happily ever after.
I did enjoy Bitterblue. For me I was a bit conflicted, I read both Fire and Graceling before Bitterblue, and didn’t see any gay characters in them. For me it was as if they were suddenly dropped in there. I have since reread all the books and did find the subtle comments that I had missed originally. Some people don’t catch the subtle relationship hints. Its really not intentional, they just aren’t looking for them. I was thrilled with Sky, and I probably should have noticed Ban and Raf.
Lots of food for thought (and yes on the heternormative way of seeing, just as I’ve heard people say about books/movies with a lot of people of color). I’m looking forward to part two!
I just finished reading Bitterblue a few days ago, and I have to say that I didn’t find it to be preachy or inorganic in its treatment of these issues at all. Personally, I found the explicit acknowledgement of Raffin and Bann’s relationship to be a quiet and sweet moment. Is a kiss on a forehead in a quiet moment really that heavy-handed, from a narrative perspective?
This and other ‘liberal’ issues – such as the ableism and aristocratic privilege – brought up in the book felt natural to me in this story, and very consistent with Bitterblue’s growing awareness of the world outside her desk and paperwork. For a young character like this, thrust into both privilege and responsibility at such a young age, growing up looking up to her friends in the Council (who have a decidedly anti-tyranny agenda themselves), and painfully aware of the terrors that can result when people are not allowed to think freely and make their own decisions, Bitterblue’s curiosity about the world outside (and inside) her castle, and her open-minded reactions to what she found, also seemed completely understandable.
Obviously, we all bring different perspectives to the stories we read, but I would go so far as to say that I was impressed with how well the book addressed the consequences – physical, psychological, and social – of Leck’s twisted reign. It seemed realistic that even ten (?) years after his death, the kingdom had only just begun the processing of healing. Because this was the premise upon which the book was based, social issues of governance felt entirely relevant to the story.
I haven’t read BITTERBLUE yet (I lent it out to a friend almost as soon as it was in my hands…not voluntarily), but some of my other reader friends mentioned the fact same-sex relationships seemed to ‘pop up’ every other page and why I didn’t warn them. They’re all adults (over 18 at the very least), who read as much as me if not more in some cases and have read LGBT fiction before. I wouldn’t feel a need to ‘warn’ them about it in the story.
As a child, about 10, I read a book called ‘Silverglass’ by JF Rivkin. A fantasy from the 80′s about a female ‘barbarian’ swordswoman and her many adventures (the series itself is 4 books long). I probably shouldn’t have read it at that age, but I was always reading stuff I shouldn’t anyhow. The book, and series in general, is populated by same-sex couples, bisexual couples, threesomes (of every variety) and heterosexual couples. The main character, Corsan, engages in all 4 relationship types throughout the series.
I didn’t see an issue with it. The writing never got more graphic then kissing and fading to dark with maybe mussed clothes in the morning, but I took it as matter of fact that it happened. I didn’t know anyone who was homosexual, but I took it as fact that same-sex couples were part of the norm just as my parents marriage or my aunt’s divorce and remarriage twice were normal. It wasn’t until a classmate called me a lesbian, and everyone laughed and taunted me, that I found out it wasn’t considered ‘normal’.
No one ever told me why thinking it was normal wasn’t normal. I simply expected to know it wasn’t and because I didn’t I was obviously abnormal as well.
I’m so tired of the “but it’s not realistic!” to have queermos in a fantasy world.* I hear this a lot from progressive people and I want to throw things at their head until it sinks in that it’s ridiculously heteronormative that they can suspend their disbelief for magic but can’t do the same for girls kissing girls, which, unlike magic, actually existed during the period they’re talking about.
But I went to a women’s college, and have always been fascinated by the, ahem, “close” bosom friends you see written about. Yeah, I totally believe high-born ladies never, ever smooched their handmaids. Ever. And don’t even talk to me about fantasy worlds that’re more sexist than the reality ever was– where men hang out with men all the time and women are cloistered away. Homosociality leads to lots of same-sex business even in hetero people because there’s nobody else! It’s like these authors never talked to women who went to all-girl schools or men who spent formative years in all-male institutions (much rarer, these days, but heck, I heard stories from friends who went to boys’ summer camps….).
*This is true for lots of things. If I never see the “you can’t complain about the lack of POC in Brave because there were no black people in Europe until slavery brought them there” argument it will be too soon.
It’s great to see that my comments inspired such a thoughtful post and an interesting discussion. I don’t really think that my dissatisfaction with the novel was motivated by my personal heteronormative view of the world, and I am happy to see that some people understand that my comments were driven by what I thought deficiencies in writing rather than my failure to accept any fantasy world other than a heteronormative one.
