Thoughts on the current Thirteenth Child discussions.

No, it is not book-burning.

No, it is not censoring.

Yes, it is about race, whether it is alternative history or speculative fiction or feminist fiction.

And no, criticism does not mean readers hate the author's work.

And no, criticism does not also mean that authors hate the readers.

Somehow, there is a severe breakdown in communication between author and reader, between author and fan. Mercury retrograde not withstanding. It has already appeared before. It has appeared again.

What I really desire most is that both sides listen to each other. Of course, it is easier said than done. Listening is a first step in education.

What I am seeing at the moment is that friendships are being affected and lost. Not good, because friends are supposed to be friends, not enemies, even though they have differences in opinions.

What I really desire most is for clarity of thought. Race, unfortunately, hits gut-deep and sometimes, reason is lost. It is not easy for people of color and minority ethnic groups and the hurt goes real deep.

A bit of Fire and Ice.

The abbess lifted her horn-rimmed glasses and gazed thoughtfully at the young woman standing before her simple desk. She glanced at the letter in her hand, read it carefully and looked at the slim figure standing uncomfortably in front of her. With a sigh, she spoke:

“So, your mother, Her Imperial Majesty, has sent you here to control your nei huo.”

“Yes, madam,” the young woman replied politely, watching the old woman clad in a simple white pao. The abbess’s sanctum was a sparsely furnished room with a desk, two shelves of books and a basin of water for hand washing. Beyond the large window, the young woman could see lush greenery and the occasional sparkle of water – a waterfall cascaded down a steep cliff, pooling noisily into a clear lake. She had taken note of it as she was heading up the mountain.

“In the letter, your mother has instructed me to either curb or reduce your nei huo, your phoenix flame. Because it has apparently caused problems.” The abbess continued. Her white hair glittered in the late-morning light. Her voice was parchment-paper dry.

The young woman winced and nodded assent. She had caused problems. Her temper was out of control, scaring her sisters. Her youngest brother bore the brunt of her fire and the poor boy had run crying to their mother, the Empress, who was then busy holding court and had to deal with a wailing little prince-ling of the Phoenix Court.

Her phoenix flame was roaring loudly, probably made worse by the onset of puberty. She cringed and felt terrible inside. The phoenix flame, the ability to turn woman to phoenix, jumped generations. She experienced a rush of annoyance: Why me? The rest of her sisters carried the recessive gene.

The abbess chuckled suddenly. “I trained your mother personally, Your Highness. She was sent by her mother, your grandmother the Dowager. For similar reasons.” She got up gracefully from her chair, a smallish woman but her aura spoke of subtle power. “Enough of idle chit-chat. You will be sent to your room. Training begins at dawn.”