You know what's really annoying in spec fic stories? That protagonist who just refuses to see that something supernatural is going on. We're 120 pages into the novel, and everyone except the main character knows why people are showing symptoms of anemia with unusual injuries on their necks or that maybe there was something to Grandpa's crazy stories about fairies after all. A really skilled writer can turn this into horrifying dramatic irony as we sit at the edge of our seats, wondering if the protagonist is going to figure out what's going on before it's too late. More often than not, though, we end up just wanting to reach through the book, smack the protagonist upside the head, and scream, "GET ON WITH IT!"
At the same time, though, it's understandable that the protagonist of a spec fic story doesn't know that he or she is the protagonist of a spec fic story. In real life, most of us would giggle nervously and make a few jokes if there were an outbreak of Neck-Rupture Anemia in the neighborhood, but we probably wouldn't put up the crosses and garlic, and we certainly wouldn't go out hunting with stakes and mallets. How can we set up a mystery like this for our protagonist--"is it really a vampire, or am I crazy?"--that doesn't make the reader irritably point to the word "horror" on the back cover?
When you set up a problem like this, you're putting your character at a narrative fork in the road. The trouble is that in mediocre stories, one of the paths leads to an interesting, twisty ramble through an exotic forest and the other leads to a dead end. There needs to be a compelling alternative for what'll happen if Neck-Rupture Anemia really is just a disease or if Grandpa's fairy tales really were just an old man spinning yarns; that way, the reader will see that both paths actually go somewhere. How to go about doing this?
The first time I noticed a well-executed narrative fork in the road was the movie The History of Violence.
(I haven't read the graphic novel, but I've heard that it's completely different.) If you haven't seen it, you should; I won't spoil it here beyond laying out the basic premise. Viggo Mortensen plays Tom Stall, a restaurant owner and father of two in Indiana. When a pair of thugs try to rob his restaurant, most of the staff and customers freeze in terror, but Tom quickly kills them and is hailed as a local hero. It seems like a happy ending . . . until a mobster from Philadelphia rolls in, claiming that he saw Tom on the news and recognized him as his old mob buddy Joey Cusack. Tom and his wife vehemently deny this, but the mobster continues to stalk and threaten the Stall family, claiming he won't leave them alone until Tom (Joey?) returns to Philadelphia with him.
I spent the first half of this movie on the edge of my seat--because I had no idea what movie I was watching.
Was this the story of a Joey Cusack, a repentant mobster who
had escaped the criminal world and tried to make a new life, only to learn that violence and the past would always find him? Or was it the story of Tom Stall, an innocent man mistaken for a murderer, who commits a single, justifiable violent act and finds that it will lead to more violence and bloodshed, possibly transforming him into the killer he coincidentally resembles?
I would watch the heck out of other of those movies. Both are compelling stories--the fork in the road leads to two paths that each like a terrific hike, although in different ways. What's more, both are consistent with the tone and theme of the movie so far, which is clearly established as a dark film that studies both the allure and the destructive effects of violence. It isn't like we've been walking along a dark and eerie trail, and our two choices are either a similarly spooky path or a delightful sunlit ramble. I want to give David Cronenberg and Josh Olson a standing ovation for this one.
The 2015 UK horror movie The Hallow
has a similarly well-done narrative fork in the road. I won't spoil the ending, but I can't talk about it without getting into some third-act plot developments. It's on Netflix streaming and is quite decent; if you want to go in completely unspoiled, either watch it and come back in two hours or skip to the next paragraph. A couple and their baby are being terrorized by old-school evil fairies, and like any self-respecting old-school evil fairies, they have a history of stealing children and replacing them with changelings. The husband, Adam, is convinced that they've stolen and replaced baby Finn, and we know they had the opportunity to do so . . . but Adam got hit by a glamour earlier in the movie. His wife is positive that the baby is their own and that Adam is being influenced by the glamour. Are the fairies manipulating this poor sap into killing his real child, or into giving the real child to them in the mistaken belief that he's returning a changeling? Or is the glamour allowing him to see fae things for what they really are, turning him into a tragic Cassandra-like figure who can't make his wife see that she's clutching a viper to her bosom while abandoning their real child? Again, those are both spectacular stories, and they're both a solid tonal and thematic match for what we've seen before.
