Tag: Female writer

THE THORNBIRDS by Colleen McCullough

Colleen McCollough was working as a medical researcher when she found out she was making less than male colleagues.  Determined to make more, she turned to art.  Incredibly, this gambit worked.  This epic of an Australian family was a bestseller and spawned a very popular mini-series. (“Instant vomit,” according to McCollough).

While I can see many issues with this book, including extreme cheese and really stilted dialogue, I have to go ahead and confess: I enjoyed it.   Partly, I enjoyed the plot, with this much older priest falling in love with this young girl.  But mostly I enjoyed the setting.  For example, did you know that if you can shear sheep fast, (three hundred a day) you are a ‘dreadnought’ and can make as much money from betting how fast you can go as from actually shearing.  Also did you know that in shearing sheds:

At each’s man’s stand . . . was a circle of flooring much lighter in color than the rest, the spot where fifty years of shearers had stood dripping their bleaching seat into the wood of the board

Despite this being in many ways an old-fashioned book, McCullough certainly is unafraid to advance a specifically female view of the world.  She has a lot to say about domestic drudgery, and about how no one actually loves any of their kids after the fifth, and about how the men in rural Australia think they are good kissers only because the women are good liars. 

That instant vomit thing tips you off. This lady was a character.  She was convinced all critics knew ‘in their hearts’ she was just smarter and better than them.  She wrote 30,000 words a day, and virtually ‘never made mistakes’ because she had perfect spelling and great grammar.  And she died a millionaire many times over, so take that, other medical researchers

Let me note that I read this in my absolute favourite format, which is a very elderly second hand paperback, with browned pages, and as an amazing bonus it even had a weird newspaper clipping as a bookmark.  Enjoy the mysterious caption especially: “I used to be a teenage doctor until I discovered eminence.”

A GIRL’S STORY by Annie Ernaux

Here is a memoir about a summer of sex and fun.  It drips with shame.  I’m not sure why.  I guess in 1958, things were different for girls.  She’s French, she’s seventeen, a counsellor at a summer camp, and gets into it with a bunch of the boys.  If someone got that much action today it’d be all over her Instagram.  But that’s not how she takes it:

I am endowed by shame’s vast memory, more detailed and implacable than any other, a gift unique to shame. 

There is one boy she is particularly in to, and when she finally gets with him (after a fondue party (!)):

There is no sense of degradation, no room for anything but raw desire, chemically pure, as frenzied as the drive to rape, this desire for H to possess her, take her virginity. 

It’s like: sweetheart. Why you on about degradation?  It’s fine. You are allowed to want to have sex.  The whole thing is however swift and painful.  I’m too big, he helpfully tells her.  Also, he comforts her with the information that “often women do not climax until after giving birth”  

She is so bothered by what she did over this summer, and the ensuing rejection by this prince of a guy, that she develops bulimia and stops menstruating.  Then, she reads Simone de Beauvoir’s THE SECOND SEX.  Her life is transformed. She is:

. . .awakened to a world stripped of the appearances it had worn only days before – a world in which everything from the cars on the Boulevard Yser to the necktied students she meets  . . signifies the power of men and the alienation of women

It’s hard to imagine what it would be like having to survive your adolescence without even the basic vocabulary of feminism.  I found it very touching, because I read earlier de Beauvoir’s MEMOIRS OF A DUTIFUL DAUGHTER, where you learn how very hard she fought herself to own her ideas, and it is interesting to see what a gift they were to others.  Still, says Ernaux, understanding your shame does not make it go away. She is thus impelled to write this account of that eventful summer. She writes to understand it:

It is the absence of meaning in what one lives, at the moment one lives it, which multiplies the possibilities of writing

This is I think an interesting observation, but overall there was a good deal too much of this.  Ernaux is now an older lady, and spends too much of this memoir reflecting on what writing means in general, and describing in detail how she looked these boys up on this ‘Internet’ she insists on capitalizing.   Like no one ever stalked an ex- before. 

However it was interesting to see how she came to feel so ashamed, and how she hauled herself at least half way out of it. 

NOTES ON A SCANDAL by Zoe Heller

This is a book about loneliness.  It titillates us with the idea that it is about an extraordinary scandal, but really it is about ordinary loneliness.    

The narrator is one Barbara, an unmarried woman who has been teaching for decades.  She recounts the story of her friend and colleague, 41 year old Sheba, who gets into a relationship with a 15 year student.  This story is ‘not about me,’ Barbara says, but of course it is.  Every story is about its teller.

