I challenged myself to read 50 books in 2018 and checked in with GoodReads and it has me down for 20 books already read and I’m a few hours away from number 21. I’m surprised I’ve read that much. It doesn’t even track the short fiction I’m trying to keep up with because I’m supposed to be writing and submitting short fiction but I have to admit I haven’t written much in the past couple of years. Constant rejection is a bit of a burnout and every time I try to explain it to myself I begin to sound like a crybaby MRA and so I tell myself to shut up about it. Write or don’t, but quit bitching about past failures.
Another part of the challenge this year has been to read a more diverse group of authors. The breakdowns so far
- Men/Women ratio: 12 to 8 (I reread all of Ken Scholes’ magnum opus, so author-wise it’s 8 and 8)
- White/Not White ratio: 17 to 3 (Again, Ken is 5 of that thirteen, so 12 to 3) – I’m not sure how some of these authors would qualify
And Apparently there was one missing by a white male author that was a novelette. It didn’t get marked as read but it came out in January, so there’s a skew to the numbers again (and even more stuff read than I thought imaginable).
The highlight of year so far is Devon Monk’s Scissor Kisses simply because I love these characters and how the interact. It’s been pure joy reading the Ordinary Magic books and stories. I finally read The Great Gatsby because why not get a classic in the cycle but honestly I didn’t know what to make of that book. There’s nothing likable about any of the characters but at least John Green set me right on my opinion of the book. I read Alan Dean Foster’s novelization of The Force Awakens in an airport.
The books that I had greater hopes for were a book 2 in a series where I really enjoyed book 1 but really, by the end of it, there was too much drama and assholing to really enjoy the central mystery of the book, so I decided to stop. Right after that was another book that looked good and had promise but the first person POV was a underdeveloped Han Solo knockoff and he grated on my nerves, so there’s another series not happening.
And here’s where the trouble may begin. I do not fully understand the non-binary gender thing and gender fluidity and gender as a social construct thing. I don’t get it. Being a man is vital to who I am as a person. I want to understand more so I decided to try some fiction to help explain it to me. Several years ago I read Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice and the constant use of female pronouns confused me more than anything else. Ada Palmer’s Too Like The Lightning managed a better job of it by poking a little fun at me as a reader (on this and a whole lot of other topics) but didn’t bring about any revelations. So I turned to a YA book from the James Tiptree, Jr. Honor List and basically learned that there are no good men, nothing good about being a boy or a man, and men are lecherous, manipulative, or completely useless. That doesn’t make me want to continue that series either.
I am looking for recommendations. If Robin Bates has taught me nothing else, he has taught me that fiction can teach me anything.
I wrote this for a writing group holiday reading party. now it is yours.
by Joshua R. English
On one hand, Raina was larger than the average woman, not overweight so much as oversized. Her boyfriend had rekeyed their condo and kept the dog. No note, no voicemail, not even a text. She had no car or housing, only a glimmer of Christmas. She could do the job. She needed the job.
On the other hand, no one had heard of a woman playing Santa at the mall.
Mrs. Claus was just standing around serving warmed-over brownies and watered down eggnog. That wasn’t what she wanted. Her life was out of control and she needed to control just this little bit. She needed to play Santa.
“Our beards aren’t the best,” the Rent-a-Santa man said. “And the voice. Kids can tell.”
“Ho ho ho,” she said.
“How the hell does a woman make that sound?”
“I sang tenor in college. I’m down on my luck, mister. This is the only way I’m going to get a little bit of Christmas into my life. One weekend. That’s all I ask.”
“I have a small gig in a strip mall on Saturday. They don’t expect a lot of people, and it’s out in Hillsboro. Can you get there?”
Only if Trimet is running that day, she thought. “Absolutely,” she said.
“Choose a suit from the wardrobe. Take it home, wear it around, get used to it. These things are hot. Load up on vitamin C and buy a gallon of hand sanitizer. I can’t supply it, but it’s tax-deductible.”
The wardrobe was a small office lined with Santa suits. Even the shortest suit was too tall. She had the voice, she had the shoulders, could find the belly, but she wasn’t going to grow six inches overnight. It was either frumpy Santa or no Santa. Frumpy won. As she lifted the best she could get from the hanger, she noticed an old fashioned clothes chest behind the rack. She pushed her way to it and opened it, half expecting to find a reindeer corpse or desiccated elf mummies.
