Ancestors

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 00:51

I'm mad at Neil Gaiman.

First for the most obvious of reasons, but the recent article about him apparently goes into ghoulishly explicit detail on that topic, so I see no reason to rehash it.

Further, I can claim no special connection to either Gaiman nor his victims, so picking apart the crimes feels to me like photographing a trainwreck.

So no, I will not be discussing his crimes. Instead I'm going to be selfish and discuss my personal fallout.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 00:55

Rather I feel anger at the deeply personal and completely unearned feeling of betrayal.

Again, I do not know this man, but finding out he's a monster hurts as though he were my own kin.

Gaiman (or more accurately his stories) have lived rent-free in my mind for nearly half my life. It's accurate to say that his words changed me.

Through the expert application of the writer's craft, he altered how I see the world.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 01:16

He shaped me. He touched me. I aspired (perhaps more accurately STILL aspire) to be half the writer he is (for his crimes do not diminish the incredible skill with which he reached out of the page and altered me).

I have wept over his words.

And now those words, those stories, are poison. All of them discolored by the light shown on his crimes.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 01:19

And thus I am enraged, not in the mild abstract way in which we discuss the news of the day.

"Oh isn't it awful!" we titter over tea.

"Someone should do something." we cluck while ultimately doing nothing.

No. This is a knife in my soul.

I am angry at the betrayal, and at the gaping wound of cynicism and paranoia it leaves in it's wake.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Toot

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 01:23

Is there something fundamentally evil about artists? Is seeking the limelight somehow a symptom of a broken psyche?

Will every artist I love wind up betraying me in this way?

And what does it say about me, that the ones with whom I resonate so deeply wind up being monsters?

Do I gravitate to people like Gaiman or Wheadon because they're good writers, or is there something horrid in who I am that sees a kindred sort on the other side of the keyboard.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Descendants

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 01:26

When you grow up weird, skilled writers are the first friends you find.

"Here's someone who understands the world as I understand it."

Are they just excellent liars? Disguising the horror in their hearts? I've read their work. I know that's not true. So do I just not see it?

Or do I see it, and it speaks to me?

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop

Written by Longwing on 2025-01-14 at 01:30

I think this question is what warps the perspective of rape apologists. When we rush to the defense of abusers (whether personal or famous) we're saying "I couldn't see this, so either I'm blind or it's untrue."

No. I believe it.

And with that belief my world is a colder and more monstrous place.

Gaiman stole a little bit of wonder out of my heart. He did far worse to his victims, but his crimes infest his body of work, and leave a stain on all of us he touched.

=> More informations about this toot | More toots from Longwing@wandering.shop