“Each writer is born with a repertory company in his
head. Shakespeare had perhaps 20 players. I have 10 or so, and that’s a
lot. As you get older, you become more skillful at casting them.”
~ Gore Vidal
I don’t like this quote. It makes me feel like my
creativity is meaningless, and I’m just dressing up a paper doll when I
write. But after carefully considering it in the week since I found it,
I have come to the conclusion that all I could honestly change would be
to replace “Players” with “Archetypes.” I have just begun the
cataloguing of my repertory company, literally days ago, and haven’t yet
identified everyone in the house, but in taking the initial nose-count,
I find myself sorely lacking in women. I can tentatively identify
about five men, give or take one, but in all of my writing, published or
not, I only find one woman. Whether she comes in the guise of Colleen
O’Reilly, the reformed Irish terrorist of
Chameleon, Galela, sergeant of the King’s Guard from
The Wellstone Chronicles, or Patience Hobbs, mischievous pilot of the
Kestrel in
Beyond the Rails,
she is smart, strong, and capable. She can be good or evil, young or
“mature,” heroine or anti-heroine, but no matter who she is, she is
always cut from the same piece of cloth. I thought I might open my
quest by trying to find out where she came from.
Born in 1948, my childhood sat squarely in the 1950s,
ages 2-12. Divorce was a dirty word back then, and the Liberation of
Women wasn’t yet a defiant gleam in your sister’s eye. Women were still
domestic servants who worked without pay, and while they had achieved
the vote some years before my birth, they hadn’t achieved much else. I
saw how women were treated in my friends’ homes, their two-parent homes,
and in my naiveté, I wondered at the luck of having a live-in
housekeeper who did dishes, laundry, cooked meals, vacuumed, went to the
store, dealt with repairmen and peddlers, while the man came home from
work and sat down with the newspaper. So this was manhood?
See, men had disappeared from my home before I was three
months old. My entire upbringing was provided by three generations of
women. My mother was a professional gambler who was in and out of the
house the whole time. My first story about her is of her being 16 years
old, pregnant with me, dealing an illegal card game in the back room of
a waterfront bar and doing her own bouncing. Grandma was Rosie the
Riveter, one of the legion of women who took over the factories when the
men went off to war, and one of the very few who was good enough to
keep her job when the men came home again. Great-grandma was a genuine
lady of the Victorian Era, born into North Carolina society in 1888.
All the impressions I formed of women during the so-called “formative
years” were provided by this formidable triumvirate. There was no one
in my life to teach me that women were inferior, sex objects, weak,
second class, or anything with the slightest negative connotation. So
guess who wound up in my head.
The women who take leading roles in my fiction don’t take
no baloney. They are uniformly smart and capable, can be physical when
the situation requires it, and don’t feel like they’re doing anything
special. They stand up to impossible odds, impossible men, decks that
are stacked against them, and the condescension and disrespect of their
more “proper” sisters, and of men of every stripe, and they overcome.
They persevere and they’re the last one standing when the dust settles;
they are all the same woman.
How does a woman like this play in the Victorian world of
steampunk? How do you make her work? She is a product of the
twentieth century; she isn’t supposed to be here. The problem is that
if you write a woman who isn’t a troublemaker of some sort into a
Victorian-era novel, she’s going to be all but invisible. Her role is
to keep her head down, her mouth shut, and support her husband or
significant male acquaintance in whatever opinion he gives her. As an
author, you aren’t going to get much mileage out of a character like
that. So, what’s a steampunk to do? Let’s look at how four authors I
have recently encountered have dealt with it.
Certainly the most realistic female lead of the group is T.E. MacArthur’s Dr. Leticia Gantry of
The Volcano Lady. Brilliantly written, Dr. Gantry is a female volcanologist who, her interactions with Captain Nemo and Robur of the
Albatross
aside, is a lady in a man’s field who is denied every privilege of
tenure, field work, and serious consideration that any man in her field
takes for granted, and is treated as anything from a nuisance to freak
whenever she tries to assert herself. This makes for a wonderful
character, as she has to struggle against not only villains and forces
of nature, but the very fabric of the society she lives in. In many
ways, this is the boldest of the lot, as MacArthur stands squarely up to
the issue, and deals with it as it is.

In my own
Beyond the Rails, Patience Hobbs, the
playful,
sometimes rowdy airship pilot of the Kenyan frontier, doesn’t
deal with the problem (nor does her author); she leaves it behind.
Cousin of an exceedingly wealthy family, she is taken in when her father
dies performing his job in one of the family’s enterprises. Raised as
an aristocrat, sent to finishing school, she leaves England when she
realizes what will be expected of her as a “lady,” and flees to a place
where one of either gender can be accepted on their own merits. She
went out to Kenya on a working holiday, discovered that she had a knack
for piloting an airship, and has stayed. She refers on occasion to the
“gilded cage” of life in the London aristocracy, and expresses no
interest in returning, even as one of the pampered ladies of the upper
class.
Mark Lingane solves the problem in
Tesla by moving
the calendar a thousand years into a post-apocalyptic future. His
heroine, Melanie, who is definitely the confidant or “sidekick,” is a
dying teenage girl who is dragged by events around her into the quest of
his hero. Of course, as a work of future history, Mark doesn’t have to
follow any particular rules, but he has written the agrarian portion of
society as having established themselves along Victorian lines, and his
young hero is astonished and taken somewhat aback by this very active
girl who is so forward that she wears tight trousers in which “I can see
the shape of your legs!” Of course, not being a member of his society,
she was never bound by it at all, but the friction between his mores
and her free spirit produces a delightfully interesting dichotomy.

Finally, in Keith Dumble’s trilogy,
Lady Jessica, Monster Hunter,
the whole issue of women’s lack of equality is simply ignored. Set in
and around Victorian London, Lady Jessica McAlpin is the leader of The
Black Diamonds, a scufflin’ crew of, as the title suggests, monster
hunters. Some of these monsters are the traditional ghouls and
vampires, others are infernal machines, but no matter the opponent, Lady
Jessie and her indomitable crew are right there to fight the forces of
evil with whatever weapons are necessary, and no one bothers to suggest
that this is no life for a lady. Lest there be any mistake about this
being set in Victorian London, Victoria herself is the target of one of
the plots. You might not think so to read this paragraph, but it works.
They all work. Four very different solutions are
presented here, and all of them create entertaining reads that reward
the reader with a rollicking good time. I know, one of those stories is
mine, but I am basing that statement on its reviews and comments, which
are uniformly favorable. I guess the point is that, as has been stated
elsewhere and repeatedly, the three most important elements of fiction
are story, story, and story. If you give your reader a breathtaking
ride, he or she won’t complain because of the shape of the vehicle.
Many of you in this audience are writers, and the point of this
article has been to make you think. As steampunk or Victorian-era
authors, how many female players are in your repertory company, and how
do you use them? Careful consideration of this question can bring your
writing to a sharper focus than you may have thought possible; you may
even be able to use the awareness of this theory to create another
player or two. As a reader, how many do you recognize in the stories of
your favorite authors? At the end of the day, I have to be grateful to
Mr. Vidal for raising this point. It has truly given me a new insight
into my own work and that of others, and doesn’t that really count as
one of those epiphanies we all love so much?
So take this bit of knowledge with you as you read or
write, and use it to enhance your enjoyment of the activities we find so
uplifting. You may find, as I have, that they make our investment in
our favorite fiction deeper and more fulfilling than ever!