The author of this needed anonymity for understandable reasons.
So…yesterday, Jane Litte announced on her blog (Dear Author) that she has been writing new adult romance under the pseudonym Jen Frederick. I’m not going to rehash it all, but here is the link if you’d like to read the reasons behind her decision in her own words. (Link not evident)
3. What is the critic’s motive?
You can’t read people’s minds, but most of the time you can discern someone’s motive when they criticize you. Is it constructive criticism tempered with love and concern? Or is it destructive criticism designed to bring you down? The critic’s motive can be a clue to whether or not the criticism is legitimate.
Image Attribution: La Follia del Giullare: A volte ritornano
God had been working on the Earth project for way too long. It was really becoming just tedious. There were a few things that needed changing, one in particular, but the damned eraser was absolutely shot.
“Fuck it,” He thought as He cast the eraser aside, caring not at all where it landed. “Let them figure it out themselves.”
The tide is turning. Devisiveness is being radicalized because of some hidden, or maybe obvious, agenda. Like the huge Ginger Bashing initiative which was NEVER a real thing despite everyone’s efforts to formalize another hate group.
Humans are being encouraged to turn on one another and publicize and popularize the particular hate they are promoting.
Many, many years ago I conversed with a woman who was talking about her neighborhood weekly bingo playing social fest. She mentioned that they all thought a certain woman was “different”. She then said, (I swear to you, pay attention so you can put this into perspective,) “Then we found out she was Latvian.”
What is going on? Well, now you see videos of a dog going into traffic to rescue his wounded comrade. So much for the definition of humanity.
Illustration attribution: Mabel Lucie Atwell from Pinterest
Of course there are many languages. Some related . Like French, Spanish, Latin. You can sometimes figure out what the words are without studying the language. With familiarity to the alphabet, I can sometimes do that with Russian or Greek. I used to be able to tell the difference between a person who was from Louisiana and a person who was from Texas. Can’t anymore. Probably cuz I don’t really listen to anyone anymore.
Then there are languages like Swedish or Urdu. You have to wonder from where they arose.
And in each language: dialect, slang, jargon, accent. Southern states, “Bless her heart” pretty much means “Wow. Is she dumb.”
Then I read this Jane Austen quote. The language I am most familiar with is “English”. But, man, is that messed up. For God’s sake, why do Brits, be they Scot, Welsh, whatever, say “whilst” instead of “while”? Is that a sort of contraction of “while it is”? Or did we Americans elide the ending away? I can’t get my head around it. I have to try not to think about it, it bothers me so much. I haven’t the time or the gray matter to deal with it. And don’t even start me up about grey and gray. Particularly regarding those who correct you about which is correct.
But then, a long awaited breath of fresh air from Jane Austen. Honestly, I can’t recall reading her, but I must, even if only to dwell on her combinations of the 26 letters.
““So brilliant. So overstuffed with personality, subtlety; so layered with both appreciation and deprecation. My favorite language of all: intelligent snark.
As an aside, I have the republishing problem solved. Smashwords lets me download the original doc. Still, it is taking a while since I cannot resist proof reading and changing little things here and there. At least I had a productive day.
Suppose I went National or worldwide asserting that my works of writing have not been accepted by traditional publishers because I write about redheads and I am a redhead. We are only 2 – 4 % of the population, and I feel like I am being discriminated against. Wouldn’t you think that was ridiculous?
The following is reblogged from The School Library Journal. It is written by Zetta Elliot. If she asks me to take it down I will gladly comply.
(I am a Black feminist writer committed to social justice. I write stories about Black children and teens, but within the children’s literature community I have struggled to find a home or what poet June Jordan calls “living room.” In “Moving Towards Home,” Jordan describes a place “where the talk will take place in my language…where my children will grow without horror…where I can sit without grief.” If “home” represents sanctuary—a safe space where one can speak in one’s authentic voice, feel valued, and able to thrive—then the children’s literature community is not my home. I am—and likely will remain—an outsider.
