At the recent reading of Leopoldville in Belfast I got talking to an audience member afterwards. A man. We were halfways into the chat about the play when he realised I was its author. He was shocked. He thought that as Leopoldville has an all-male cast that it had been written by a man. I have to say I often get this reaction to my work. This is, I think, because I write a lot of male characters - and often for all-male casts. I'm told I write 'very good men' - a compliment I'm sure, but a very odd one I think. Why? Because male writers have been writing about women for centuries without the phrase 'he writes very good women' being so much as whispered. No one bats an eyelid at Chekhov's women, Shakespeare's women, Ibsen's women, Tennessee Williams' women - but many eyelids are fluttered indeed when it comes to women writing about men. And that this is so is ridiculous. Think about some of literature's greatest male characters: Heathcliff, Rochester, Darcy, Frankenstein, need I go on? All creations of the female mind. To my mind this kind of 'segregationist' thinking is actually quite revealing; it reveals the very deep sexism present not only in society but in polite society, in 'artistic' society even. To make such a comment about a women writer being 'good at men' suggests that secretly you think women should stick to writing about women, that you are surprised, that you think art comes from a site of 'gender'. I have lots of theories on the genderless imagination but will save these for some future thesis. Meanwhile, another play written by a woman for an all-male cast is currently on at the Royal Court - Laura Wade's Posh.
A new poem from me in response to the proposal to build on 98 acres of land surrounding Cuchulainn's Castle, Dundalk. It is written from the point of view of Laeg, Cuchulainn's companion and charioteer. The Folly Out from Tara, the widest road leads to a mount from where the sea can be seen beneath Mournes and Cooleys, at the edge of Ulster. This is Delga. Cú is needed for a battle today. Something about a bull and a mad queen from the West – who it seems is a friend of Ferdia. Láeg is here to deliver this troubling news. He sits in the centre of the mount, waiting for Cú to come from his shave and wash, thinks about which horses to take, for one is lame, when he is possessed by a strange fit. It is so black and dense, he thinks even a warp-spasm, the Ríastrad, could not unloose it. He sees the future: a conquest that causes his people to hide in the earth like moles, the building of a fortress around this place. The image burns in his mind the...
Ah, but they were romantic figures...see..there's always an angle a woman's creativity and skill can be lessened...I remember getting the most awful criticism for a novel I wrote as part of a creative writing course because I refused to make a male character "likable" for the male tutor - it was ok for the women to have light and shade but the guys had to be good??...odd...I'm all for writing inside any head you can occupy and best of luck with the play.
ReplyDeleteOK Rachel - am giving this some thought. The first female-created male I can think of that isn't cast in that Romantic mold is Hazel Motes from Wise Blood. But there has to be tons more. Its late - will give this some serious thought. Hope you're well.
ReplyDeleteoh and - Atticus Finch, the guys from Brokeback Mountain, Adrian Mole, Harry Potter, George Elliot's men, Sarah Hall's Cy Parks from her Electric Michaelangelo, Iris Murdoch's men - Charles Arrowby from The Sea, the Sea - that's for starters...
ReplyDeleteAdrian Mole!! HAhaha! Ok, no prize but you win!
ReplyDeleteThat was fun.
I am well, thank you. Hope you are, too.
Atticus, what a great character he is! George Eliot's men apart from Lydgate and Ladislaw! Her minor charachters are often more brilliant than the protags, though, I think.
Glad you liked Adrian, Rachel! I suddenly started to think of all the brilliant males created by female short story writers too. Some are etched in my brain - like the guys from a story called Bounty by Joyce Carol Oates. Oh, one could go on and on...
ReplyDelete