Before I get going, I’m 75% deaf, as some of you know, semi-reliant on hearing aids and lip reading. My first languages were Makaton sign and then BSL. I now use spoken English.
There are a lot of issues I find with how deaf people are represented in books, when represented at all. I would love to see more deaf and hard of hearing characters in the books I read- without having to read books specifically about deaf/HoH people- but when I find them, they’re grossly undercharacterized or stereotyped. Authors write them in a way that sets signing language characters apart from speaking characters as if they are inferior, and this makes my blood boil.
Some technicalties
I’ll keep this brief.
- You may have heard that “deaf” is a slur and you should use “hearing impaired”. Don’t. I’ve never met a deaf or hard of hearing person who believed that. Use deaf for people who are deaf, and Hard of Hearing (HoH) for people who lack hearing. These can be interchangeable depending on the person. This is why sensitivity readers are a useful part of the beta process.
- Sign language is incredibly varied. It developes in the same way as spoken language. Fun fact: in BSL there are at least half a dozen ways to say bullshit, my favourite of which is laying your arms across one another with one hand making a bull’s head sign and the other hand going flat, like a cowpat. It’s beautifully crude, and the face makes the exclamation mark. Wonderful.
- There are different sign languages. Knowing more than one would make a character multi or bi-lingual, even if they are non-speaking.
- Makaton is basic sign language used by children, and it mirrors the very simple language used by toddlers.
- Yes, we swear and talk shit about people around us in sign language sometimes, and no, it isn’t disrespectful to have signing characters do this. Just remember that we also say nice things, and random things, and talk about fandoms and TV shows and what we’re having for dinner, too.
- Each signed language is different from another. ASL and BSL? Nothing alike. Just google the two different signs for horse.
Remember that sign language is a language, equal to the spoken word
Therefore, treat it as such. Use quotation speech marks and dialogue
tags. You only need to explicitly state that this character uses signed language once, and then let your modifiers and description do the rest.It isn’t a form of “sub-speech" or “making hand actions”- sign language is a language all on its own: it has its own grammar rules, syntactical structures, punctuation, patterns, idioms and colloquialisms. For example, “what is your name?” becomes “Your name what?” with the facial expression forming punctuation in the same way that spoken English uses alterations of prosodic tone (inflections). There is even pidgin sign; a language phenomenon usually associated with spoken language.
In the same way that you would describe a spoken-English character’s tone of voice, you would describe a signed-English speaker’s facial expressions and the way that they sign- keeping in mind that these things are our language’s equivalent of verbal inflection.
So please, none of that use of “special speech marks” or italicised
speech for sign. If your viewpoint character doesn’t understand signed
speech, then you take the same approach that would be used for any other
language they don’t understand, like French or Thai. E.g “He said something
in rapid sign language, face wrinkling in obvious disgust.” is a good
way of conveying this. The proof that you’ve done this well is in whether or not you can switch “sign language” for French or something else, and it would read the same.Don’t be afraid to describe how things are said, either.
Sign language is such a beautiful and expressive way of talking, and to
see a writer do it justice would be truly fabulous. Putting this into practise:“Oh, I love maths!” She said, fingers sharp and wide with sarcasm. She raised her eyebrows.
“I’m sorry.” He replied and made his face small, but could not keep the grin forming. She was starting to laugh, too.
This is part one of two, for the sake of readability and keeping the information simple as I can. Part two- writing the deaf characters themselves- is coming up over the weekend. See you then and best luck with your writing until that point 😀
This is part of my weekly advice theme. Each week I look at what you’ve asked me to help with, and write a post or series of posts for it. Next week: settings and character development (including heroes, anti-heroes, villains, and every other kind of character).
Thank you, this is wonderful and helpful.
I really needed this tonight
Well, today is a good day to figure out if the smell of frankincense is the helpful thing with the brain weasels or if it’s something else, since my sense of smell is absent today (hello, head cold, I would like you to fuck the fuck off now).
HEY YOU
stop picking at your lip
and you, over there? leave your cuticles alone.
and don’t touch that weird bump at the back of your scalp, for fuck’s sake
so much as think about biting the inside of your cheeks and I will come to your house and Get you
Here’s hoping the reminder works for some people. Meanwhile, I’m going to go make sure my jar of salve is where I can see it so I have a fighting chance of not picking my lips raw.
it was only a matter of time before my obsessions crashed into each other.
Have Jedi Healer Julian Bashir (in traditional healers robes) (being genetically augmented incidentally changed his level of Force sensitivity) and Jedi Shadow Garak (was undercover for most of the war on the separatist planet of Cardassia Prime).
(I subscribe to the notion that the Jedi Shadows are the Jedi intelligence and Spy division, not just ‘hunt down and destroy sith objects’ people)
Julian so rarely uses his ‘saber but he totes it around all the same. it’s the same color blue as the Trek science uniforms. Garak missed his ‘saber desperately while he was undercover and never takes it off. His is yellow-green and it’s a folding one like the temple guardians have.