By industry standards, I suppose I am a failed author. Since I started writing for young readers in 2000, only three of my thirty stories have been published traditionally. I turned to self-publishing as my only recourse, and now face the contempt of those who see self-publishing as a mere exercise in vanity.
Last year a white Facebook “friend” suggested that my decision to self-publish was analogous to Blacks in the civil rights era choosing to dine in their segregated neighborhood instead of integrating Jim Crow lunch counters in the South. In her mind, self-publishing is a cowardly form of surrender; to be truly noble (and, therefore, deserving of publication) I ought to patiently insist upon my right to sit alongside white authors regardless of the hostility, rejection, and disdain I regularly encounter.
Since 2009 I have used my scholarly training to examine white supremacy in the children’s literature community where African Americans remain marginalized, despite the 2014 increase in books about Africans/African Americans. This sudden spike (reflected in the latest statistics from the Cooperative Children’s Book Center at the University of Wisconsin-Madison) was not paired with a comparable increase in the number of books by Blacks, however, suggesting that power remains where it has always been: in the hands of whites.
Publishers Weekly’s 2014 salary survey revealed that only 1 percent of industry professionals self-identify as African American (89 percent self-identify as white). That the homogeneity of the publishing workforce matches the homogeneity of published authors and their books is no coincidence. The marginalization of writers of color is the result of very deliberate decisions made by gatekeepers within the children’s literature community—editors, agents, librarians, and reviewers. These decisions place insurmountable barriers in the path of far too many talented writers of color.
I know better than to turn to the publishing industry when I seek justice for “my children:” Trayvon, Renisha, Jordan, Islan, Ramarley, Aiyana, and Tamir. I know not to hope that industry gatekeepers will rush to publish books for the children of Eric Garner as they struggle to make sense of the murder of their father at the hands of the New York Police Department. But I also know that children’s literature can help to counter the racially biased thinking that insists Michael Brown was “no angel” but rather “a demon” to be feared and destroyed. I believe there’s a direct link between the misrepresentation of Black youth as inherently criminal and the justification given by those who so brazenly take their lives.
The publishing industry can’t solve this problem single-handedly, but the erasure of Black youth from children’s literature nonetheless functions as a kind of “symbolic annihilation.” Despite the fact that the majority of primary school children in the U.S. are now kids of color, the publishing industry continues to produce books that overwhelmingly feature white children only. The message is clear: the lives of kids of color don’t matter.)
Like an agent knows what color skin an author has when they get a query mailed to them.
Ezra Jack Keats’ bio on google opens with “Ezra Jack Keats is an American Author.”
Zora Neale Thurston’s opens with “Zora Neale Thurston was an American folklorist.” As a part of a writing program at my grand daughters, school, I heard her speak. She discussed how important it is to write. I am POSITIVE not one person in that audience thought, “I am listening to the voice of a black woman.” I am also POSITIVE no one boycotted the talk because she was black. The room she spoke in was packed. She gave my grand daughter a signed book! Betcha Ms. Elliot doesn’t have one.
If people want to wave the flag of skin color, they are free to do it as much as they want. Personally, I am obsessed with being a redhead and well aware of all the privileges it has granted me. My PINTEREST board on redheads is huge and beautiful. But I do not bang people over the head with the flagpole. I do not slap them in the face with the flag.
Racial divisiveness is being promoted. Skin color is being emphasized all out of proportion. Why take on the burden of an unjust classification all by your self? Is your skin really black? Is your skin really white? Is your skin really yellow?
My mantra is and always has been, “Hoe your own row.” “Play the hand you were dealt.” If you do those things the very best you can, if each and every person of whatever ethnicity did that the very best they could, there would be no reason at all for anyone to hire a bandwagon full of supporters to back them up, to second their opinion, to help them.
I am getting so sick of it.
I have to rush now. My cable company cancelled my service because I am a redhead, and I have an appointment with a lawyer. The pressure is getting so bad, someone anonymously sent me a one way ticket to Scotland. I am so insulted.
IMAGE ATTRIBUTION: Vintage illustration by Mabel Lucie Attwell, via Google
This was posted on facebook by Blair Underwood and he asked us to share.
