In video games, whenever I’m given the option of fighting with ranged or melee weapons, I go melee. Even in RPG and tactical combat settings, where the interface means my choice of weapon has little to no impact on the controls, I still skew strongly towards swords and knives over bows and guns, because some bizarre, lizardy part of my brain feels more vulnerable if my avatar isn’t armed for close combat. In games that let me control my character’s actions directly, my combat style is blunt and unsubtle: even if I don’t really have the stats for it, my default approach is to be a tank, running right into the thick of things and hitting stuff until it dies. Even back when I was a regular Halo player (multiplayer against friends, never campaign), the sword was always my weapon of choice, followed closely by the shotgun and plasma grenades: in an environment where guns were the default, I still gravitated towards close-range weapons, because they felt, inexplicably, both safer and more satisfying.

Inevitably in the kinds of games I play, there are particular enemies, bosses and training fields where you’re strongly encouraged to tailor your combat approach to deal with specific threats, or else suffer punitive damage. Rationally, I know this, and yet I hate doing it. It irks me to have to switch to ranged weapons because a particular creature is immune to ground attacks, or to switch in my mage as party leader because using anything other than fire magic against a certain boss will see me stalled midgame until I defeat them. Partly, this reluctance is due to stubbornness on my part – I’m an innately contrary person, and always have been – but mostly, I suspect, it’s because hacking my way through problems without having to overthink or plan my approach is something I find soothing about gameplay. In other contexts, I’m constantly having to try and adapt my metaphorical plan of attack to deal with obstacles and the actions of others, but in gamespace, I can simply repeatedly hit the thing and, even if there’s a more stat-appropriate way to minmax my way to victory, I’m still going to end up the Hero of Ferelden. I can be reckless in games, single-minded, and if that gets my avatar killed a few times, so what? They’ll always be resurrected.

But still, in games, there’s that moment where I enter a new area, or start a new fight, and realise that I’m overmatched. Maybe I haven’t levelled my party enough, or maybe it’s just that these new enemies require a specific approach, but either way, if I try to plough ahead in my usual fashion, I’m probably going to die a lot. Which leaves me with a choice: do I suffer a diminished enjoyment of gameplay by temporarily changing my tactics, or do I bash on, save repeatedly, and treat the whole thing as a training run?

Nine times out of ten, I’ll choose the latter approach. Ultimately, I’m gaming for pleasure, and that being so, I’d rather enjoy the challenge of a difficult level played on my terms than feel bored and disconnected by taking an approach which, while easier, doesn’t engage me.

Kind of like how I deal with writing.

I am, as mentioned, a stubborn, contrary person. Like many creative people, my inspiration is something of a Billygoat Gruff/Rum Tum Tugger: hypothetical projects always look more tempting than the ones to which I’ve committed myself, and no sooner have I started a thing than I want to start something else. It is, frankly, a fucking miracle that I ever finish anything at all. But I do it. I do it, because I approach my writing projects with the same blunt melee frenzy as I do my battles in Knights of the Old Republic: I run at them headlong, heedless of strength and context, until I either emerge victorious or die in the attempt. But in real life, resurrection is a trickier process than merely loading from the last save point. I have to stop and recuperate; I have to change my tactics, which means anything from giving myself a series of mental health days to forcibly setting aside the thing I most want to work on in favour of completing the one that’s due. But once I’m back to strength – even if I’m taking punitive damage; even if it means dying again more quickly than I might otherwise – inevitably, I do it all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat. It’s how I work, and I’ve made my peace with that.

If my life right now was a video game, I’d be stuck in a monster-infested plateaux with minimal save points, enemies requiring the use of ranged weapons, and an under-levelled party. I owe multiple Patreon TV Roulette reviews accrued from the past two months, along with a still-incomplete novella and edits on my manuscript, to say nothing of needing to work on the sequel. I’m midway through writing an Ambush Novel I desperately want to finish, and am stalled in my updating of multiple fanfics which, while created purely for my own pleasure, are nonetheless an important sanity-check. I have five or six books waiting to be read for review, something like forty books to preferentially read for pleasure, and so many blog posts to read in my capacity, along with Mark Oshiro, as editor of the Speculative Fiction anthology 2015 (which you should totally submit to here, btw!). I’ve just taken on an extra morning’s work at my dayjob, which brings me up to four days a week – two full days, one morning and one half-day – which means I now have no days at home without my toddler, as all his childcare time falls when I’m at work. I have visa crap to deal with, which is both expensive and stressful. I have Seasonal Affective Disorder to deal with, as I live in Scotland and the Months of Endless Dark are upon us. I have so much to do, and not enough time to do it in, and not enough strength to do it with.

And yet, I’ll get it done. I’ll push through, bashing and yelling and swinging my sword, because it’s what I do, and what I’ve always done. I might have to die a couple more times in the process – am currently resurrecting myself right now, as it happens – but damned if I’ll stop fighting.

Choose your weapons, world. I’ve chosen mine.

11/11/15 – ETA the following awesome graphic, which the excellent Samantha Swords made for me. Hail!

Warrior Within Sword Fire Image cropped 3

First up, some housekeeping: owing to having been viciously attacked by an Ambush Novel late last month, I’m currently behind on my Patreon blogging – I still owe a reward poem, my September review of Ultraviolet, plus the October instalments for both Ultraviolet and Claymore. My sincerest apologies! I’m hoping to get up to date sooner rather than later, but I hope you’ll all bear with me in either case. Because:

I’m going to Fantasycon! 

I leave for Nottingham on Thursday. I’m staying at the con hotel, which is a first for me, and I’m super excited about the whole thing. For those who might be interested, here’s my schedule:

Friday 23 October

Panel: Doing ‘It’ Right: Love, Romance & Sexy Times

Time/Venue: 8.00pm, Conference Theatre

Description: Why are we often so reticent about love in genre fiction? Conversely sex seems to be everywhere, often done badly. How do we show love in a better light and balance plot tension with sexual tension? Warning: adult references (& childish innuendo)

  • the perfect sex scene: making up making out/making love
  • a matter of taste: where are the ‘no-go’ areas?
  • is love undervalued as a character motivation?
  • how can our characters express their feelings without mawkishness?
  • diversity and sexuality in genre fiction: what works and what doesn’t?
  • are ‘romance’ and ‘conflict’ mutually exclusive terms?
  • finding the right words: choosing appropriate vernacular

Moderator: Den Patrick
Panellists: Hal Duncan, Cassandra Khaw, Kim Lakin-Smith, Foz Meadows

Saturday 24 October

Reading: Me reading a thing Wot I Has Written

Time/Venue: 9.00pm, Reading Room

Description: I’ll either be reading an unpublished short story, or – more likely – an excerpt from my forthcoming novel, An Accident of Stars. Come along and find out!

