It's been a year to the day since I found out about the Marion Zimmer Bradley sex abuse situation. Off and on, during this year, I've thought about this quite a lot, with a mixture of emotions. In fact, every time someone else's outing as someone who damages others comes to light, I return to the MZB thing and puzzle it over.
Have I made peace with it? No. Not at all. I'm not sure I will. It would be one thing if this was just an author I liked, but she was more than that to me. Her books were a source of comfort to me. They inspired a lot of my own want to write. They shaped my thoughts about what was possible in world building, in story scope, and in constructing a mythos of the places you see in your imagination.
To know that all the time I was finding comfort in her book someone else was being tormented by her hands . . . no, I can't find peace in that. And yes, I know, MZB owed me nothing. The comfort I found in her writing and her commentary was based on my own needs and sprang from my own imagination. That wasn't fair to her, but it's how it was.
One of the really shitty things about getting older is how all of your foundations keep crumbling. You lose family. You lose friends. You lose faith. You lose heroes. And no, none of this is what makes you YOU . . . but it's still a part of what helped to shape you.
No wonder everyone is chaotic now.
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