Defy Not the Retrograde Sexual Politics

80's cover of Joanna Lindsey's "Defy Not the Heart."
This was the cover art on my edition of “Defy Not the Heart.” I can’t believe my parents let me buy it!

How well I remember my days of reading “bodice-ripper” romance novels. Even though that’s a term that’s been deprecated in most circles, that’s how I remember those books and it’s still how I think of them.

Now here’s a riddle: how come so many feminists grew up on a steady diet of rapey romance novels, yet still come out on the other side with progressive views of sexuality? And even though we’d never write a book like Joanna Lindsey’s “Defy Not the Heart” (even if we could), or even recommend it to someone very impressionable, we look back on them with affection.
I guess it’s like the American trope of the racist grandma everyone’s got hidden away. You don’t agree with her politics, but you love her just the same. But I wonder if that comparison even works? We love our racist grandmas despite their racism, but we love “Defy Not the Heart” because of its retrograde sexual politics (at least in part). Maybe it’s because young people are so interested in erotic stories that we’ll take what we can get and ignore the parts that don’t work for us. That’s the way we’re built to develop, right? Take the good and leave the rest–that’s how well-adjusted kids are supposed to approach everything they’re presented with. That requires such a strong sense of what’s “good” and what isn’t, though. Where does that initial sense come from?

Enticement to Wander

This sign may as well have said, “Welcome to a Very Interesting Place: come on in! [Katie, this means you.]” It was posted at the old campus of the American Cyanamid Company in West Windsor in ’11-’12, and it enticed me to do a little exploring there. It turns out that the company and the campus have long and colorful histories. More soon on all there is to know, from the swine enclosure to the radioactive landfill.

EPA notice at American Cyanamid
EPA sign posted at the old agricultural campus of the American Cyanamid Company, West Windsor, NJ.

Namesake

From the seminal work on the erotics of reading:

“It is the very rhythm of what is read and what is not read that creates the pleasure of the great narratives: has anyone ever read Proust, Balzac, War and Peace, word for word? (Proust’s good fortune: from one reading to the next, we never skip the same passages.)…What I enjoy in a narrative is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose upon the fine surface: I read on, I skip, I look up, I dip in again.”

-Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text

The Sewing Dungeon

Here’s something about the new house: it might have a sewing room. If by “sewing room” you mean “basement chamber with a water problem, concrete floor, and cinder block walls.” But a room is a room, you know. And I’ve long felt that the only way I’ll ever, ever begin to use my sewing machine on a regular basis is if it stays open on a dedicated table. And here’s my opportunity. There’s even room in here to make a space for messy work, or maybe even bulky projects like, oh, finishing the inside of my childhood dollhouse!

Which brings up what this basement room of mine reminds me of: my grandfather. Chasie built my dollhouse (along with several other dollhouses, model ships, etc.) in his own basement workshop in Bronxville, NY. He used to take his grandkids down there to build dollhouse furniture or other little things. His specialty was cutting a circle of thin wood in half, then gluing the halves at 90 degrees to made a demi-lune table. He also made a very clever little display stand for the miniature costumed mice I collected like crazy in about 1983.

The last time I was ever down in Chasie’s workshop, it was maybe 15 years after his death, and right before my grandmother moved into nursing care. Most of his things had been cleared away, but amazingly enough, on the metal shelf that still had a few nails and screws on it was a jam jar filled with his cigarette butts. Man, I wish I’d taken that with me, as nutty as it would have seemed. It would have pride of place in my little den.

Moving Sucks

The new house is wonderful, great, better than we thought we’d ever get in Princeton. So nice, in fact, that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. But that move, man, God it sucked. I’ve known this about myself forever, but I really hate change. And it was such a piecemeal process, riddled with SNAFUs and bad temper. But we’re in now, and it sure is a more pleasant place to be than the last place.

In other news, I’ll be making more attempts to weave together all the disparate elements of my life and brain. The weaving metaphor sure works well for me, so maybe I’ll start having some luck with making all the strands feel like a piece of fabric instead of a tangle.

Abelard and Heloise Do Not Meet With Approval

Told Mother and Sister tonight of my Heloise and Abelard obsession. Strangely, neither of them is as taken as I am with Heloise’s bold sexuality. When I hear her refer to herself, a respected abbess, as Abelard’s “concubine or whore,” I’m awed by her complete lack of shame, her bravery in claiming her own love and desire. But Mother is stuck on her insistence that all she’s ever done has been for Abelard, that she’s done everything at his command, that she’d enter the gates of Hell for him. I’m just as interested in her insistence on what Abelard owes her, and her demand that he give it. And to me, the fact that he’s no longer capable of giving it is the tragedy.

Still transcribing H’s first letter. Her writing (and this translation by William Levitan) puts me in a trance.

Thoughts on Seeing the Star Wars Episode VII Cast Photo

This is the news I’ve been waiting forever for, or at least it feels that way. At this point it’s more confirmation than news in its own right. I guess I had visions of a live announcement, where we’d see the Big Three together on one stage. The image of the table read came across as so static, almost stifling in its posed candidness. The more I look at it, the more anxious I feel.

