Tag Archives: Jackaby

WHY AREN’T THEY KISSING YET?

An open letter to a sharp young reader who would like my characters to just kiss, already.

Dear ______,
Thank you very much for writing to me. It makes me very happy that you liked Jackaby and that you care about how he and Miss Rook interact. You are not alone in your desire for a “ship” between them.

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Relationships matter, and not just the squishy ones.

There’s nothing wrong with “shipping” characters if you see chemistry—that’s awesome. It shows emotional investment and speculation—but platonic relationships benefit from strong chemistry, too.

Speaking of chemistry, biochemist Tim Hunt recently insulted one of the most intelligent communities on the planet by suggesting female scientists have no place in a man’s laboratory. To be fair to Mr. Hunt, he didn’t denounce women altogether, he just called them crybabies and told them to go build their own treehouse if they wanted to split atoms and cure cancer. Simply put, “the trouble with girls” according to Tim Hunt, is that men and women fall in love, and that gets in the way of important work (link).

Hunt can’t imagine a world in which men and women might value and respect each other without romantic entanglements. Why should he? Authors and publishers can’t seem to imagine it either. Hollywood certainly can’t imagine it. Storytellers paid to do nothing BUT imagine absurd realities can’t be bothered to imagine such a thing, so why should Hunt be held to a higher standard?

The fact is we’re more comfortable imagining superheroes fighting aliens above the streets of New York or genetically mutated reptiles practicing eastern martial arts beneath them than we are prepared to imagine their sole female companion might NOT become a love interest.

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Assemble a funny group of men or women and you’ve got a “buddy comedy,” but mix the genders and it invariably becomes a “romantic comedy.” Rom-Coms are great, but there’s something wrong with the pernicious theme that romance is the ONLY way men and women can interact.

To be clear, I’m not against love. Romance is exciting and sweet and—well—romantic, but there are already plenty of lovers in YA. What I’m against is raising another generation incapable of imagining male/female relationships that are NOT romantic. When we read about flirtation, passion, and heartbreak, we are learning valuable lessons about how to love, but there are other relationships—relationships with mentors, allies, colleagues, friends—which can teach us to respect the other people in our lives, too.

Stories matter. How many great women never rise to their full potential because they are perpetually taught that their role is to marry a hero, not to become one? How many great men subconsciously believe that the only women who matter are the ones destined to love them? Is it any wonder so many men grow up to act either dismissive or aggressive toward women?

I realize that these are gargantuan sociocultural issues, and I also realize that you are 11 years old and trying to enjoy your Summer vacation, so I’ll tone it down a bit as I wrap this up.

Basically, _______, what I’m trying to say is you’re sharp and you’re capable. You can handle big words like “sociocultural,” and you can handle it if my characters don’t kiss. Someday you’ll be able to handle flying jets or running for president or working in a lab. When that time comes, don’t let some sexist old fart tell you that girls are too much trouble.

Kiss. Don’t kiss. Find relationships of value and cherish them—all of them—for what they are.

Sincerely,
—Will Ritter

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SHIP

In the world of fandoms and Internet forums there exists a term called “SHIPPING.” Chances are good you already know this means supporting a relationSHIP between two characters in a book or TV series. Character SHIPs are a thing. Everybody knows this, apparently. I did not. Not until well after my first book was published.

It was then that I stumbled upon* a forum conversation about my novel that went something like this:

Reader: This book was really good! Just a little disappointed in the lack of SHIPs.
Friend: Aw, I was thinking about reading that one. No SHIPs at all?
Reader: Well, there’s a little bit of a SHIP, but it’s really not about that. Still good! I guess I was just hoping for more. I always look for a good SHIP in my books.
Friend: Me too!

This seemed like an oddly specific need. I mean, I did have a ship in my novel, as the reader had observed. It was a passenger carrier which docked in New Fiddleham in the first chapter—but as the reader had also noted, the book was not about that. Aside for bringing my narrator to town, the ship served no significant role in the plot.

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Surprised though I was to learn that anyone based their reading preferences on the presence or absence of seaworthy vessels—and more surprised that her friend seemed equally invested in the matter—I chalked it up to the Internet being a strange world. Who am I to judge? To each her own.

A few days later, a blog review popped up**, completely separate from the initial post, confessing a deeply felt hope that the next book would spend more time exploring SHIPS.

How profoundly disappointing my next storyline was going to be, I thought, to the apparently burgeoning community of naval aficionados. The next one had more mystery, more supernatural elements, and even a little more romance, but no ships at all.

I began to realize how devoid of boats my prose had become in the latest manuscript. I was reminded of the 1-star review for “To the Lighthouse” which accused Woolf of being “Not lighthouse-y enough.” I might be able to work in a rowboat or a dinghy somewhere—but no! Artistic integrity forbade pandering… besides, the plot took place completely inland.

It was not until the third mention, weeks later, that I realized something was up.

“I could totally SHIP Jackaby and Rook.”

“Ship them where?” I thought. “That’s a weird way to… OH! Oh. I’m an idiot. Okay. Right. I figured it out, Internet. I get it.”

Sometimes, late at night, I still wonder if book 2 wouldn’t be a better manuscript if I had found somewhere to add a boat.

* “Stumbled upon” is a term authors use to refer to something they discovered while obsessively googling anything and everything being written about their book. This, too, is a thing.

** Things have a habit of “popping up” when you are “stumbling upon” them (see above).

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The Perils of Positive Reviews

I don’t know precisely what the One Ring whispered to Gollum when he held it close, crouching in the darkness of a cave… but based on its effect, I assume it was giving him a series of positive literary reviews. Reviews, I am coming to find, are diabolical and all too precious things.
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There have been piles of articles advising authors on how to deal with negative reviews, but a scarcity about processing praise. In a strange way, praise can be just as maddening. As reviews come in from the Advanced Reader Copies of Jackaby, I find my fragile, increasingly schizophrenic arguments going something like this:

– They’re not for you. Walk away before you stumble on a harsh one.

– Read them, but read them for a purpose with a rational, cool head.

– Don’t! Fool of a Took! You’ll allow them to gain power over you!

– Too late! Lalala! I’m a princess in a tower made of pretty words!

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It’s a terrible habit, I know—but like Frodo atop Mount Doom, I can’t seem to chuck the dang ring into the fires. The reviews for Jackaby have been unbelievably G R E A T, and I’m so proud and happy… but they make me all the more paranoid about when the other shoe will drop. Someone is bound to give me a thumbs down or a one star out of five. Who will it be? Who is after the precious?

I have, at least, discovered something better to distract me from the lure of obsessing over positive reviews: terrible reviews for acclaimed authors. My new AYR book buddy, Kelly Barnhill, recently turned me on to me a tumblr of one-star reviews… and they are a marvelous. They’re loaded with gems like:

Romeo & Juliet (Shakespeare): “First of all, the whole thing is almost all dialogue.”

Metamorphosis (Kafka): “I’m probably going to burn it.”

To the Lighthouse (Woolfe): “… wasn’t lighthouse-y enough.”

They’re like a smelling salt. It’s impossible to take a review too seriously after a handful of those babies. If you receive public feedback on anything that you do, I highly encourage you check them out. Let the ridiculousness of totally subjective criticism shake you from your trance and help you to destroy the ring.

(Speaking of Lord of the Rings, Tolkein’s modern classic received initial reviews ranging from “Masterpiece… destined to outlast our time,” to “high minded… the death of literature itself,” to simply “Oh God, no more elves.” True fact!)

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