A typo in one of my poems in the Winter 2009 issue of SparkBright (warning PDF ahead) has pleased me so much that if I publish said poem in a book, I may well keep it. See if you can spot this portal of discovery.

Winter Solstice

window beaded with my sweat
hides the falling snow
which softens light, a world reset
window beaded with my sweat
won’t let me see to forget
who wouldn’t stop when I said no
window beaded with my sweat
hides the falling snow

Rented Rooms

these walls never change
the same off-white or taupe
   or sometimes lighter egg
none dare call it nude

there's dirt
the breath
           of whoever lived before
lived here I mean   these walls

             keep us apart
from quiet

           that never changes
the same gold light
through the same wet glass
same time relative
                   to dark

moves less than I have
and yet these walls I sleep beneath
read beneath   eat beneath
      & fuck    & breathe
change only
            to follow me

The Desert of Low Tide

nothing left to worship     altar broke its leg
became an ordinary chair no ordinary baby
could sit on without falling
                              o siege perilous!
the baby wasn't born
                     was never God to her
    was never a baby
                      was cells   was gone
                        she walked across the sand

to which he gave his knees & jeans
and called the sunset desolate
                               except the sun was rising

                            he demand
-ed praise
             for letting her decide

                                       he couldn't turn his head
or see beyond his heather gray hood

A Bauble to Inana

blame, blame his sword & broken dung
praise the education, the jaguar (sagging in the sacred hand)
cease to leave, raise your song, his sword & broken dung
have sacrificed the ground to ill, his sword & broken dung
have let loose the little seeds, their mud & songs that feed
so gives us words & money
we’ll write the laws & money money money
to write the laws & cause & damn & money money money
oh, we’ll endure through writing & build our tiki bars
and sing into our grave of his sword & broken dung
a bauble, bauble, Inana (to or from)

Early on in an opinion-piece about what women’s writing is and ought to be (h/t), Rachel Cusk writes:

When a woman in 2010 sits down to write, she perhaps feels rather sexless. She is inclined neither to express nor deny: she’d rather be left alone to get on with it. She might even nurture a certain hostility towards the concept of ”women’s writing”. Why should she be politicised when she doesn’t feel politicised? It may even, with her, be a point of honour to keep those politics as far from her prose as it is possible to get them.

That “perhaps” isn’t there to weaken the writing: it’s there to mark the whole passage as speculation so that she can wiggle away from providing any actual examples. She, of course, does not know what any other woman feels when she sits down to write. There are certainly, however, many contemporary writers whose writing shows a clear awareness of their being women and of the experience of womanhood. I just finished reading Kamila Shamsie’s Burnt Shadows which is at its core the story of one woman’s life from the dropping of the bomb on Nagasaki to post-9/11 New York. The novel explores storylines that follow the men she has been connected with but always returns to her situation, experience, and perspective. Then there’s Margaret Atwood, of whom Cusk surely is not unaware; could anyone account for Atwood’s work within hostility towards “women’s writing”?

So why is Cusk making such unsupported claims about women writers? Simple: she has fallen into the trap of either/or thinking and essentialism. After acknowledging that women now on occasion win literary awards, she states

But it seems to me that ”women’s writing” by nature would not seek equivalence in the male world. It would be a writing that sought to express a distinction, not deny it.

Compare this statement with what Alicia Suskin Ostriker has to say in Feminist Revision and the Bible:

The choice between “difference” and “similarity” is one of those false choices proposed by phallogocentric logic which we should reject. Women are both similar to men and different from them. Shouldn’t that be obvious to anyone who hasn’t been brainwashed. Likewise our writing both resembles and deviates from men’s writing.

Ostriker is another writer whose work clearly engages with the experience of womanhood, though given that Cusk has specifically mentioned prose and Ostriker writes poetry, perhaps her work is out of bounds for discussion. At any rate, Cusk’s either/or thinking leads directly to an essentialist definition of women’s writing:

She can look at her own body: if a woman’s body signifies anything, it is that repetition is more powerful than change. But change is more wondrous, more enjoyable. It is more pleasant to write the book of change than the book of repetition. In the book of change one is free to consider absolutely anything, except that which is eternal and unvarying. ”Women’s writing” might be another name for the book of repetition.

My body doesn’t only repeat but also changes: I have menstrual cycles and I have a different face today than I had at twenty. Repetition is important (I’m now fairly certain that Cusk doesn’t read contemporary poetry), but I don’t think my period is more powerful than the way my joys and pains begin, slowly, to mark my face. Besides which, while my body is part of my every experience and should not be denied, it is not the limit of the shapes of my experience, nor should it be the limit of my writing. (Cusk has, perhaps, conflated sex and gender.) And then one has to ask how trans women fit into this. Or women who have had hysterectomies. Cusk has no place for them.

In fact, in the end, Cusk has place only for a very narrow definition of woman:

And in my own experience as a writer, it is in the places where honesty is most required – because it is here that compromise and false consciousness and ”mystification” continue to endanger the integrity of a woman’s life – that it is most vehemently rejected. I am talking, of course, about the book of repetition, about fiction that concerns itself with what is eternal and unvarying, with domesticity and motherhood and family life. The sheer intolerance, in 2010, for these subjects is the unarguable proof that woman is on the verge of surrendering important aspects of her modern identity.

In fact, the categories of woman and mother overlap but are not identical. Domesticity and family life are anything but ahistorical. Their shapes shift as society changes and creates new demands.

Rachel Cusk is right about one thing, however: at present there is no easily identifiable “women’s writing”. She’s wrong in thinking that’s a problem. What we should be striving for instead is to have women’s writings encompassing diverse styles and subjects from which we can discover not only how we are both similar to and different from men and people who have non-binary identities but also how we are both similar to and different from each other.

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