Last night as I was coming out of the bathroom, a spider ran across my carpeted bedroom floor. I picked up a tissue, and softly collected the insect, opening the door to my backyard and telling it farewell as I shook the tissue out. My grandma said it was bad luck to kill spiders in the house, and so I always rescue them, no matter how large and foreboding.
I’ve been killing tiny moths lately. They have invaded my home and so I kill them like it’s my part-time job, but there are no benefits despite this new freelance schedule. The place was infested when I moved in, and the extent of their presence did not become clear until after I’d fully taken up residence in the apartment. An exterminator came with his contraption and sprayed the cabinets. I still see at least two moths every day, regardless. I try to kill each one. When I’m out working, I spot black dots out of the corner of my eyes, and I think they are moths, but really, my eyes are just tired of the constant flutter. Maybe one day they will stop appearing. Maybe one day they won’t.
I walk a lot more here, since I moved from the New York City, and there are not many insects outside – it’s just turning into spring, after all, and they seem to like my house better than the fresh Pittsburgh air. I’ve been averaging about five miles a day, up and down massive hills. The other afternoon, I was quite dizzy, after having not eaten in so long, I then overdosed on sugar to make up for the lack. Here, I’ve lost weight. This doesn’t make sense to me, as I was fitter in the city, or so I thought.
New York is a swirl of feelings and confusion, and the opportunity to distract from the authentic lies around every corner. It is my history. It is where I was able to get lost and stay lost and cling to the threads of a youth that no one wants to leave behind. It’s where Peter Pan is not just a brand of peanut butter. There’s security in the youthful and reckless anonymity, and a brotherhood among the eccentric, each strange experience like another precious gem to be stored in life’s safe deposit box, or pawned for dropping funds on the next instant gratification. And if all else fails, there are copious bodegas in which you can purchase the a Mega Millions ticket or scratch card. Anything can happen in New York City; your luck can change around each and every corner. But I left because it was time to grow up and I was tired of riding that never-ending carousel, even though it was in the middle of Central Park, at the center of everything.
Something is missing despite all this hiking and moving and moth-killing. It’s not my bank account, it’s not opportunity. It’s not the chance to start over; it’s greater than that, because my numbers are never the right ones to win the jackpot. I still can’t put my finger on the ghostly sensation that somehow brought me to tears when I saw the bright lights and savage skyscrapers of New York City in an online article yesterday. Do I miss this place? Do I miss feeling so outside and yet so embraced all the time? I had memories there; how that road was where I fell one afternoon during a long run. And that’s the cafe out of which I had to dash because I had a terrible date. And this place? It’s right around the corner from my yoga studio, and where we went one evening and had much-needed wine after a particularly emotional teacher training session.
Today, I silently put spiders outside to the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, and open my back door to let in the scented night air. Maybe saving these spiders will alter my fortune. Maybe that scratch card I’ll get tomorrow with loose change in the bottom of my bag will be the one. But this evening, and on other evenings, I know, I will let a tear fall because the past is always within and without, and there really is never any going back.
Miriam Lamey is an Pittsburgh-based writer and yoga teacher. She strives to be open and attentive to the everyday, writing with vulnerability and honesty – things she also continually explores in her personal ashtanga yoga practice. She loves the discovery and adventure of being and aims to render experience via prose. Miriam’s head is also turned by thoughtful and poignant music, an excellent bottle of wine, well-crafted cocktails, delicious food, the wide outdoors, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. She is grateful to have so much support and love in her life. Her photography and insights are on Instagram under Ldym_07. Read more on her blog at www.miriamlamey.com
I was not ladylike, nor was I manly. I was something else altogether. There were so many different ways to be beautiful.
—Michael Cunningham (A Home at the End of the World)
Traditional conceptions of gender and sexuality permeate every aspect of our society and culture, affecting not only how we see the world around us, but also how we use language to communicate ideas and information. As a result, contemporary writers are often the subject of gender stereotyping, with male and female writers being associated with radically different styles. This sense that one must “perform” a gender role in order to be taken seriously causes many writers to conceal their authentic selves and passions because they fear the judgment of readers and other writers.
Yet, as Edward Abbey once famously wrote, “It is the difference between men and women, not the sameness, that creates the tension and the delight.” With this in mind, many writers today are increasingly shedding the outdated dogmas of gender and investigating their own definitions of masculinity, femininity, and the areas in between and beyond. These writers are using their poetry and prose to address cultural and social biases directly, and to help others navigate the uncharted areas of modern gender and sexuality.
