Damned if You Do: Paradoxes of Female* Authorship

*Let me start out with a disclaimer for those who are already angry that I’ve included a gender in the title of this post. If you think gender bias doesn’t exist in writing/publishing, it’s only because you haven’t encountered it personally. That’s the whole point of why I’m writing this. I don’t write for any group in particular, I only write the truth. Be a better person, and take a moment to learn something you don’t know, so you can have a more developed brain to interact with the world in the future.

I’ve been writing stories since the first time I got access to paper. I’ve never really considered why we didn’t have paper in the house, but I distinctly recall that having anything to draw or write on was a celebrated rarity. Usually, I only got access to paper at other people’s houses, and it was almost always that slick kind that came with finger paint sets. So when I found my dad’s bound, lined-paper journal, I immediately started using it to make story books. My dad eventually gave up on trying to reclaim it from my re-purposing, and I still have it to this day.

My brother was seen as the artist in the family, so relatives would often send him art supplies. (Which he didn’t use, because his medium of choice is cinematography…) Paper became more available, and my stories became more complex. I drew my first stories with only a few word bubbles or sound effects, because I see my thoughts as pictures. As my vocabulary grew, I began to include captions, then moved to a more “story book” format. That evolved into graphic novels, and that’s where I hit my first roadblock.

You see, women were not welcomed in the sequential art industry. (I’ve been told it’s getting better.) The general consensus was that women couldn’t write or draw what men would be interested in, and since the readership was mostly male, that’s all they cared about.

When I brought my first book to a publisher, I did all of the things literary agents will tell you not to do, but they absolutely worked for me. I drove from Maryland to San Antonio, Texas, wore my best cute/sexy outfit, and walked directly into the publisher’s home office with a completed book in hand. I walked out half an hour later with a signed contract. (That was probably my first real victory in Kaede mode.)

My first book, Oasis Destiny, features not one, but five strong female characters. And by strong females, I don’t mean “girls who beat people up”. They are five very different people, but their strengths come from fairness, compassion, patience, ingenuity, and intellect.

Shortly after returning home, the publisher asked me to take over their flagship title, one that had been written and drawn by men, and had a male fanbase. The reason they selected me? Because I could “draw what men wanted to see”. This is the image the decision was based on.

Mostly naked, anatomically-improbable, emotionally-vulnerable demon girls.

Now, keep in mind, I knew exactly what I was doing when I drew that. That pinup was self-marketing my ability to draw “what men want to see”. I did that because I wanted to show the publisher that a woman knows damn well what their male fanbase wants.

I accepted the job, and went straight to writing good characters, of all genders and body types. Flawed personalities, complex romances, weird and wacky, and sometimes larger than life. The “new” fans loved it, the “old” fans, and the publisher, hated it.

The new fans, (some of whom were actually old fans who were interested in more than boobs…) would tell me how much they loved the new characters, and the fact that there was an actual original story instead of being a collection of ham-fisted parody and gratuitous panty shots. People from all walks of life read my work because they could connect with it. It made them laugh, or cry, or want to punch a watermelon, and they wanted more.

The old fans would complain because I was a woman. Because I didn’t “get it”, and begged loudly for the original creator to come back. But the extra funny part was, he hadn’t been writing or drawing the book for a long time before I’d come onto the scene, but they’d kept his name on it anyway. When I took over, Robby Bevard had been the ghost writer, and David Hutchison had been the artist. (Robby wrote the script for the first issue of my run… which I later found out he’d plagiarized from a manga he’d read.)

The new fans were marginalized, or even insulted by my own publisher. (Not very LGBTQ+ friendly, I’m afraid.) They’d include advertising in my issues that would basically feature women bending over to expose their latex-coated labia. This was not an adult title. These were hyper-sexualized images being marketed to kids.

Meanwhile, the title I’d brought them, with the strong female characters, was mangled and mishandled for two years. When I confronted my liaison about the contract violations, I was called a “primadonna” and told that I should “learn to keep [my] mouth shut”. My liaison was a man celebrated for writing female main characters. Luckily, he was stupid enough to put these comments in an email, so I was able to dissolve my contract.

So, if I wrote good male characters, I “didn’t get it”, and if I wrote good female characters, my book would never see the light of day because the existing fanbase was mostly toxic males. (Never mind when I wrote non-binary characters, because they didn’t even know what do with those.) That was basically my cue to move to a new medium.

What women want, and what men want has nothing to do with being women or men. It has to do with the intangible identity inside each person. Unfortunately, that’s harder to market to. That’s why marketing is put in place from a very early age to tell us what our genders are “supposed to want”. Toys for girls are pastel and soft, toys for boys are dark and metallic. (That’s probably why I played with Legos instead.) This continues into adulthood, for the sole purpose of selling products in a more easily grouped manner.

