Be dangerous, darling, for the whole world rises and falls at your feet.
I__e grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains _ good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn__ necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn__ qualify either). I__ talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don__ tell me you don__ know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves _ to the point of almost parodic encouragement _ we__e left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.
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I__e grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains _ good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn__ necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn__ qualify either). I__ talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don__ tell me you don__ know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves _ to the point of almost parodic encouragement _ we__e left no room to acknowledge our dark side. Dark sides are important. They should be nurtured like nasty black orchids.
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Velva__ face glowed in the streetlight. __ir Sun, don__ you see? I am your violent violet. And you are mine.
New York was packed with writers, real writers, because there were magazines, real magazines, loads of them. This was back when the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing world--throw some kibble at it, watch it dance on its little leash, oh quite cute, it definitely won't kill us in the night.
Writers (my kind of writers: aspiring novelists, ruminative thinkers, people whose brains don't work quick enough to blog or link or tweet, basically old, stubborn blowhards) were through. We were like women's hat makers or buggy-whip manufacturers: Our time was done.
Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.