A Brief Guide to Crossing the Gender Divide
Crossing the so-called gender divide is no easy feat. Womanhood, sexual orientation, and “accepted” behavior, are steeped in literature and social discourse. It can be difficult for writers to see through the haze. The advice below for writing against gender norms will help author avoid common pitfalls and create innovative works that deconstruct the dichotomies of gender and sexuality.
Avoid gendered language.
For many of us, traditional gender roles have been reinforced since childhood. As early as elementary school, we were taught to use masculine nouns and pronouns (he, him, his) when a subject’s gender was unclear or when referring to members of both sexes. This is often referred to as using the “universal he.” At the same time, female nouns and pronouns (her, she, hers) were often used to describe objects, animals, and forces of nature. This gendered language reflects and reinforces outmoded associations for both sexes, placing men in dominant roles and women in subservient ones.
By using non-gendered or gender-neutral terms, writers can create content that is accessible to both male and female readers. Examples included changing stewardess to flight attendant, freshman to first-year student, fireman to firefighter, mankind to human beings, and so on. In addition, special attention should be given when writing about sexual orientation. American transgender activist and author of the award-winning novel Stone Butch Blues, Leslie Feinberg, writes about the difficulties of lesbian and transgender life, and cautions writers about confusing sex with gender when referring to a character or the self.
By moving the emphasis away from normalized undertones of gender, sexuality, or sexual attraction, writers invite new readers and further self-reflection and imagination.
Try out new styles and aesthetics.
It’s been proven that linguistic styles differ between males and females. Women’s speech tends to be more emotionally expressive and employs more compliments and apologies. As Australian researcher Janet Holmes suggests, “Females are more attentive to the affective function of conversation and more prone to use linguistic devices that solidify relationships” (Holmes, 1993). Likewise, Leigh Ann Jasheway (2010)—humor author and columnist, writing and life coach, and part-time instructor at the University of Oregon—says women are more likely to start a sentence with a question, state preferences in their writing rather than make demands, and use apologetic language even when being decisive.
This means that while men prefer to write about an accomplishment—a battle won, a dog trained, a disease conquered—women often favor a focus on the relationships and emotional relevance of a story, such as what happens to the family left at home while the spouse is off fighting the war; what it’s like for the dog to learn to sit and stay; or how to handle the strain of caring for an ailing family member.
According to the researcher Evelyn Fox Keller (1978), objectivity and rationality are highly masculine qualities, making male writing in many cases more similar to a scientific investigation than the interior journey of women’s writing. Men also tend to use more commanding and aggressive language. Jasheway (2010) says this may explain why women are more likely to read literary fiction and self-help books, while men tend to favor history, science fiction, and political tomes.
These writing qualities, while not universal, represent how modern readers typically approach and make assumptions about a text. Rather than judge a book by its cover, readers will judge it by its author’s gender—among a host of other qualities—and respond to the text accordingly. Take for example, J.K. Rowling. She used her initials “J.K.,” because she was afraid that boys wouldn’t read her if they knew the book was authored by a woman. Other examples include: Armandine Lucile Aurore Dupin wrote novels in the 1800’s under the pseudonym George Sand and Alice Bradley Sheldon, who wrote science fiction using the pen name James Tiptree. By incorporating styles and aesthetics linked to both genders, writers can create more original and imaginative texts, which will better engage and inspire readers to overcome stereotype definitions and gender norms.
Use characters to examine gender identity.
Speaking about women’s writing, Helene Cixous, the author of “The Laugh of the Medusa,” says the following:
[W]omen must write her self: must write about women and bring women to writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their bodies—for the same reasons, by the same law, with the same fatal goal. Women must put herself into the text—as into the world and into history—by her own movement . . . I wished that that woman would write and proclaim this unique empire so that other women, other unacknowledged sovereigns, might exclaim: I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. (p. 875-876)
Cixous suggests that it is vital now, more than ever, for writers to create characters and literary voices that defy gender-based or sexual classification. Instead of painting males as dashing heroes and bloodthirsty warlords, or women as damsels in distress and emotional wrecks, writers should strive to build rounded characters that tangle with and overcome gender stereotypes. The gender of Jeanette Winterson’s narrator in Written on the Body, a romance story that examines the relationship between sex, gender, sexuality and narrative, is ambiguous. In doing so, the author challenges the notion of gender and sexuality as the foundation of identity.