Sunday 25 October

Panel: The Future of the Future

Time/Venue: 11.00am, Suite 1

Description: With technology regularly surpassing the boundaries of what seemed impossible only years earlier, it gets harder for writers to imagine futures by extrapolating from today’s world. This panel considers how we depict the world(s) yet to be.

  • key considerations for world-building ‘tomorrow’
  • does the future need to be plausible?
  • must it be apocalyptic to be interesting?
  • exploring the morality of science & technology
  • how far can you go into the future before science fiction becomes fantasy?

Can genre fiction still ‘boldly go’ into the unknown?

Moderator: Foz Meadows
Panellists: Alex Lamb, Libby McGugan, Adam Millard, Ian Sales, Tom Toner

I intend to spend the rest of the con socialising, lurking and generally having a good time – if you see me, come say hi!

Continuing with my Dean-oriented Supernatural rewatch, the next five episodes in S1 – ‘Bugs’ (E8), ‘Home’ (E9), ‘Asylum’ (E10), ‘Scarecrow’ (E11) and ‘Faith’ (E12) – play an important role in establishing the Winchester family dynamic. Up until this point, we’ve mainly dealt with Sam and Dean operating on their own, the wider arc of their father’s disappearance and their mother’s death taking a back seat to Monster of the Week hunts, the better to introduce us to the premise of the show. Now, though, we start to get a better sense of Sam and Dean as siblings with a complicated history, not just in terms of how they relate to each other, but regarding their very different relationships with John.

In ‘Bugs’, when Sam openly identifies with a teenager, Matt, who doesn’t get along with his father, it results in the following exchange with Dean:

DEAN: Dad never treated us like that.

SAM: Well, Dad never treated you like that. You were perfect. He was all over my case. You don’t remember?

DEAN: Well, maybe he had to raise his voice, but sometimes, you were out of line.

They continue to bicker intermittently about their childhood throughout the episode, until – in the closing scene – they circle back to the topic of John, but from a different angle:

SAM: I wanna find Dad.

DEAN: Yeah, me too.

SAM: Yeah, but I just… I want to apologize to him.

DEAN: For what?

SAM: All the things I said to him. He was just doin’ the best he could.

DEAN: Well, don’t worry, we’ll find him. And then you’ll apologize. And then within five minutes, you guys will be at each other’s throats.

SAM: Yeah, probably.

Later, in ‘Asylum’, Sam angrily questions why they always have to “follow dad’s orders” – a disagreement that reappears at the finale, when Sam, controlled by a malevolent spirit, attacks Dean:

SAM: I am normal. I’m just telling the truth for the first time. I mean, why are we even here? ’Cause you’re following Dad’s orders like a good little solider? Because you always do what he says without question? Are you that desperate for his approval?

DEAN: This isn’t you talking, Sam.

SAM: That’s the difference between you and me. I have a mind of my own. I’m not pathetic, like you.

By the end of the episode, it’s clear that the tension between them has escalated rather than resolved, and in ‘Scarecrow’, the two are divided enough to go their separate ways, albeit temporarily. Prior to this, Sam states that he doesn’t understand the “blind faith” Dean has in their father, and Dean replies that “it’s called being a good son” – a comeback that accepts, rather than disputes, the accusation of blind faith. When they finally reconcile, it’s because Dean apologises:

DEAN: Sam. You were right. You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life.

SAM: Are you serious?

DEAN: You’ve always known what you want. And you go after it. You stand up to Dad. And you always have. Hell, I wish I—anyway….I admire that about you. I’m proud of you, Sammy.


What further contextualises these conversations – and what makes them even more fascinating – are the events of ‘Home’ and ‘Faith’. In ‘Home’, which sees the Winchesters return to their childhood house in Kansas, Dean phones John in secret, crying as he begs his help; but though it’s ultimately revealed that John has been in town the whole time, he never replies or shows himself to his children. This absence is subsequently mirrored in ‘Faith’, when Dean is dying and Sam, again in private, phones their father – but whereas Dean’s call was a request for aid, Sam attempts to reassure John that he doesn’t need any. Again, John neither replies nor appears, and given the line about “blind faith” in the previous episode, it doesn’t seem irrelevant that this episode is not only titled ‘Faith’, but explicitly concerns Dean’s lack of it, religiously speaking. In fact, there’s an argument to be made that their conversation about John in ‘Scarecrow’ throws Dean’s denial of God in ‘Faith’ into an even starker light:

DEAN: You know what I’ve got faith in? Reality. Knowing what’s really going on.

SAM: How can you be a skeptic? With the things we see everyday?

DEAN: Exactly. We see them, we know there real.

SAM: But if you know evil’s out there, how can you not believe good’s out there, too?

DEAN: Because I’ve seen what evil does to good people.

Dean has faith in reality, and in evil as a truth of reality, but he doesn’t have faith in good. But he does have faith in John Winchester – not because his father is good, but because his father is real, which (under this system) doesn’t preclude him being evil, too. Given this fact and the subsequent revelations of Sam’s demon blood, it’s doubly significant that, in ‘Home’, we’re given the first concrete evidence that, of the brothers, Sam is more similar to John: in rescuing two children from their childhood house, Sam’s instruction to the little girl, Sari, to “take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don’t look back” is, word for word, the same thing John once said to Dean.

In ‘Skin’, the shapeshifter used his access to Dean’s memories to express Dean’s fear that “sooner or later, everybody’s gonna leave me”, stating that both John and Sam have already done exactly that. It’s a fear that harks back to the pilot episode, when Dean explains why he’s come to get Sam in the first place:

DEAN: I can’t do this alone.

SAM: Yes you can.

DEAN: Yeah, well, I don’t want to.

Dean Winchester is afraid, not just of being alone in general, but of being abandoned by his family in particular. He feels that his father and brother are stronger than him, capable of leaving both Dean and each other to live independent lives in a way that he isn’t; he admires Sam’s ability to go off on his own, but not enough to deviate from his own loyalty to their father. Sam and John fight as they do precisely because they’re so similar; yet even then, it’s notable that neither Dean’s obedient faith nor Sam’s capable autonomy is sufficient to call John back to them in their respective moments of distress.

