Guilty!
I've been convicted of terrible things
Idly, I’d thought we’d moved beyond the reflex of pointing a finger at someone and shouting “Misogynist!”. That seems very 2019 to me and, I suspect, most of us are now annoyed by such theatrical accusations.
It’s one thing to find grave evidence of personal misdeeds; it’s another to suggest invented motivations for someone who’s written something you don’t like. But the Lord knows that we allow our fury to stroke our imaginations as to better make appalling the objects of our rage.
As it is, this piece of mine – one of a few in this vein, and none of which I would alter – found this response from Rebecca Starford, novelist and co-founder of lit-mag Kill Your Darlings. I’d discourage you from reading either, or even caring, but if you’ve read this far then your interest might be assumed and so I’d suggest you read both pieces before continuing…
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Okay. I’ll assume now that you’ve read both, and I’m afraid that’s as far as I go in litigating my case – it’s otherwise beneath me to engage the specious hysteria of mediocrities. I might laugh writing this, but it’s true: Let them pick my scalp for nits; let them make terrible visions of me.
The world’s a big place, and I’m happy to be in it. That is, engaged with its abundance of beauty and ugliness and with a curiosity uncommon to the grievance merchants of our culture’s wannabe gatekeepers.
And so, if you’ll forgive me, allow me to encourage you to read some or all of the following pieces – all freely available here – that I’ve recently published. I’m picking these randomly, and ignoring the ick of listing them:
A short story about an untethered astronaut.
An essay on the life and lies of Jason Molina.
A contemplation of “deep time” and “nuclear semiotics”.
A personal essay on abuse.
A profile of one of the most extraordinary athletic careers in history.
The first of a trilogy of essays on the films of Stanley Kubrick.
Another personal essay on the greasy weirdness of a real estate agent.
Choose just one, or none, to read. But each is evidence of someone excited about the world, and who has some talent for describing it. The list above is not intended to dispute the allegation of misogyny — they’re only offered because they’re good.
They make clear my seriousness and gift for this writing caper, and suggest that I’ll take for my subjects the things that excite me, and not the things that others think most important.
So go on, dear critics: go on discovering alleged sins. Keep telling us what we can and cannot think or write about — even if you don’t believe you’re doing it. Keep telling those you disagree with that they hate women. Keep searching our scalps for nits. Keep ignoring the writing.
But stop ignoring your own.
This reminds me of a unit in my literature degree where we were encouraged to run the hatchet over Harold Bloom's Western Canon and by inference the man himself. Evidently mediocrity was a worthwhile price to pay to elevate a diversity of voices.
I chose instead to argue in favour of dear Harold's position. I read a fair bit of contemporary Australian writing from a broad church of authors. Little of it stands up to the mid-century giants, warts and all.
Tbh I find your original piece and your response to the response to have a more specious, theatrical, hysterical and censoring impulse than Starford's. I was like, who exactly are these shadowy figures? What piety, precisely, is he referring to? Who has told you that you can't read Norman Mailer? Why did you write this if you didn't want anyone to engage with your ideas??
Who knew all I had to do to be an artist was snigger as I insert hysteria into a piece that with an affected weary detachment asserts the outmoded weaponisation of misogyny.
And, yeah, gatekeeping exists. It is not a new phenomenon. It should be critiqued, as should stifling orthodoxies (and the impulse to police). But your critique was vague and unsubstantiated and lacking in curiosity and generosity, and to me, as reader interested in engaging in ideas in good faith, felt more connected to feelings than to fact.