Jessica Valenti came to my college when I was a senior, and I don’t remember her talk as much as I remember how excited I was to see her talk. I had just devoured The Purity Myth and it made me want to crush the patriarchy in ways only women studies minors know how – by attending Jessica Valenti talks in the student union, I guess?
Her writing at that time was easy stuff to digest: no means no, the world is full of double standards, women are allowed to enjoy sex, etc. I remember being a high schooler and deciding I was a feminist, pre-Tumblr, and realizing that everyone, most of my teachers included, thought the term feminist was distasteful. Writers like Valenti gave us the words to use as we set out in the world as new feminists. The culture regarding feminism has changed so much that I find it crazy that just 7 years ago, when I was graduating high school, no one I knew wanted to call themselves a feminist. Jessica Valenti, with her easy to read, conversational essays, really helped turn internet-age feminism into the mainstream.
But in Sex Object, Valenti is no longer easy to digest. Here, she writes with a stark, ugly genuineness. She writes with anger at all the harassment, insecurity, and just plain bad sex she had to experience. She doesn’t shy away from uncomfortable topics like her abortions, sexual assault, and bad relationships with men. She talks about being a new mother and how awful and lonely it felt. All of these things, the bad sex included, are facts of life for women, but we are encouraged to sugar coat them – and Valenti, her middle finger in the air like Beyoncé, refuses to sugar coat anything.
I don’t know how I feel about Elizabeth Gilbert. I never read Eat, Pray, Love, but I kind of hate all the criticism it gets from people who haven’t even read it. I admire her more recent TED talks regarding creativity, but Big Magic didn’t really inspire me like I thought it would. She has some good wisdom in these pages – stuff about how making art is work, and you have to do the work to get to the sought-after flow state that makes art look easy…but then she also has a whole lot of poorly written mumbo jumbo that made me roll my eyes.
Here’s an excerpt:
“Sometimes I’ve had to watch as other people enjoyed successes and victories that I once desired for myself.
Them’s the breaks, though.
But them’s also the beautiful mysteries.”
If that garbage got past an editor, then I guess Gilbert is right – anyone can be a writer.
My Year of Running Dangerously is not a book I’d recommend to anyone who isn’t a runner. It is basically one long training journal, detailing Tom Foreman’s training schedule as he ran a marathon, then as he immediately attempted the harrowing death-wish that is ultra marathoning. It isn’t written very well, and I found the dialogue to be especially annoying, because no one talks like that, least of all a teenaged daughter. I can’t stand memoirs where the dialogue feels like the author is writing bad fan fiction about their own life. But still, I liked it better than Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, if only for it’s refreshing lack of pretense.