In addition to cementing the Winchester dynamic, these episodes also help to establish a fundamental aspect of Dean’s personality: the ongoing conflict between his more feminine interests and his desire to present as stereotypically masculine. In addition to the more overt jokes and statements made in support of Dean’s broader characterisation, this is also the point at which the narrative begins to subtly feminise him; or at least, to deliberately compare and contrast him with female characters, such as by paralleling his role with Sari’s in ‘Home’. ‘Bugs’ in particular is a great example of this. Early in the episode, Dean mentions having heard about mad cow disease on Oprah, to which Sam, astonished, replies, “You watch Oprah?”. In keeping with his established reluctance to appear feminine in front of his brother, Dean is visibly flustered, and after several awkward seconds, he changes the subject rather than addressing it. This is an overt instance of Dean’s hypermasculine front being challenged; more subtle, however, is the way in which the story compares him to the real estate agent, Lynda. When the Winchesters first arrive at the housing estate, Lynda gives her pitch to Sam, saying, “Who can say ‘no’ to a steam shower? I use mine everyday.” Sam is visibly disinterested, but when the brothers borrow an empty house for the night, Dean not only expresses his enthusiasm to “try the steam shower”, but is seen happily emerging from it the next morning, a towel wrapped around his head.

To be clear: there’s nothing inherently feminine about liking good showers or wrapping a towel around your head. But in the context of ‘Bugs’, Lynda’s praise and Sam’s disinterest in the steam shower situate it as a feminine thing, while visually, the fact that Dean is shown wearing an elaborate towel-wrap – even though his short hair makes such a style both difficult and redundant – is meant to hammer home the comparison. It’s something the audience is meant to notice, even if the brothers don’t, and contributes to the complexity of Dean’s character.

‘Bugs’ also marks the first time – but by no means the last time – that the Winchesters are mistaken for a gay couple. When Larry initially makes the error, a horrified Dean is quick to correct him; but when, minutes later, Lynda makes the same mistake, Dean has a brief moment of awkwardness, then plays along with it, calling Sam “honey” before smacking him on the ass and walking off. The fact that he leaves is crucial to understanding his reaction: as per volunteering Sam to paint the fratboy Murph in ‘Hook Man’, Dean doesn’t correct Lynda because playing along enables him to embarrass his brother; yet at the same time, he still takes steps to absent himself, leaving Sam to cope with the awkward aftermath of his actions alone.

From this point of the show onwards, Dean starts to make more jokes about Sam being feminine or girly, expanding his habit of projecting his own insecurities onto his brother. In ‘Asylum’, he pokes fun at Sam’s strange dreams by asking “Who do you think is the hotter psychic – Patricia Arquette, Jennifer Love Hewitt or you?” – a reference which, while ostensibly insulting Sam by feminising him, also demonstrates that Dean is familiar with the shows Medium and Ghost Whisperer, neither of which is exactly stereotypically masculine fare. (Which is, perhaps, why he follows this up with two references to The Shining in quick succession.) Similarly, Dean responds to Sam’s heartfelt words at the end of ‘Scarecrow’ by deadpanning, “Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful,” making the both of them laugh. Yet at the same time, Dean’s habit of affirming his interest in women to Sam is still alive and well, as per his insistence in ‘Faith’ that “I’m not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.”

Interestingly, and also in ‘Faith’, we see the first recurrence of Dean’s flirtatious braggadocio since his interaction with Jess in the pilot. When Layla overhears Dean express his lack of faith to Sam, she suggests that “Maybe God works in mysterious ways” – at which point, Dean’s response is to visibly check her out, smiling as he replies with, “Maybe he does. I think you just turned me around on the subject.” They chat briefly, and once she’s gone, he remarks to Sam that “Well, I bet you she can work in some mysterious ways.” What’s significant here – and especially when writing with the benefit of hindsight – is the fact that Dean is dying; and unlike Sam, he doesn’t believe he’s about to get better. It’s a gallows flirtation: Dean is resigned to death, and so sees no point in restraining himself, an attitude that crops up again in Season 3, when Dean refuses to try and change his crossroads deal despite Sam’s determination to save him. But once Dean is healed – once he knows he’s going to live, and that Layla is going to die – his subsequent interactions with her never replicate this initial swagger. Instead, as with Haley in ‘Wendigo’ and Andrea in ‘Dead in the Water’, he connects with her, offering to pray for her at the end of the episode, making their exchanges bittersweet rather than sexual.

That being so, there’s really only a flash of Bi!Dean throughout these episodes; specifically, in ‘Scarecrow’. After Sam’s departure, Dean attempts to track down the missing couple, which endeavour sees him stymied by Scotty, an unhelpful mechanic. Throughout their exchange, Dean tries to be polite despite Scotty’s refusal to talk. Yet there’s also an interesting undercurrent to the conversation: having recognised Dean’s false alias, John Bonham, as a member of Led Zeppelin – “Classic rock fan!” Dean says, approvingly – Scotty finally tells him, with a very small smile, “We don’t get many strangers around here.” Dean’s response is to grin and duck his head, nodding – and then to say, “Scotty, you’ve got a smile that lights up a room, anybody ever tell you that?”


And the thing is, it’s not really sarcasm; or at least, Dean’s smile as he says it is genuine. Seemingly, it’s a remark pitched to be taken one of two ways – as a friendly joke, or as a flirtation. Dean is, after all, trying to get information out of the man, and given that “We don’t get many strangers around here” is a variant on a common pick-up line (other permutations being “I’ve never seen you here before” and “You must be new in town,” both of which are evocative of “Do you come here often?” and “What’s a guy/girl like you doing in a place like this?”), it’s not unreasonable to think that he’s hedging his bets, looking for an inroads into Scotty’s good graces. (And of course, it doesn’t hurt that the guy likes Zeppelin.) But the gambit fails on both counts, and Dean is left hanging awkwardly, muttering, “Never mind. See you around,” before finally walking off.

It was fun to see these episodes again – this is my third watchthrough of the show, and it’s fascinating to see how much there is in Season 1 that’s pivotal later on, or which sets a pattern for subsequent seasons. These episodes in particular are full of firsts: ‘Asylum’ marks the first time the brothers turn on each other due to supernatural meddling, as well as the first time a Winchester ends up in therapy as cover for a hunt, highlighting the fact that it’s something they actually need. ‘Scarecrow’ is both the first time the brothers part ways due to an argument and the first time they kill a god, while ‘Faith’ involves the first of Dean’s many, many deaths. I’m keen to keep up my analysis – and to see what else I might have missed on previous viewings.

