I’m crawling my way out of the writing and editing pit to see what’s going on in the rest of the world. Mad cow disease scare in Texas, apparently. (I can hear the eleven o’clock news from here.)
So this whole RWA thing—I’m back at the hmmmmmm stage again. I know. I’ve got more than my big toe in the Boring Pool with this subject. But I don’t know anything about mad cow disease and that’s our other option here.
On one hand, I agree with Holly when she says, among other things:
Quit the RWA, dammit, whether you love erotica, hate erotica, find it repulsive, or consider it an abomination. Quit because you are a writer, not a fascist, and whether individually the board of directors are lovely ladies or not — and I’m sure they are — collectively, they are perpetrating fascism. And on your way out the door, be sure to tell them why you’re quitting.
On the other hand, I agree with Cece when she says:
But rather than everyone getting pissy and quitting RWA how about we run for the board and give the membership a drug-free leadership.
I’m thinking that once my edits are in and my desk somewhat cleared, I’ll probably write them a letter and quit. They’re not only not working for me, but they’re actively working against me. (Well, not against me specifically, in a Conspiracy Theory kinda way—although the visual of me duct-taped to a wheelchair with my eyelids taped open is kinda freaking me out)
But the organization has become so concerned with demanding respect from people who are never going to give it, that they’re trodding upon their own members in their efforts. How does making some of us look like shit in public help us collectively look more respect-worthy?
Give me an affordable health insurance plan. Give me the data I need to make an informed business decision. Give me current industry information. A legal assistance program. A tax education program. Let me worry about who respects me and who doesn’t.