It opens in the aftermath of the relationship becoming public in the papers.  I found this an interesting description of the press:

. ..  I could never have predicted the hysterical prurience of the response.  The titillated fury.  These reporters write about Sheba as if they were seven-year-olds confronting the fact of their parents’ sexuality for the first time. 

This made me laugh.  I have always thought it incredibly creepy how interested British people are in talking about child abuse, all the while acting like they are so shocked about it.  But anyway this is not the main point of the story.  The narrator is.  She is hilarious and insightful.  Here she is on Sheba’s breasts:

She had a dancer’s bosom.  Two firm little patties riding the raft of her ribs.  Bill’s eyes widened.  Antonia’s narrowed.

And on an awkward colleague

Even his most minor conversational sallies have an agonized, over-meditated quality . . . .  Talking to him is rather like attempting to converse with a school play. 

She is also so lonely it has poisoned her.  Let me just quote at self-indulgent length:

‘Purpose – that’s closer to it,’ Sheba said.  ‘Children do give you a purpose.  In the sense of keeping you busy, in the sense of something to get out of bed and do every morning.  But that’s not the same as meaning.’

I laughed rather bitterly, I’m afraid.  What I thought was: That is the sort of fine distinction that a married woman with children can afford to make.

But she was right.  Being alone is not the most awful thing in the world . . . You visit your museums and cultivate your interests and remind yourself how lucky you are not to be one of those spindly Sudanese children with flies beading their mouths.  You make out To Do lists – reorganize linen cupboard, learn two sonnets.  You dole out little treats to yourself – slices of ice cream cake, concerts at Wigmore Hall.  And then, every once in a while, you wake up and gaze out of the window at another bloody daybreak, and think, I cannot do this any more.  I cannot pull myself together again and spend the next fifteen hours of wakefulness fending off the fact of my own misery.

She becomes obsessed with Sheba, and is the architect of her downfall, ensuring that she is eventually totally dependent on her.  Here she is talking about others:

There are certain people in whom you can detect the seeds of madness – seeds that have remained dormant only because the people in question have lived relatively comfortable, middle-class lives.  They function perfectly well in the world, but you can imagine, given a nasty parent, or a prolonged bout of unemployment, how their potential for craziness might have been realized . . .

She is of course also talking about herself. I am not sure what I found so compelling about book.  I think it is because of the lockdown.  I am feeling much closer to craziness myself.

DEPENDENCY by Tove Ditlevesen

I wondered when I read the first book in this autobiographical trilogy why the author was so cheerful about her childhood, which overall looked pretty ropey what with the diphtheria and the rickets and everything.  Having read this third book, about her adulthood, I now understand. Her childhood does look pretty cushy in comparison.

She first marries an old guy largely because he published her first poetry and she wants to be financially looked after by him.  To modern eyes, it’s kind of amazing how straightforward she is about this; but  what I got from reading it is that in the 1940s you were more or less expected to be in a transactional relationship, where you provide domestic work and sex and he provides money.  I know I say this on this blog about once a month but THANK GOD IF I HAD TO BE BORN FEMALE IT HAPPENED NOW AND NOT EARLIER.

Anyway, this guy does not get what he bargained for, because what Ditlevsen is interested in is not domestic work but writing.  This is what she spends her days on

I’m just writing; maybe it will be good; maybe not.  The most important thing is that I feel happy when I’m writing, just as I always have.  I feel happy and forget everything around me. .

Even this is not enough though.  Here she is standing at the window watching young lovers:

I am only twenty years old and the days descend on me un-noticeably like dust, each one just like the rest

She leaves the old guy for WHOLE NEXT PARA IS FULL OF SPOILERS BECAUSE A LOT GOES ON a younger guy, and they have a baby.  She then has a hair-raising illegal abortion, and then gets pregnant again from a one-night stand with this one doctor. She insists he gives her an abortion, and this is where her problems begin, because he uses Demerol during the procedure, and she is immediately addicted.  She leaves her husband to marry this doctor, even though she does not like him and indeed thinks he has mental health issues, so that she can continue to get Demerol. He also gives her methadone, choral, etc.  He also isolates her so no one knows what is going on.  She is close to death when she saves herself by using a moment of lucidity to phone a friend.  She ends up in rehab and her husband in an asylum. 

She recovers and tried to get back with her second husband.  He rejects her.   

I cried when I read his letter.  No man had ever turned me down before.

Like, FYI, Tove, don’t tell people things like that.  No one wants to hear how popular you are.

She fall in love (at first sight!) with a guy who becomes her fourth husband, and he moves her to the countryside, so that it is harder for her to acquire drugs.  