Following on from my recent thoughts on the Supernatural pilot episode, I’ve decided to do a rewatch of the show, focussing in particular on the question of Dean Winchester’s characterisation and sexuality. It’s no secret that I’m a staunch advocate of the Bi!Dean school of critical analysis, so I won’t pretend to be coming at this from a purely dispassionate angle; nonetheless, I think there’s enough textual evidence for the position to justify examining it in detail. That being so, I’m not going to talk exclusively about Dean’s sexuality, partly because you can’t usefully discuss that facet of the character in isolation from the rest of his personality, but mostly because – well. Supernatural is a big show with a lot of room for critique, and despite having a stated focus at the outset – and although this is far from being my first time at the SPN meta rodeo – there’s every chance I’ll want to discuss other elements of the show along the way.

With that established and the pilot already dealt with, let’s take a lot at the next few episodes of S1 – ‘Wendigo’ (E2), ‘Dead in the Water’ (E3), ‘Phantom Traveller’ (E4), ‘Bloody Mary’ (E5), ‘Skin’ (E6) and ‘Hook Man’ (E7) – and how they serve to establish Dean’s character.

It’s often asserted that early Dean in particular is unequivocally straight and stereotypically masculine, only developing past this from S2 onwards. But looking closely at the start of S1, a very different picture emerges: though Dean certainly strives to be seen a certain way, it doesn’t quite match up with who he really is. In ‘Wendigo’, when Dean and Sam first meet Haley Collins, the sister of the missing hiker, Dean waits until her back is turned to silently mouth his appreciation of her at Sam. Yet this same degree of sexual swagger is missing from his actual interactions with her: he flirts, but more reservedly, always aware of the context. When Dean is finally forced to admit to having joined the search party under false pretences, revealing that he and Sam are brothers looking for their father, he and Haley have this exchange:

HALEY: Why didn’t you just tell me that from the start?

DEAN: I’m telling you now. ‘sides, it’s probably the most honest I’ve ever been with a woman… ever.

It’s a matter-of-fact confession, not a flirtation, and as such, there’s something stripped bare about it. Just as saliently, however, Dean’s attraction to Haley, in contrast to the usual M.O. of womanising characters, is never just about her looks or her simple presence as an ostensibly available woman: his initial display of interest only happens after she shows her appreciation for his beloved Impala, and is further solidified by their shared status as protective older siblings caring for younger brothers in the absence of both parents. Dean connects with Haley, and at the end of the episode, her simple farewell kiss on the cheek leaves him visibly flustered – not the reaction you’d expect from someone who makes a habit of one-night stands:

S1E2 - Wendigo - Haley cheek kiss

This pattern immediately repeats itself in ‘Dead in the Water’, with Dean’s relationship with Andrea. Though he initially flirts with her at the police station, he does such a poor, clichéd job of it that she actively – and amusedly – calls him out, saying, “Must be hard, with your sense of direction, never being able to find your way to a decent pickup line.” Rather than seeing this as a challenge, Dean takes the rejection for what it is and never propositions her again, though he continues to treat her respectfully; instead, the emotional core of the episode centres on his connection to Andrea’s son, Lucas, and the revelation that Dean witnessed his own mother’s death as a child, a trauma that continues to influence him. At the end of the episode, Dean is just as flustered by Andrea’s parting kiss as he was with Haley’s. If Dean is a womanizer, he’s a peculiarly innocent one, blushing before turning away and changing the topic, to the clear amusement of everyone else:

S1E3 - Dead in the Water - Andrea kiss 1 S1E3 - Dead in the Water - Andrea kiss 2

By comparison, Sam – who’s still in mourning for Jess – shows no such awkwardness during or after his kiss with Lori in ‘Hook Man’. Though he quickly stops, apologising to her, Sam is still portrayed as competent and confident, and given who we’re ostensibly meant to see as the more sexual brother, while Dean doesn’t try for a deeper kiss with either Haley or Andrea, Sam definitely does with Lori:

S1E7 - Hook Man - Sam and Lori kiss

What this suggests to me, and writing partly with the benefit of hindsight, is that Dean touch-starved, flustered by simple affection in a way that Sam isn’t. Whereas Sam has had the benefit of a nearly two-year relationship with Jess, becoming used to casual contact, Dean – as we’ll later learn – has never experienced anything even remotely so longlived or domestic. As such, he talks a big game around his little brother, constantly trying to prove that he both likes and is experienced with women, but the second things move beyond the theoretical, he turns shy.

Though young, attractive women feature in both ‘Phantom Traveller’ and ‘Bloody Mary’, Dean has no romantic or sexual tension with any of them; the closest he comes is an awkward conversation with Amanda, the air hostess in ‘Phantom Traveller’, when he’s trying to see if she’s possessed. This absence of flirtation is important for two reasons: firstly, because it establishes that Dean doesn’t hit on every woman he meets; and secondly, because it highlights that there was something special about both Haley and Andrea. It also helps to retroactively contextualise his treatment of Jess in the pilot: on a first viewing, it’s easy to view his objectification of her as a reflex, womanising overture, but even four episodes later, it’s clear this isn’t so. Dean’s comments to Jess are partially meant to annoy Sam, but mostly, they’re meant to get her out of the room so he and his brother can talk in private: as we see from Dean’s response to Andrea’s rejection in ‘Dead in the Water’, he knows exactly what constitutes appropriate behaviour towards women who tell him no, and the fact that he chooses to be obnoxious with Jess has nothing to do with his libido and everything to do with the context.

In light of this dynamic, Dean’s interest in Becky in ‘Skin’ is fascinating, as we’re given two different perspectives on it: that of Dean himself, and that of his shapeshifted doppleganger. When Sam first mentions Becky, Dean immediately asks, “Is she hot?”, which question Sam rightly greets with a roll of his eyes. Then, later on, when Sam tries to get Becky out of the room so he and Dean can discuss the supernatural elements of the case, this exchange happens:

SAM: Maybe some sandwiches, too?

BECKY: What do you think this is, Hooters?

[She leaves the room]

DEAN, muttering: I wish.

On the surface, both these instances can be used to support the idea of Dean’s heterosexuality. Yet, as with the scene in ‘Wendigo’ where he silently telegraphs his appreciation of Haley to Sam, what we’re really seeing is how Dean performs masculinity for his brother’s benefit, and not how he behaves towards actual women. Dean’s actions throughout ‘Hook Man’ prove the same point: despite repeatedly reinforcing his interest in women in conversations with Sam – “Yeah, I think she’s hot, too” and “stay out of her underwear drawer,” about Lori; “You’ve been holding out on me!” and “Think we’ll see a naked pillow fight?” about sorority girls – he barely interacts with any women at all, rendering the sentiments little more than talk. The closest he comes is eyeing a couple of girls at a party (though he also gazes after a guy in the same scene); otherwise, the romantic arc is all about Sam and Lori. Similarly in ‘Skin’, though Dean enthusiastically introduces himself to Becky and says yes to her offer of a beer, that’s the extent of their flirtatious conversation; the rest of the time, they talk about the case. Thus: while Dean makes sure to let Sam know that he’s interested in women, this doesn’t really correlate with how frequently or aggressively he hits on women otherwise. Instead, it’s the shapeshifter who claims that Dean would “bang her [Becky] if he could”, and the shapeshifter who goes to the house and smooth-talks his way into Becky’s good graces, hitting on her with a persistence and confidence that Dean is yet to display.