This systemic gender marketing carries over into writing. As a woman, there’s this bizarre idea that I can and should only write for women. Pause, and think about how stupid that is for a moment. Did George Lucas only intend his work for heterosexual white males? Does Neil Gaiman stamp “No Girls Allowed” on his books? I’m not writing anything that is “woman-aimed”. I’m writing stories that apply equally to everyone as human beings.

But the extra, EXTRA stupid thing is, other women expect me to write only for them. As if writing a male protagonist somehow voids my woman card. (I’m pretty sure I don’t have one of those in the first place, but my dentist seems to think that’s an actual thing.) If a man writes a strong female character, we give him an award. If a woman writes a strong male character, we revolt. It’s not a matter of under-representation, it’s taken as burning betrayal. “You had a chance to create a good female character, and you wasted it on yet another male!”

My latest series begins with a male protagonist, but he is often eclipsed by the capability of women and non-binaries around him. He is male because his role as a male is significant to the story, but not because of his “maleness”. He represents a familiar idea dropped into an unfamiliar world, and the story follows what happens to that idea as it evolves.

So, for my fellow authors and hopefuls out there, of every stripe, remember that “for women” or “for men” is purely a marketing term, and has no bearing on the content or quality of your writing. If you can’t find a literary agent who knows how to bridge the gender gap, keep looking. Write the story you want to tell, and let the readers surprise you with just how flexible their imaginations can be. You might even end up with a theme park one day. ~K

“Am I in the right place?”

If you are looking for the website of “The Wig Lady”, you are in the right place.

If you are looking for the website of “The Writer/Artist”, you are in the right place.

If you are looking for the website of “The Weirdo from Oakhurst who Ate Strawberry Yogurt Directly off the Carpet in 3rd Grade”…

…you are in the right place. (I didn’t want to waste food, okay?)

So, really the question you should be asking is, “How are all of these people the SAME person?” The answer to that is a little harder to explain, but if you are interested in getting a peek into how a brain like mine works, read on.

Although I have met and talked with countless people throughout my public career, you’ve probably never actually met me. You’ve met Kaede.

This is Kaede, and she really needs a sandwich.

Kaede is my coping mechanism for dealing with stressful social situations. “high functioning” (please don’t use that phrase…) autistic women are often difficult to spot, because we’ve perfected the art of camouflage, or “masking”, to fit in. Kaede is pretty damn seamless by this point, but maintaining her for long periods of time is both emotionally and physically exhausting. It suppresses my immune system, and I become more prone to injury. (And I’m already a mega-klutz to begin with.)

So why would I do this to myself? Because I have to if I want to maintain any amount of success in my public work. As a teacher, as a celebrity, as a “normal human”, I have to try to fit in.

Now, before you take offense to the thought of me being “fake” when you met me at a convention, sit your ass down for a big bowl of education first. Masking isn’t lying. In fact, one aspect of my autism is the fact that I’m too honest or too literal. I’ve never been “fake nice” to anyone I’ve met in my entire life. I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to. But Kaede allows me to do some basic things I normally can’t do, like:

  • Maintain eye contact. (Sort of, I’m actually looking directly below your right eye, or at the bridge of your nose.)
  • Talk to strangers in an audible tone of voice.
  • Receive/give hugs.
  • Have my picture taken.

These simple interactions are something I’ve had to work on for years, and for most of the people I know, even outside of work, this is the “normal” they’ve come to expect. But when I get too tired, my mask slips, and then people think I’m totally whack-a-doodle-doo.

“You don’t seem autistic.”

Really? Because I don’t seem like the media-popular version of an autistic person you’ve come to expect? A young boy, bobbing back and forth in his chair, twirling his hair around a finger, staring at the floor, repeating the same phrase over and over? I agree, that’s not me. The boobs would be the first clue, I’d think.

The publicly familiar version of people on the spectrum focuses mostly on a very specific presentation of symptoms, and resources and information for those of us with the less visible symptoms, especially women, are scarce. Most will be misdiagnosed, or just go through life with this feeling of “weirdness” and no idea what it means or why.

For me, it’s like everything finally clicked into place. My weirdness score has been high my whole life, and as more “oddities” started to manifest, I couldn’t possibly think they might be related to one another. It didn’t make me feel special, it made me feel strange. Like I had an eclectic list of useless superpowers.

  • “Steel Trap” photographic memory, going all the way back to age 2.
  • Ridiculously strong senses of hearing, smell, taste, and touch.
  • Highly auto-didactic: both with knowledge and movement

Then the accompanying list of difficulties..

