This woman should speak her mind more often. Here’s the beginning of an essay by Erica Jong originally from Publisher’s Weekly, just showed up on Huffington Post. And here’s a link to the whole thing.
Just for the record: Fear of Flying came out when I was seventeen, and I read it almost right away. It was one of those books that changed the way I looked at the world.
Ghetto (Not) Fabulous
Jeffrey Eugenides had his moment, then Jonathan Franzen and Jonathan Safran Foer. But the chair for the Serious Novelist is rarely held for new women novelists — unless they are from India, Iran, Iraq, China or other newsworthy countries. American women novelists are more often bracketed as genre writers — in chick lit, romance, mystery or historical fiction — and quickly dismissed.
Critics have trouble taking fiction by women seriously unless they represent some distant political struggle or chic ethnicity (Arundhati Roy, Nadine Gordimer and Kiran Desai come to mind). Of course, there are exceptions, like Annie Proulx and Andrea Barrett. But they tend to write about “male” subjects: ships, cowboys, accordions. There’s Pat Barker, who gained the most respect when she began to write about war. Margaret Atwood, who is Canadian and therefore gets a longer leash than most North American writers. And Isabel Allende, a wonderful writer, who has become our token South American female.
But deep down, the same old prejudice prevails. War matters; love does not. Women are destined to be undervalued as long as we write about love. To be generous, let’s say the prejudice is unconscious. If Jane Austen were writing today, she’d probably meet the same fate and wind up in the chick lit section. Charlotte Brontë would be in romance, along with her sister Emily.