Bird Strike

A war wound opened up by yet another false identity.

One recent social wave has been a rise in identity politics. For writers, a common related discussion centres on how they represent their characters on the written page. Often it’s not a discussion, but more an edict or a stipulation, sometimes straying into castigation for the unfortunate, mostly unwitting, transgressor.

A common refrain in writing circles is “there are no rules”. However, it’s increasingly common for an agent’s manuscript wish list (a.k.a. ‘#MSWL’) to mention “identity”. What this generally means is that the author should write from their direct experience to give the work a suitable degree of authenticity (and any marketing/PR folks an easier time). For example, queer authors should create queer characters; neurodivergent authors should have characters with autistic traits; women authors should write about women; and Black authors should write only from a specific cultural perspective.

Many authors feel restricted by this pigeonholing, with them consequently being encouraged to churn out books within the same genre and often using similar characterisation for years to come. On the other hand, it can be a very lucrative strategy when successfully implemented.

You may have spotted several flaws in this simplistic categorisation scheme, not least the bookshelf placement dilemma for the intersection of, say, Black queer women authors. Differences within groups also often outweigh those without. But it’s rare to find statistics and reason being used to argue such points. You also might be thinking, ‘but I like lots of different books by lots of different authors’ and not give two hoots what an author looks like, acts like, or says in public or private. You might also then find yourself in the minority when it comes to the contemporary tokenism consuming many-tik book-tok buyers.

But I’ll focus on just one issue here, as it’s personal to me. This will also lessen the risk of being accused of ‘not knowing yourself’, which only long-term partners, therapists and human-mediated divine beings are qualified to say:

One side effect of obeying any suffocating “write about what you are and what you know” preference is that white, university educated, middle-class men have only a potentially tedious catalogue of office work, commuting, errant children and football scores to draw upon. The irony of the majority of agents and editors who might assess the potential of their manuscript being predominantly white, university educated, middle-class women should not be lost on this stereotypical stale male.

So I’ve invented (using my rampant imagination, heavens forbid) a legal get-out clause. A special writer’s sick note, if you will:

If – no, when – the Court of Publishing Opinion® casts its baleful orbit upon me, the Gatekeepers of the Written Word™ will hear that “He took leave of all his senses whenever he gripped his quill, M’lady”. As a sentence laden with closeted identity and mental health issues, I’m convinced it will result in a declaration of innocence, as only a mad man would declare it juvenile innuendo…

"Fortunately, you can unshackle your mind when creatively extrapolating such practices into future times and places. Roaming on a trajectory both wider and deeper, it's easy to escape the commercial confines of legality, confidentiality and constrained ideation. Current technology, with its attendant cultural and social influences, is yours for the mutating."
JR - Introduction to ‘The Geneleon’

When set free to be me, I intend to cast off all former constraints and traits attributed to my puny human form. But, as I clutch the hallowed keys to an ancient Greek chest stuffed with prompts urging me to write anything at all*, my mind comes to a screeching halt:

What on (or off) Earth should I write about? Because…

• I’m not a chimpanzee or an astronaut. Certainly not both.

• I’m not a woman fantasising about her secretive neighbour.

• I couldn’t possibly be an alien entity a million light years from home.

• I’ve not declared a penchant for wearing women’s clothing.

• I’m not a whale nursing her calf, singing to her distant mate.

• I haven’t given birth to a baby (even if I’ve delivered a few).

• I’m neither that postman, nor his plane spotting daughter.

• I’m not paid to talk to clients stored in liquid nitrogen.

• I’ll never be an elderly woman desperate to find a daughter.

• I’m not a cow who can only do what she feels is right.

• I’m not cut out to be a one-armed female fighting machine.

• I’m not an employee in a publishing company.

• I’m none of these six wonderful women.

• I haven’t developed see-through skin.

• I’m not a lycra-clad InstaSnapper.

• I would never want to undergo FGM,

• or be Little Red Riding Hood after a night out,

• nor a sentient bird built to kill… (see below)

I’m none of these eighteen marvellous, intimate, thought-provoking, made-up minds.

So how very dare I pretend to be any of them, let alone all of them.

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Until next time then, when I could be swinging from a socially-mediated gibbet, splattered in an appetising mix of organic veg and tattered pages from the latest decreed batch of unacceptable novels.

C'est cette vie, pas une vie.

(*Option to insert here laughing noises befitting a supernatural being wielding unspeakable power or, failing that, any former democratic representative about to board yet another gravy train.)

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Bird Strike

War machine sprung to life*, a covenant of destruction.
Tight are my rivets, lockwise against silver-stressed skin.
Turbofans howl through the full sonic. Air-borne, yet no angel.
Briefed their enemy is also mine, I seek and listen; confuse and deny. 
Bathed in titanium, platinum ring on gloved finger,
they feign control of my movement, my deadly intent.

Spasmodic shudders as I unleash furious arcs of
sequential spat metal. Too fast to see, too hard to resist.
Puppets dance in the hail. Too slow to move, too soft to live.
I bless my children with minutes and seconds to fix their demise.
A second finger rewards them with gravity’s gift.
The hows and wheres detached from their difficult whys.

Fabric stretches and engines strain as we pull away.
Foreign waves bathe my skin. The enemy has sensed us,
deviant missiles hell-bent on winning hide-and-seek.
I dispense advice; roll and dive; attempt to deflect dark intent.
Too late. Invisible pressure heralds visible blooms of metal and fire.
Torn skin, ripped ribs. Spinning relics of manufactured flesh.

Selfless sacrifice as they save themselves.
Pulled in panic, pillars of flame discard shards of me.
Surrounded by air, yet without control or grace,
I kiss the blasted ground a final time.
War is only hell for their living.
The heavens I know remain free of our dead.

*with credit to Kevin McAlea (and apologies to original writer Carlos Kruges) for reuse of this inspiring phrase from the less authentic English version of Nena’s ‘Neunundneunzig Luftballons’ song (rel. 1983-84).

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