Tuesday, September 20, 2011


I have had my chances. I have tried and tried. I have stitched life into me like a rare organ- Sylvia Plath

I sometimes get very scared that I find myself identifying so strongly with early twentieth century mild to strong female feminist authors who ended up killing themselves. Virginia Woolf walked into the sea with stones in her pocket. Sylvia Plath pushed her head into the oven. Her children were asleep in the very next room. And I am not talking about identifying with the common intention of committing suicide. It’s the suicide of a bright promising mind rather than the mundane destruction of a life.

Is being an intelligent aware woman a left handed compliment by God? You might be good enough, but destined to go through life unappreciated. It irks me when I read about aspiring women authors in the early twentieth century who sent their works to publishers under a masculine pseudonym to avoid discrimination of their works because of their gender. What really saddens me is even today I find many women not confident enough to accept their sex and whatever comes with it. The name ‘JK Rowling’ doesn’t sound like she is a woman, does it ?

I have many friends, both guys and girls alike who think girls cant be friends amongst themselves. One of them was a girl I was on very good terms with. Listening to her, I felt like a metaphorical Sylvia Plath on her way to the oven in the kitchen. If I cant prove by example, I wonder what other method is convincing enough.

Answers, anyone?

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