On Women Writers: Proving Ourselves All Over Again

Why women have a particularly complicated relationship with their interiority.

I met up with a writer friend I admire recently, and she mentioned that one scene in my novel, On Gin Lane, really resonated with her. It’s a part about three-quarters into the story where my heroine, Everleigh, an aspiring photographer, is chatting with an Annie Liebowitz-type photog, Starling Meade, about how she doesn’t feel she’s good enough to produce anything worthwhile. Starling, another woman who is famous for her photographs, responds swiftly: “You think you’re the only one fighting, dear. Well, you listen to me, you’re gonna be fighting your whole life to get people to pay attention to your work. So you’re gonna have to toughen up, and fast.”

When I wrote that dialogue a couple of years ago, it felt natural to Starling’s character. The book is set in 1957, a time when women’s dreams were often put on hold. But my friend reminded me how relevant that insecurity remains today. After she mentioned the scene, my friend went on to say that sometimes she feels as though no matter how well she’s doing as a writer (and she’s highly successful), she’s always working to remain relevant. “Do you feel the same way?” she asked.

Of course, I did. My work is always riddled with the same doubts, the same questions of Am I good enough, even as I wrap up my third novel. But why? I’ve published two popular novels that sold well and were well-reviewed. Shouldn’t that squash any lingering doubts inside of me that I have something worthwhile to share?

Truthfully, though, it’s only upped the ante in some ways. Because now I see who is paying attention when my books come out (People mag) and who is not (The New York Times). Those types of omissions have made me question why certain editors routinely snub a large swath of books by women commercial fiction writers, a frustration raised by author Jennifer Weiner who has been ranting about this (in a good way!) since 2010 when she got in a Twitter war with literary darling Jonathan Franzen; Why did the NYT give his book so much real estate when her and other commercial novelists were written off as “women’s fiction”? The Times has tried to be more inclusive, and still...when the paper finally published a feature about bestselling author Colleen Hoover recently, a woman who occupies several spots on their bestseller list, the tone of the article was incredibly insulting, framing Hoover as a mom in a trailer park that somehow made it big.

No wonder women writers are always worrying about how to remain relevant; our work is often made to feel as though it’s irrelevant. Fluff. A beach read.

Yesterday, I was listening to a podcast called “How Do You Write” when author Peggy Orenstein (who has written nine bestselling books) opened up about how one of her biggest challenges was learning to believe she had the right to speak, that she had something to say that was worthwhile. She goes on to add: "When I was younger, I had a boyfriend and anytime he had a thought, he would turn it into an editorial. I would think: How could he think anybody cared? But he published them all the time in the Post and the Times. Then I would sit there and think: I don’t have the right to say that.”

It’s a feeling expressed by women again and again, isn’t it? Why should anyone listen to me? OR If I talk about this, I need to be an expert. Even as I type these words, I’m wondering if someone will call me out for not really knowing what I’m talking about. No, my inner voice fights back. You got this! So I push on and think about this anecdote. In journalism, we have a saying that fuels the insecurities of staff writers: “You’re only as good as your last story.” While I heard male writers say this sometimes, it was me and my fellow woman writers that bit their nails over it. Because our inner voice was always putting doubts into our minds that we belonged on the masthead, and the eery sense that we were one story away from everyone discovering we weren’t smart enough at all.

Leslie Jamison did an excellent piece in The New Yorker last week about why women, in particular, seem to suffer from imposter syndrome. There is so much to unpack in this article — def worth reading — but what’s most striking is just how pervasive feelings of “faking it” are among women across disciplines, whether it’s in publishing, law, medicine or advertising. Even Maya Angelou once said: “I have written eleven books, but each time I think, Uh-oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody, and they’re going to find me out.” (The article then turns to question whether “imposter syndrome” is a societal cop out, a way for us to explain away established systems that work to disenfranchise women and people of color.)

Regardless of that debate, I’ve always found it interesting how deserving my male colleagues believed themselves if they were offered an illustrious job, a book contract, or a pundit spot on the morning news. When offered the same things, many women I know would be plagued with worry: Am I good enough? Even when the answer is “yes, of course you are,” why do women ask the question at all?

As I write my fourth novel, I’m proving to myself one more time that I can do this. I know I’ll finish. I always finish. But as I write forward, what I’m most concerned with is that I’m getting better. I daydream about readers I’ve never met devouring my next book and thinking: What a great story. Because in my mind, I’m proving to myself, yet again, that my work is worth anyone’s time.

So I leave you with one last bit of On Gin Lane, the part that picks up after the piece of dialogue mentioned above.

Starling took her hair out of the ponytail at the nape of her neck, letting it fall around her shoulders. It turned her presence ghostly, like she might start floating. She tucked a piece behind her ear, and Everleigh could see her then, twenty-four with bright eyes, starting out in her career at a time when women didn’t dare do a man’s job.

“The prints are going to sell, Starling. Everyone will be talking about the show.”

“My agent said I need to sell at least half,” says Starling, “or I’ll never get in a city gallery. What I’m doing with their faces, Everleigh — it’s new. It could fail. It could be the end of me.”

We could all fail. But we could all succeed, too. Keep writing, friends. xo

Remember, dear readers and writers, to tell us your story in the comments. I’d love to hear if you feel similarly.