Occasionally as a writer you get asked to do private events where you are trotted out at a cocktail party and, with a big stack of your books behind you, you chit-chat the rich folks. It’s pretty rare that this happens to me because my books are maybe not entirely accessible to the rich folks. (Though I wish they would read them! Or at least buy them!) But I kind of love shit like this, because I will talk to anyone about anything (except when I don’t feel like talking at all, which is a whole different matter). And more often than not at events like these you tend to meet well-groomed, smart people who have interesting stories to share, and everyone makes excellent eye contact and has nice accessories and there is free (good) booze and it’s only two hours of your life and you’ve sold a stack of your books (hopefully) and then you’re done. So, no complaints here. Please invite me to your parties. I will wear lipstick and everything. I am happy to be a sell-out because it means I will have actually sold something.

Anyway! So I had one of those events recently and I met approximately twenty nice people in a row, all with varying degrees of awesomeness, and also two people in particular that I really loved who told me about their children’s book idea, and it was a pretty great idea and I would read that book myself, and I am still thinking about it today, that’s how solid that book idea was. Usually, if I’m going to be really honest here, most people’s book ideas stink, and it is the story that they don’t realize is great (because they are too close to it or whatever) which is the one they should be telling. But these people had a lovely idea and they seemed to have the exact right impetus for writing it, and they made my night in the first forty-five minutes which should have been a warning sign that something bad was coming up next. I peaked too early, obviously.

Because then a man in his sixties came up to me at my table and asked me what my books were about, and I turned and pointed to The Melting Season sort of Vanna White-style and said, “This one is about a woman –” And then he interrupted me! He said, “Oh it’s for women then.”

And I said, “Well I would like to think both men and women alike could enjoy my work. It is written from a women’s perspective to be sure, but when I sit down to write, I don’t have just a female audience in mind.”

He looked at me hazily. I do not know if he truly understood or cared to understand. He was smiling, I will tell you that. And then he said, “You know what you should do?” (This is the worst way to start a sentence ever. Unasked for advice is my FAVORITE kind of advice.) “You should just have your first initial instead of your name, and then people won’t know you’re a woman.”

Are you screaming while you’re reading this? It’s OK. You can scream. Probably you’re at work, so maybe just do it in your head.

Right, so obviously this is the most appalling thing ever, sexist and demeaning and so forth, and also, hilariously, a superfluous point because my name is already a boy’s name so why do I even need the initial?

Are you still screaming?

I don’t believe that he actually came over to talk to me with the intention of giving me shit, I just think he and I live on totally different planets. Like I believe that he is the kind of person who would like to cut arts spending and give that money to the military. And I believe he is the kind of person who is probably in a tizzy right now because there are no reasonable Republican candidates (because he would never elect a Mormon) and maybe Newt Gingrich is starting to look pretty good to him. And I believe he is the kind of person I should not get into a conversation with about Occupy Wall Street, because it will not end well. And, finally, I believe he probably does not read books, and if he does, they better not be written by women.

Another possibility is just that he was nine million years old and a doddering old fool, somebody’s senile grandpa let loose.

Another possibility: drunk.

I could get on my high horse here and talk a bit further about how wrong an idea it is that just because a book is about a woman a man cannot enjoy it. I could even turn this into a bigger discussion about the ridiculous notion of “women’s fiction,” and how when we put creative people in a box we suffocate them slowly. But I’ve had a few days to reflect on this, and I realize now that there was just no way I was going to win with a man who, when I told him The Kept Man was about the Williamsburg art scene, replied, “Williamsburg, Virginia?” Brooklyn didn’t exist for him, and women, I am guessing, barely more so.

You can still scream though. I bet he reminds you of someone you know. Doesn’t he? Your father, a politician, a horrible professor you once had. That first shitty boss. Saying you can’t do something for all the wrong reasons.

And here it is again: can you understand this story even if you’re not a woman? Can you understand it because of how much money your parents had (or didn’t have) when you were growing up? Can you understand it because your older sibling was mean to you? Can you understand it because of your race? Can you understand it because no one ever told you to believe in yourself and somehow you made it out alive? Do you trust your brains and your guts to take you wonderful places? Are you proud of your first name?

(11/16/11) | 3 Comments »