My readers are almost exclusively women, except for one very sophisticated Frenchman who makes the best planked salmon you’ll ever eat.
Today I heard a story about a Nobel Prize winning author who claims no woman is his equal as a writer. I’ll paraphrase. Basically, women suck as writers. We have too many “feelings” and our view of the world is narrow. He claims no woman is truly the master of a home, and that is clear in her writing as well.
Well, Niapaul, you can suck it. How’s that for sentimentality? And using Jane Austen to underscore your point? She’s been dead for 194 years. Have you ever picked up a book by someone else with a vagina? I don’t like Jane Austen’s books either, but she’s hardly the voice of my generation. Of course, we’re all alike, we women writers, so one would hardly need to read more than one of us in order to form a comprehensive understanding. Unlike men, we can all be categorized and judged together. There are “writers” and then there are “women writers.”
Writers are interesting to women, but the opposite is often not true. I really hate that there’s only one genre for women, and it’s “chick lit.” Mommy Blogger is a subgenre of chick lit. Men don’t want to read about anything that comes out of our vaginas, just about what goes in. And even then, I think they’d rather see pictures than read a bunch of frilly prose.
Now I’m being unfair to men, just because of one Nobel Prize winning author who once demonstrated his impatience that his wife didn’t die of cancer faster so he could marry his side-piece. I can see where “sentimentality” would bother a man like that. And since he’s unlikely to see a vagina up close that isn’t bought and paid up for the hour before he dies, he has lots to be bitter about.
So here’s some chick lit for you: my week. V and I have been suffering from a terrible, tenacious virus. For her, it started with croup Sunday night. I came down with a cough so violent on Wednesday that I think I’ve pulled every muscle in my back hacking away. My OB was sweet enough to give me something called Phenergan with Codeine syrup. A former addict friend of mine assured me that at another part of his life, he would have followed me to my car from the pharmacy counter and mugged me for it in the parking lot. This little tidbit not only made me vow to be more cautious about leaving the pharmacy counter with narcotics in the future, it piqued my curiosity, so I looked up some Urban Dictionary entries for my seemingly innocuous cough medicine only to discover that it’s extremely popular in some parts of the country when mixed with Sprite and a floater of Jolly Ranchers candy. It must do something for these mixologists that it doesn’t do for me. Or maybe when you’re not half dead from coughing, it has a more pleasing effect. Although, I’m not sure what could be more pleasing than the drugged, coughless sleep this drug has given me.
And yes, Judgie Wudgies, I AM nearly nine months pregnant. I am sure that my infant is thrilled to have a break from my incessant hacking so she can sleep as well. It also keeps me off the smack.
I should stop going on about my cough syrup, lest I prove Niapaul right about the sentimentality of female writing.
Now, excuse me while I go murder the dog* that won’t stop barking at the neighbor who is attempting to repair the same old broken fence that divides our properties using the same rotted old boards which are responsible for the sagging mess in the first place. Something that he tries three times a year, but only at naptime.
*all claims of attempted animal murder are completely facetious and used for humor purposes only.