Yes, I write speculative fiction. Some of it is feminist and some of it is not. I explain why (among other things) in my guest blog post on The Rejectionist. Needless to say, I was beside myself when The Rejectionist asked me to do a guest blog post. I first heard about The Rejectionist from writer friend Neesha Meminger when she quoted me for this post. And I’ve bookmarked this Rejectionist post that had me laughing and falling out of my writing seat. The Rejectionist is witty, hilarious, insightful, and all kinds of wonderul. And we don’t know who she is!
For Feminist Speculative Fiction week, I was joined by three other fantabulous women writers. I already have the pleasure of knowing both Andrea Hairston (WisCon’s next guest of honor) and Hiromi Goto. And Kat Howard and I met in Twitterworld.
Here’s an excerpt of my post:
For as long as I could remember I would imagine the very beginning of humanity. I’d be eight or nine years old giving myself a headache wondering what human beings were really made of. It was a conundrum–I’m human, in this body, thinking these thoughts. Wait. Then, I’m human, in this body, thinking these thoughts. A cat chasing its tail. Who does that at such a young age? An immigrant.
Two things I know for sure as an immigrant: my body and the space that it occupies. My earliest memories of Haiti were of thick warm air, pastel colors, laughing out loud, old men playing dominoes, sweet wet fruit–what any self-respecting Caribbean island ought to be. I remember the excitement of having to get on a plane and then space and time bending itself to transport me to what seemed to be a whole other planet: 1980s crack-era Brooklyn, New York. I was four. I was mortified.
There was that strange puppet on Solid Gold and too-long nights and too many clothes to put on at one time and these things called jobs that kept my mother away for long hours at a time. My little body had experienced two polar opposite realities mere hours apart. I must’ve napped on the plane so the transition felt instantaneous–teleportation, of course.
The immigrant experience has got to be the most otherworldly, mind-bending phenomena that can happen to a human. Enter the immigrant woman’s experience and what we have is a space opera super heroine. If I could actually name some of them, I’d say they’ve got nothing on my mama.
You can read the rest here. And please check out the other wonderful posts.