The thing about this photo is an example of the only attitude people should have about other people.
I know I post conflicting stuff. But that is what is out there, and that is what each of us has to process on his own.
You cannot tell by looking at this photo of a child what might be her racial, genetic, cultural, or national identity. Only that she is beautiful and very very cute. Her face probably has universal appeal.
So where do all our prejudices and misconceptions start to muck up the picture? Education and the media are obviously not saying the right things. Things like what this photo shows us, besides a pretty face.
When was that Selma Alabama memorial march thing? Some day last week? How fucking adorably ironic. Martin Luther King is spinning in his grave.
I am through. I will never ever again proselytize about accepting people for their own self worth or recognize effort and ability without prejudice or distinction. This is the straw that broke my less than perfect back.
– BizPac Review http://ow.ly/K4prT
Hey. Guess what? If you didn’t notice yet, I have no struggle at all having conversations with people who don’t “look like me”. Doesn’t that sound more like this prick has a personal problem instead of a RACIAL problem? But then, there is that BLAME thing going on.
This is the high school my daughter and I graduated from. When I was there, there was one black student. Her name was Faith Julian. She was Dr. Percy Julian’s (google) daughter. They burned a cross on his lawn when he moved into Oak Park, Illinois. That town contains a larger concentration of sanctimonious dickheads than any other city in the world. My dad was a cop there. I moved back when I got married. The mayor was corrupt. He was paying his extramarital sweetie over a million dollars a year as a computer consultant. I am getting ahead of myself.
Faith Julian was a sweet, friendly, unpretentious girl despite being ungodly wealthy. She would walk into one of the school’s enormous, thronged girl’s bathrooms and a hush would fall. I was a senior when she started there. She was a year or two behind. As far as I recall I am the only person who ever spoke to her in a social situation at that time. But everyone knew it would be me. I would talk to anyone.
When I went to St. Mel’s grammar school, there was one black girl. Her name was Hazel. Her parents were rich. We could tell by her coat. It was an Irish neighborhood where most of our coats had too short sleeves and were threadbare hand-me-downs. Hers was tan with a brown velvet collar and a fucking matching hat.
We walked into Madigan’s department store and my two and a half year old brother saw his first black person. I will never forget the look on his face. My mom had to explain his reaction to me.
I would love to tell you the story about why all the parks in my subdivision have been remodeled in the last ten years and there is no longer a basketball hoop to be found. (I now live way North of Oak Park. When I moved out 25 years ago, my real estate taxes were over $8,000 for a forty two foot lot.)
On the stairwell at my high school there was a huge picture of some guy named McDaniel who founded the school. I said he was my great grandpa. Maybe he was. I hope that picture was taken down before thugs covered it with obscene graffiti.
Oh. Here is another ironic aside. In Baton Rouge Louisiana, there is an old plantation that is kept as a historical site for tourists and stuff. It is called The McDaniel Plantation.
In college, I went to visit my then boyfriend in Spring Hill, Alabama. The Airport was weathered in so we had to take a bus from New Orleans to Mobile. I saw a drinking fountain that had a sign Colored Only. Not a photo. Not a reproduction. A flaking, old, white enamel sign above a drinking fountain.
Why does not someone talk to this current school principal, who is principal for the same stupid reason Barack Obama is president, and mention casually, with maybe a sixteen pound sledge hammer, that he is promoting and fueling racial divisiveness? Why are we so FUCKING scared to speak up? Why do we give stupid assholes like Al Sharpton air time and print inches?
I am through with tolerance. I sneer at it. It is all about me now. Me and MY affinity group.
Son of a BITCH. This is SOOO fucking outrageous. I cannot believe it happened. I cannot believe it was allowed. If I was a 99 pound sophomore and he barred me from MY auditorium in MY school, I would have kicked the mother fucker in the balls. Or do “they” not have any?
Unfollow me. I don’t fucking care.
Actually, I only EVER pretended to care.
Photo attribution: Idon’tgiveaflyingfuck.org.