Then came Oprah. In 2001, she made Franzen’s dreams of relevance come true by choosing his third novel, The Corrections, for her popular TV book club. Franzen accepted her invitation, then spent the next two weeks trashing Oprah’s taste, denigrating her viewers, fretting that her sticker on his masterpiece would keep serious, male readers away, and generally acting like such a pretentious, elitist ingrate that even Harold Bloom came forward to condemn him. Oprah rescinded her invitation, with the frosty declaration that “it was never [her] intention to make anyone uncomfortable.” Franzen issued a few limp sorry-not-sorries, and the world moved on.
In 2010, Franzen was back with a new novel. Time magazine put him on its cover beneath the headline “Great American Novelist” (never mind that Time was among the long list of institutions Franzen had sneered at in his Harper’s essay). The New York Times wrote half a dozen stories in the run-up to Freedom’s publication, posting the first of two glowing reviews online days before the book’s release, profiling the author, then writing about the public’s feelings about Franzen, behaving as if its job was to sell the book, not cover it. Some female writers were less than amused. Jodi Picoult tweeted that she wasn’t surprised to see the Times lavish ink on “another white male literary darling,” and I wrote about how, even in a world where the Times typically gave the lion’s share of its attention to men, this seemed excessive. When Lizzie Skurnick, who wrote the Sunday Magazine’s “That Should Be a Word” column, tweeted to ask what to call the Franzenfrenzy, I was working on my own book at the Truro Public Library. I dashed off, “#Franzenfreude,” without first consulting the German-to-English dictionary that I don’t have, because I never studied German (it isn’t a language that Jewish families tend to urge their children to acquire).
It turned out, of course, that the “freude” part of “schadenfreude” means “joy.” It also turned out that, in spite of my very compelling hashtag, the Times was in no hurry to relinquish its unofficial duties as Franzen’s personal publicist. Instead of pulling back, the paper doubled down, running more stories about Freedom and Franzen, even dispatching a reporter to cover Franzen’s book-release party. Her breathless account of the evening—a list of the members of “literary Elysium” who attended, descriptions of the cut of the New Yorker book editor’s dress and the “high-ceilinged rooms awash in the romantic luster of the Colonial era”—concluded with the citizens of Elysium, including Franzen’s editor, Jonathan Galassi, and Salon book critic Laura Miller, lining up to take shots at the “detractors who’ve groused at his good fortune.” The whole thing ran beneath the completely objective, not at all biased headline “In This Galaxy, One Star Shines Brightest.”
It was gross. It was bad journalism. It was completely disingenuous of the Times to report on the “good fortune” of the bright star that it had been instrumental in creating. It was also not Franzen’s fault. He’d been a jerk about popular fiction, he’d been a dick to Oprah and her readers, he’d turned up his nose at the kind of attention and praise that most writers would have killed their own mothers, or at least hobbled their pets, for. But he was just the right kind of writer (white, male) in the right place (New York City) at the right time, with the right publisher (Farrar, Straus and Giroux) to enjoy the Times’ largesse. And the great good fortune didn’t end with the newspaper. Oprah, after years of preaching that women shouldn’t go back to men who’d hurt them, made Freedom a book-club pick and invited Franzen back to her show. Franzen managed to stop insulting her long enough to collect her endorsement, and the attendant hundreds of thousands of sales that her imprimatur guaranteed, before going back to his regularly scheduled Oprah-bashing. It looked like Status Quo 1, Jealous Grousing Detractors 0.
But, in the days and weeks after the Franzenfrenzy subsided, the social-media conversation continued to simmer—about whose books were getting reviewed, and where, and by whom, and with what language; about who were the “right” writers to drive the conversation, about whether change was necessary, about whether change was possible. People kept talking. Back then, their number included Franzen himself, who acknowledged that, yes indeed, women’s books were packaged differently, and treated differently, than books by men . . . and then people started counting.
At the very end of what felt like a very, very long summer, I was having dinner at the Wicked Oyster in Wellfleet when my phone pinged. About ten people, from my agent to my editor to my sister to my mom, were e-mailing the same link, asking “Did you see this?”
“This” turned out to be a story in Slate, where a reporter had actually gone through and counted up how many men and how many women the Times had reviewed in a just-shy-of-two-years period. The news for Times defenders was not good.
Of the 545 fiction books reviewed in the Times between June 29, 2008, and August 27, 2010, 338 were written by men (or 62 percent of the total) and 207 were written by women (or 38 percent of the total). Of the 101 fiction books that received two reviews in that period (one in the newspaper during the week and one in the weekend’s Book Review), 72 were written by men and 29 were written by women.
I remember sitting in the dining room and saying, loudly enough for the sunburned, red-pants-wearing diners at neighboring tables to turn and stare, “I told you so!”
