Bad Reviews

I don't know how Lyda and Tate manage to be so even tempered about bad reviews. They go into me like a knife.

The really bad ones are usually by readers, Critics usually treat me more gently, maybe because they know how sensitive I am; and I think most critics have better manners than many readers. They know they are going to have to meet writers or the friends of writers at cons.

I've had readers go all frothy about about how I am a man-hating feminist. I am certainly a feminist, but I have never thought of myself as especially hostile to men. My partner is a man. My brother is a man, as are many cousins and a lot of my friends. These are all people I like a lot.

I don't like prejudice, and I don't like social hierarchies. I try to take individuals as I find them.

I got the frothing response to a story titled "The Garden," which is very sweet story about a hwarhath man who doesn't want to go into space like all the other men. He wants to stay home and tend his garden. I call it my Ferdinand the Bull story. How is that hostile to men? It's a story about how people ought to have the right to make decisions about their lives.

Anyway, bad reviews sear themselves into my brain.