Yesterday, the day that David Lynch died, I finished working on a second draft of a new manuscript. It’s a novella and it’s unique to what I usually write in that it’s very much a co-production and also, in that it deals with Big Ideas. Specifically the idea of what makes Art art. It’s a great little book and I’m proud of it. Today, I sat in a coffee shop and talked to an old friend about this manuscript, mentioned how I exchanged it for feedback with a writer from Montreal who sent me his latest in return. My friend asked me what else I’ve been working on and I told him a little bit about my million projects and then we talked about his projects, and about writing for TV. After my friend left, a nice eavesdropping guy to my left tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his screen, where there was the name of the Montreal author and a cover of his first book. The nice guy told me with excitement how that author was the only real author he’s ever met. He told me how he himself was an aspiring writer. He asked me what I did for a living.
A couple of weeks ago I was at a party. I stood in circle with four other male authors who talked about their work. Earlier, they talked about a legendary party we’ve all been to, 20 years ago, and a photograph of me from that party where I am 27 and pretty, surrounded by three men staring at me. But back to their work.
One of the male authors said, I think I peaked in my 30s. I’m the age Ondaatje was when I was a young author.
No, no, no, assured him the other authors, You didn’t peak in your 30s, you are the Ondaatje now! We are the Ondaatjes! the other, male authors said and then one of them went around and pointed to each male author and listed their most recent accomplishments, You published a book, and you have one coming out this year, and you’re the finest author in Canada according to John Metcalf.
I stood and thought about the new lipstick I was wearing, how nice and buttery it felt on my lips.
The other day a friend not familiar with my writing asked if it’s true that I only write about “mean husbands,” and if it’s true that they’re all really based on someone from my life, an ex I feel bitter about, I just change his name and profession, but, really, it’s always the same guy?
4. And then there’s me. Sitting and feeling proud of the novella I just sent to the Montreal writer, thinking with relief how for a change I didn’t write about anything wet, feminine, nothing dripping with vaginal fluids, nothing about mothers and births and divorces, and I try to decide why I’m embarrassed and whom to blame for thinking that my writing is lesser because it’s written by a woman about women’s issues — predictably, wetly, lazily — should I blame myself or the Ondaatjes or nice guys in coffee shops or all of us?
Yes.
Blame is such a crazy thing... I think you should continue to prove their wrongness about what is success, a writer and what readers want. I think you should focus on doing all you do for the next girl who dreams of writing what she knows, learning what she doesn't and thriving through femininity.
Sarah
another girl who writes