Apparently my word "Stop" wasn't heard the first time

To Ginia Bellafonte of the New York Times:

STOP.

Seriously, again, STOP.

I mean, yes, it's great that you took a moment to respond to the overwhelming criticism of your condescending "women don't read fantasy" review. It's not great that your response included this:

:As I wrote in the review, I realize that there are women who love fantasy, but I don’t know any and that is the truth: I don’t know any. At the same time, I am sure that there are fantasy fans out there who may not know a single person who worships at the altar of quietly hewn domestic novels or celebrates the films of Nicole Holofcener or is engrossed by reruns of “House.”

Ms. Bellafonte.

THESE ARE NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE INTERESTS.

Not entirely irrelevant sidenote: I was introduced to that rather domestic novel Pride and Prejudice by my grandfather, mostly because he was horrified that I was reading and filling my little head with the very bad Famous Five novels by Enid Blyton. (What can I say? When I was a kid I had no taste.) For Americans unfamiliar with the Famous Five novels, they are an inane, unrealistic, poorly written and mildly racist series of, yes, Ms. Bellafonte, "boy fiction." (What can I say? I had no taste back then and I admit the racism went right over my little head.) Continuing this sidenote, I went to Friends with Money with a straight male friend at his suggestion, and – gasp – we didn't die. Continuing with the continued sidenote, I first watched House at the instigation of a male friend, and one of the most enthusiastic current fans I know is a guy. The loudest anti-fan I know (largely because of the House-Cuddy relationship this season)? A woman.

On the other side, my mother, who likes Star Trek but was bored to tears by The Lord of the Rings ("it just went on and on and on. Did it ever stop?") hates House. With a passion. (She is a registered nurse driven to distraction by the ongoing errors on medical dramas; she also hated ER.) She also thought Friends with Money was annoying.

I can assure you that I have friends of both genders who both read fantasy and are engrossed by reruns of House. I can also assure you that I can and do read both fantasy and quietly hewn domestic novels. And while my friends, admittedly, do tend to be geeks and fantasy readers, I have been known to speak to and even make friends with people who are not. (Not date, though. I have to draw the line somewhere.) You, by your own confession, have never made friends with geeks. (Your loss. We tell better jokes.) And I'll also note that it's more than barely possible that you do have women friends who love this stuff, but are afraid to discuss it with you because of your dismissive attitude.

The real problem here is that despite letters, emails, a loud blog cry, and even a response from George RR Martin, you continue to assume that gender dictates a response to art.

I have no problems with you disliking Game of Thrones. It certainly isn't everybody's cup of tea – I know quite a lot of people who don't particularly want to watch or read a series that contains a lot of violence and sex where beloved characters die. This includes, as I noted before, both men and women, and it includes several fantasy readers who just didn't like the series. That's ok. I've even stayed friends with these people.

But I do have a problem with your continued insistence that I need to respond to art, be this books, movies or television shows in a certain way because I'm a woman, that my likes and dislikes are determined by gender.

No.

I hated this back when I was seven and I was told I had to be Princess Leia because girls couldn't be Jedi or be smugglers with the cool starships, even if Princess Leia had a pretty cool gun and got to order the Wookie around. I hate this now.

So stop. Just. Stop.

Jane

So in an effort to distract myself from just how much today sucked (seriously, quite apart from falling in the post office, the highlight may have been finding out that a banker in Seattle, Washington, knows precisely how tall I am along with some other information that I don't recall ever handing over to Chase Bank, which provided a nice chilling sort of feeling), I've decided to focus on something a bit different: National Poetry Month.

Over at his blog, time_shark has been celebrating by offering a selection of previously published poems along with some notes and explanations about each. I'm going to be trying something a bit different – posting some old poems that for one reason or other were either never published or published in extremely obscure outlets and only read by a few friends, if that.

This is the first, "Jane," a poem I never bothered to submit anywhere for two reasons: one, it wasn't genre, and therefore would need to make the long, slow rounds of the poetry journals – and I had nothing else at the time to submit with it, and two, I wrote it shortly before I started working at the university – putting my entire writing career on hold for a few years.

Looking at it now, I'm struck by three things: one, that this is a pathway untaken, that is, poetry with a more "literary" than fantastical bent; two, my fascination with the Tudors really never ends, does it?; and three, I've apparently been a long time user of the phrase "only of." Something to watch for.

Because it's long, I'm putting it under a cut. ( Here you go. )