Either of these movies could have been one of those eye-rolling affairs where everyone knows what's coming except the characters. If the Philadelphia mobster hadn't been a direct threat to Tom Stall's family who could have lured him into more and more acts of justifiable violence, it would have been clear that Tom was Joey Cusack--otherwise, there's no story. If the mobster mistook him for something innocuous, like an honest citizen who'd seen his crimes and been placed in witness protection, it would have been clear that he was Tom Stall--there'd be no compelling reason for him not to come clean to his family about his identity, and again, no story. There are a hundred ways The Hallow
could have been a snoozefest as well--I won't get into details so we don't have another spoileriffic paragraph, but let's just say that it would have been a disaster to have that same setup at the beginning of the movie instead of in act three. I can't see any way that they could have maintained the mystery that long., and eventually it would have been clear which character was careening toward a dead end.
So if you have a situation where there may or may not be supernatural going on, or any other situation where the viewpoint character may or may not be right about the story's basic premise, it's critical to make sure that the story would be compelling and thematically consistent no matter what. Neck-Rupture Anemia that may be an illness or a vampire attack is boring; a series of deaths that could be caused by a vampire or a serial killer is cliche, but at least dramatically interesting. Fairies that may be real or may be an old man's ramblings are boring; fairies who may be real or may be his delusional interpretation of a sinister, fully human conspiracy are more interesting. (You could also get a really poignant story out of a narrator who's young enough to believe in fairies, pulling your reader back and forth over whether this is going to be a "hooray, Grandpa's fairies are real" story or an "and this is how I learned there are no such things as fairies" story, but this is where tone and theme are so important. A story like this is going to need a general tone of wistfulness and a hint of magic throughout, or it'll be clear that it either isn't going in the darker direction.)
Do you have any stories where you were at the edge of your seat, not knowing what story you were reading and watching? What about thoughts you've had for how to make these "it's obviously a vampire" stories more compelling?
When I hear "epistolary," I think of college English lit classes. It's a dry, jargony term that we don't throw around much outside of that context, particularly since there aren't a whole lot of modern examples. The Screwtape Letters notwithstanding, the genre saw its heyday in the 18th century and has steadily been petering out since then. Gothic horror writers loved it, and any genre that counts Dracula as an exemplar is fine in my book, but really, you can only suspend so much disbelief at the idea of someone scribbling down intricate details with perfectly recaptured dialogue during tense moments. (I've heard that Henry Fielding's Shamela skewered the heck out of this all the way back in 1741.)
We have a few modern epistolary novels, sure. Some handle the format adroitly (Max Brooks' World War Z is a heartbreaking work of staggering genius); some hit the same stumbling blocks that caused epistolaries to fall out of favor in the first place (John Marks' Fangland has an awful lot of emails giving excruciating details of events that the recipient saw firsthand, including a reporter giving us her own physical description in her notes); some are having so much fun reveling in their gimmickry that you really can't tell whether they handle the basics well or not (Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves is delightful, but "gimmickry" is an accurate description). I'd absolutely love to see more novels in this genre, particularly as we return to more text-based forms of communication--a well-executed novel made up of blog posts, emails, and text messages could be incredibly cool, although there are probably a thousand poorly-executed ones languishing in slush piles.
But we're actually embarking on a new golden age for the epistolary; it's just using a different medium and a rebranded name. It's found footage. Instead of stringing together imaginary letters, journals, newspaper clippings, and diary entries, film editors are stringing together imaginary camera footage. Instead of the breathless final journals of a man hunted by an implacable THING, we get the harrowing video clips of a man stalked by the Slender Man.