By contrast, these episodes also offer two interesting moments that ping my Bi!Dean radar: his encounter with Roy in ‘Wendigo’, and his interaction with Murph the fratboy in ‘Hook Man’. In the first of these, Dean approaches Roy and baits him into the following conversation:

DEAN: Roy, you said you did a little hunting.

ROY: Yeah, more than a little.

DEAN: Uh-huh. What kind of furry critters do you hunt?

ROY: Mostly buck, sometimes bear.

DEAN: Tell me, uh, Bambi or Yogi ever hunt you back?

At this point, Roy physically grabs Dean by the shirt and gets in his face – and given that Dean’s being deliberately provocative, the logical assumption for both Dean and the viewer to make is that Roy is angry. Which is why Dean’s softly-drawled response – “Whatcha doing, Roy?” – ends up sounding provocative in a very different way: the line is delivered neither confrontationally, as you’d expect if Dean had been trying to goad Roy into a fight, nor in shock, apology or fear, as would make sense if Roy’s reaction had caught him off-guard. Even his expressions are at odds with the moment, both when Roy initially grabs him, when he looks like this:

S1E2 - Wendigo - Roy

and after he’s been let go – after it’s revealed that Dean was about to step in a bear-trap – where he stares at Roy like this:

S1E2 - Wendigo - staring after Roy

In combination, the whole exchange comes off as Dean brattishly flirting with Roy, then looking put out when he doesn’t get the desired response; or at least, I can’t find another explanation as to why he looks so happy about being grabbed. By contrast, when Murph in ‘Hook Man’ asks Dean to help apply his body paint, Dean’s first response is to fob the task off onto Sam, saying “He’s the artist. Things he can do with a brush,” to Sam’s clear mortification. Yet at the same time, the first thing Dean does on entering is to look Murph over, and despite his feigned disinterest, he’s clearly paying enough attention to point out – correctly – that Sam has “missed a spot” on Murph’s lower back:

S1E7 - Hook Man - fratboy

When put together with Dean’s interactions with the Jericho police in the pilot episode, these two moments suggest an interesting pattern to how Bi!Dean behaves around men. With the Sheriff, Deputy Jaffe and Roy, Dean is deliberately provocative, low-voiced and smirking; but with Murph, he suddenly turns awkward, pretending to read a magazine in order to hide the fact that he’s actually watching the whole thing. Why the change in approach? Because, unlike on the other three occasions, Sam is standing beside him. Though his brother is also present when Dean talks to Roy, he’s not in earshot, too far back to really witness their exchange. Just as Dean continually affirms his interest in women around Sam, behaving in a way that doesn’t actually reflect his interactions with them, so too does he change his approach to dealing with certain men, retreating into No Homo territory. (Watching with the benefit of hindsight, Dean joking in ‘Skin’ that “Sam wears women’s underwear” is a comparable instance of projection to Murph and the bodypaint: in both instances, Dean mocks his own private preferences by publicly asserting them as Sam’s.) The only potential outlier to this comes in ‘Bloody Mary’: when Sam first activates the night vision function on their video camera, Dean strikes a pose and asks, “Do I look like Paris Hilton?”, making this the second time he’s feminised himself, the first being his “My boobs” comment in the pilot episode. But even here, he’s got himself covered: the fact that he’s referencing straight pornography is, presumably, more salient than the fact that he’s comparing itself to the female star.

As for Dean’s other interests, even seven episodes into S1, it’s already clear there’s more to him than leather, cars and classic rock. In ‘Phantom Traveller’, we see evidence of his engineering abilities in the form of his homemade EMF meter, brandishing it with geeky delight when Sam asks why it looks “like a busted-up Walkman”:

S1E4 - EMF meter

Similarly, in ‘Skin’, Dean compares the shapeshifter’s ability to access his memories to ‘a Vulcan mind-meld’, while in ‘Hook Man’, he references Matlock – suggesting that his decision to call Sam a “geek” in the same episode is yet another case of projection.

On the basis of these episodes, then, it’s hard to see early Dean as anything like a womaniser. Though he certainly wants Sam to perceive him as a stereotypically masculine ladykiller, this isn’t born out in his actual interactions with women, while he becomes less provocative around men depending on whether or not his brother is watching. Even if you assume that Dean’s exchange with Jess in the pilot episode was meant to be representative of his usual behaviour – that he wasn’t trying to get rid of her; wasn’t trying to re-establish his masculinity for his brother’s benefit; wasn’t acting more confidently than usual in the knowledge that Jess was taken, and therefore extremely unlikely to reciprocate, making the whole thing more a power play than a flirtation – the next six episodes seemingly do their best to run as far and as fast in the opposite direction as possible. Unlike James Bond, who hits on all attractive women regardless of context and presses whatever advantage they give him, at this point in the narrative, Dean Winchester is selective, has a preference for women to whom he feels a connection, is mindful of the context, and is flustered by simple affection.

Early Dean, in other words, is a projecting, over-compensating, touch-starved dork. No wonder we all love him.

Generally speaking, I don’t make a point of giving a shit about Jonathan Franzen; there’s the unavoidable sense that it might encourage him. This is, after all, a man who casually contemplated adopting a war orphan in the hope said child might teach him about Teh Yoof, and as much as I yearn to inhabit the parallel universe where that only happened in the Woody Allen film about Franzen’s life (a universe, I might add, in which Allen himself is not a fucking paedophile), our own bizarre reality holds with smug tenacity to the dictum that truth, like so many other curious biological functions, is frequently stranger than fiction. I mean, for the love of god, you cannot make this shit up:

Franzen said he was in his late 40s at the time with a thriving career and a good relationship but he felt angry with the younger generation. “Oh, it was insane, the idea that Kathy [his partner] and I were going to adopt an Iraqi war orphan. The whole idea lasted maybe six weeks.”

