The Deceitful Drogon or Books We Probably Should Have Banned Ourselves From Writing

There comes a time in every writer’s life when they look back at the progress they’ve made, half-finished vampire epics with pretentious footnotes, old journals with dragons all over them, the handwritten notes (with Lisa Frank stickers in the margins) and think, my god, what a pile of crap!

The always charming Rejectionist has invited the author-friends to post their early (and extremely humiliating) works as part of the Banned Book Week festivities.

I have two extremely awful, please-don’t-really-read-these-because-they’re-quite-embarrassing, pieces to share. In the interest of historical accuracy all spelling and translation mistakes have been preserved, with bold emphasis added to the best bits.

Edmund vs Eugenie

the slow ride, originally uploaded by Jenn Platt.

The Rejectionist called for guest posts about how marginalized folks read fiction (in which they are objectified, overlooked or excluded completely). She explains it better.

I decided to write about how I read my favorite book.


Edmund vs Eugenie

I could pick up The Count of Monte Cristo on any day and read it cover to cover.

The first (nine times) I read the book I was Edmund Dantes through every trial and duel, every mechanism of revenge and help, I even got the girl at the end. But it was the same for every book I read. I was always the protagonist, having their adventures, fighting with swords, howling with wolves, and wearing the coolest boots. I didn't even notice the characters that were much more like me. I didn't notice Eugenie Danglars at all. If I even remembered her character it was as part of Edmund's grand plan to humiliate her father. Edmund helped her run away from home to complete the Baron's downfall. I wouldn't have been able to tell you she was a lesbian.

In college, after I'd come out, I read The Count of Monte Cristo again (and again). I noticed Eugenie this time, and though her name still wasn't fixed in my mind, I knew there was a lesbian in my favorite book. But I was still Edmund, having the grand adventure, making grand plans. Eugenie felt like a bonus, a wink and a nod from Dumas to me. Here dear reader, here is a strong girl who takes her fate in her own hands, now back to Edmund.

Then I read The Penelopiad. Now, I had been Odysseus five or six times. I loved fighting the Cyclops and evading the Sirens and coming home to get the girl. But when I read the story from Penelope's point of view, sold into a marriage, forced to wait and scheme to keep her husband's lands, her dear handmaids hung for helping her keep the suitors at bay, I was thrust out of Odysseus's role. I was suddenly someone much more like myself, a woman with fewer rights and less power, and I hated Odysseus a little, he got to have his adventures while Penelope did the hard work preserving his kingdom.

When I picked up The Count of Monte Cristo again, Eugenie practically leapt off the page. Every scene with her in it was suddenly hers, every unflattering detail (meant to prove Baron Danglars was an inferior father) was vital. I was angry on her behalf, described as masculine because she was bold, cold because she had no interest in men, humiliated at the end because it furthered the plot of discrediting her father. Whenever she sneered at her at her cold parents and indifferent suitor I sneered with her, I wanted her to win, to escape her betrothal and become a singer in Italy. To leave her wretched life and be free. When she dressed as a man and ran away with her music teacher (who exclaimed, "I am looking at you; indeed you are adorable like that! One would say you were carrying me off.") I fled breathlessly with her. And when she was exposed as a woman to further humiliate her father, I felt her humiliation, and hoped, as they continued on to Brussels (at least not back to Paris in shame!) that Eugenie would succeed. And maybe put her cravat and those great boots back on.

Now when I read the book I am still Edmund Dantes. But I am also Eugenie Danglars.

Rejection

the long platform, originally uploaded by Jenn Platt.

This is a rejection essay that is actually more of a rejection dramatization for a lovely uncontest.

It's based on a true account of rejection letters I've received in the course of trying to publish a novel. I've taken some license with the dialog with my roommate's consent.

The Writing Area

This is where the serious, do not disturb, please dear god let me get to the end of this chapter before 2am because I need to sleep before I go to work writing happens.

From this angle (which involved standing on the bed) there are five Nightcrawler action figures, three Batmans, two Spidermans, a pink glass of water, a magnificent split keyboard and my ode to Canada that conceals an ugly door.

I have a wonderful live-in editor too. Gloomy Bear thinks the word 'wetted' is pretentious and advises me to change it to 'soaked'.

This thoroughly fingerprint-smeared device is my pride, my joy, my usually much cleaner writing area. We enjoy riding trains, eating in restaurants, sneaking a few paragraphs when it's slow at work and long walks on the beach.