It's not hard to see why found footage has exploded. It has all the advantages of the epistolary novel or short story--the extra layer of realism, the chance to play with a specific sense of rules and limitations--with few of the disadvantages. In an epistolary novel, part of you is rolling your eyes that Lucy Westenra pulled off this massive diary entry in the very moment that Dracula was coming for her for the last time, or that Dr. Frankenstein would quote lengthy conversations with the monster verbatim instead of saying "And then he asked me to make him a bride." With found footage, no one in the midst of the action is stopping to write it down or trying to remember details later; it all unfolds in real time in front of the camera. What's more, you generally know that the author of the letters and journals in an epistolary is going to survive--otherwise, who would write the journals? With found footage, you have no such assurances. The major limitation they share is the tendency toward "as you know, Bob" conversation, which is probably why the documentary format is so popular. No one cares if you exposit in a documentary
There are two things I'd like to see from both found footage and the handful of epistolary texts that are still kicking around. One, frankly, is quality. There's a lot of crappy found footage out there. There's also a lot of very good found footage out there. However, I don't think we've had a stone-cold classic film that does for found footage what Frankenstein and Dracula did for novels. I have no doubt that there's someone out there who can make an absolutely breathtaking found footage movie, but it hasn't happened yet. For contemporary epistolary novels, we do have one that I can think of--World War Z--but I'd love to see more. There's a lot of text floating around out there. There are stories unfolding every day in emails, in comboxes, in insane text message conversations. Let's play with them.
The other is more work that engages with technology. Documentaries are fun, but in an age of webcams we can do more interesting things. Unfriended was a spectacularly underrated movie; we can have an argument about whether the plot is just one more movie about a bunch of unpleasant teenagers getting killed in nasty ways, but the way it handled the Internet as Greek chorus was stellar. I've heard that The Lizzie Bennett Diaries does wonderful things with the idea of vlog epistolaries, but I'll admit I haven't seen it yet. The same goes for epistolary texts. There will always be journals, diaries, and mailed correspondence, and there have been some terrific contemporary works dealing with them, but I'd love to see more novels that specifically use the Internet. That's where text is happening nowadays.
Am I forgetting your favorite found footage movie or epistolary story? Is there something that you'd like to put forward as the found footage Dracula? Do you have burning thoughts about the epistolary or found footage genre? Let's have a dorky English major discussion!
In my previous post about the Bechdel test,
I mentioned that there was a fourth type of story that can be an acceptable Bechdel fail: a story where masculinity and/or the marginalization of women are critical themes. If your story is all about different definitions of what it means to be a man, most if not all women are only going to exist as foils for the male characters. A lot of crime novels by writers like George Pelekanos and Richard Price fall into this category; they're about criminals and the cops who chase them, but they're also about seeing who's biggest and all the different rulers you can use to get those measurements. Similarly, if your story is about the fact that women tend to be separated from other women or reduced to their relationships with men, you're going to demonstrate that by . . . separating your female characters from other women or only having them talk to each other about men. Several episodes of Mad Men
flunk the Bechdel test spectacularly, but it's clearly by design, to the point where more than one critic has described it as "TV's most feminist show."
I'm mostly going to be focusing on stories about masculinity here rather than stories about the marginalization of women. Chances are that if you're going out of your way to write a story about the marginalization of women, you're also going to go out of your way to write the women well. We'll get to that in a minute. I want to talk about the question of masculinity first, because things get incredibly
tricky there. For one thing, some writers claim to be about "definitions of what it means to be a man" when they're actually about "definitions of what it means to be a human being;" the male writer doesn't realize that the issues he thinks are specific to masculinity are actually pretty universal. Joseph Campbell is our most facepalm-inducing example here. When asked what a Heroine's Journey might look like to complement his Hero's Journey, he replied, "Women don't need to make the journey. In the whole mythological journey, the woman is there. All she has to do is realize she's the place people are trying to get to." So . . . personal and spiritual growth and struggle are unique to men, apparently.
