One species of fury.

This isn’t meant to be a polished post. This is meant to record one of the many threads of fury and grief I feel in the wake of this election. It’s all I know how to do.

This election result tells me: “It doesn’t matter how brilliant you are. It doesn’t matter how hard you work. It doesn’t matter how smartly you play every move. You, as a woman, are not to be trusted.”

When submitting my novel trilogy this past summer, the reply we got from publishers over and over was, “This is brilliant, but we can’t commit until we see the whole thing.”

How many men in my position have heard only the first part of that sentence, and not the second?

I’m told, “Oh, it’s because Patrick Rothfuss and George R. R. Martin are taking such a long time with their books. Publishers are afraid to commit.”

Didn’t Suzanne Collins deliver all three books on time? Didn’t J.K. Rowling deliver seven? 

We’re told, “There’s just something I can’t quite trust or like or know or believe about Hillary, though I can’t exactly say what it is.”

She was the most brilliant and qualified candidate for President in our nation’s history.

This is one message of this election, among many: that because I’m a woman, I will never be judged better than even the worst man.

So why even try.