In my mind, just like in the case with Cashore’s rethinking of Po’s disability (which Lcasey3′s commented on and that was explained by the author herself in the afterword to “Bitterblue”), for me, all of this is a matter of over-correcting previous work more than anything else. I am inclined to assume Cashore wanted to make her position on gay relationships much clearer in “Bitterblue” than she did in “Graceling” (she never confirmed or denied the relationship between Bann and Raffin, even on her own website back when the book came out – http://kristincashore.blogspot.com/2008/02/faqs-about-books.html). And now I tend to think that she chose to make gay relationships much more visible in “Bitterblue” to possibly avoid the vagueness of “Graceling.” In itself this doesn’t mean at all that the author changed her mind about gay relationships, it just means she changed her mind about HOW she wanted to portray them in her work. This change didn’t work for me as a reader, that is the main point of all my comments.
Which, after much thought, brings me to these questions – Is it, then, ever appropriate to criticize a novel for its portrayal of gay characters? If by voicing that gay characters are written poorly, without nuance, or that they feel forcefully inserted in a story, etc. one can be accused of being close-minded and unable to envision the world as anything but heteronormative? Is it always a reader’s fault that some situations and relationships seem unrealistic, forced or over-emphasized? And why does it seem that criticizing a book for using an already tired sassy-sidekick-best-gay-friend trope is perfectly legitimate, but saying that an unexpected avalanche of gay couples in a novel is a sign of the reader’s limited view of the world, and not the author’s weak writing?
Mary L — I really liked what you said here: ‘It seems to me that books dealing with social issues can start to feel like Issue Soup because that’s sort of the way these things work in real life, too.” I think that’s important to remember! It is definitely the way things work in real life, too.
Lexie C. — Wow I’m going to have to find that book Silverglass!
Tatiana — Thanks for dropping by! I think that of course it’s fine to criticize a book for its portrayal of gay characters, but with gay characters (as with race, class, and anything that has a long, long history of inequality), it’s really important for the critic to come at the criticism with their eyes open. I’m not saying yours weren’t; I’m just thinking about your question here. All too often (me included), we read things and critique them without taking note of our assumptions. In re: gay characters in fantasy, those assumptions can create a situation in which any gayness seems out of the ordinary.
In terms of what’s the reader’s fault, I don’t think fault is the best way to think about it. Shannon Hale wrote a wonderful post once on readers’ responsibilities when approaching a book. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it: How to be a reader: Reader responsibility
As both a reader and a agent, all I honestly care about is how well done the product is. I don’t read as much YA as I should, but that’s time based.
I tend to lean towards blatant being an insult to the reader. This doesn’t mean write entirely in code that only someone who knows you-the-author can unravel, but explicit sex acts on page four are unsubtle.
Malinda, that’s a great post, and Tatiana brings up a lot of interesting questions. I think as writers, every time our work is misinterpreted, we are excruciatingly aware that we have failed that reader. The only comfort is knowing that we have not failed another reader. And who is to blame is a complicated dance based on the nature of the misinterpretation.
I have a friend who flatly refused to name the characters’ race in a recent book, however, she described skin tones. When the books was given to white readers, they assumed the characters were white. When the book was given to black readers, they not only understood that the characters were black, but were able to describe the shade of skin each black character had. This is because the black readers had a more nuanced understanding of skin tone terminology than the white readers, who divided everyone into “white” and “black”.
In my own books, I’ve had readers who actually translated my depiction of “black skin” to “black hair” in their heads, just because they couldn’t comprehend a character was black. And of course, we all know about Rue from Hunger Games.
I think there might be a similar mechanism at work with readers who decide to “erase” sexuality that is not clearly depicted. You could have knocked me over with a feather the other day when I read an essay explaining how Pussy Galore was gay and I missed it all these years (or insert all kinds of other stuff from “code era” movies that I totally missed). So you see the author bends over backwards in subsequent books to say “guys, really, Bann is gay.”
I want to follow up on what Diana so smartly said. Sometimes I think I, as the writer, write toward the person who I think is least likely to “get it” and thus all the readers who do “get it” may feel it is a bit obvious. I’m not sure what to do about that.
THis is a great post and excellent comments discussion, btw. Lots of interesting input.
Very interesting post; this discussion helped me make sense of my own unorganized thoughts about Bitterblue. I would like to address Tatiana’s first comment, though: “…the road to unveiling a very uncomplicated mystery of Leck’s reign was too complicated…” As someone who lived her childhood under a military dictatorship, I think Cashore got it right. Sometimes finding out the truth about the horrors of the past is really that complicated.