What’s curious about this novel is that despite so much going on – four husbands, two abortions, three children (one adopted, I didn’t even tell you about that), many best-selling books – the appeal of this novel is not at all in its story.  In fact I never read such really salacious material presented so un-salacioiusly.  You feel weirdly connected to the real life of someone in Copehagen decades ago.  Here she is making dinner, about to leave some husband: 

While I’m standing in the kitchen turning on the potatoes, my heart starts hammering and the white tile wall behind the stovetop flickers before my eyes, as if the tiles were starting to fall off.

The strange fascination of this book is its total lack of sentimentality or excuses.  I don’t think I would be capable of giving an account of my life so utterly without justifications or apologies.  It’s really remarkable for its honesty and makes you feel like you maybe know her better than most people you actually do know. 

At the end she seems in a better place, being away from the chemists and their jars of methadone, but I am sorry to say that I checked date of publication and date of death ,and the poor lady only had five years left.  She killed herself in 1976, so while I have not checked Wikipedia I can suppose that indeed the addiction did not let go.  I feel sad about it, as if she just died today, rather than decades before I was born.

I WAS TOLD THERE’D BE CAKE by Sloane Crosley

This collection of comic essays show you how hard it is to write comic essays.  It was an easy read, but let’s just say David Sedaris’ crown is secure. 

It’s my second book in under a week by a young woman living in New York, after MY MISSPENT YOUTH , so perhaps it is just I am a bit tired of the pitfalls of trying to make it in publishing.

It’s kind of dated, having been written ten years ago.  You can tell because she explains vegetarianism like we are going to find it really freaky.  Also the reviews!  I see that some male reviewer at the Guardian comments that he has a ‘tendency to be disappointed by the most well-rewarded female columnists. . . ” As if female columnists are both exceedingly rare and all very similar. 

Some of it however was pretty funny.  Let’s end with her father’s obsession with fire:

For major holiday dinners, there is no such thing as a ‘fire in the background.’  The flaming abcess in the living room is always in the foreground, dominating the attention and the conversation.“It’s a good fire, Denis,” says my mother, standing yards away from it.
My father contemplates this, having conducted a staring match with the fire for almost an hour.  It’s hard to say who’s winning.

To be honest I’ve already largely forgotten this book.  So: nothing further.  

HOW COULD SHE by Lauren Mechling

 This is a depressing novel about the implosion of the publishing industry.  It’s like reading a book written about the social life of weavers just as the loom has been invented.

It’s not marketed as such.  In fact it is marketed as jolly chick lit, which it sort of tries to be, but chick lit in the context of the collapse of the chicks’ careers.  The author is a magazine writer, so I guess she is writing what she knows.

It’s about the friendship of three women after that friendship has died.  One of them moves to New York to try and find a job in publishing after a brutal breakup, and the other two variously pity and avoid her.  Here she is, at her first cocktail party.

“Hey,” she said, a desperate edge to her voice. “Are you going to the drinks thing?”“Where is it?”Something lifted within her. “I don’t know—I can ask Sunny?” “Nah.” Gus shook his head and looked down. “I’m supposed to meet someone in the city, actually.” He didn’t need to say any more. Another woman was written all over his face. Geraldine’s heart snapped. ….. She was humiliated, but also slightly relieved that he was leaving so she wouldn’t have to spend the drinks portion of the evening being rejected.

Ouch.  But where the book really shines is in the workplace:

All the staffers had gone to Ivy League schools and had the social skills of staplers.  They stared at her from their workstations and waited for her to talk, and she had to fill the air with references to her quirky travels and friends and obsessions.  There was something profoundly sad about these once-brilliant people who clung to their perches in corporate media as if there were a chance in hell the industry would take care of them.  Get out while you still can, Sunny wanted to tell them all, but she had to pretend to be operating under the same misapprehension as the rest of them.

Overall it didn’t quite work out for me as a book – I couldn’t get up a head of steam to care about the characters, and their relationship.  But I enjoyed the world.  Makes me feel like while I may not have made the perfect career choices, it could have been worse.

MY MISSEPENT YOUTH by Meghan Daum

Apparently 2001 was really a long time ago.  Enjoy this extract from one of the essays in this book:

I am not what most people would call a “computer person.”  I have utterly no interest in chat rooms, news groups, or most Web sites.

Imagine a world where you get to not be a “computer person.”  Imagine a world where there is a concept called “computer person.”  Today that is just a person.  

 These essays are about Daum’s experience of being in her late twenties and her life not having worked out as she planned.  (Whose life has worked out as planned?  Only the most extreme sociopaths, and maybe Taylor Swift, I would say). 

