http://www.slate.com/articles/arts/books...ewed_.html

summary:

Woman writes shitty book with pseudo intellectual premise. Not quite fiction, not quite person memoir, not quite...anything. Doesn't fall into a genre, WOW, thought provoking. It's been done.

Book fails to get published from male publishing agent. She finds a woman to publish it.

Well known male reviewer trashes it.

Slate article claims these, "smart, serious men" have misunderstood the book, and have "gotten in its way."

Article is written by obvious feminist, praising the book's "art".

Don't these dumb bitches realize how transparent it all is? Christ almighty, there are plenty of female authors who get published by and write books that are well reviewed by men. BUT when well known publishers and reviewers don't like a book, WELL, then they just don't understand it or they're getting in the way. It would be one thing to leave it at that, BUT to emphasize the fact that the publisher and reviewer are men...

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The first character to utter those words is Margaux Williamson (a character based on Margaux Williamson). Her friendship with Sheila (the character, not the author—not exactly, anyway) is the closest thing the story has to a driving narrative force. This is a story of girl meets girl, girl talks to girl, girl talks to girl again, girl buys same dress as girl, girl makes up with girl, and so forth. There are other friends in the constellation Heti presents, but they are dwarves to Margaux’s supergiant, at least in Sheila’s ordering of the universe. And it’s in her relationship with Margaux, a painter, that Sheila investigates, and reinvestigates, and reinvestigates, the question that obsesses her.

This reminds me of how for the modern woman, men, even supposed 'alphas,' are often just pawns. They're tools that elict better orgasms and envy from female friends.

As Esther Vilar wrote several decades ago:

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Whatever men set about to impress women with, counts for nothing in the world of women. Only another woman is of importance in her world.

Of course, a woman will always be pleased if a man turns to look at her - and if he is well dressed or drives an expensive sports car, so much the better. Her pleasure may be compared to that of a shareholder who finds that his stocks have risen. It will be a matter of complete indifference to a woman if he is attractive or looks intelligent. A shareholder is hardly likely to notice the color of his dividend checks.

But if another woman should turn to look - a rare occurrence, for her own judgment is infinitely more remorseless than that of a man - her day is made. She has achieved the impossible - the recognition, admiration, and `love' of other women.

Yes, only women exist in a woman's world. The women she meets at church, at parent-teacher meetings, or in the supermarket; the women with whom she chats over the garden fence; the women at parties or window-shopping in the more fashionable streets; those she apparently never seems to notice - these women are the measure of her success or failure. Women's standards correspond to those in other women's heads, not to those in the heads of men; it is their judgment that really counts, not that of men. A simple word of praise from another woman -and all those clumsy, inadequate male compliments fall by the wayside, for they are just praises out of the mouths of amateurs. Men really have no idea in what kind of world women live in; their hymns of praise miss all the vital points.

I read a Michel Houellebecq novel just the other day, The Elementary Particles. The remarkable thing about his novel, and good books in general, is that they are so much more honest and real than virtually any other form of media - news, magazines, film, television. It's as if all the censorial bureaucrats decided that few people read these books, or those that do are too hard to fool, so they don't even try to muck with them.

"sorry our publishing company doesn't think your book is congruent with what we usually publish and we don't think we'll make money"

her: "but i spent like soooooo much time on this book i deserve to be published. i tried to make it quirky like me! plus im a woman you have to publish it or else you are sexist. you probably just don't get it you are a man after all, men think differently than women this is bad because men don't think like we do and anyone who isn't able to act exactly like me is my enemy!"

Quote: (07-01-2012 01:12 AM)basilransom Wrote:  

Quote:Quote:

The first character to utter those words is Margaux Williamson (a character based on Margaux Williamson). Her friendship with Sheila (the character, not the author—not exactly, anyway) is the closest thing the story has to a driving narrative force. This is a story of girl meets girl, girl talks to girl, girl talks to girl again, girl buys same dress as girl, girl makes up with girl, and so forth. There are other friends in the constellation Heti presents, but they are dwarves to Margaux’s supergiant, at least in Sheila’s ordering of the universe. And it’s in her relationship with Margaux, a painter, that Sheila investigates, and reinvestigates, and reinvestigates, the question that obsesses her.

This reminds me of how for the modern woman, men, even supposed 'alphas,' are often just pawns. They're tools that elict better orgasms and envy from female friends.

As Esther Vilar wrote several decades ago:

Quote:Quote:

Whatever men set about to impress women with, counts for nothing in the world of women. Only another woman is of importance in her world.

Of course, a woman will always be pleased if a man turns to look at her - and if he is well dressed or drives an expensive sports car, so much the better. Her pleasure may be compared to that of a shareholder who finds that his stocks have risen. It will be a matter of complete indifference to a woman if he is attractive or looks intelligent. A shareholder is hardly likely to notice the color of his dividend checks.

But if another woman should turn to look - a rare occurrence, for her own judgment is infinitely more remorseless than that of a man - her day is made. She has achieved the impossible - the recognition, admiration, and `love' of other women.

Yes, only women exist in a woman's world. The women she meets at church, at parent-teacher meetings, or in the supermarket; the women with whom she chats over the garden fence; the women at parties or window-shopping in the more fashionable streets; those she apparently never seems to notice - these women are the measure of her success or failure. Women's standards correspond to those in other women's heads, not to those in the heads of men; it is their judgment that really counts, not that of men. A simple word of praise from another woman -and all those clumsy, inadequate male compliments fall by the wayside, for they are just praises out of the mouths of amateurs. Men really have no idea in what kind of world women live in; their hymns of praise miss all the vital points.

I read a Michel Houellebecq novel just the other day, The Elementary Particles. The remarkable thing about his novel, and good books in general, is that they are so much more honest and real than virtually any other form of media - news, magazines, film, television. It's as if all the censorial bureaucrats decided that few people read these books, or those that do are too hard to fool, so they don't even try to muck with them.

Can't help but feel some pseudo-lesbian undertones from that philosophy.

When I was an undergrad I spent a lot of time with budding writers.

It is amazing how these sorts of things came up regularly - girls who wanted to publish 'semi-fictionalised memoir's' despite being 18 and having done absolutely nothing of note. Or 'post-modern novels' which were post-modern because they had no plot - it was like a hamster on paper. Pages and pages of trawling on about nothing.

This in comparison to the guys who were going in ambulances and doing research trips so they could write sci-fi or medical crime. The difference was stark.

Don't even start on poetry. NEVER ask to see a girl's poetry.

Unless she's been published. By a man.

Quote: (07-01-2012 03:09 AM)Kitsune Wrote:  

When I was an undergrad I spent a lot of time with budding writers.

It is amazing how these sorts of things came up regularly - girls who wanted to publish 'semi-fictionalised memoir's' despite being 18 and having done absolutely nothing of note. Or 'post-modern novels' which were post-modern because they had no plot - it was like a hamster on paper. Pages and pages of trawling on about nothing.

This in comparison to the guys who were going in ambulances and doing research trips so they could write sci-fi or medical crime. The difference was stark.

Don't even start on poetry. NEVER ask to see a girl's poetry.

Unless she's been published. By a man.

Yeah, I had an ex who was hell bent on writing her memoir. In my head I always thought, "Hmmmm, spoiled rich girl from the east coast moves out west to....party. FASCINATING."