*stops scrolling and stares while a grin spreads across their face* EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! THIS IS AWESOME!
Star Wars: All Her Daughters: The Butcher and the River
Part 1 | Part 2 | more to come
Fandom: Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace
AU: All Her Daughters: Time Travel Alt
Word Count: 706
Characters: River | CT-2701 (OC), Anakin Skywalker, Shmi Skywalker
Warnings: off-screen character death
River meets Shmi, and makes a promise to the Skywalkers.
River doesn’t blink when a woman walks into the shop who looks like Butcher and her sisters, standing up when she frowns at him. There are no holos of Skywalker’s mother, nothing but the quiet tug of the Force and the clear resemblance to the clones made from her son’s genetic sequence to say who she is, and yet he is utterly certain.
“Madame Skywalker.” He nods his head in respect. “Did my sister speak to you?”
There’s a brief frown of confusion on her face that tells him that even if Butcher had seen her – and she had to have, if only to ensure that Skywalker was safely away from the slaver – she had not see Butcher in turn.
“No.” She sets the parts she’s carrying on the counter next to Anakin, watching him a moment. “Would you like me to find her?”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure she’ll find what she wants without assistance.” River smiles, though he carefully moves to circle Skywalker. He can’t let her go back there until Butcher comes back, any more than he wants Anakin to see what Butcher does. Why she has earned her name a thousand times over.
“And what is she looking for?” Skywalker is tense, watching him as many slavers have watched Butcher, though River hopes she does not fear for herself.
A distant, swiftly strangled shout makes Skywalker move toward the back, and River catches her arm before she can take more than a step.
“I think she’s found him.” River meet’s Skywalker’s gaze steadily, a little of his attention on where Anakin has stilled on the counter. “Please. Don’t interrupt her. When she’s done, we’ll find your trackers, and remove them.”
“You’re here to free the slaves?” Anakin’s voice is full of wary hope, and River looks up to smile at him.
“It’s a welcome side effect.” River can still feel tension under his hand, can tell that if he lets go, Skywalker might well still go out, still go looking for the slaver who thought he owned her. A wretch who thought that a child had to work to earn food.
“Who are you?” Skywalker’s voice is low and sharp with worry and fear.
“You can call me River. My sister—” River pauses, tilting his head as he looks between Anakin and Skywalker. “My sister is called Butcher.”
Under her tan, Skywalker goes pale, and behind her, Anakin is watching River with an expression that is an eerie echo of the one General Skywalker had given River the first time they met. And again when he’d let them walk free after they’d destroyed the worst Master of them all.
“The Hutts won’t take well to you stealing slaves. Even those that aren’t theirs.” Skywalker’s voice is studiously neutral, and River gives her a small smile.
“We’re not stealing slaves.” He feels the cold satisfaction in the back of his mind from Butcher. “There can be no slaves if there are no masters. If the Hutts object to the loss of slavers and masters on this planet, they too are mortal.”
“What will you do when you’ve removed the transmitters?” Skywalker pulls back and away from him, retreating to stand next to Anakin. Watching him with a face that reminds him of Mouse when she came to the Temple with Tree after he and Butcher had done their work on the worst Master. Something between wary relief and disappointment.
River is silent a moment, listening for Butcher to return, and to the Force. It led them here, to a Tatooine not their own, and to a General still a child, and to the woman who was the mother of the SpecOps clones. They’ll follow it where it leads from here, as well.
“Do you want to leave this place? Go somewhere in particular?” If Skywalker and Anakin want to leave, they’ll leave, and make sure the General and his mother are safe for however long they can.
“We have nowhere to go.” Skywalker wraps an arm around Anakin, protective and comforting.
“Then we will stay, and you have my promise, no one will do you harm while we are with you, nor suvive any harm they might offer if we are not.”
Hugs for EVERYONE*
*hugs you all* Because today is a day for hugs, and I’m going to run out of spoons if I go putting hugs in everyone’s ask box.
Feel free to reblog this to give a hug to every one of your followers.
*who is comfortable with being hugged. If you do not like hugs or are uncomfortable with physical contact, or even just prefer not a hug from someone not a mutual friend, cookies or other snacks suitable for your dietary needs and restrictions.
Star Wars: Ashes and Hope: Through Shadow and Flame
The main story finally has a title, and it’s being posted to AO3 while I re-read, and hopefully can figure out where it’s going next.
Through Shadow and Flame
Fandom: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
AU: Ashes and Hope
Word Count: 5184
Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Vader, Sheev Palpatine | Sidious, Mace Windu, Zett Jukassa, Bail Organa
Anakin Skywalker has just rid his universe of the Sith Master and Emperor Sidious. So that can’t be Sidious, and that cannot be him kneeling to the Sith.