A great contemporary example is New York Times bestseller and author of the Plum Series, Janet Evanovich, who does an exceptional job of finding the balance between masculine and feminine in her own writing. Her series’ protagonist, Stephanie Plum, is a bail bondswoman who performs her job with a characteristically feminine style in a male-dominated industry. Similarly, J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series was successful not only because of its suspenseful plots and high-quality writing, but also because the characters transcend stereotypes of gender and age. This is why girls, boys, men, and women alike continue to devour her books by the millions every year.
In a recent interview, Evanovich suggested her method for developing rounded, multidimensional male and female characters was to incorporate traditional masculine elements into female characters, and vice versa. This is a simple and useful method for all writers, leading to more exciting, unique characters that provoke further thought on issues of gender and sexuality.
Conclusion
By employing everything from pronouns to syntax to gender-bending protagonists, writers have the power to take a meaningful stance on what gender and sexuality mean today and in the future. Rather than suppressing our everyday struggles with masculinity, femininity, sexuality, and gender roles, we should use them to strengthen our resolve, and to show readers with similar struggles that they are not alone.
Writing Prompts:
Describe a time you were conflicted about the use of “girl” versus “woman” or “boy” versus “man” in your writing.
Write about your experience with masculine or feminine dominant language.
In what ways do the language, chapter titles, and references used show gender bias?
What are some of your favorite examples of intriguing male and female characters?
Explain how integrating style differences can make your work more inclusive of different genders and gender expressions.
Write a paragraph from the perspective of another gender. When finished, write another paragraph from the perspective of someone from the opposite gender. Are there any differences?
Cixous, H. (1976). The laugh of the medusa. (K. Cohen & P. Cohen, trans.). Signs 1:4, 875-893. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Halmstad, H. (n.d.). Gender, Sexuality and Textuality in Jeanette Winterson’s
Keller, E. F. (September 1978). Gender and science. Psychoanalysis and Contemporary Thought, 409-433.
Debbie spent 30 years as a registered nurse. She became a certified applied poetry facilitator and journal-writing instructor in 2007. She is currently a student in the Johns Hopkins Science-Medical Writing program. Her publications have appeared in Journal of Poetry Therapy, Studies in Writing: Research on Writing Approaches in Mental Health, Women on Poetry: Tips on Writing, Teaching and Publishing by Successful Women, Statement CLAS Journal, The Journal of the Colorado Language Arts Society, and Red Earth Review.
This has nothing to do with nostalgia. The day I left college I was sitting in an old English pub listening to a local musician play a cover of a song, one of those fairly uplifting tunes by a well-known band that broke up a few years ago now, you’ve probably heard it. The pub was one of the few original buildings to survive the ‘great fire’ that had gutted the same small market town it belonged to four hundred years earlier. As a matter of historical record, the fire spoke to the same kind of witness as the song itself. Melodic and melancholy, yet at the same time strangely optimistic; it conveyed a cheerful tragedy. I’d heard it before. It was June 1993 and everything was on the verge.
I suppose on the level of purely anecdotal evidence, it was pubs in the early afternoon that pointed to where the 90’s began, half a dozen moments, which briefly exuded the original charm of spontaneity. Every now and again, you’d see pictures on a wall where dark red flames would race through familiar streets and yet no one talked about the town having been all but burnt to ashes. It was as though no one wanted to admit that historic occasion might have actually had something to do with the reason we were sitting there. If it kept you amused you were in with a chance.
Occasionally you’d cast a glance at a clock on the wall that was in no way connected to your own life. The night read out loud like lines from a Baudelaire poem, When you are seventeen you aren’t really serious./One fine evening, you’ve had enough of beer and lemonade,/And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!,/You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade. Then, at some point a new face arrived at the table with a girl you ought to meet or a book you hadn’t read before and for a moment things began to look interesting. Already living on reputation, it didn’t take long for the ennui of late adolescence to express its own chemical reaction.