This one of the more egregious examples of this mindset, but it isn't the only one. If you think your story is uniquely male, try talking about the themes with some of the women in your life. If they're nodding enthusiastically and sharing their own experiences, it isn't uniquely male. They've been there.
But some stories really do work better with men. Breaking Bad
is a good example here; it just wouldn't have the same punch without Walter White's sense of thwarted masculinity bouncing off Jesse's feelings of impotence and Hank's macho posturing. As mentioned, crime novels and shows like The Wire
fit here as well--criminal groups usually have a culture of toxic masculinity, and the cops can be held up either as a positive counterexample or a cynical mirror group that's nearly as toxic as the crooks. Also, the more we have stories like these that deconstruct traditional notions of what it means to be a man, the more we need stories to build up new visions of masculinity in their place. As male-dominated as stories tend to be, we still need
good stories about men and manliness if we're going to have examples of how to be a man who doesn't adhere to some strict macho role.
So let's say you're writing one of those stories, but you're worried that women are absent or underused. Are there any themes other than masculinity that the women can represent? This is one of the areas where Breaking Bad
drove me bananas, as much as I loved it. One of the crucial themes was masculinity, but another crucial theme was family, so the relationship between Skyler and Marie really should have been more important. The show flirted with this in early episodes but basically shoved their relationship (and most attempts at character development for Marie, for that matter) under a rug. The show frustratingly failed the Bechdel test more often than not. It didn't have to. Skyler couldn't act as a parallel to Walter on the theme of masculinity, but she could have acted much more strongly as a parallel or foil to him on the theme of family. (I'm curious about whether Anna Gunn would have gotten more or less hate mail in this alternate reality . . .)
You may still find yourself in a situation where men are ruling the roost and flunking the Bechdel test because of your story's themes. There are plenty of examples of this happening--The Godfather
and all those crime novels come to mind, although The Wire
doesn't thanks to Kima and her girlfriend. (And possibly Ronnie. Do Ronnie and Kima ever have a conversation that isn't about a man?) Unfortunately, I can't get into a lot of detail on these kinds of stories because I don't enjoy them very much. Men don't tend to read Jane Austen even though she's a great novelist, and if they do read her, they don't tend to enjoy her as much as women do. I wonder if I'm the only woman who secretly thinks The Godfather
is hella overrated because it's too darn butch for me. If you're writing something aggressively masculine, you risk alienating half your potential audience. That's fine--everyone knows you shouldn't write something with the sales figures in mind--but please know it going in, because I'm tired of the conventional wisdom that everyone enjoys boy stories.
Ahem. Anyway. As I was saying, if you're absolutely in a situation where the men are ruling the roost because of your story's themes, though, your best bet is to go out of your way to make sure your women are interesting characters with agency.
Of course, you should make sure that all of your characters are interesting--no one sits down at their desk delighted at the thought of writing a really boring character today--but if you have an engaging female character from the start, you'll gain a lot of trust and traction with your women readers. The Wire
gets a lot of flak for its female characters, but to my mind it does this right; I may not typically enjoy macho stories, but I'm one of those annoying Baltimoreans who will talk your ear off about The Wire.
Kima's an obvious reason why--I don't know if I would have had as much initial buy-in with the show if Kima hadn't been such a fantastic character, with a personal life and strengths and flaws just like all the men--but even minor characters who really do exist solely as foils for the men tend to pull this off beautifully. Our Barksdale gang Mother of the Year winners Brianna Barksdale and De'Londa Brice mainly exist to show some of the poisonous ways that family affects gang life, but you can understand how each one sees herself as the heroine of her own story--and Brianna in particular is as nuanced and interesting as any of the male criminals. Perhaps best of all, when a first season episode gives us a fairly typical scene of how disposable women are in gang life--a stripper, Keesha, overdoses at a party and her body is thrown in the Dumpster--it goes in a completely different direction than these scenes usually do. Rather than being used as a cheap shock moment, or something that kicks off a man's soul-searching journey of self-discovery, it leads to another woman's
soul-searching journey of self-discovery as gang girlfriend Shardene realizes that Keesha's fate could have been her own. She ends up taking actions that critically change the course of the first season because, like Brianna and De'Londa, Shardene is the heroine of her own story.
