I spent part of last weekend catching up on Y: The Last Man, which I’ve been greatly enjoying, in large part because of its wry literary references and because Brian K. Vaughan, much like Rupert Thomson, has managed to take a preposterous premise and make it work. Thankfully, Whitney Matheson tracked the man down for a podcast. (Unfortuntely, the format of the show is proprietary, the streaming player doesn’t seem to work, and I’m afraid and you have to load iTunes to get it. Two words, USA Today: PodPress plugin.)
Scott goes ga-ga over Only Revolutions, suggesting that the book should come with “a coupon for a free weekend hotel room.”
Daisy Goodwin, whose name sounds as if it’s been cobbled together from random horticultural coloring books, has announced that men cannot write romance and that male writers lacked insight into the ways of women. Of course, it should be pretty obvious to you readers that I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. Never have. And it’s all because I got one of those pesky penises at birth. I wonder then why 22% of romance readers are male. Could it be that a reader or a writer’s gender has nothing to do with it? To deflect Goodwin’s generalization, Gallecat is taking your calls. Which male writers handle romance well?