Jane Eaton Hamilton

"I cannot and will not cut my conscience to fit this year’s fashions.” – Lillian Hellman

My Clit Takes Umbrage

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doodle: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2014

I know, I know–writing sex is hard.  (“Hard,” um hum, yes.)  But it is, it’s difficult.  You write just a paragraph and you feel like you’ve written pages, and trying to think of both a new way and an effective way to limn sex is just daunting.  I guess Jonathan Franzen does a pretty grim job.  Madeleine Davies, writing for Jezebel, lets us in on a few doozers:

“One afternoon, as Connie described it, her excited clitoris grew to be eight inches long, a protruding pencil of tenderness with which she gently parted the lips of his penis and drove herself down to the base of its shaft.”

I guess one might hope one’s editor caught that before it hit print.

A Little Clitoris of Discernment: Jonathan Franzen Can’t Write Sex

And his sexism/classism when writing about Edith Wharton is really unparalleled.

Franzen on Edith Wharton

 

Cheryl Strayed and the double standards for women’s writing

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sketch: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2006

Women understand there’s a glass floor on which male authors walk, while women walk below on a separate tier with its own glass floor, while on a third tier down walk queer women writers and writers of colour.  But Cheryl Strayed puts it infinitely better than I could:

Is There a Double Standard for Judging Domestic Themes in Fiction?

A second link to an essay by Meg Wolitzer on the same topic:

On the Rules of Literary Fiction for Men and Women

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