Happy International Women’s Day
As a reader of fiction, I never choose the book that I’ll be reading based from the name that’s inscribed on the book cover; neither will I ever pay attention to gender or race… these information are of no whichever use to me, for I have my own personal choosing criteria — and it’s where only after that I’ve read the book (of course if the author’s style pleases me) that I am interested to know who the writer is; eventually looking to read more of their work. And till now, I remain greatly appreciative of women’s work of fiction, for there is a gentleness, the acceptance, something more delicate and dreamy in their personal style of writing fiction, accentuated with these feminine delicate emotional attributes that unconsciously embed themselves right into their stories, and as well as the characters that make up these stories.
I do think that’s why fiction written by the feminine genre stirs that much our feelings as women, for we sense the understandment and delicate attention brought to these character’s conception. Anyway, doesn’t it take a woman to understand, or even to know what women want and secretly fantasize about – thus their stories fulfilling our (mostly I think) wildest dreams.
When I read fiction written by the female genre, I feel the strangeness that inhabits the depth of the soul of women, and of their thoughts that escape like birds out of a cage in the written form… I feel the relief from the frustrations… I feel that there is a parallel way of thinking that ties the feminine genre mind — some sort of mystery blended with delicate intentions, without austerity, carved in fine prose, without details to shake up our reading escape and fantasque dreamy mind.
In my opinion, all women, without exception, are all born with that maternal instinct encoded deep into our genotype from conception, thus this tendency to reassure, and to force characters to find that light at the end of the tunnel – to find their happy ending, one amongst our deepest feminine fantasy, alongside finding the right charming prince… Isn’t it so?
Of course, male writers write mostly about men because they are men, and where sometimes, or more than often, there seem to be a lack of further visualization and valorisation of their feminine character, say, only portraying depressed, insane, frigid, volatile, hysteric, melodramatic, or psychotic distressed gyals with no whatsoever chance of making it in a way or another (😅hope I am not over exaggerating here, but that’s what I’ve understood).
But what about women then? Are they lesser able to navigate in lagoons where their main character are the male genre? And what about the famous detective Hercule Poirot, main character written by a woman — Isn’t there something undeniable and unique in the way the character and his sidekicks are portrayed in the books; all these mysteries penned down like the remembrance and metaphor of our own feminine condition, obscured and intelligently nuanced for proper consumption… Or is it only again that mind of mine that is not on the same frequency as everybody else?🤭
Anyways, for me, there is still something—even as slightly as it may seem—that differentiate the writing style of a woman that writes from that of a man that writes fiction, and where the subtle, some elusiveness, and the sensibility of women, versus the detailed and roughness, dominate the scene and signature of both genre.
In women, I compare thee the poem I wrote recently, I take that step forward to reveal metaphorically and in the most beautiful language there is, my intimate and personal thoughts about the essence of women, because nothing compare, or ever will compare, to the feminine genre. I do think that our contributions to a balanced world are key determining factors to the smooth running of our society as the human race. Of course, nobody is perfect, and women, with all our flaws, feminine hormones going haywire, and lack of self-understanding, are more prone to afflictions of the mind than that of our consort, and to me, it’s these unconscious breadcrumbs left in between lines for the mind to escape on its own that beautifies and mystify fiction written by women.
So, what do think folks? Are we on the same page concerning the sensibility that emanates from fiction written by women?