Because I read the internet and because I have a stake in the question, I suppose, like everyone else I’ve been thinking about women and writing. There are new byline statistics to share, this time mostly from online sites. (Though not The Rumpus, clearly a devastating oversight.) Click at your own risk; they aren’t all pretty.
I’m sure you are tired of reading opinion-mongering on this and on some level so am I. I thought Elissa Bassist made some great suggestions here yesterday. That does not, however, prevent me from offering my two cents, for reasons that are about to become clear.
Of the many Sugar columns that struck a chord with me, the one that reverberated the longest is the one about envy. At the outset of her answer, Sugar defines her terms:
We are not talking about books. We’re talking about book deals. You know they are not the same thing, right? One is the art you create by writing like a motherfucker for a long time. The other is the thing the marketplace decides to do with your creation.
Now, book deals are not the same thing as magazine bylines, which are not the same thing as litmag story placements, which are not the same thing as book reviews. But all this talk about the place where women and publishing and success meet? Is still talk about the latter question.
This is why in most cases it is no answer for editors to shrug and say, “I choose what to publish based on merit alone.” It’s not that they are being disingenuous. It’s just that for most publications – maybe not the litmags, but for anyone with the vaguest of aspirations to “general” appeal – their considerations of merit naturally look at what the “market” will think of something.
Perhaps someone out there still believes that the Invisible Hand separates the wheat from the chaff, but I think that’s a particularly hard idea for artists to swallow. Without pointing any fingers, we all know there’s a lot of bad art in the world. Much of it is made by corporations, who charge you admission to watch or read. The idea is to thereby sell you a whole other pile of things you don’t need, which should teach us that this whole marketplace concept is a real rabbit hole when it comes to What Matters. But somehow we miss that.
Among the many things the marketplace currently rewards, unjustifiably in my view, is overconfidence. The squeaky wheel always gets the you-know-what, and in some sense it doesn’t matter whether the squeaker in question identifies as male or female. But as Rebecca Solnit wrote in this essay you must read if you have not already, “the out-and-out confrontational confidence of the totally ignorant is, in my experience, gendered.”
Like Solnit I’ve known a lot of great men who don’t possess excess and unsupported confidence. But I’ve also known a lot who have. And I’ve also known them to get extremely upset when I point it out. Often, of late, I don’t bother. I’d rather spend the time and energy on my work, and make another cup of tea.
That makes me part of the problem, though.
I am all for women supporting each other, for networking. I am all for retweeting and crossposting and praising everyone’s good work to the skies.
But I am also for being more honest about what’s being overvalued at the level of the editor, because I think some overvaluation exists. I am for figuring out a better way to have this conversation, because it’s a conversation we need to have. We need to open up some air and sad though it is, that will involve a little shoving. Let’s make the shoving as gentle as possible. But shoving it must be, nonetheless.
This has been your Rumpus Saturday. I’ll see you guys next week. I mean, provided I don’t get fired for today’s efforts.
3 responses
Thank you for writing this.
It’s long been obvious to me that a lot of very successful writers benefit from being arrogant jerks. The artform rewards confident writing that doesn’t second-guess itself and advocates its position in unwavering and certain terms.
In the real world of interpersonal interaction this is called being a total jackhole, but in writing, it’s a “strong voice.” So jackholes tend to enter the success-feedback-loop early and often.
I’ve long accepted this reality, but I’ve also developed a great appreciation for those who take a more nuanced and self-critical approach to art, writing, life.
Perhaps there’s no connection between being a “good writer” and being a “good person,” but if there can be, there should be. Good people have a lot more of value to tell us.
The Rumpus has been great for this, btw, consistently publishing some of the best self-questioning and worry-wandering work around: I Love.
Amy, thanks for writing that. You articulate something I also appreciate about The Rumpus; good, nervy writing that doesn’t sacrifice compassion or as you put it “wavering.” Is there perhaps a way to waver precisely, to waver boldly? 😉 I think there is.
My (female) friend and I have a phrase we made up- “good-famous” – that describes a condition we aspire to, where excellent craft and character meet. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she and I are both young women, turned off by (often male) power abuse (though plenty of female writers engage in this aggression too… it’s more a certain inconsiderate “masculine” mode than a “male” condition, for sure.)(And those writers are rewarded.)
I like Sugar’s famous “Write Like a Motherfucker” column because it encourages the female writer asking the question to be assertive and courageous and take risks in her writing (implied: like men and “bad girls” do all the time.) These are qualities that get noticed. I agree that there has to be a way to achieve influence w/o being a jerk.
I’d love to see messy vulnerability (I don’t mean confessional, I mean something more contemporary) in writing become even more recognized for being confident and admirable as is forceful aggression on the page.
I’d also rather spend more time and energy and tea on my work, but I haven’t always made the best use of my time when it comes to writing. My reasons–and excuses–are plentiful. I used to fantasize about that Invisible Hand finding Its way to my door, bearing a lucrative Deal with my name on it.
Only now do I realize how taxing it might be as an Invisible Hand to buckle Itself up and drive to my place, knock on my door, hold The Contract, shake my hand and hand me the pen. It’s a good thing I live on the first floor; at least It won’t have to struggle up the stairs.
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