He added: “One of the things that had put me in mind of adoption was a sense of alienation from the younger generation. They seemed politically not the way they should be as young people. I thought people were supposed to be idealistic and angry. And they seemed kind of cynical and not very angry. At least not in any way that was accessible to me.”

Instead, Henry Finder, his editor at the New Yorker, suggested he meet up with a group of new university graduates. “It cured me of my anger at young people,” Franzen said.

Jonathan Franzen, everyone: a real live David Williamson antagonist.

Naturally, then, when I stumbled on a review of Franzen’s latest novel – titled, rather unambiguously, Jonathan Franzen’s Purity Is an Irrelevant Piece of Shit – I filed it away in my mental Drawer of Schadenfreude for later edification and enjoyment. Having now consumed said hatchet job, however, what I’ve mainly taken away from it – apart from yet more reassurance, were it needed, that Franzen’s work isn’t for me – is a sense of overriding irritation at seeing genre fiction hung up, yet again, as a literary whipping boy. Specifically: Franzen’s work is so bad that the reviewer – listed only as CML – can’t seem to find anything else to compare it to.

In this way, Purity, whose author aspires to universality in a way only an author contemptuous and jealous of pulp can, is worse than lowbrow genre fiction. The prose from the early chapters is less polished than Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, and the sex is less sexy than Fifty Shades of Grey. Purity tries harder than these books, and fails more miserably…

Look: there’s a lot of intelligent criticism to be levied at the Harry Potter series, but calling Rowling’s prose unpolished does not, I would argue, fall into that category, and especially not when you’re implicitly likening the degree of failure to E. L. James’s total misapprehension of the words consent, abuse and erotica. It’s downright profane, lumping Rowling and James together under the maladapted, sneering label of lowbrow genre fiction; like saying that spray-on Easy Cheese is the same as good Brie. Genre labels aside, it’s also salient that Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (thank you very much) was originally written for children, and is therefore possessed of a plainer diction than either James or Franzen aspires to. Even so, it still contains easy, comic prose like this –

There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

– while Fifty Shades of Grey contains prose like this:

“‘Argh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity.

In point of fact, the only real similarity between James and Rowling is the fact that they’re both women who’ve made an absurd amount of money from their writing, which – really? Given the entire range of the literary canon to choose from, the two authors CML elects to backhandedly insult by saying, in effect, “they’re bad, but Franzen’s even worse” are arguably the two most successful female writers of recent times? James alone I can buy; however popular her books might be, no one has ever argued that it’s thanks to her riveting prose style. But paired with Rowling – paired with equal contempt with Rowling? Yeah, no: I’m gonna call sexist bullshit on that one. In this same vein, it’s worth mentioning that CML also links to John Dolan’s scathing 2010 denunciation of Franzen’s then-latest novel, The Corrections, referring to it as “a masterpiece” – which, largely, it is, except for the part where it features the single most unselfaware profession of blatant misogyny by someone attempting to decry misogyny that I’ve ever fucking witnessed:

It’s just not accurate — I mean the misogyny in this paragraph, its depiction of feminist academics as crazed hypocrites. I live with these people. Until last year I literally lived with an American Women’s Studies professor; so I’m entitled to say, in the words of Hunter S. Thompson’s attorney, “I know these people in my goddamn BLOOD!” They’re no prizes, God knows; they’re bitter and sullen and above all deeply confused; but I must say that Franzen’s venomous depiction of them gets it all wrong. As any academic knows, the real surprise about Women’s Studies professors is that very, very few of them resemble the firebreathing dyke stereotype. Most of them are wretchedly lonely women whose secret dream is a husband and kids.

See that, kids? That, right there, is a textbook example of what we in the feminism biz call a majestic display of assfuckery (that’s a technical term). I mean, really, for reals: that shit belongs in the same Bizzaro World Woody Allen film as Frazen’s adoption aspirations. Here’s a hint, men of the academic and literary spheres: if your big insider secret about Women’s Studies professors is actual goddamn surprise that they’re not all fucking stereotypes – you know, like the MISOGYNISTIC AS FUCK, OLD AS THE LITERAL SUFFRAGETTE MOVEMENT STEREOTYPE that feminists are really just “wretchedly lonely women whose secret dream is a husband and kids”then it’s entirely possible that you should shut your goddamn cakehole on the subject.

But I digress.

The point being, in slamming a book which is, by all accounts, Franzen’s laughably inept attempt to engage with feminism (among other things), it would be super helpful if the reviewer did not invoke the spectre of actual sexism as their literary ally by, for instance, consistently likening Franzen’s lack of skill to that possessed by women writers.

Which brings me to this little gem:

For Purity, like the rest of Franzen’s oeuvre, reads like a fanfic or rough draft from a creative writing student.

Nor is CML the only reviewer to negatively compare the sex in Purity to that of fanfic. According to Madeleine Davies:

But being dull—a perception that, admittedly, is totally subjective—isn’t the true crime of Franzen’s craft. It’s his stilted, erotic fan fiction-esque descriptions of sex, descriptions that imply that he doesn’t really understand how sex works or what feels good, particularly for women—as well as his continued deployment of sexual metaphors that should condemn him to life in Literary Sex Jail.

And look – okay. I get that, for most people in the literary world, fanfiction means Fifty Shades of Grey, which is unremittingly terrible in every possible respect, but it’s also a form of writing that’s overwhelmingly produced and consumed by women, so no, you don’t get to use it as a casual synonym for bad writing without that pinging my Dogwhistle Sexism senses. Fanfic is a body of work that seldom if ever sees its best works elevated to the status of literary ambassadors for the pure and simple reason that its adherents don’t get to choose what makes it to the mainstream; instead, the whole thing is treated as a lucky dip for proper writers to rummage around in, pointing and laughing at whatever they dredge up. I’ve written before, at length, about the inherent hypocrisy in how fanfiction is commonly defined and valued – which can be roughly summarised as: Public Domain Works Adapted By Famous Men = Great Literature, Copyrighted Works Adapted By Unknown Women = Trash Porn – and don’t intend to rehash the argument here. What I will do, however, for the edification of those who’ve never bothered to actually read any fanfic before dismissing it wholesale – and who, given the high probability of encountering gay sex therein, will likely never do so – is share a few quotes in support of the genre’s quality.

First, though, here’s a quote from Franzen’s Purity – something which, according to both CML and Davies, is bad enough to merit comparison with the dread fanfictions:

Your little body had once been deeper inside your mother than your father’s dick had ever gone, you’d squeezed your entire goddamned head through her pussy, and then for the longest time you’d sucked on her tits whenever you felt like it, and you couldn’t for the life of you remember it. You found yourself self-alienated from the get-go.

