Spare Me the Antihero

Houston, we have a release date. On June 10, the third book in my SFR series Chronicles of the Empire comes out. The first NEW novel in this series in nine long years. Seriously overdue.

It's never a good day when a radioactive hunk of starship nearly drops on your head.

The Claugh Empire attacked Edie's planet fifteen years ago, murdered her parents, and left the teen for dead. So when a wrecked Claugh starship interrupts a salvage mission, she's torn between revenge and rescuing survivors—especially the stirring captain with an uncanny ability to rekindle her dead emotions. Something about him inflames the urge to come to terms with her past. But the mercenary in Edie doubts trusting a former enemy will bring her redemption or put old prejudices to bed. When a new common enemy, hell-bent on wiping out humanoids, threatens to bury them all, the captain tries to convince her a mutual coalition might breach their political impasse—all for the greater good.

I think I have the tropes SO covered with this book. Enemies to lovers. A heroine who flirts momentarily with being an antihero which is funny, because when we talk about tropes I don't want to see, the antihero is right at the top. I wish I could breakdown why I hate antiheroes so much. Maybe it having to read A Clockwork Orange in high school. I wanted every single character in that book dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. And not by their own hands. I wanted them robbed of the agency they robbed others of. Apparently I am karma, and I have zero patience. Either way. It feels to me like antiheroes are either unwilling to learn and grow or are too stupid to do so. Therefore, in a just universe (and hey, in fiction, you GET to have a just universe dammit! That's why it's fiction!) they'd all die because death is the result of failing to adapt, right? I suppose this all makes sense since we currently have a cadre of antiheroes running our government like it's a clown car and I have certain intense feelings about that. (Please let me live long enough to vote in November!)

So yeah. Antiheroes. Won't read 'em. If I want to keep company with willfully ignorant jerks I'll turn on the news, thanks.

What I Hate: How Long You Got?

Holy horse feathers. Whose idea was it to make me think back to high school AP English? That class taught by the dude wearing suits from the year I was born. That teacher who liked to get aggressive and tell me I wasn't the best writer in his class. That class where it was all I could do to not shout back that so long as I stayed in his class I'd never get any better as a writer, either.

Woo. O_o This will not be a pretty stroll down memory lane, y'all. So you know how Vivien doesn't have time for hate? S'okay. I picked up what she set down and I have ALL the detestation and loathing. Not for individual books. Much. I mean to this day I don't see the point of Catcher in the Rye or the book about the idjit kid who shoves his best friend out of a tree. On the other hand, there were books I really, really liked. The Plague. A Clockwork Orange. I still have a soft spot for The Most Dangerous Game and The Lottery.

No, here's my hate-rant.

We were instructed to read privileged, long dead white male authors. As if there were no other perspectives on earth. No other views of the world or how we exist within it. How do I know the authors were privileged? It's all in their bios. They all went to college, which in the time(s) most of them were writing meant privilege. I don't mean to say we shouldn't have read some of these guys. Some of them were brilliant writers. Give me Mark Twain any day. But why not Harriet Tubman? Would it have killed anyone to ask us to read a black woman's words? To let us catch the most fleeting and horrifying glimpse of her world? Would anyone have been scarred forever to learn that the white, European male perspective isn't the only one on earth? Apparently it would have because books by women or people of color weren't even offered as options on the alternate reading list.

It took until I got to Evergreen State College for someone to begin pointing me at literature by people who didn't look like me. The Color Purple by Alice Walker is still etched into my head. So are some of the really contentious discussions we had around the themes of the story.

Here's the interesting thing. The discussions in AP English classes were boring. No one got heated. In fact, there was actually precious little 'discussion'. Yeah, yeah, here's what the book was about. Sure, cool imagery, bro, but a sentence with 123 words? Really? Isn't there a drug to help with that? But once discussion turned to something like The Color Purple  in college - those discussions were ANIMATED. No one was bored. I think it was because our worlds and our perspectives had been challenged and we were unsettled by it. We had to talk it out. That, to me, is what makes great literature. If a book can shake you up *just* enough - then the book won.