So is everyone, including your female characters. Even if your story is a necessary Bechdel fail, the best way to keep it from being sexist is to treat them that way. Your sole female character may only be onscreen for twenty pages of a three hundred page novel, but if you know exactly who she is, why she's there, and what she thinks about the events going on around her, you'll be
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go rewatch The Wire.
Recently, I read a post by a certain cantankerous conservative writer who had discovered the Bechdel test
for the first time. I don't know if he genuinely misunderstood the purpose of the Bechdel test or was just drumming up outrage, but his basic reaction was what you'd expect: "The SJWs want to stop you from reading Melville and Shakespeare because they don't pass a feminist purity test!"
Yes, that's ridiculous. We know that isn't what the Bechdel test is about. The trouble is that sometimes, it's hard to grok what the Bechdel test is
about, at least in a way that makes it useful for writers. As others have pointed out, the test is more useful to analyze patterns of female presence in media than to assess whether a specific piece is feminist or sexist (this essay
does a nice job of laying out that argument). This is handy for critics, but as writers, we are
trying to figure out whether specific works are feminist or sexist--specifically our own. As someone who's actively trying to build more diversity into her work, I can understand why even well-meaning male writers sometimes scratch their heads over whether it's OK for their works to fail the Bechdel test, since Gravity
and Saving Private Ryan
do it and are fine (yes, some people complain about Saving Private Ryan,
but they're trolls). While 90% of Bechdel fails are straight-up lazy (why was the galaxy far, far away swimming in testosterone until this past December, and why do Skyler and Marie have so little to talk about other than their husbands?), some are fine or even downright necessary. Which ones?
For my money, acceptable Bechdel fails fall into two major categories:
- False negatives--works that technically fail the Bechdel test, but whose awesome female characters have very, very good reasons for not talking to each other (or whose single awesome female character has a good reason for not talking to other women). Gravity is probably the most frequently cited example here, but my personal favorite is "The Yellow Wallpaper." When an influential feminist work is a Bechdel fail, you know that it was never meant as a one-size-fits-all litmus test.
- Stories that are male-dominated by necessity. Saving Private Ryan is a good example here; it would be pretty darn hard to sneak women into a movie about a platoon of men in World War II.
I'm going to talk about false negatives in a later post because I love that kind of hair-splitting insanity, but that's more of an intellectual game than a useful discussion. Here, I'm interested in talking about male-dominated stories. I can think of four kinds of male-dominated stories that make for perfectly acceptable Bechdel fails. One of them--stories in which masculinity and/or the marginalization of women are major themes--has so many caveats that it's going to be the subject of Part Two. I'm detailing the other three below. Each one has circumstances in which it becomes increasingly difficult to justify the failure, and each also connects directly to a similar but more woman-focused story that we don't see enough.Adaptations.
If you're riffing on source material that doesn't prominently feature women, your adaptation might not, either. A short story riffing on Hamlet
from Claudius' point of view is probably going to treat Gertrude and Ophelia as separately as the actual play does.But . . .
the more you depart from the source material, the less justifiable this becomes. A straightforward riff on Hamlet
is one thing; Hamlet IIIIIIIIN SPAAAAAAAACE!
is another. If you're dramatically changing the setting, plot, or theme of the work you're adapting, you can probably stand to gender-flip a few characters. The same is true of adding subplots. 1 and 2 Samuel don't pass the Bechdel Test, but both Kings
and Of Kings and Prophets
do because the writers added subplots for the women as well as the men. If the work has both male and female characters and you're only interested in fleshing out the men, ask yourself why.My wish list . . .
