After The Ignoble Lie was published, I expected a certain amount of backlash. It presents views that challenge the Judeo-Christian orthodoxy that's been at the heart of western civilization for millennia. Interestingly, opposition to the religious elements has been practically non-existent. Instead, one of the characters has come under criticism from more than one reviewer.
Now when a female protagonist like Zady Jones—a brilliant, brave, emotionally complex woman navigating the perilous intersections of political intrigue, religious dogma, and personal trauma—is called "too masculine," it begs the question: what exactly do we expect from our heroines?
It's a critique I've seen crop up in a handful of Goodreads reviews. Zady is strong-willed, fiercely independent, analytical under pressure, and willing to take physical and moral risks. She doesn't defer. She doesn't apologize for taking up space. For some, those qualities seem to signal "masculine." But to me, they signal "human."
This critique isn't just about one character. It's about a broader, deeply ingrained discomfort with female characters who refuse to stay in the boxes traditionally reserved for them. For centuries, women in fiction were relegated to roles of nurturer, seductress, or sidekick. When women step outside those templates—when authors write women who are leaders, strategists, survivors, or warriors—they're often met with this vague accusation of being "too masculine," as if strength, courage, or emotional restraint can't belong to women. I imagine many women—and men—who write fantasy, which often depicts strong female characters, might encounter this criticism often.
But why should gender define character traits? When a male protagonist is emotionally guarded or takes decisive action under threat, we call him compelling, layered, or gritty. When a woman does it, she's "hard to relate to." If she's assertive, she's "abrasive." If she fights, she's "aggressive." These double standards are not only outdated—they're artistically limiting.
Zady Jones was never written to conform to gender norms. She was written to live. She bleeds, she grieves, she wrestles with guilt, with love, with loss. She's not fearless—she's afraid, and still she acts. Her resilience isn't borrowed from masculinity; it's born of experience. It's shaped by what she's survived and what she still hopes to protect. That doesn't make her less feminine. It makes her real.
If anything, Zady embodies a broader vision of femininity—one that is expansive rather than confined. She contains multitudes. She can be loyal and stubborn, intuitive and skeptical, vulnerable and unyielding. She's allowed to be all these things because women are all these things, something my wife teaches me every day, by her words and by her deeds.
Criticism is part of being a writer. I welcome it. I listen. And I reflect on what it reveals—not just about the character, but about the cultural lens we bring to storytelling. When readers say Zady feels too masculine, I don't hear an insult. I hear a challenge: to keep writing women who are unapologetically themselves, regardless of how easily they fit into familiar molds.
Zady Jones is not a man in disguise. She's a woman defined on her own terms. And if that makes some readers uncomfortable, maybe it's time we asked why.
I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Best,
Matthew