The Slate count was only the first of the damning tallies. That year, an organization of women in the arts called VIDA started counting, not just at the Times, but at a range of high-end newspapers and magazines. Its first Count, which would become an annual event, appeared in 2011. The organization used pie charts to illustrate the problem. What they found was shocking, even to me.
In 2010, the Atlantic reviewed books by 10 women and 33 men. Harper’s reviewed 21 women and 46 men. The New Yorker published articles and short stories by 163 women, 449 men. At the New York Review of Books, a whopping 88 percent—or 133 of 152 articles—were written by men. And in 2010 the New York Times Book Review reviewed 283 books by women, 584 books by men.
The numbers prompted stories and pointed headlines. “Few Female Bylines in Major Magazines,” from the Columbia Journalism Review. “Where Are the Women Writers?” in Mother Jones. “Voices Unheard: Female Bylines Still Lacking in Male-Dominated Literary Magazines” on Yahoo.com. Editors were called on to justify their pies. Some were defensive. Others were contrite. “It’s certainly been a concern for a long time among the editors here, but we’ve got to do better—it’s as simple and as stark as that,” said David Remnick of the New Yorker.
In the five years since Freedom was published, there’s been some improvement. In 2011, the Atlantic’s bylines were 28 percent female. In 2014, they were 40. The New Republic inched up from 23 to 27 percent. The New Yorker’s percentage rose from 30 to 33 percent, while Harper’s went from a dismal 23 percent to 32 percent. Best of all, from my perspective, the Times hired a (female) editor of the Book Review who seems to have effortlessly corrected its gender imbalance, and who launched a column called “The Shortlist,” which makes room, sometimes, for romance and popular fiction. Which would be great . . . if you didn’t know that the paper devotes regular columns to crime fiction and science fiction and horror, to YA and children’s books and even self-help, but still has no regular, dedicated space for romance or commercial women’s fiction.
So—baby steps. But also an example of how Twitter can at times be a force for good, a way to raise awareness, to point out a problem, to chart progress, and to cheer when things get better.
Once again, my milkshake has failed to bring even a single boy to the yard.
Tweeted February 2013
Again—still true.
In a court document, Bill Cosby says he gave drugs to women before sex.
Tweeted by the Washington Post, November 2015
I think you spelled “before he raped them” wrong.
Tweeted by me, November 2015
The “here, I fixed that for you” or “I think you spelled that wrong” trope has become a popular one on Twitter, with readers
crossing out and rewriting, offering real-time corrections of what they see as bad hot takes on everything from rape to race to whether Jerry Jones is “running” or “ruining” the Dallas Cowboys. The Cosby scandal generated dozens of the “fixed that for you” tweets and posts. Even in these enlightened times, it seems like writers and editors still struggle with the distinction between sex and sex crimes, between a man who takes a woman to bed—which is sex—and a man who takes a woman to bed after he’s laced her tea with Rohypnol—which is rape.
The Cosby case itself is an example of Twitter working right. In the Philadelphia area, we’d all heard rumors and allegations about Bill Cosby for years. Philadelphia Magazine had reported extensively on the story that Cosby had drugged and raped Andrea Constand, an assistant basketball coach at Temple . . . but the story hadn’t gained national traction. Twitter was what nailed Cosby’s coffin shut, with people retweeting jokes that comedian Hannibal Buress made about him, and people tweeting their own hilarious captions under images of Cosby grinning and mugging, after his social media team made the epic mistake of asking Twitter to “meme me!”
The Cosby story illustrates that if you’re going to be out and about and online, you’d better understand the way the wired world works. Twitter is ultimately a tool, and as is true with all tools, you can use it for good and for evil. It’s a hammer that you can use to build or tear down; a knife that can cut oppressors or turn in your hand if you’re holding it wrong. For many of my cohorts, social media isn’t optional—these days, publishers are, if not requiring, at least strongly urging their authors to engage with their reading public, and only a handful of high-end writers can decide to just skip it.
But Twitter doesn’t come with a handbook. Publishers don’t offer tutorials to their writers about what to tweet and when and how and to whom (although maybe they should). It’s trial and error—in my case, a whole lot of error, coupled with instances where I’ve tweeted first, regretted later.
When I think about my life online, I remember the scene in The Breakfast Club where Ally Sheedy’s rich, weird-girl character is asked what her parents do that’s so bad. With her eyes welling and her voice trembling, she whispers, “They ignore me.” I know how that feels.
I know what it’s like to be ignored, dismissed, written off as beneath notice, or even contempt. Maybe that’s why, whether it’s an institution or an individual, a New York Times freelancer suggesting that women sleep their way to the top, or a country-western DJ who was dismissive and rude to me, and a bunch of other accomplished women, while he fawned over a former NFL star, there’s some deep and deeply wounded part of me that cries out for justice, or at least some acknowledgment that what happened was neither fair nor kind. And so I dive into the tweet-storm, fingers flying, heart pounding, elbows up, and if I don’t end up saying something I regret, it’s a guarantee that I’ll get to hear something regrettable said about me.