  • Sound hurts and sometimes enrages me. I constantly have to wear earplugs when I’m in public. (Which make my ears bleed from my latex allergy.)
  • I have to wear sunglasses in public, even when it’s not bright outside. My eyes feel scared without them. (I don’t have a better way to describe that.)
  • Certain smells that others find pleasant or completely undetectable cause pain, or make me vomit.
  • I can taste things other people around me can’t, which has made them think I’m picky, or being “dramatic”, but really, carbonated water makes my tongue feel like it’s being electrocuted.
  • There are some materials/fabrics/textures that I can’t touch. If I touch them on accident, I yank my hand back in disgust.
  • I experience motion sickness in places most people don’t.
  • I don’t process drugs normally, so anesthesia and painkillers are always a crap shoot.

Then there’s just the “weird” stuff…

  • I perceive some letter sounds as “bright” or “dark”.
  • If I see numbers on the clock or odometer in sequential (12:34), repeating (55555) or palindromic order (140041) I have to make someone else “witness” it.
  • I give everything a voice and a name. This includes inanimate objects, animals, food, body parts, whatever. I regularly carry on conversations where I voice multiple participants.
  • When I remember something, I see my exact location in the exact scene, and will use my hands to “reach” for other people’s positions in the scene as if I’ve actually been transported through time and space.
  • I create sounds for motions that normally wouldn’t have them, and repeat the sound every time I do the motion. (For those of you who are familiar with my wig work, you may recognize this as “scoop, scoop, scoop” or “tap, tap, tap”… I have hundreds more.)
  • I dream in full color, full sound, and often lucidly. I also remember all of my dreams, including songs I have written while asleep.

And finally, the things that make it difficult to fit in…

I have zero tolerance for dishonest behavior. That might sound like a good thing at first, until you review your day and think about how many times you told a “white lie” or did something even a little shady at work. If you were working for me, and you lied about something like taking someone else’s lunch, or spreading a rumor about another coworker, I’d straight up fire you on the spot. That’s not an “if”, that is something I’ve done multiple times. When the shoe is on the other foot, and I’ve encountered a manager or boss who lied, I had to quit ASAP because continuing to work there made me physically ill. (I quit a 65k a year job because of this very reason.)

I don’t understand, and can’t duplicate superficial behavior. Seriously. I’m really, really smart, and I understand a lot of psychological concepts and social phenomena, but I have never been able to understand the “why” or “how” of the shallow. As a side effect, I can’t make small talk, and that leads people to believe that I just don’t want to talk to them. From the outside, I’m perceived as cold or shy, when in reality, I just have no interest in talking about things I have no interest in. Unfortunately, most people don’t feel comfortable talking about anything deeper than a kiddie pool, so I’m sitting by myself at the deep end.

Because I don’t forget anything, I end up having the exact same conversation hundreds or THOUSANDS of times. It’s the Groundhog Day effect on a small scale. I’m the only one who remembers the conversation, but the other person doesn’t, and sometimes, it’s a topic that I really don’t want to discuss another time. (Like a recounting of abuse or another painful memory.) They don’t understand why I’m agitated or short, and it takes a tremendous amount of energy to hold in the screaming.

I can’t multitask, but I also can’t stop working. Some people have mistakenly described me as “creative”, and only one person has ever caught just how wrong that is. (Thank you, April.) I don’t create because I want to express myself, I create because I need to keep busy, and the world doesn’t keep up with this need. I literally have to make things that never existed before just to keep up with my brain. I can’t sleep until I’m exhausted, and even then, my dreams keep me busy too.

I have to have rules, order, and routines. I’m very good at planning and organizing complicated events, but I get visibly enraged when someone tries to alter the course mid-stream. From the outside, this is seen as intractability or being a “control freak”, but internally, I’m upset because I’ve put a lot of careful time, thought, and energy into creating an interconnecting pattern, and changing one aspect could cause others to collapse.

I don’t “get” social media. I understand, from a business standpoint, that keeping an open dialog with fans and customers is important, but I can’t understand why anyone would possibly care about anything I have to say outside of updating them about events or new products. I don’t feel like I’m important, and I don’t like attention, so the whole concept of posting things just for the sake of posting is insanely narcissistic. So why am I bothering to post this? Well, that brings us to the meat of the issue.

“It might help someone else.”

When I first began to see the pieces finally clicking into place, it was because I discovered another author who experiences many of the same things I do. Then I found another. Then a bunch more. All of them were successful, intelligent, well-spoken women (at least in printed form), who had the same “weirdness”.

So maybe I can be another link in the chain to someone else, and maybe by reading about my experiences, and how I’ve learned to cope and manage, they’ll find some useful tools to help them in their own journey.

And for everyone else, I’ll have plenty of poop jokes.

Other Ramblings…