I’ve been thinking again about chick lit vs. lit lit since reading this Salon review of Elaine Showalter’s history of American women writers, A Jury of Her Peers. (That the book is called “monumental” in this review is, frankly, a deterrent for me to take it on. Some words just scare me off a book: monumental, lyrical, postmodern, magical realism. I’m stodgy that way. And linear. But I am interested so I might give it a shot.)

One interesting point Showalter makes, as discussed in the review, is that historically, European women writers tended to create greater works of literature because they had servants. American women writers were so busy with housework, they had less time for writing and their field of experience was proscribed by the demands of their lives. Reviewer Laura Miller writes:

The obvious subject for such women was what they knew: home life. But, as Showalter observes, "Domestic fiction has been the most controversial genre in the literary history of American women's writing, an easy target for mockery and an embarrassment to feminist critics who wish to change the canon." Margaret Fuller articulated that ambivalence when she announced that she wanted to "not write, like a woman, of love and hope and disappointment, but like a man, of the world of intellect and action"; she never managed to pull it off. … Even socially influential writers, like Harriet Beecher Stowe (teased by Abraham Lincoln for starting the Civil War), got sniffed at by the critical establishment, and it only got worse when the 20th century ushered in the cult of the he-man novelist as personified by Ernest Hemingway. (The leftist writer Meridel Le Sueur complained that an editor rejected one of her stories for lacking the requisite amount of what she called "fishin', fightin' and fuckin'.")

And that,

… many critics and editors, especially male ones, make a fetish of "ambition," by which they mean the contemporary equivalent of novels about men in boats ("Moby-Dick," "Huckleberry Finn") rather than women in houses ("House of Mirth"), and that as a result big novels by male writers get treated as major events while slender but equally accomplished books by women tend to make a smaller splash.

This is clear and obvious to me—and the review points out that critical acclaim leads to the kinds of grants and gigs that allow writers to support themselves to write, and those go primarily to men.

I’m still sorting out in my mind, though, the difference between women’s literature and chick lit and what allows traditionally told female-centric stories to transcend the chick lit label. Jane Smiley has broken out, has Anne Tyler? Annie Proulx, definitely, although I struggle with her. I read her book Postcards on a trip once and found it relentlessly bleak. I left it in an airport when I was finished (I often do that when I travel) and then felt guilty because someone else would pick it up and end up as depressed as I.

Is Nick Hornby chick lit? Was Edith Wharton chick lit in her day? As I recall from the monumental biography of her that I half read, she saw greater success than her friend and contemporary Henry James, but did she get the same critical respect? (I don’t remember off the top of my head. Anyone? She certainly has my respect. I adore her.)

And I recall a friend telling me about being told by agents and publishers that because her novel was about a teenaged girl, it could not be sold as an adult novel and needed to be recast as a young adult novel. Yet the male coming-of-age novel is a literary institution.

I’m confused.

Of course, Showalter points out that changing attitudes about domestic fiction is only one way for women writers to gain more respect. The other is for us to seize the big canvases.

Sigh. I don’t think I have the big canvas in me. (And of course you realize, this is all about me. It’s my blog.) Maybe I do. Maybe I have to get all my little stories out of me first and eventually the big story I have to tell will coalesce.

I guess I just have to live long enough and keep writing.

Labels: books, feminism, sexism, writers, writing

Now that I’ve waxed all sweet and poetic about my nighttime walks with Jack, I’ll tell you the not-so-pretty flip side.

Without an iPod or something blathering in my ears, my mind is free to gnaw on things and most of the time, those are not good things. Sadly, when I let my mind wander at will, it invariably heads straight for the things that piss me off me and once there, hunkers down.

Poor Jack—he tends to get slow and stubborn at the end of the walk, just as I’m reaching a frenzy of fury at the world. I try to be sympathetic and slow down, but then he slows down, lagging far behind me, always keeping tension on the leash that infuriates me. I invariably end up yanking and scolding and cussing. Tom insists Jack gets plodding because of the heat but I don’t think so. If that were the case, then he’d keep up when I slow down to a crawl. No, I think it’s some kind of weird power struggle. Other dogs pull on the leash ahead. My cockamamie critter does the opposite.

