Hi, it’s me, your favorite literary non-hottie!
I was going to write a bit about the Try Guys, and the cognitive dissonance of never hearing of someone until they’re involved in a scandal (and realizing you’re in the minority for never having heard of them), plus the weirdness of being a professional “wife guy,” with a side order of ickiness over having an affair with someone who knows and continues to spend a lot of time around your partner. But then a beautiful pearl of Twitter wisdom fell from the heavens, and my plans were changed.
Beyond the fact that it’s more Blonde discourse, which has the only most measured, well thought out takes, this has so many wonderful facets to admire, just sparkling in the light like Liz Taylor’s wedding ring from Richard Burton. You have (1) a reasonably successful writer (in this case New York Times bestselling author Terese Malhoit), (2) harshly criticizing a book she clearly hasn’t actually read, while (3) throwing other women (ugly) who aren’t like her and Marilyn Monroe (beautiful) under the bus while trying to make some sort of muddled point about feminism.
After a truly spectacular comment-to-likes ratio, Malhoit did the second best thing you should do when you say something really stupid on the internet and people hand you your ass for it, and that is double down on it.
See, she wasn’t saying ugly women shouldn’t write about the pains of being an incredibly beautiful, sexy woman, just that Joyce Carol Oates specifically shouldn’t because no one has ever weighed Oates’ value according to her attractiveness (such, as say, deeming her too ugly to write about Marilyn Monroe) or sexualized her in any meaningful way.
When that, incredibly, didn’t get people to see things her way, Malhoit then chose the #1 remedy for when you’ve made a Bad Tweet™, pulling the ol’ “I was joking” card.
But you see, she’s still right, sorta.
This thread embarrassingly touched a nerve for me, partly because I hate being put in position where I feel like I need to defend Joyce Carol Oates. After a celebrated sixty year career as a novelist and essayist, rather than quietly enjoy her twilight years playing shuffleboard or birdwatching, the now 84 year-old Oates spends her days shitposting on Twitter, believing a picture of Steven Spielberg with a dinosaur was real, claiming that people who celebrate Halloween have never experienced real grief, and posting a “does this look infected to you?” picture of her injured foot (if you think I’m adding a link for that you’re out of your goddamn mind).
Though she wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine in her younger days either, Oates really does seem to come off like a joyless old crank now, and so I’m averse to having to be on her side for anything. Yet, to claim that Oates “wouldn’t know what it’s like” to be sexualized is such a breathtakingly stupid thing to say that now, here I am, pointing out that, just by nature of being a woman, Oates has been sexualized at some point in her life. Hell, I’d wager a guess it’s even happened more than once (but not more than ten times, that’s strictly for the babes).
While I’m hardly an Oates scholar, the small handful of books and short stories I’ve read by her shows that she understands very well the drawbacks and dangers of being a woman in this world — in fact, one of her short stories, “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?”, was adapted into the film Smooth Talk, in which a heartbreakingly young Laura Dern plays a teenager who’s preyed upon by a slickly charming older man. The story feels so vivid and believable that it can only come from a real life experience, so to pull this “uptight old biddies who were never hot shouldn’t write about superfoxes like Marilyn Monroe” nonsense feels like some high school mean girl bullshit, an undignified throwback to the days when you’d hear someone say with a straight face “you’re just jealous cause I’m prettier than you.”
Adding to this cacophony of caca is Bustle’s article, published the same day, about the trend of “hot girl books,” books not only written about hot girls who have lots of sex, but written by hot girls (who presumably have lots of sex) with carefully curated, Instagram friendly personas. It’s a trend because, you know, normally books are written by unfuckable nerds like Joyce Carol Oates, now finally the beautiful people are getting in on the action.
Basically, what I’m trying to say is that it’s been a heck of a couple days for getting the message loud and clear that, even when it comes to the written, unillustrated word, if you’re physically attractive somehow what you have to say is more valuable and valid that the rest of us skags and shlubs.
But I’m not bitter. Let’s do some plugs.
The week in Gena
On Kill by Kill, we bring our side project Dish by Dish to a close and discuss the last two episodes of Hannibal. I make a controversial statement over the possible future of Hannibal, Dr. Chilton is basically a head in a jar, and we bid a fond farewell to this outrageous television program.
Over at The Spool, I wrote about Ang Lee’s The Ice Storm for its 25th anniversary. If you’ve ever though “Wow, I wish I had been able to go to a key party,” watch The Ice Storm and you’ll change your mind real quick. You’ll wish you’d never heard of sex.
The week in links
Are you guys as excited for Bones & All as I am? It’s a little Let the Right One In, a little Near Dark, a little Badlands, and I’m hooked just on the trailer. I’m especially looking forward to seeing more of that smoldering, soulful hunk who stars in it. I’m speaking, of course, of Michael Stuhlbarg. What, did you think I meant Timothée Chalamet? Please, he’s like a fetus.
Sign your little Aidan or Olivia up to attend Donda Academy! Or don’t, sounds like a bad idea!
A look at the women involved in the rise of grunge rock, and its decline following the commodification and sexualization of female musicians (something, of course, Joyce Carol Oates would know nothing about)
A fascinating article about how Lon Chaney did more with just his face during the silent film era than a lot of actors can do with their entire bodies and voices now.
Bright Wall, Dark Room ran an unbelievably good article on John Carpenter’s adaptation of Stephen King’s Christine, in which a young man develops a strange relationship with his vintage car, even sexualizing it (which is, of course, a concept Joyce Carol Oates is unfamiliar with).
You know, I stand corrected, that other woman really does know what she’s talking about. F you, Joyce Carol Oates!