Why would the long-awaited casting announcement make me anxious? Is it because I had a shitty week in general? Or is it because of my growing unease with the role of women in Star Wars fandom? To start with, the Wikipedia “Breast” thing was disheartening. My overall reaction was to realize that mainstream fandom is not meant for me. Far from being the target audience, I’m on a low rung of the ladder, thrown a bone every now and then.

It really didn’t feel that way for a while. Martha Wells was a Han/Leia fic author before she went pro, and she adapted parts of her old stories into Razor’s Edge. That spoke volumes to me about the growing legitimacy of fic, women authors, and Leia-centric works. And the characterization of Leia in the novel: oh, it’s too good to be true. I was worried when Honor Among Thieves came out, but no need: Han’s characterization may have been a little unexpected, but the portrayal of the relationship was spot on. We even got to see a situation with two women and one man–which Han fully expects to erupt into a cat fight–with no competition between the ladies whatsoever. These two novels felt like they were written for me, and it was great. I guess that’s what it feels like to be the target audience.

But do the Powers That Be owe it to all fans to make us feel like a target audience? I’d venture that they don’t: they just owe basic respect. But what does it mean to be respected as a fan? Is there a level of representation implied in or required by that respect?

Which brings up back to the big deal this week: female cast members in Ep. VII. Apparently there might be another announced soon, but honestly: is one more really going to tip the scales? Disney has hired ONE new woman for this movie as of now. ONE. That just seems pathetic to me. And there she is in that photo, head to head with Carrie Fisher, surrounded by the Men of Star Wars.

To add insult to injury, the community on a Han/Leia centric fanfic writers blog I frequent have no problem whatsoever with this state of affairs. Again I’m left feeling like the odd woman out, the implied message being: “what are you getting so upset about? It’s Star Wars, of course there’s more men: It’s natural! Why do you have to make everything about inequality, anyways?”

And the worst of all? The thing that really crystalizes this whole conflict for me? You know that copy of the table read photo with everyone identified in red? The original cast members are tagged with their SW character names, and Carrie Fisher? Is apparently “Leia Solo.” (Now, I’m not sure at this point whether this marked-up image comes from Lucasfilm or not, but let’s assume that it’s being accepted as accurate media info from a trusted source.) Leia Solo. This is an EU-ism, and a late one at that. For years of EU novels Leia went by three names: Leia Organa Solo. It is only in the Legacy of the Force and Fate of the Jedi days (to the best of my recollection) that she’s known simply as Solo. Now, the saddest thing is that the ‘shipper in me is getting all giddy that they’re married, yadda yadda yadda. But the rest of me is so disappointed at the lack of imagination this shows. As I’ve discussed time and time again with certain fan friends, who’s to say that in the GFFA women take their husband’s name on marriage? Even if we’re to say that the GFFA is VERY closely based on Western society, in the upper echelons of that society there has always been more flexibility. Prominent women have long kept their publicly known names after marriage, and for nobility, when a woman marries a man of lesser rank, HE takes HER name. So honestly, WTF?

So sadly, my thoughts tonight are that Star Wars is not for me, that anything about the canon that I love is out of pure coincidence, and that as long as that’s the case, there’s a place for fan works that challenge the paternalistic construction of the GFFA.

 

A Brief List of Every Project

Open projects

  • London Underground Needlepoint
  • Sexology: current and historical reading
  • Love letters
  • Current fan fic story
  • Essay on writing fan fic
  • Baby clothes quilts
  • Making folk jewelry
  • Assembling photo albums

Running activities

  • Beta reading
  • Craft inspiration scrapbooks
  • Pleasure reading
  • Kids’ crafts
  • Pinterest boards
  • All additional web surfing

Projected projects

  • Surface embroidery
  • 12 Dancing Princesses embroidery
  • Tin work

Completed: one crochet throw. The complete is dwarfed by the current. Why do I get myself into these situations? The silliest part: the expectations are entirely my own. And they are high, my friend.

Grow Your Own Infrastructure Geeks

Brian Hayes’ “Infrastructure: A Field Guide to the Industrial Landscape” is a god among books. It is the purest most wonderful eye candy.

I hadn’t picked it up in years, but today my daughter, 4, started asking about utility poles on the way home from the park. So when we got home I pulled out “Infrastructure” and away we went. The writing is so fun and lively, and the kids loved relating what we were reading about to what we’d just seen. They had to assure me multiple times that they weren’t bored! It made my heart soar.
“Infrastructure” is out of print: a true tragedy.

The Needlewoman

Diego Velazquez, The Needlewoman
Diego Velazquez, The Needlewoman

I’ve always liked the term “needlewoman.” I fancy myself one, and I like to imagine all my female ancestors before me being ones, too. I considered naming this blog The Needlewoman, so I did a quick Google search to see if anyone else had a Needlewoman blog or website. That’s how I discovered this painting, which I can’t recall having seen before on any of my visits to the National Gallery. My husband claims she looks like me, but I’m not too sure about that. I certainly admire her cleavage, but probably our greatest similarity is that quiet attentiveness to the cloth in front of us. This painting definitely captures the essence of being a needlewoman.