This has nothing to do with nostalgia. To write about the 1990’s is more like referring to a guest at a party who you only ever met the once. They never came back and you never saw them again. All you are left with are other people’s good times their memories crumbling like aspirin as they marvel at the paper cut of twenty years. Chronology was not so important as having “been ‘there'”. It wasn’t so much a lack of material as a lack of evidence, a kind of early parenthesis between the fall of the Berlin Wall in October 89 and Nirvana’s final ‘Unplugged’ performance on MTV in March 94. It was the sadness of the night River Phoenix died standing in stark contrast to the sensationalist voyeurism that accompanied the suicide of Kurt Cobain less than six months later. It was one version of the 1990’s that belonged to one particular song and bar, and another that was everything that came after.
It wasn’t a realistic decade in terms of managing expectations in many ways, merely the prelude to something bigger that never materialized. Speaking personally, there were a lot of hangovers and long stretches of study and unemployment. People claim not to forget their formative experiences, but they do and it was easy to forget in the 90’s. There was a general mood of being part of and yet not of a moment that seemed attributable to the way people drank as though they were singing quietly out of key.
I never saw the etymology of “dissipation” as one that lent itself quite literally to the idea of years disappearing, and taking you with them. In “Echoes of the Jazz Age,” F.Scott Fitzgerald paints the 1920’s as a montage of music, literature, cinema and promiscuity where, “A whole race was going hedonistic, deciding on pleasure.” However, unlike Fitzgerald in the twenties, the nineties had no official spokesperson despite the devastating intelligence of a young American comic named Bill Hicks, who in targeting the terrifying apathy and inertia advocated by mainstream popular culture, may have gone on to shape an alternative set of questions that were never answered over the following years. Hicks died in April 1994 at the age of 32 from cancer.
This has nothing to do with nostalgia. Two years later 1996 was in many ways the mythical English summer staring out into the void. After England lost to Germany in the semi final of the European Championships the communal high that had so energized the country for those first few weeks in June now turned to an atmosphere of shrill euphoric desperation. Had the decade ended there it may still have salvaged more than a sound bite, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”. The right time to ask ourselves (as the class of 93 entered our early twenties) what we intended to contribute beyond the pleasure principle. Or perhaps it was the simple opportunity to shake off what had been up to that point a warm and happy reverie.
And so the party went on. The years that followed were bright and breezy; young manufactured bands to match the new politics of Britain’s New Labor. Change was expected and cheerfully adapted to a bland political paraphrase of “signifying nothing”. Pubs were full and the newspapers colorful as ever filling our eyes with Sky Sports and the latest American blockbuster. The surreal mourning period after Princess Diana was killed, fine-tuned to the hysteria of a celebrity sing-a long funeral that an entire nation felt they simply had to be part of. Even today I am sure there exists a silent majority unable to remember a single thing, falling back on their favorite episode of Friends.
As a result, it is all but impossible to identify a general consensus as to what the 1990’s were, and what they made of their own lost and found generation. To try and summarize those ten years in the same way as Scott Fitzgerald did his own era wouldn’t capture what by way of comparison remains the lack of a genuine readership. Incrementally slipping away in stages of ever decreasing capacity, the 1990’s doesn’t allow for the same kind of self-indulgence with regards to the mistakes of its own youth as Fitzgerald’s did. The decade did not so much lose its innocence, but merely learnt to imitate the way a dull child speaks that later was so well exemplified by the conversational skills of George W Bush (with apologies to dull children everywhere).
Perhaps, in the end, it all comes down to a question of timing. Scott Fitzgerald believed it was still too soon for him to speak with any certainty about his own memories of the decade that had both made and passed him by. Perhaps for Fitzgerald, like so many others of my own generation, it was the guest who never came back that left such a bad taste in the mouth. In many ways he or she was always an amalgamation of various people met at different times. College friends and strangers, faces you never really knew as well as you’d like to tell yourself. They had something to say to you once, only now that one particular song with its happy quiet rhythm is no more. If I ever stop to think of it, it is only to smile at the thought of that small-town burning.
I am a forty year old freelance writer currently living and working in Rome. My main influences are Scott Fitzgerald, Raymond Chandler, Saki and Yann Martel. I qualified in 1999 with my M.A. in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University College and in 2004 with an MRes in Humanities from Keele University. I currently teach writing composition at John Cabot University in Rome.
Last night as I was coming out of the bathroom, a spider ran across my carpeted bedroom floor. I picked up a tissue, and softly collected the insect, opening the door to my backyard and telling it farewell as I shook the tissue out. My grandma said it was bad luck to kill spiders in the house, and so I always rescue them, no matter how large and foreboding.
