The latest unnerving hypnagogic moment: not being able to escape it.
It happened during an afternoon nap. I remember what I dreamed about, but the scariest thing was my attempt to wake up – my brain wouldn’t let me; my eyes wouldn’t open. Even when half-opened, I saw images from my dream trying to seep into reality. I groaned. Why do I feel like a total freak when writing about these things? I’m sure at least 4 out of 10 people experience the same thing, except they don’t talk about it. Yet, it was not as intense as sleep paralysis.
I just double-checked, and it’s true. I own 36 books in my room, and only one is by a female. A friend recommended Patricia Highsmith, so I bought it, but I’m not interested in reading it yet.
I was into romance and kitsch at 12 and 13, primarily reading Nicholas Sparks and Ethan Hawke. A woman’s version of love and emotion or romanticism seemed so unreal that I couldn’t build a connection or relate to what they describe; often, they were moaning about something. It wasn’t until I attended a university that I learned about feminism. It seemed interesting; de Beauvoir I liked very much. I understood her sentiments toward Sartre’s views on polygamy. But the moment we approached angry lesbian feminists, I began to shake my head. Fuck.
When you’re an angry lesbian, you believe that the world could exist without men? It reminds me of that episode of ‘Sliders’ where they arrive in a dimension that only had women. It made me cringe.
Girl power can go overboard sometimes. You’re a Christian but hate the Christian idea that we’re made of a male’s rib? Who told you to believe in the words of random disciples who all wanted a piece of the cake? Jesus didn’t write these words; neither did God, and neither did…in the name of FUCK! I personally prefer autobiographies to biographies, don’t you?
You can be angry about many things, but hating men won’t get you any further; you might as well hate humanity as a whole (like me). I don’t hate women; I just wished women were more like Amanda Palmer. Never fear to show people who you really are.
The truth is that women are evil, like the nurse Mildred who treats men like shit. And all men are evil, like Dr. Moreau, who inflicts pain on people and animals.
I kept a distance from female writers for a while. Toni Morrison didn’t grab me from scratch. I didn’t enjoy the religious implications, but I liked Jazz and The bluest eye. I just wanted to read something either transgressive or literary. Annie Proulx and Jodie Picoult were alright. I have Poppy Z. Brite on the list, too; it just puts me off that she wrote Courtney Love’s biography (being bias here).
Wait, Poppy is male.
Yeah, female writers. The only feminist book that I enjoyed reading during that module was The Stepford wives by Levin. A feminist message but brought along in a hilarious, humorous way. (Fuck Kidman’s ego in the actual film.)
Generally, I like it when women don’t overemphasise the point of being a woman. Take Pat Barker, for instance, who says, ‘I am not a sensitive lady novelist’ (I’m focussing on novels from 1990 onwards.).
Overall I can’t say I have a favourite female writer, except Mary Shelley, because Frankenstein is a masterpiece. Other than that, most write about what I don’t believe in anymore. Kathy Acker is an extreme version of Anais Nin, except that Acker is uncontrollably delirious and a lazy bitch when it comes to story structure. Her laziness is justified by the genre of her book, which is experimental fiction.
I’m not a fan of automatic writing, but I like the idea of dropping down the exact words in your head right now – no matter how weird or fucked up. It’s something you write for yourself. Unfortunately, though, it’s not suitable for your readers out there. They don’t care. If there’s one thing that I’ve learnt this year at university, it is the significance of coherence, style, form, and audience. When you’re an unpublished writer, you’re not allowed to do what you want. You have to think about your ideal reader.
In the end, it’s about delivering what you want with tact. How much I’d like to write like Acker, I won’t. I would never get published that way. I noticed that your writing is so much more effective when you hold yourself back. Delirium can be used in a better way.
Even if the female protagonist in my book doesn’t like women, it doesn’t make me a misogynist. I’ve already heard some people considering it a feminist piece, which it is not. And I will prove it to you.
Women call Hemingway a misogynist because of his detached nature. Why should a man express emotions when there are possibilities to deliver them through metaphors which are more effective and…sexier? Men without women depicts a man’s world and pride, which no woman can intrude on.
So what? Women have their own world, too. Hem is not saying or implying that he hates women. I think that’s important for female Hemingway readers to know that. Don’t you see that Tenente weeps over the death of Catherine? If you only read between the lines. Analyse what he’s doing, pay attention to the weather.
There are again two unpublished blog posts, and this was supposed to be one, too. I’m not sure if my writing is getting out of order these days.
I’m not angry or anything; people don’t think so, either. They say I should stop typing, stop reading, stop watching movies, and get laid instead. Funny. I think so, too, but I’m not doing it. I don’t know why.
Maybe I’m leading the life of a celibate? Who knows…or perhaps I’m just not like you.
“I’m ok,” I told him in my dream, “there’s just a painful wound on my scalp.” Then I opened my eyes and saw blood under my fingernails.
That’s what I’d like women to write about–washing their hands in the morning.