I’m going to lay this out there. I don’t have a penis. I
know, I’m sorry you had to find out this way.
I know, I wish I could pee standing up in the snow, too, but
I get the feeling that would just be a mess.
What does this mean for me as a writer? Do I only write girl
characters? How can I know what it’s like for a man?
Well, I guess I don’t. But I don’t exactly know what it’s
like for another girl, either. I mean, I’m only me. I don’t know what goes on
in other women’s heads. And other than a difference of bait and tackle, trying
to find the difference in testosterone fluctuations without making a male
character sound like a seventies caveman movie is a little rough.
See, I like things to be sort of equal between sexes.
Whereas I like tough heroines, I’m not interested in complete role reversal,
turning my man into a wilting flower of a bad cowboy movie. “Oh, Gladys, I’m so
faint from watching you fight. Take me, Gladys, take me now! Kiss me, you
fool!”
Okay, so that made me laugh, but no. I want them to be their
own separate people who join together from mutual love and respect. Luckily,
I’ve had great examples. From Rachel Caine to Kim Harrison to Patricia Briggs,
I’ve had so many writers go before me to show me that women are as good as, not
better than men. God, I love it, and even as I sit here now, I want to be a
name dropper and keep going. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I love urban
fantasy.
We can all be tough and soft and normal in our own way. Just
like in life.
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