Beauty and a Great Many Beasts

Various people hold a great many different ideals of female beauty. That in itself does not bother me; quite the contrary. What I find irritating is the fact that so many people seem to tout their ideal as the right one--not just visually, but morally.

Health nuts who are not open to the possibility of seeing cuteness in a plump girl and would claim that she was doing herself a disservice by not exercising more--oh, and how unhappy she must be! Fat grrl activists who would look at someone my size and want to cram five hamburgers down her throat because she's clearly starving herself for the benefit of chauvinist pigs.

(I'd balance that out with something from the pro-skinny crowd, but I can't imagine what they're trying to sell, morally speaking. "Gluttony is evil", perhaps?)

It's all the same bullshit, regardless of who it's being thrown by, and the stench is the same: I want you to change and conform to my ideals, because there is something wrong with you. The fact is that human beings are not all created equal, body types are different, and not everyone has to overcome the same problems when staring down at a scale.

Predictably enough, bile directed at scrawny folk is the sort that aggravates me the most, and it has very little to do with having my size derided. It's invariably tinged with condescension, or at best, misplaced concern--and it's rude on a completely different level. Asking a thin woman if she has an eating disorder is about as polite as asking an overweight one if she has a gland problem, and there is often the added implication that she is that size because she's desperately trying to fit a societal ideal. I realise that most of these people mean well, but have they considered the possibility that it is none of their business?

Not everyone is making an effort to be the size and shape that they happen to be. Yes, that thought may well be salt in the wound to someone who is, but having struggled with your own weight does not give you carte blanche to tell someone else what to do with her body.

I have a trio of Terry Brooks novels sitting on my dresser. They shoot me hopeful looks on occasion.

They are (thankfully) not mine, but were loaned to me quite some time ago by my ex, who loved them and thought that I would as well. I am uncertain where he came by this idea, and hope that he has since found a new supplier.

I made it through Jarka Ruus a while back--or rather, I think I did. I honestly can't remember if I bothered to finish the book, or how it ended. Only three things remain in my mind: A very predictable and clichéd death, a single good mental image, and one of the most laughable romantic subplots that I have ever read.

I have a dream that someday, more fantasy writers will realize that A) romance is not a strictly necessary addition, and B) that it takes a lot more than just putting two cardboard cutouts characters next to each other and adding tru wuv sparkle effects. I'm looking at you too, McKiernan. And for the love of my stomach, could we please stop with all the predestined love bullshit?

The evolution of relationships--romantic or otherwise--is where so many fantasy writers seem to fall flat on their faces. Either it doesn't happen, or it happens all at once. Salvatore is by no means the best fantasy writer I've ever read, but what kept me coming back and gobbling up his novels was the fact that he writes a dizzying number of memorable characters and lets them evolve and interact in ways that hold my attention. It's just entertaining stuff to read.

It's not that I dislike romantic subplots in fantasy. They're just one of those things that I'd rather see done well or not at all. The lead-ups deserve to be woven into the story, not summed up into what may as well be footnotes.

And over the course of the tale, Chala's patience with the author waned until she gave in and tossed the sodding book across the room.