1. There are many, many wonderful women on YouTube who have broad and growing audiences. Here is a long but still incomplete list. (I’d add Grace Helbig, Hannah Hart, Natalie Tran, and Mamrie Hart, but there are lots.)
2. When women start to build an audience on YouTube, they are far, far more likely than men to be subjected to threats, harassment intimidation, and abuse. This has driven many women content creators whose work I love—especially LGBT women and/or women of color—away from YouTube. As a successful female YouTube partner said to me today, “Every time someone tweets a video of mine, I’m simultaneously grateful and really anxious, because I’m afraid of threats.” That’s a barrier to growing your audience, and it’s one created entirely by patriarchy.
3. Claims that the Top 500 Most Viewed YouTubers are >90% male simply because guys work harder at YouTube or make better videos are just blatantly ridiculous. Like, that’s just not a well reasoned conclusion.
Thank you, John for talking about this.
John Green, The Miracle of Swindon Town #208 (submitted by thatsnothowyoubook)
I can’t hit this like button any harder doggone it!
Time Magazine just named The Fault in Our Stars the best novel of 2012—ahead of (Booker Award winner) Bringing Up the Bones, ahead of J. K. Rowling and Zadie Smith and Junot Diaz.
Unbelievable. I am astonished and grateful and I have a strong desire to curse with joy, but I won’t, because this is tumblr, where no one uses foul language.
Okay, I will let Tyler swear for me.
John Green: highly praised author and master of foul language outsourcing.
- alaska where you at bitch
- a shit-ton of katherines
- paper-ass towns
- holy fucking shit another will grayson
- fuck you stars
John Green (via endandblossom)
FRENCH THE LLAMA, THIS.
My face as Rainn Wilson describes his scrotal swelling and subsequent surgery.
Look upon this face my friends and you shall know this is a face that sees true terror.
From back when the wall was not a wall.
I was actually a Spice Fan back in the day. Got the CDs, saw the silly movie and to this day have no clue what a “zigazig ah” was outside of possibly a bizarre euphemism for orgasm.
Someone had to do it!
To be played ONLY at the most opportune times.
My eleventh grade English teacher was a guy named Paul MacAdam. I got a D in the class, and I only got the D because I wrote a paper about Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye over the summer. I was a crap student: I didn’t read; I didn’t participate; I didn’t turn in papers, or when I did, it was embarrassingly obvious I hadn’t read the books. I also skipped class a lot. It was in the morning, and I didn’t think very highly of morning classes.
I actually said that to him once. He took me aside after the bell rang one day and said you’ve been missing a lot of class, and I was like, “Yeah, I don’t think too highly of morning classes.” I was a real peach.
But when I did go to class, I was usually the last person to file into the room. One thing I remember about that class: Mr. MacAdam always held the door open for us until the bell rang. We’d walk in, and he’d greet each of us. He always held the door open until the bell started ringing, and I’d come in last, three seconds before the bell rang, staring at my untied sneakers, stinking of cigarette smoke, and he’d say, “Mr. Green, always a pleasure,” and then he and the class would talk about the book. Say it was Slaughterhouse Five. I hadn’t read it, of course, but they would talk about it, and MacAdam would get to talking about war and the nonlinear nature of time and how Vonnegut had stripped down the language to tell the nakedest of truths.
But the discussion was always so interesting—these big, hot, fun ideas seemed to matter so much. So I read the books. I never read them when I was supposed to read them; I’d read them a week later, after I’d already gotten an F on my reaction paper. But I’d read them. In essence, I was reading great books for fun. MacAdam didn’t know it, of course. He probably still doesn’t know it. But it didn’t matter whether I was worthy of his faith; he kept it. He still held the door open every day for me. He still treated me like I was the smartest kid in the class, still took me seriously on those rare occasions when I’d raise my hand, still listened thoughtfully to me when I’d give him my reading of a passage I could comment upon only because he’d just read it out loud. He believed I was real, that I mattered. I wasn’t yet able to understand that he mattered, but he was okay with that. He just kept holding the door open for me.
|—||John Green, excerpt from his 2008 speech at the Alan Conference (via speciousstuff)|