Really, the "but" paragraph covers this one. I'd love to see more adaptations of the classics that engage the women, particularly if it's an adaptation written by someone who actually has a decent grasp of both the source material and the way women talk to each other. It would also be terrific to see more interesting gender flips. If no one ever gender-flipped characters in adaptations, we wouldn't have Kara Thrace. I don't want to live in that world.Stories with setting limitations.
I mentioned Saving Private Ryan
above. Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption
is another good example. Sometimes your story is set in a time and place that only features men.But . . .
this only goes as far as the historical accuracy of your story. A realistic story about a group of World War II soldiers trying to find another and bring him home? That's a completely justifiable Bechdel fail. A story where the soldiers are fighting clockwork Nazis? Less so. When the only historical fact you're setting in stone is the race and gender of the people who are likely to be involved, you're on shaky ground. My wish list . . .
The obvious answer here is more stories about women's equivalents to these male settings (wouldn't it be great to have an Orange is the New Black
set in a women's prison for every Shawshank Redemption
set in a men's prison?). What I'd love even more, though, would be more stories about what the women were doing while the men were off at war during these historical periods. Why have we not had a series about the women getting their Rosie the Riveter on during World War II? Why is it that I can't think of a single movie about what the women were doing during World War II except A League of Their Own?
For that matter, what about all the women during the Middle Ages who had to handle their households during the Crusades? The idea of a woman as the head of the home had real teeth eight hundred years ago.Stories with a small cast or narrow character focus.
Short stories are a good example here. If you're writing a very short story about two brothers, you might not have any other characters at all. Similarly, some novellas, TV episodes, or short movies barely have a single conversation that doesn't involve the protagonist; if the protagonist is a man, it's going to be a Bechdel fail.But . . .
if there are only a few characters, can any of them be women? There are some ways that the relationship between brothers is different from the relationship between sisters or a brother and sister. If your story focuses heavily on those things, it's going to be about brothers and fail the Bechdel test, and that's OK. If it doesn't, consider gender-flipping a brother.My wish list . . .
Again, this is pretty well covered under "but." It would be terrific if the default for small-focus stories wasn't "a couple of men" or "a few men and maybe one woman." The Shining
is one of my favorite books, and it certainly has a small cast, but there's no reason Dick Hallorann couldn't have been a woman. There's not a specific reason for him to be a woman, but then, there's not a specific reason for him to be a man, either, so why not gender-flip him? When in doubt, why default to men?
And that's what the Bechdel test is all about, Charlie Brown.
"Write every day" is one of the most common pieces of writing advice out there, and for good reason. I'm doing the first pass of revisions on my novel right now, and I can reeeeeeeally tell that I wrote my current chapter after taking a hiatus. When I go too long without working on a project, I lose touch with my characters' voices. They talk like bad fanfic versions of themselves, and the narrative voice loses its sparkle and personality. I'm sure that I'm not alone in this.
The trouble is that for a lot of us, "write every day" feels more like a cruel joke than a serious piece of advice. In every week, I have exactly two hours and fifteen minutes without a child under six in the house, and part of that is taken up by little things like personal grooming and making sure the electric bill is paid. Before the kids were born, I was a teacher, and it was hard to find writing time when I was grading essays and midterms. When I couldn't write every day, I'd get into a funk--because writing every day is what real writers do, and if I don't, I'm not a real writer, right?--and eventually, I'd end up not writing at all.
If you're in the same boat, it's OK. Even if you don't write every day, you can find a writing schedule that works for you. I've gone from writing a short story or two every year to hammering out a rough draft of a novel in a year, and it wasn't because I suddenly got more free time; it's because I figured out how to write regularly without writing every day. This is what worked for me; if it works for you, go for it.*Set a weekly quota, not a daily one. I'm familiar enough with my writing process to know that if I set a really high bar and fail to meet it, I'll give up, so my initial weekly writing quota was one page per week. (Laugh all you want, but it was better than I was doing at the time.) When I got comfortable with that, I gradually upped it. I've worked myself up to a weekly quota of six pages--about the same as a page a day with one day off per week, which was what I was trying to do in my "write every day" period. The difference is that this time, I'm actually doing it.
