Addicted To Bad Ideas

I’ve been trying to formulate exactly why I was so disappointed by all the people scrambling to tear this girl’s work down (as if it had previously been up on some sort of pedestal), and this writer said it far more eloquently than I could have.

Question: is a woman not allowed to write honestly about her experiences (without having her feminist card revoked) unless she has led an absolutely exemplary life? Because that seems a bit unfair to me, and like it would exclude a lot of potentially interesting art from being made and considered. Sure, I like reading about people I’d like to emulate, but the story of a confused, messed up, self-aware, self-deprecating, amusing, growing, emotional, analytical, non-conformist, conformist person is viscerally much more exciting to me. And yes, I like reading about sex, because it has so much possibility for human drama: extreme awkwardness, extreme sadness, extreme delusion, extreme transcendence, etc. Do people expect women to write about sex? Do people expect us not to write about sex? Who cares? It’s stupid to do or not do things because you think people expect you to do/not do them. You should do things because they interest you.

And if you think there was zero craft involved, that it was merely the equivalent of a breathless twit vomiting her experiences literally onto a page: either you are lying to make a point, or you are wrong.

I’m not saying she’s the next David Foster Wallace or anything, but I’m so fucking sick of hearing people dismiss young women for a.) being young women, b.) being foolish enough to think their experiences could ever, in any context, be interesting or affecting or informative to anyone, and c.) being interested in things that have to do with sex things. Not interested in things that have to do with sex things? Don’t read about them. But don’t dismiss a huge chunk of written material wholesale based on its subject matter alone.

Okay, that’s all. Goodnight. Happy Hanukkah.