I am so honored and thrilled that my essay, “George R.R. Martin Can Fuck Off Into the Sun, Or: The 2020 Hugo Awards Ceremony (Rageblog Edition)” is a finalist in the Best Related Work category of the 2021 Hugos.
I can’t say how much it means to me that my writing–as disrespectful as some may perceive it–has been recognized with a Hugo nomination. The last 27 months have been the worst of my life, with the last 16 or so really ramping up the horridness, between my health simply not improving, work being such a tremendous stressor, then getting laid off and realizing that my career was over, and finally my current wrestling with a bunch of existential questions (from which I have spared the blog thus far and not all of which have been bad).
Science fiction and fantasy books and stories have been a lifeline for me and so many others. And for a long time, we didn’t see ourselves reflected in the fiction we read or in the awards that were given out. Fortunately–both for us and for those who come after us–that is changing.
Joanna Russ may have described this in the best possible way in How to Suppress Women’s Writing:
Well, as in cells and sprouts, growth occurs only at the edges of something. From the peripheries, as Klein says. But even to see the peripheries, it seems, you have to be on them, or by an act of re-vision, place yourself there. Refining and strengthening the judgments you already have will get you nowhere. You must break set. It’s either that or remain at the center. The dead, dead center.
I’ve been trying to finish this monster for thirteen ms. pages and it won’t. Clearly it’s not finished.
You finish it. (132)
My heart is full to overflowing and I am out of words now, except for the two most important ones: thank you.