N. K. Jemisin discusses writing the blind main character of BROKEN KINGDOMS

This is a really good article. I had a couple comments about it, but I also have a migraine, so I’m just going to quote.

Why is Oree Shoth blind?

…the unspoken subtext of the “why’s Oree blind” question is Why is she different, why’s she strange, why didn’t you make her “normal” or like everyone else? The subtext is the same with other variations of this question that I’ve gotten, like “Why is your protagonist female?” or “Why did you make her black?” (or “why didn’t you make her black?”) and so on. Ultimately the real problem with all these questions is not the writer’s choice, but the reader’s assumptions about who “belongs” in epic fantasy. Or who’s “allowed” to write it…

Now, note: I haven’t gotten questions about Oree’s race or gender nearly as often as I’ve gotten questions about her blindness. So, using that as a highly nonscientific survey of attitudes, it to me that women and black people are deemed to “belong” in epic fantasy to a greater degree than disabled people. (Or maybe people just know better than to ask me about the first two, lest they get popped in the mouth.) That might be because the SF/F fanosphere — myself included, here — has done a better job of talking about things like the racial default and illogical assumptions about gender, than we have about issues of ability and its representation in fiction. So this post is part of my attempt to address the deficit.

Now back to the main question. “Why is Oree blind?” does have an answer: because she is. That is — I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I wasn’t trying to play “check the boxes” on some hypothetical Fantasy World Diversity Quota form. (“Female, black, poor, and blind! If I can just make her gay, I win!”) I just went with what my mind conjured up, as I always do when I create a new character. And as always, I tried to develop Oree as realistically as I could, so that she would be a person and not a caricature. Thus Oree’s blindness is meant to be just one more aspect of who she is, same as her femaleness and artistry and blackness and poverty. All these things impact her life to some significant degree — but the story’s not about any of those aspects of her identity.

She goes on to discuss her research process which I thought was interesting.

FWIW, and I don’t know whether other people would agree with me, so maybe I’m just wrong here, but I think that when people are considering whether or not to ask someone from a marginalized group to read something and see if it accords with their experience, I think it helps if you ask people who aren’t just inhabiting an axis of difference, but make a point of studying/advocating about it? I don’t generally mind being asked to read things for accuracy on feminism (unless the writer is hostile). For instance, my “did I fuck up somewhere really obvious?” first reader on gay men’s issues did a lot of academic work on gender studies and works in advocacy. However, I should note that we also have a relationship: I read drafts for him from time to time, so there’s quid pro quo, and we’ve been friends for eleven years. Our relationship has always included political discussion about gender and sexuality, so asking him to talk about it in relation to my stories is not bringing something new into the dynamic. He’s also part of my rotation of first readers for all sorts of stories, including those that don’t touch on queer issues directly, because I value his literary opinion.

Also, of course, my friend is not The Voice of All Gay People, so I know that when a work is published, others may disagree with his opinion of it. All my friend is doing is adding an extra layer of filtration. I identify as queer and I read about queer theory and queer history, but I don’t have his extensive academic experience, or his lived experience as a gay man. His expertise makes him somewhat more likely to catch it when I’m doing something blatantly stupid.

And of course, other readers may disagree with him. In “Where Shadows Meet Light” I wanted to engage with femiphobia by writing an unapologetically femme gay man, even though that has the potential for having a bad reaction with stereotypes about gay men. My friend and I talked about what I was trying to do, and our conversation reinforced that I really did want to attempt what I’d set out to do. Whether I did it well is another question–it worked for me; it worked for my friend; another reader, queer or straight, might not like the way the story works out in tension with stereotypes.

So, just a thought. I think Jemisin says it well when she talks about asking for first readers as “not not [being] above asking for help.” I can imagine myself into sentient slime molds; I can imagine myself into a queer man’s body… but sentient slime molds don’t exist to have opinions about how they’re portrayed, or to be hurt by stereotypes and misconceptions. Queer men do.

So I try to ask for help. I prefer that to the times when I’m too much of a privileged jerk to realize I need to.