Oh god, MY EYES.

Look. Okay. So that’s appallingly terrible and makes me want to go bathe in industrial bleach, but in the interests of fairness, let’s also consider a Purity excerpt that has nothing to do with sex – a sort of prose-style baseline:

There’s the imperative to keep secrets, and the imperative to have them known. How do you know that you’re a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself. You guard them inside you, because, if you don’t, there’s no distinction between inside and outside. Secrets are the way you know you even have an inside. A radical exhibitionist is a person who has forfeited his identity. But identity in a vacuum is also meaningless. Sooner or later, the inside of you needs a witness. Otherwise you’re just a cow, a cat, a stone, a thing in the world, trapped in your thingness. To have an identity, you have to believe that other identities equally exist. You need closeness with other people. And how is closeness built? By sharing secrets. . . . Your identity exists at the intersection of these lines of trust.

Listen: I have years of routine exposure to academic philosophy under my belt at this point, and I’ve seen conference-level exposition on the nature of haecceity with more passion than that, and that was before the bar opened.

How, then, does fanfiction compare?

Let’s have a look at some of that supposedly atrocious sex I’ve been hearing about. Hell, I’ll even go the hetero option, just to aid the comparison:

Bellamy breathes out harshly and presses his face into her cheek for a second, a gesture so oddly sweet that she actually tears up a little. I’m so glad it’s him, she thinks, and grips his neck with one hand, scratching at his scalp and getting paint in his hair. I lied before, I’m so glad it’s him.

She doesn’t know how long it lasts, because she loses herself in it the second he starts to move again, holding her knee in one hand and her hair in the other. Her whole body feels like one long, giant current, and every spot he touches is like a live spark, a jolt of electricity, and of course he was right. Of course she should’ve known it’d be like this.

At some point, he must kiss her, or maybe she kisses him, or maybe it doesn’t matter because who cares who started it when it’s so good, when she feels devoured in the best way possible, so small beneath him but so powerful, all at once. Clarke wants it to last forever. She wants to go back in time and yell at herself for not doing this sooner. She wants to do it again and it’s not even over yet. She wants.

Inconceivable, by jaegermighty

Well, okay. But surely the queer romance is universally terrible, right? It’s just so inherently laughable, all those ordinarily stoic men kissing each other like it might be a thing that actually happens every day in our actual world. Right?

Dean inhales, hard. “I’m sorry. I’m dropping this on you and you don’t need-” he babbles, and then Cas is coming forward to grab him by the front of his shirt and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. “Oh Jesus,” Dean says, when they break apart for a second. Cas’s mouth is reddening and his hands are knotted in Dean’s shirt like he’s hanging off a cliff. He looks almost as wide-eyed and hysterical as Dean feels. There is nothing happening in Dean’s brain: it’s white noise and static and the sound of loose change being shaken in coffee cans. “Holy crap,” Dean says, and pulls Cas in again by the back of his neck. Dean starts out in charge and then finds himself backed into the fridge while Cas opens his mouth and sucks the curve of Dean’s bottom lip, atomically vaporizes Dean’s top ten hits from his sexual history without unbuttoning anyone’s shirt. It is not quite how Dean expected- or feared- this would go. “What the fuck,” Dean murmurs, cupping Cas’s face with one hand so he can kiss up and down the other side of his face, under his eyes, along his cheekbones, while Cas shuts his eyes and sighs like’s falling apart. “What the fuck was I waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says. “I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you ever-”

“Why didn’t you?”

okay, cupid, by orange_crushed

But what about philosophy, internality? Does fanfic have any real insights into human nature comparable to what you might find in a published novel?

It doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

He manages to stop lying to everyone else, but only because it’s so goddamn frustrating when they don’t realize that he’s lying his ass off with almost every word he speaks, and he gets tired of being angry all the time, but he can’t stop lying to his father.

Little lies. Stupid lies. Obvious lies. Any lie-opportunity that presents itself and Stiles is all over it like he’d be all over Lydia if she wouldn’t mace his ass into the ground a second later.

Because his father always knows, always calls him out on it, and Stiles latches on to this when all other signs of affection dry up after his mother’s death.

(Stiles doesn’t blame his father. He wouldn’t want to hug the kid who’d killed the love of his life, either.)

The Trouble With Reclining Your Body in a Horizontal Position, by apocryphal

What about poetry, then – actual poetry, that hits like a gutpunch? Can fanfic do that?

Some nights, I wish you’d kill me

I want to be the body lying face down in the bathtub

There’s more dignity in that

Than in being

Your love interest

Recycled Hymns, by taylorpotato

Beautiful language, then – not literal poetry, but prose that enthrals in its own right. Does that ever make an appearance?

Stars spilled carelessly across the carpet of the sky, flickering silver jacks and cat’s eye marbles. Filling him up like a cup, brimming him over. The stars change, even when nothing else can. Case in point: he can see the lights of his motel flickering in the distance. Orange, red. Warm like a campfire. Again, again. The vacancy sign is crooked. It’s always crooked. It dangles a skinned cord and vibrates when the wind blows, glares brighter and fades in tiny surges, an artificial heart throbbing in the transformers. Currents are not constant, even if they seem that way: he can stare into light bulbs without blinking if he wants to, and heaven makes the bulbs wax and wane the way they really do, the way they did even when he wasn’t looking. Heaven is awash with the details of life, and heaven affords the time to observe them. He’s only a hundred meters out from the parking lot, or however many he wants to be. For a second he stands in the road and looks up. Cranes his neck back until the trees disappear from the edges of his vision, until there is nothing but night washed over him, nothing in his eyes but stars. The sky turns overhead so slowly they leave trails pulled out like taffy, bright shivering rows like the cut of a ship through still water. The wake. Here out in the middle of nowhere, the air smells like ozone and forest, like asphalt, a little like rain.

apocrypha, by orange_crushed

Can fanfiction be, not just comic, but witty? Can the prose itself make the reader laugh, instead of just describing madcap shenanigans?

When Derek comes home the next day Stiles is sprawled almost upside down on the faded leather couch, one leg thrown over the back and his head flopped over the edge. He drops his book onto his chest and smiles at Derek.

“Are you reading a book about crabs?” Derek asks, in a tone, Stiles feels, of unnecessary judgement.

Stiles slithers into a more conventional position so Derek can get a better look at the cover of Walking Sideways: The Remarkable World of Crabs.

“I’m learning a lot, dude. Did you know that there’s an actual word in science for the tendency of nature to try and evolve a crab?” He brandishes the book like a missionary tract. “Like, crabs are such a good design concept that different branches of the evolutionary tree are constantly going ‘hey, fuck it, let’s make a crab.’ There are like four totally unrelated species that independently arrived at crabbiness.”

