How Far Does Author Loyalty Carry Us?

Warning: this post will contain spoilers for no fewer than two book series and three TV series, and will make reference to sexual violence in fiction.


Last week, George R. R. Martin released a new excerpt from The Winds of Winter, simultaneously breaking the internet and all of our minds. The excerpt called, simply, “Mercy,” contains sentences like: “Mercy, I’m Mercy, and tonight I’ll be raped and murdered,” and “It would be just like Mercy to sleep through her own rape.”

The language of rape continues through the chapter: Mercy, the main character, has to hurry or she’ll miss her own rape, and there are repeated allusions to sexual acts with the character who seems to be her boss.

There are two twists. One (and this may be the biggest) is that Mercy is in fact Arya, our child-heroine. An intrepid (okay, frustrated) reader  who is upset by the first paragraphs will scan to the end and see this fact, compounding the upset: not only is this character an unwilling prostitute, but she’s also one of the few non-sexualized female characters in the series. When I saw this, I was devastated, and almost didn’t read the whole chapter.

Of course, you could argue that the other twist is more important: Mercy is an actress, and the rape she’s referring to is on-stage.

When I realized this, and realized that Martin knew that he was deliberately using inflammatory language, teasing us with a fictional act he’s constantly criticized for, I felt hurt. Relieved, but hurt.

He was trolling us, you see. Upsetting us deliberately, and then he took it away. He’s aware of the criticisms about his books, the accusations of constant rape and sexual violence, and he used our sensitivity against us to achieve a shocking reveal.


I was almost more upset by that use of a real problem with his work than I was by the apparent sexualization of Arya. I’ve been reading Martin’s books since I was 14, since before I even really fully understood just how violent against women the books are and just how twisted this world’s view of sex is. I’ve struggled with my love for the books, feeling like I shouldn’t be able to read them, like I shouldn’t love them, because I now recognize just how troubling Martin’s treatment of women (and sex generally — this isn’t just about women) is.

The same thing happened in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, when main character Claire is raped (in a fair amount of realistic detail). I’d come to terms with the rape of Brianna, Claire’s daughter, but when it happened to Claire I was stunned. And hurt. And I felt almost as brutalized as our protagonist.

Why did this have to happen? In what way did Claire’s rape further her character development? We’ve been in Claire’s head for something like 20 years. I read Outlander when I was in SIXTH GRADE. What if I had read these later books then, and seen the two female main characters dealing with this problem? Would it have normalized sexual violence for me?

I realize that neither of these series are really intended for 12- and 14-year-olds, but adults become immune to the things they see in fiction as well. And it’s worse in some ways, because we have the capability of drawing our own lines and seeing where society has failed to draw lines for us. When we continue to read these books, to purchase them and enjoy them in spite of the sexual violence, are we becoming part of the problem?

When I watch a TV show, I will turn it off if there is any sort of sexual violence in the first few episodes. The new season of American Horror Story? Gone. Never finished. The Americans? Dead to me. But Buffy? Or Battlestar Galactica? I kept watching, because the sexual violence didn’t happen until I was already in love with the characters and invested in their stories, which in some ways makes it so much worse.

So how far does our loyalty take us? Should I give up on books I’ve been reading for most of my life? Should I wave away fictional characters I love, because their creators crossed a line? I really don’t know.

I do know that someday, when I’m published, I don’t want to put my readers in this position. I don’t want to create a dilemma for a woman who grew up on my books or normalize rape for a preteen girl. I may have undeserved loyalty for certain authors and series, but I also have loyalty to myself, my someday-readers, my characters, and, above all, my principles.

So I ask you: How far is too far? How do you react when sexual violence bubbles up in your favorite series? What’s the right answer here?

Are You a Rereader?

I’m getting so old and have been doing this blog thing long enough now that I can’t honestly remember if I’ve asked you readers that question before. But I’m the boss around here, even if I am slightly senile, and some of you folks are new enough that you probably haven’t answered the question for me yet.

I’m also so old and feeble that I never managed to fire up WordPress and promote the final throw-down post over on Liv Rancourt’s blog! So before you sit down to read what I think about rereading, go find out who Liv and I think Sookie should end up with.

Are you back? Good.

So, rereading. When I was a kid, I read Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague (and sequels—and all her other horse-books) about a hundred times. I remember my dad asking why I reread books.

“Why read them again?” he asked. “The story doesn’t change.”

I shrugged, unable to articulate why I wanted to read the books again, being eight and all. “I just like them,” I said.

That still holds, but I realize now (nineteen-and-a-half years later) that there’s more to it than just liking. The books I reread are not necessarily by my favorite writers, and they’re not necessarily works I would call influential on my style.

Rather, they have two main factors drawing me back:

1. A world a want to live in. Take Harry Potter. Littered with adverbs and simplistic metaphors, J. K. Rowling’s work can actually have a bad influence on my own writing, so I’m not rereading it for my career health. No,  I reread these books because I would love living in this world. I want to go to Hogwarts. I want a wand. I want to dance like a hippogriff!

I want an owl, dammit!

2. Characters I want to spend time with. I wouldn’t necessarily want to live in the world of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. It’s our world, but certain people can time travel… and as much as I love reading historical fiction, I probably wouldn’t get along too well in the 1700s. But her characters—Claire, Jamie, Jenny, Brianna, Roger, even gangly Young Ian—are charming folks I’d love to call friends. And while I love Gabaldon’s writing style, my attempts to imitate it (and her process) are partly responsible for the steaming mass of incoherent plot that are my first novel.

But what about the books I love, but don’t reread? A Farewell to Arms, The Great Gatsby, The Crystal Cave, George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series (which I have reread, just not lately and not often). The list goes on and on.

Sometimes those books have had a major influence on me and on my writing, like A Farewell to Arms and The Great Gatsby. Sometimes they remind me of painful times in my life, like The Crystal Cave. And sometimes they’re just too depressing (*coughMartincough*).

So what books make your rereading list? Why those particular books, and not others?

Here’s my re-reading list:

  1. Harry Potter series
  2. Jane Austen’s complete works
  3. Anne of Green Gables series
  4. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books
  5. Possession by A. S. Byatt
  6. Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series
  7. James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small works

Other books make the list, but not the annual list. It’s a wonder I ever manage to read anything new…