Or, it’s not his universe, and now he’s accidentally adopted an orphaned Padawan, a Jedi Master, and this universe’s Padmé and her children. Right. Now what?
Highlander: The Priest, the Goddess, and the Scholar: Anat’s Tears
Fandom: Highlander, Phoenician Mythology
AU: The Priest, the Goddess, and the Scholar
Word Count: 790
Characters: Anat, Darius, Marcus Constantine
“I’m not entirely dead.”
She’s in his garden, planting dormant bulbs in every spare bit of soil that isn’t occupied by herbs. Barely leaving enough of a path winding between her plantings to reach the herb beds. That they’re not even real until she plunges her hand into freshly dug holes is a profligate use of her power that he doesn’t expect.
“I know you’re watching me, Darius.” Her voice is rough with grief, and she shifts to allow herself a better line of sight. Where she can see him in her peripheral vision. “I’m not like MacLeod or most of your friends who cannot see beyond the living world.”
Darius doesn’t move from the doorway, not yet. He still hasn’t determined his new limits, and while he thinks the garden might be within them, that doesn’t excuse pushing too far, too soon. Not when he’s utterly out of his depth.
“I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” He knew she’d come; he’d be a fool if he hadn’t expected it. But for her to arrive as quickly as she had speaks, he thinks, of more use of power than she would normally bother with.
“Mot told me. About the dreams as well.” Anat pauses a moment before pushing to her feet and turning. He doesn’t expect the raw fury on her face. “You let us do nothing when we might have. It would have been worth burning it all to save you. And now we can do nothing to bring you back.”
“I’m not entirely dead,” he points out quietly, folding his hands in his sleeves as he meets her gaze. Steady and calm, even in the face of a deity’s wrath.
“And I am to simply accept that you will be forever caught between life and death, trapped in the confines of one small church and the gardens that surround it?”
Anat takes a step toward him, her form wavering slightly as if in the shimmer of heat off desert sands. Around her, he can see the plants growing, the bulbs she’s planted shooting up green spikes surrounded by leaves and topped with trailing sprays of brilliantly red flowers. Not merely use of her power, he thinks, but manifestation of her anger and grief.
A sound in the church behind Darius breaks the moment, and Anat’s wavering control firms, her form as solidly human as that of the man who’s entered the church. The garden around her still blooms, the new plants a broad splash of crimson that evokes the thought of newly-spilt blood, even as she steps around Darius, ignoring him and the man – Marcus, come to mourn or to say goodbye, Darius thinks – as she walks away.
Marcus glances at the woman walking from the door that leads to Darius’ rooms and the garden beyond, frowning a moment as something about her tugs at his memory. She’s ignoring him, and moving too quickly for him to make the connection before she’s out the door. He hesitates a moment, before continuing as he’d intended, into the rooms that had belonged to Darius for so long. Where they’d talked long hours, with tea and chess to distract them from whatever subjects the conversation covered.
He’d almost think Darius was still here, watching him as he looked around the room. There’d be little enough to remove, if Marcus hadn’t been certain that Darius would prefer the few belongings he’d had be left for his successor. Marcus reaches out to touch the chess board a moment before moving past it toward the open garden door, his attention caught by the brilliant color of some flower.
Flowers that are everywhere, sprays of tiny scarlet blooms that trail like the branches of a weeping willow from the tops of sturdy spikes. They are naggingly familiar, though he has to think for a long moment before he can place them. Flowers that bloom through any weather, though the leaves that wreath the base of the spikes die back in the cold of winter or the dry heat of the desert.
He crouches a moment to touch one of the sprays, his fingers coming away damp with the nectar that collects in the tiny wells. It tastes of salt, and brings to mind tears and blood. The same as the flowers that graced a single spike the height of a man in an Egyptian temple. Marcus knows there will be no seeds, no way to transplant such a flower to another garden. There never has been, for all the trouble some mortals have gone through to do so.
“What name did she bear to you, old friend?” he murmurs as he stands. Remembering the flowers, and his one encounter with the woman who made them grow, centuries past now.
Doctor Who: In the Doctor’s Place: Alone
Fandom: Doctor Who
AU: In the Doctor’s Place
Series: The Travel Collection
Word Count: 152
Characters: Romana
She has stayed on Earth for a century and more, letting her TARDIS heal, and mourning all she has lost. Romana isn’t certain she wants to leave yet, but all too soon she will begin to encroach on the Doctor’s favorite centuries, and she cannot have him meet her too soon. Cannot have him learn his fate, no matter how much she wants to see him again, how much she wants to grab him and tell him to run, and never stop. Never go home.
Most especially, she wants to shake him and ask him why he thought her life more important than his own. Why he’d lied, and told her he would join her, that he would be able to escape before the lock took effect. A question she doubts he could answer in any but the regeneration that had left her the last of their kind, alone in the universe.
There's a Mirror on the Wall 