“How embarrassing for them,” says Derek. “Like they showed up at the party wearing the same outfit.”

Stiles shoots him a shit-eating grin. “I thought you’d be personally interested, since you’re clearly a member of a new fifth species.”

Don’t Worry Baby, by kalpurna

Hell, I’ll even put my money where my mouth is: you want to take a look at my fanfic, make this argument personal? Here’s the start of my first ever foray into the Supernatural fandom:

The body is only a vessel, an earthly chalice into which the ocean of his being pours; but it is also, in the end, a body, and like all bodies, it has its mandates. Eat. Sleep. Dream. Touch. Though every atom of his borrowed flesh has died and risen, died and risen and died again, reassembled from powder to shards to pottery like an archaeologist’s miracle, still the heart that beats only as a formality refuses to do otherwise, a blood and lightning sentinel. The body is flightless, his wings visible only between blinks, an arcing shadowflash of furled storms tethered to scapulae, tendons, spine. Except when Famine touched him, he has no use for food; yet still, the stomach rumbles, the lips imbibe, the throat swallows. A ritual; the body is pious, or superstitious, or maybe just stupid. He can’t decide which. Perhaps it’s all three. But either way, it is also his piety, his superstition, his stupidity. He is not of the body, but the body is of him, and with him, and he is with it, a skin into which he has stitched himself so often that his true form – or is it now, rather, his other form? – is scarred with needlemarks, the broadest of which is Memory, and the deepest of which is Love.

Storge. PhiliaAgape. All this he has known before now: love of family, love in virtue, love of God.

Eros, though – eros belongs to bodies, and to such bright creatures as inhabit them.

Even angels.

North Hell, by sysrae

Look: I could do this all night, and I’m only active in a tiny number of fandoms. There’s always been good fanfic, and there will always be good fanfic, and I’m honestly not sure which is currently making me angrier: seeing the entire medium judged in absentia to the standards of E. L. James, or used as a quick, easy way to denigrate (male) writers like Franzen by dismissively comparing them (him) to women you’ve never heard of, who write under pseudonyms and use the word cock without let or hindrance in stories whose titles have the temerity to be stolen from William Shakespeare and Pablo Neruda, Radiohead and Richard Siken.

You don’t have to convert to fandom. Just, for the love of god: can we stop trying to lambaste Purity and its predecessors by comparing them to fanfiction, please? Because every time that happens, you’re not insulting Franzen.

You’re insulting fanfic.

And frankly, it deserves better.

I’m excited to finally announce that I’ve signed a two book deal with Angry Robot! The first book, An Accident of Stars, is slated for release in summer 2016 – I like to describe it as a portal fantasy with the safeties off, complete with adventuring ladies, politics and magic, and I can’t wait to see what you think of it.

Massive thanks to my awesome agent, Jennie Goloboy, who had faith in the story from minute one; to all the fabulous people at Angry Robot, a team of geeks after my own heart; to my friends and writers and writer-friends who’ve helped and encouraged and generally put up with my flailing over the past few months; and to my wonderful husband, Toby, and our mostly-wonderful spawn, who currently sees my laptop as a toy car obstacle rather than a source of gainful employment, but nonetheless manages to be endearing. I love you both.

Watch this space, you guys. It’s gonna be awesome :)


What is TV Roulette?: Once a month, the people who back me at a particular Patreon tier get to pick a show, and I’ll either watch the first episode (if I haven’t seen it before) or an episode of their choosing (if I have) and write about it in my best flamboyant, ranty, squee-filled style. Reality TV by negotiation only, because it erodes my soul; otherwise, anything goes. If I like the show, I’ll keep it up for the next month; if I don’t, they can pick something else next time around.

Who’s the backer?: This instalment comes courtesy of Margy, who picked Claymore for me to watch. My response to Episode 1 is here.

Note: As I’d already put up two blog posts yesterday, I decided to fold my August review of E2 over to today and combine it with my September review of E3, hence the double feature.


First impressions: Flying swords and edible lizards and spontaneous prostitution allusions, oh my!

No, but seriously: Oh, anime. I will never not love your emphasis on female characters, but I’m still going to headdesk forever over all the weird sex stuff. I have no idea how old Raki is meant to be, but he’s called a boy in the show, which makes it kind of super creepy and weird when he and Clare have this exchange in E3:

Raki: It’s just weird to see you change personalities instantly like that.

Clare: Claymores are trained for this. One second I can act like a noble lady and the next a flirtatious prostitute.

Raki: A prostitute?

Clare: Would you like me to demonstrate?


What’s weirder, though, is that this information makes no contextual sense. The Claymores are known everywhere for their distinctive appearance, and when Random Mysterious Dude shows up and gives Clare the pills that let her appear human, it comes across like a) she’s never done so before and b) that using the pills is quite rare. Which, given that they suppress her ability to sense yoma – her key advantage in fighting them – would make sense. So the idea that she’s been trained to impersonate different kinds of people when she never really has to do so feels borked and incongruous, like the writers just wanted an excuse to shoehorn in the prostitution line and didn’t bother to think through the implications.

Also, the whole bit is strangely reminiscent of that time in Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex when Motoko Kusanagi randomly tried to seduce a kid, sort of. I mean, I love SAC, but that was still a weirdass scene? Why was it there? Twelve years later and I’m STILL confused. (And skeeved out. SO SKEEVED OUT, YOU GUYS.)

That moment aside, though, these were actually two pretty solid episodes. Despite the repetitive dialogue in E2, the main plot, which deals with Clare having to track down and kill her only friend to stop her turning into a yoma, does a good job of explaining what the Claymores are and where they come from, while E3 expands on the worldbuilding, telling us more about the setting itself as well as the Claymores and yoma. It also ends on a cliffhanger – specifically, with Clare impaled on a yoma’s claws – and when that happens early on in anime, it’s usually a sign that the main arc is about to pick up.

Also: as tired as I get at times of the Stoic Inhuman Warrior Being Hounded By A Bouncy Friendly Human Who Is Basically Just An Inquisitive Puppy trope, I appreciate the fact that Claymore represents a genderflip on the usual permutation, with Clare as the stoic and Raki as the puppy. Even so, I’m hoping Raki develops an actual personality at some point in the near future, instead of just bounding along behind her like a naive sunshine machine.

Verdict: I was lukewarm on E1, but there’s a nice slow reveal going on in E2 and E3, and I’m curious to see where it’s going. Will continue to watch!