Conversely, you might find that a high bar encourages you to jump that high; in that case, setting up a page-a-week quota is just giving yourself permission to slack off. In that case, great! Aim higher.*Schedule writing time every week. Seriously. Look over your schedule, find a time that you're generally free, and set that time aside for writing. It can be just a little at first; the important thing is to make it a habit. I meet a friend after church every Sunday to write. It felt like going out of my way at first, but now it's such a regular part of my schedule that it's weirder when I don't write.*Have some way of holding yourself accountable. Like I said, I meet with a friend who's also a writer. It helps; if I skive off writing one week, I'm standing her up, so I only cancel when it's important. On Writing Excuses, Mary Robinette Kowal has mentioned having writer dates over Skype, which could be helpful if you have a writer friend who doesn't live nearby. You could also try emailing a friend after your bloc of writing time to let her know how much you wrote that day, or using a productivity app (I love Habitica for this) that rewards or pings you depending on whether or not you write. If you have the willpower for it, you could even say that you aren't going to watch your favorite show or buy that new board game until you write a certain number of pages; I have never managed to make that work for me, but my husband has a huge pile of board games that he's gotten as rewards for completing various tasks, so to each their own.
*Remember that writing a sentence a day is still writing every day. It sounds stupid, but it's true. If you write a sentence, you've written. You're keeping the story fresh in your head, and putting yourself in touch with your narrative voice. When I sit down for my Sunday writing session, I have a much easier time sliding back into the story when I've written as little as a paragraph or two in the preceding week. What's more, if you write a sentence, you may find yourself writing another, and another, and another . . . or you may just have time for that one sentence before you get back to the daily grind. But it's a sentence you didn't have yesterday.
Of course, this isn't the only way to get yourself writing more, but it worked like a charm for me. I'd love to hear about other people's stories. How did you get yourself to write more often even when you were swamped?
With the new season of Game of Thrones upon us, I thought I'd dust off the drinking game I made the last time I reread the books. Spoiler-free.
Take a drink every time . . .
. . . a new character is named.
. . . a named character dies.
--If it's the significant other of a viewpoint character, drink twice.
--If they come back from the dead, as a wight or otherwise, drink twice.
--If it's a viewpoint character, finish the bottle. (Prologue viewpoint characters don't count. That's just a given.)
. . . a new incestuous couple is mentioned.
. . . there's a sex scene.
--If it involves Dany or Cersei, drink twice.
--If the phrase "she was sopping wet down there" appears, drink twice.
--If it gives you a hint as to one of GRRM's fetishes (like lesbianism or lactation) drink twice.
. . . a nipple is pinched, tweaked or twisted.
--If it actually happens in a sex scene, drink twice.
. . . a course in a feast is lovingly described.
--If the course is lemon cakes, ribs in a crust of garlic and herbs, mashed turnips with butter, cheese and olives, lamprey pie or a Dornish red, drink twice.
. . . one of the following phrases is uttered:
--"Abominations born of incest."
--"It is known."
--"You know nothing, Jon Snow."
--"Winter is coming."
--"I want to see/make him/the bad man fly."
--"The night is dark and full of terrors."
--"Sweet sister"/"Sweet brother."
. . . Arya picks up a new pseudonym.
. . . we're reminded that a long summer means a long winter.
. . . Cersei incorrectly thinks of something as exactly what her father would do.
. . . the direwolves howl. And howl. And howl some more.
. . . ravens deliver information at the speed of Twitter.
. . . you want to punch Bran, Catelyn or Arianne in the face.
Did I miss anything?
My SFWA membership for "And To the Republic" went through, which means that I'm now officially an associate member. Very exciting! There's nothing quite like seeing my name on the same page of the directory as Mary Robinette Kowal's and Mercedes Lackey's, even if it's only an accident of alphabetization.