Inside was a suit. A thin suit. Threadbare but small. She shook it out and held it against her body. It was the right length. It looked like it could be too small. She shook it again and the suit felt larger, enough to fit around her.
She took off her jacket and put on the red coat over her tee shirt.
She was in a house she didn’t recognize, in a room lit only by flashing red, blue, and green lights. Her shadow, heavy plump and bearded, flickered against a wall of family portraits. She dropped the half empty bag she’d been carrying. A gasp. A young girl, wearing a Thor the god of thunder shirt down to her knees, watched her.
The girl’s mouth flickered with the lights between a smile and horror.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she said, her voice a baritone whisper. “Before you end up on the naughty list for peeking.”
Raina picked up the girl in her gloved hands and carried her up the stairs. The girl fell asleep instantly, like she had an off switch. Raina knew which bedroom was right, and tucked the girl back into bed.
She stood, her hand brushing a now-bulging pocket. Inside she found a stuffed toy reindeer. She tucked this into bed, too, and the girl wrapped her arms around it.
“Ho Ho Ho.”
She woke up in her hotel room. Not Saturday. Not yet. She patted herself down. No belly. Normal breasts. No beard. The suit hung by itself on a hook by the door. The boots on the floor and the gloves resting on top. The clock told her she only had a few minutes to grab a free continental bagel and orange juice.
The news was a constant fixture on the lobby television. She was alone, noshing, sipping, watching the reports of mysterious presents appearing under trees when she, suddenly and without warning, felt giddy. True childlike glee and giggles. Police and bomb squads were out checking packages and rather chagrined to find toys under the silver wrapping paper with candy cane stripe ribbons. The talking heads debated the possibility of Santa Claus being real. She sat all day, watching, transfixed. She ate a dinner out of a vending machine and went back into her room to put on the suit.
Saturday morning felt like she had been run over by something large and alcoholic. She moved only when she could force her entire will on the act. She still made it to the lobby in time for breakfast, and had a nagging feeling that something was horribly wrong. She barely recognized the news of twenty-foot Christmas trees appearing fully decorated in the middle of homeless camps, the silver and candy-cane ribbon packages loaded with food and blankets and books and clothes. The homeless population never looked better dressed.
The national news ran similar stories of silver boxes appearing under trees all over the country. People interviewed on the street said they had purchased gifts for random strangers. Toy drives and food drives were overflowing. Raina considered volunteering to help store it all at the local food bank, but her feet rebelled.
On Fox, they insisted that these events were a secret government program softening up the population for the mass surveillance state, or a massive terrorist attack. And Santa was a litterbug who needed to be stopped.
Saturday night. Five days before Christmas Eve. Raina could feel it happening, appearing in more homes than she thought possible, more children, more toys, more kitchen gadgets. Her bag never empty, and strangely never full. No reindeer but the echo of jingling when she moved from place to place, until the place she never thought she’d see again.
Her condo. Her ex’s condo. A small tree sat by the window. The pile of presents was small, with tags from his mother and sister, and tags to the dog. Best to get this over with, she thought, and reached for the bag to open it.
The bag was empty.
She checked again. It had never needed a magic word to work, so she couldn’t think of any to try.
It remained empty.
She couldn’t leave. She felt that it would be impossible until she left something but she had nothing.
She walked into the bedroom, bracing herself for bad news. He was there, sleeping, one hand under his head, the other on top of his stomach. The dog took up her side of the bed.
She had assumed there was someone else. If no one, then why? It didn’t matter. He wanted to be free.
She bent over him and kissed him goodbye.
On Monday morning she was fully awake, charged up like a really good cup of coffee had settled in. She showered before her continental bagel and OJ. She felt ready to conquer everything, including, especially, returning the suit. She hadn’t done the job she’d been hired to do. Packing up the suit and preparing for a good yelling-at and no paycheck, she returned to the Rent-a-Santa.
Last week it had been a small office with a short chubby unshaven man. Now it was a bookstore. It had always been a bookstore.
She browsed the shelves and it was clear the books had been there a while. She had enough cash in her wallet to buy a book that her ex had mentioned wanting but never bought for himself, and–this being Portland–a stuffed Jack London dog toy.
Outside, she hefted the purchases in one hand. She had no easy way to give them. In the other hand she held the bag with the suit in it.
There were still four giving-days until Christmas.
Thank you for reading. Have a Merry Christmas