Several weeks back, as I was preparing to head to the stores, I received an unexpected voice note from a companion. She had some devastating news to share. As I processed this, I left my apartment block, barely aware that I had moved outdoors. That was until I heard a familiar yell from a man across the road: “Smile, luv, it could be worse.”
Over time, I’ve been on the receiving end of unsolicited sexual comments made publically. I’ve been exposed to flashes on public transport, and a shocking instance even transpired one time when I was at the chemist, illness-ridden nearly to distraction; it took me over a seemly long instance to grasp what was happening.
On one occasion, I drifted off at an airport to wake to the startling sight of a middle-aged man seated next to my head, petting my hair and whispering, his unappealingly thick lips forever etched in my memory. I could narrate numerous such instances, some far more egregious. But still, the exclamation “Smile, love” is what ignites my wrath every time.
I don’t mean to imply that this is a standard reaction, or claim to reflect every woman’s viewpoint (the misconception that one woman should represent all women is preposterous). These are merely my feelings – sentiments of a capricious woman.
The contempt I feel for this comment harks back to the notion of control and entitlement buried within it – the audacity it takes to conduct an audit on our inner lives. Additionally, the anger fed by the presumption that our emotional states should be limited to constant vivacious cheer, without space for the gamut of human emotions like despair, fury, bewilderment, and countless unnamed emotions. The fury stems from the disconcerting realisation that my inner self might reach intensities that this stranger fails to perceive. Can you believe the cheek?
I guess my heightened irritation at the “cheer up love” comment could be attributed to the current ongoing backlash against the subjective experiences of women. It’s almost inevitable, like the sun appearing each day, that I come across yet another bleak and tedious piece pointing fingers at the ill-effects of young women publishing novels and the supposed negative impact it inflicts on young men.
Interestingly, most of these pieces, typically authored by women, lump a mix of novels that share no correlation other than being authored by females, under a derogatory term such as “sad girl novels”. Instead of taking the time to dissect or even quote from these works, they deliver a misogynistic monologue, expressing their annoyance with reading about female lives. One of them bluntly ended with: “We’ve had enough. Everyone is fed up with your chaos.”
This trend of critiquing novels primarily based on the author’s identity is discrediting to the readers. Are readers generally swayed by a preference for “male narratives” or “female narratives”? Or do they seek out a review to appreciate the writer’s style? And let’s not forget, this criticism is happening against a backdrop where, in the past half-decade or so, there has been slightly more female authors than male being published. A minor anomaly in the vast history of literature. Yet, these critical pieces continue to surface.
They often quickly mention the accused female authors as being “privileged”, a term they seem to adjust as per convenience. The irony is that these critics are often themselves the product of private schools and prestigious universities. (When I chance upon these critiques, I can’t help but think: If you detest poor writing by privileged women, why don’t you refrain from it?) Their articles are often poorly written with low-quality analysis, if it exists at all.
There are those who can only relate to women when they weep, and feel so naturally moved by a crying woman that they never take the time to delve into what triggered these tears. This is yet another method of gender-based restraint and regulation.
Although attitudes towards misogyny seem to have evolved, there remains an undercurrent of this prejudice within certain literary circles. The bar, whether consciously or unconsciously, continues to be set low when it comes to the acknowledgement of this social issue. The opacity of critique within book reviews only adds to this. Claims of writerly ‘excellence’ of nominated male authors, without precise reference to the aspect of craft being hailed, barely scratch the surface of insightful commentary.
The recent outpouring of praise for the late, highly acclaimed author Edna O’Brien has highlighted the jarring disparity within this narrative. O’Brien’s insightful and incisive writing, particularly focusing on deep and profound aspects of women’s lives, and her penchant for tearing down societal taboos, earned her recognition. Yet, there’s an undermining hint at the notion that the initial misogynistic responses O’Brien’s work received have entirely evaporated over time.
Progress towards gender equality has indeed been made, but one must resist declaring erroneous victory. It remains naive to suggest that the mistreatment and disregard of women are entirely bygone issues. As progress surges, there’s a consequent capacity for regression. A poignant example can be found in the New York Times’ recollection of critics that wrote off O’Brien’s work as strictly heart-centred – a sentiment that eerily echoes in a plethora of dismissive reviews of ‘sad girl novels’, where stronger prose takes a backseat to the sentiment at play.
Take for instance the upcoming book ‘To Rest Our Minds and Bodies’ by promising author Harriet Armstrong. Her unique and candid writings about emotions, physical intimacy, and passion resonate with the work of O’Brien in a particularly delightful way. Armstrong’s confidence and respect for my work led to her ask for a cover endorsement, after having attended several of my reading sessions, a courtesy often overlooked by many male writers seeking similar opportunities. This budding writer’s potential intensifies the excitement for her debut publication, reinforcing the drive for equality within the literary world.
Rachel Connolly, a Belfast-based author, relased her debut novel, Lazy City, last year. While reading Armstrong’s book, her initial thoughts were how outstanding it was, though, she was apprehensive about how the reviewers would perceive it. Connolly’s writing style did evoke memories of esteemed authors such as JD Salinger and Italo Svevo, but she is sceptical whether reviewers will identify this connection. More likely, they would align her with other young female authors who have also recently published books.
Furthermore, Connolly was irate over the casual dismissal of women’s experiences, and the stereotypical expectation for women to cry in order to garner empathy. She asserts such behaviour is a form of gender discrimination. She recounted an incident where she retorted a male passerby with some harsh words, conscious that this might not be well-received by some audiences. She also criticized society’s refusal to delve deeper into the reasons that incite women’s emotional responses, calling it a simplistic, one-sided emotional comprehension. At times, she feels pushed beyond endurance in this ongoing compliance game with defined gender norms.