The extract is from the first essay, which is about the time she had an online romance, and is probably the best in the book.  This is not so much for thoughts on these “Web sites,” about which she indeed has not much idea, but about what it is that makes romance so painful:

Of all the troubling details of this story, the one that bothers me most is the way I slurped up his attention like some kind of dying animal.  My addiction to PFSlider’s messages indicated a monstrous narcissism.  But it also revealed a subtler desire that I didn’t fully understand at the time. My need to experience an old-fashioned kind of courtship was stronger than I had ever imagined.  For the first time in my life, I was not involved in a protracted ‘hang-out’ that would lead to a quasi-romance. 

The other good essay was about her $70,000 debt.  This is largely from her choice to get a graduate education in that most remunerative of fields, creative writing

And even though I was having a great time and becoming a better writer, the truth was that the year I entered graduate school was the year I stopped making decisions that were appropriate for my situation and began making a rich person’s decisions. 

She blames this on knowing too many rich people.  I can vouch that this is a problem.

. . . my years at Vassar did more than expand my intellect.  They expanded my sense of entitlement so much that, by the end, I had no ability to separate myself from the many extremely wealthy people I encountered there.  . . . Self-entitlement is a quality that has gotten a  bad name for itself and yet, in my opinion, it’s one of the best things a student can get out of an education.  Much of my success and happiness is a direct result of it.  But self-entitlement has also contributed to my downfall, mostly because of my inability to recognize where ambition and chutzpah end and cold, hard cash begins. 

The rest of the essays I didn’t find particularly interesting or insightful, but I admire the ambition.  Thinking that in just writing about you own ordinary life you can come up with interesting insights is a bold move. That it paid off twice in ten essays is not terrible odds.

YOUTH by Tove Ditlevsen

This memoir makes you glad for the invention of the internet.  Tove is a working class teenage girl who is moving between various depressing and menial jobs while trying to become a poet.  (Poetry obviously being the most direct route out of poverty).  

Her problem is she knows no one who is even tangentially associated with poetry or publishing, so spends her time moping around cleaning floors by day and drinking soda pop with sweaty young men by night.    The whole time I just felt like screaming : just google it!  But it is unfortunately 1945. Tim Berners-Lee won’t even be born for another ten years.

The first book in the trilogy, CHILDHOOD, was a sadder book than this one, which covers her adolescence.  Unlike most people, she was happier as a teen than as a child.  She has some money of her own and no longer has to live with her parents.  Some would call this exploiting underage labour, she calls it freedom.  Eventually she manages to connect with someone who publishes a journal, and he publishes one of her poems.  She is so thrilled that the book ends with her considering marrying him, despite him being old and fat.

I hope she doesn’t do it, but I suspect she will.  The final book in the trilogy is called a Danish word which means both poison and marriage.  Signs are not good.  I’ll report back when I get there. 

PRIESTDADDY by Patricia Lockwood

This memoir got a lot of good reviews, and it seemed like I would like it.  It tells about the author’s family, and in particular her father, who is a very eccentric Catholic priest..  Some of it was very funny.  Try this: 

(My father) seems overjoyed to see me.  Has he forgotten what I’m like?

And

When we came home later, my father was wearing his most transparent pair of boxer shorts, to show us he was angry, and drinking Bailey’s Irish cream liquer out of a miniature crystal glass, to show us his heart was broken

And

My father despises cats.  He believes them to be Democrats.  He considers them to be little mean hillary clintons covered all over with feminist legfur

Though I must comment: surely everyone knows cats are Republicans. Also, why the pretentious failure to capitalize Hillary Clinton’s name?

The book was sometimes beautiful.  Here is a night time drive in the American South: 

Through our rolled down windows we could hear the round rattle of the palms, crickets applauding, bullfrogs belching out their personal ads

But overall I found I couldn’t really connect with it.  This is partly a matter of style – it is so intensely poetic, my query would be, why not just write a poem?  Example:

Tomorrow, in that church, the songs I like best will flame out their brief lives, there and then gone, while the people hold soft and slumping candles under their chins and circles of cardboard catch the notes of hot wax.  They will return again next year.

I know some love this sort of thing, but for me, I am like: M’KAY.

But a more profound problem for me was what seemed to me a lack of heart.  Truly her family were strange and her path odd.  Her father chose to buy a guitar rather than pay for her college.  She ran away to marry a man she met on the internet back when the internet was just message boards.  And yet somehow I don’t feel I understand how she felt about any of it.  Everything is filtered through a distant ‘amusement’ which is no doubt where many people eventually get to with their families.  But for me, for a book so ‘revealing’ I didn’t think it revealed much of anything.