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Jenny and Tara were already dead when I ruined Shay. I’m not sure why hers was the death that hurt the most. Maybe it was that I’d never really liked Jenny to launch with (and who had?). Maybe it was that I was too fresh to fully understand the devastating loss of Tara. Maybe it was that, in Shay, I saw someone a bit more like me: someone who certainly didn’t have it all together, but who was trying, who was surrounding herself with a circle of friends, an urban family of encourage and laughter. Losing Shay didn’t just make me sad; it made me angry.
Jenny Schecter (The L Word), Tara Maclay (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and Leslie Shay (Chicago Fire) are just three of countless fictional women to suffer death by trope. The latter—known as Shay to her friends—was the spunky, confident lesbian who, despite her penchant for shacking up with the wrong person and over-reliance on tequila, proved to be a reliable, faithful friend in her short-lived stint on the primetime drama Chicago Fire. She was my favourite character; watching her perish in a devastating conflagration wasn’t just a mas
Bury Your Gays
&#; Worst Muse
This trope is the presentation of deaths of LGBT characters where these characters are nominally able to be viewed as more expendable than their heterosexual counterparts. In this way, the death is treated as exceptional in its circumstances. In aggregate, lgbtq+ characters are more likely to expire than straight characters. Indeed, it may be because they seem to own less purpose compared to straight characters, or that the supposed natural ending of their story is an first death.
The reasons for this trope have evolved somewhat over the years. For a excellent while, it was because the Depraved Homosexual trope and its ilk beautiful much limited portrayals of explicitly male lover characters to villainous characters, or at least characters who weren't given much respect by the narrative. This was due to negative attitudes towards lgbtq+ people and due to the Moral Guardians' Hays Code, which did not allo
It’s been a long time since I went into a guide with relatively moderate expectations and came out blown away!! I just read the last 70% of this book within 24 hours. I couldn’t put it down. After flipping the last page I feel out of breath!!
Chuck Tingle has taken a (mostly) closeted lgbtq+ man’s story in Hollywood and turned it into a Stephen King, Michael Crichton, Blake Crouch sci-fi, horror, contemporary thriller!
What’s more, this book has a clear message, stop killing off all the gays! This resonates for me as a bi-sexual woman who first saw Willow and Tara kiss on screen, and then was horrified by the storyline being crushed only ONE episode later. ONE! They couldn’t let us have happiness for our lesbian ladies for more than a week or two (between airing shows) and for less time than it takes to watch the average rom-com. These types of stories are STILL being told 25 years later. We STILL notice token gay characters written out in media (of all kinds) relatively frequently. Tingle has written the perfect aesthetic of horror, love, the question of being alive (AI anyone?), and
‘All those posh apartments. It’s a playground for the rich’: is Manchester turning into London?
Arriving in Manchester after moving up from London in , I spotted something I took as a write of how different my new life would be – how much cheaper, how much less pretentious. I told everyone help in London about the £1 Brew Stall at Piccadilly station. “Can you imagine being able to get a cup of tea at Euston for only a pound?” I would ask.
For a while, I was always pursuing to prove I had not made a mistake leaving behind the glowing lights of the capital city. I was the last staff reporter the Guardian had left in the whole of the north of England, and I felt isolated in a place no one in London really seemed to care about. It made me extremely chippy. This was a year before George Osborne anointed Manchester the centre of his fictional “northern powerhouse”; four before Andy Burnham abandoned Westminster to develop the region’s mayor.
It irritated me when Londoners would sometimes ask after the north as if it were a foreign territory – certainly more foreign to them than Paris or New