Grrr.

I’m struggling with foul temper this week. Perhaps it’s the onset of summer. It’s hot hot hot here and I’m not yet acclimated.

During last night’s walk I got all churned up about work. While I have enough to keep me busy, the stuff I care about most just isn’t working out. I’m thinking very seriously about retiring my travel column because it’s just not selling enough to make it worthwhile. Editors tell me they love to read it when it arrives (via my syndicate), but they don’t buy it and give their readers the same pleasure. The two papers that theoretically run it have not in months. I get lots of response from readers when the column runs—shouldn’t that count for something?

Essays in general are a heartbreak. Recently, an editor told me something I’d submitted is “flat.” That is absolutely gnawing a hole through my brain. A writer friend who helped me fine-tune the essay vehemently disagrees. I don’t know who to believe or what to do. It’s all so subjective and discouraging and there are no answers to any of my questions. (If I were walking Jack right now, I’d be striding at an angry pace of 10 miles an hour and he’d be dragging at the end of full length of the leash and my arm, which would be straight back behind me.)

I will soon have something in a major national publication—but I didn’t get paid for it. You know—budgets and staff cuts and blablabla, the editor told me. Yeah, I know, but it makes me angry anyway.

I believe I’m good at what I do, readers respond to what I write, but the gatekeepers to the public don’t help.

I’m an angry writer. I’m angry at my editors and angry at the industry and angry at myself and COME ON JACK! HURRY UP! YOU’RE DRIVING ME FUCKING CRAZY!

Labels: writers

For a writer, one thoughtful critique from someone wise and knowing is worth thousands of words of supportive praise from people who love you. (Although, admittedly, I need both to keep going.)

I am always grateful to receive critique from friends and editors that will help move my writing to a higher level.

Which is not to say it’s “fun,” exactly.

I have received two critiques on two different projects since last night. Both are smart, insightful and useful.

Nonetheless—ouch.

Not “ouch” they were poorly expressed or “ouch” I disagree or even “ouch” I don’t have the ego for this. Just “ouch” I hate confronting my deficiencies, even en route to making amends.

Before I can even fully process what needs to be done to fix the projects, I have to overcome shame for not being perfect first time out. I can accept faults and foibles in all aspects of myself but writing. In some demented, deluded way I expect nothing but brilliance when it comes to expressing ideas. Anything less is like getting caught with my pants down.

That’s not rational. It just is.

Actually, any feedback is painful for me. I received an e-mail the other day from a friend reading a novel in progress for me. She said, "I'm about a third of the way through what you sent me -- and really like it."

I heard, "I can barely drag my way through this and I'm kind of embarrassed for you."

Getting even positive feedback can be a sick game of telephone for the writer's ego, especially when it comes to a very personal project.

Once I process both the positive and negative critiques, I have to get past hating the amount of work involved in fixing the problems. I’m a lazy writer and although I know writing is rewriting, I’d much rather get it perfect the first time and move on. (Haha.) I have word games to play and emails to answer. I don’t have time for all this serious writing business.

Finally and most difficult of all, I have to figure out how to fix the problems. Fixing a broken character or wandering essay is so much more difficult than fixing a misspelled word or clumsy sentence. (Duh, Sophie. Ya think?)

What to do, what to do? Do I wait for inspiration? Do I actively seek inspiration? Do I just plunge in and start tinkering?

Maybe I should just play a few rounds of Word Challenge and worry about it later.

Labels: personal growth, writers, writing

I was shopping online for a bathing suit for Tom and came across this interesting product description:

These boardies are quick drying and are Velcro-free for extra comfort.

• 100% Polyester Twill
• No Velcro fly
• Inside waistband may imply offensive slogan


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I rarely read B.C. because of it’s religious proselytizing (this word is difficult to spell and equally difficult to look up) but today's is funny.

So was today’s Mother Goose and Grimm (that’s June 16, if you’re late to this blog).

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I got a shout out in my friend Tom Swick’s blog today, because a told a sad tale of journalist abuse (in the comments).

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New workout DVD reviews up on Suit Up and Show Up. Checkitout, OK?

Labels: cartoons, shopping, writers