Twice in one month I have had two distinct conversations with male acquaintances on the theme of women and literature.
Both of these men are well-educated.
Both boast personal libraries which rival those of the small town public sort.
Both I consider peers with great insight.
Both are lovers of the English language.
Both have been known to crack open and inhale the aroma of a new hardcover.
The three of us have much in common. Except for their mild disdain for female authors.
“Congratulations on your new column, Shannon,” said one. He genuinely meant this, and I was grateful for the accolades. Then, jokingly, he added, “Here, let me give you some suggestions on books to review.”
I laughed at this, understanding the undercurrent in his one-liner. No one need give me suggestions — I have plenty to say about plenty of books. (Not that I’m always up for another great read, mind you. Ears and eyes always open and ready, hint, hint.) We chatted for a few minutes when then he said, “Seriously though, you may have more women reading your column than men.”
Huh.
What an interesting comment to add. First, I’m not sure that it matters. Second, why? Third, why would a well-read fellow say this to me? He reads. He reads book reviews. He is aware of my reading tastes and respects my literary opinion. So why the “warning” about gender specificity towards my column?
For those now concerned, let me assure you, I keep my tastes as gender-neutral as possible. I have read some zingers of brilliance by both men and women. (And, for those who may be worried this will become a chick-lit romance following—a place for me to drivel on about what latest novel has made me swoon, wait for my next review. While kind and respectful, ’tis not favorable.)
The more I thought about his statement, the more irked I became.
A few days later, a conversation of the same thread followed me over the phone lines.
I asked this respected friend if he had read a short story I was analyzing at the time: “Soon,” by Alice Munro. (Yes, the Munro who is consistently compared to Anton Chekhov for her brilliance in the short story genre.)
“No, Shannon. Honestly, I haven’t read many works by women. I tend to find their descriptions of everything long. And as a reader I feel they don’t trust my intuition and imagination. They are too descriptive, too exact,” he said.
“So, you’ve never read Alice Munro?” I asked.
“No.”
“May I ask what books you are basing this opinion upon?”
“Well, in college I remember reading ‘Mists of Avalon.’”
In college. Over 20 years ago. A science fiction series. Really, are you kidding me? So I continued my line of questioning.
“Ok, so you are basing your opinion of women writers on a science fiction book you read 20-something years ago? Um, darling, have you read much science fiction by men? Descriptors can be quite tedious picking up any book down that isle. Details and over-description tend to be the nature of the genre.”
So I become a bit irritated again, and then a bit obsessed on the whole gender divide until I realize these quandaries have nothing to do with who will read this column.
This is not a matter of gender; it’s a matter of reading examples of great contemporary literature. Please, dear readers, let’s not gauge our tastes by one science fiction book penned by a woman who likes her language flowery with fantasy.
Before I sat down to write this, I contemplated the feminist aspect, the whining aspect and the book-loving aspect. And then the small fact that I am a woman. And the small fact that my dearest literati friends are male. So, how does this work? Why am I not seething after conversations with these fellows? Well, often I am. But the conversations lend to quick wit and books we relate to. The talk shifts in vocabulary and gait and topic. It’s a pleasure to keep the pace fast and the turns sharp. However, I only now just realize that the camaraderie and nodding heads come about when we’ve all read a book written by the same man.
It is never my intention to fall into an argument on the merit of feminist literary critique, yet when these casual remarks travel my way, I have no choice to transform into a defensive theorist —
throwing out my existential-backlash-against-the-paternal-dominance- of-literature vocabulary; defending not only the merit of female authors, but my merit as a writer and reviewer. If you are going to respect my opinions, then respect what I read and why I read it. If you aren’t going to read what is written here, that is fine. But let’s agree not conclude our opinions of literature based on gender, k?
Men, if you are reading this, then pick up the following list of books before you come to me and say you tend to shy away from female authors because of the unnecessary prattle you assume is written on the pages. And please, do not feel the need to warn of a predominately female audience.
“Runaway,” Alice Munro.
“Bel Canto,” Ann Patchett.
“Middle Age: A Romance,” Joyce Carol Oates.
“Possession,” A.S. Byatt.
“Gilead,” Marilyn Robinson.
Drop me a line and let me know if the language in these stories is too gaudy for your masculine predilection. As for my two friends, I imagine they aren’t reading this column. The suggestions have already been made to them.
Best. Cheers. Be good.
Shannon Calder is a freelance writer/consultant/inspiration specialist and book reviewer. To read more go to http://postcardscalder.blogspot.com