Being a woman with opinions on the Internet guarantees that you’re going to be criticized, sometimes politely and thoughtfully, sometimes in ways that make you contemplate calling the cops. Speaking up gets you eye-rolls and sighs and anonymous criticism; it gets you called an attention whore and “a notorious baiter,” “strident” and “subliterary,” an “imperfect vessel” and an “unfortunate spokeswoman.” Over and over, you hear you’re just a mouthy bitch, that you’re just jealous, and that you’re no Cynthia Ozick, which is not a thing you were aware you were going for.
It’s easier to be quiet.
But here’s the thing, the one I frequently tell myself when my feelings are smarting and I can’t sleep at night. Activists aren’t here to make friends. We are here to say the things you don’t want to hear, to smack you in the face with inconvenient truths, to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, to force the world to improve. As Elie Wiesel said, “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”
In other words, if nobody says anything, nothing gets better.
Sometimes I wish I could, per Aaron Burr, tweet less, smile more. As the years have gone by, I’ve done a better job of picking and choosing, stepping back and weighing the risks versus benefits.
But sometimes, someone has to say something . . . and sometimes, if that someone has to be me, then so be it. With any luck, when I die (many, many years from now, next to my husband, in bed, with my dog curled up beside me and a large half-eaten piece of chocolate cake nearby), I hope that my obituary won’t just say “bestselling author.” I hope it will say “bestselling author and activist,” or “bestselling author who tried to do some good and leave things better.”
* * *
I. The show—nay, television!—will never top that.
II. To be fair, Dunham lives in Brooklyn, a borough where, I am fairly certain, they send cultural critics to appraise the contents of residents’ shelves, and if you’re found with an unironic copy of anything by Danielle Steele, you’re run out of town and forced to live on Staten Island.
III. Which was, by the way, the alternate title for this book.
IV. And by “most writers,” I mean “in my head.”
TLA: The Bachelor and Me
Life Lessons with The Bachelor
@jenniferweiner
“Will he look cute in wedding pictures” is a very important question to ask before making a lifelong commitment. #notreally #bachelorette
@jenniferweiner
Internet went down. I may have possibly used the word “emergency” with my provider. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
Oh, Ben. Pretty sure you can’t say, “I have traditional values” when you’re wooing four women on a reality show. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
“I feel like I’m in a fairy tale,” says Court. Yeah, I remember when Cinderella went hot tubbing, in a bikini. On national TV. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
We’re off! Whenever I say, “I need something from you” in the bathroom, it’s usually toilet paper, not declarations of love. #thebachelor
@jenniferweiner
“Nick and I talked a couple of times over text.” In 2015, that’s third base, right? #thebachelorette
@jenniferweiner
She wouldn’t let her guard go down/She joked and was the cute class clown/True love she sought, but did not get/Will she be a bachelorette?
@jenniferweiner
In other news, I keep getting older and these women just stay the same. #bachelor
Bachelor Time Can Be Family Time
@jenniferweiner
Sean’s mom’s biggest concern is that her son isn’t “absolutely sure.” Also, herpes. But she’s not talking about that. #bachelornation
@jenniferweiner
I actually want Courtney to get a hometown. I need to see what kind of parents produce that. And then not be them. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
My parents probably prayed for my husband, but in a totally different way from the Seans. More like, “God help that guy.” #bachelornation
@jenniferweiner
And the seven-year-old is now watching the #bachelor with me. I give up. Somewhere, the Tiger Mother is laughing.
@jenniferweiner
Four-year-old pulled my highest heels out of the closet, announced, “When I am on the #Bachelor program, I will wear these!” #uhoh
@jenniferweiner
Emily tells Brad being a parent’s not all fun and games. Word. Sometimes the kids need you when you’re trying to watch the #bachelor.
@jenniferweiner
“This lady is a crybaby!”—my eight-year-old. Hard to refute. #bachelorette
@jenniferweiner
Just accused the four-year-old of “not being here for the right reasons.” #bachelor
On Fashion and Grooming
@jenniferweiner
Jade’s face says “I am so, so sad.” Jade’s chest says, “Hello, world!” #thebachelor
@jenniferweiner
Sean wonders if Catherine can settle down and start a family. Her mouth say yes. Her nose piercing says, “I’m outta here.” #bachelornation
@jenniferweiner
And Lindsay has TAKEN OFF HER SHOES. Because Sean NO LONGER DESERVES HER in heels. #bachelornation
@jenniferweiner
Brad and his Stubble of Difficult Decisions has arrived. Here we go! #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
Serious q: do the #bachelor ladies do their own makeup? I imagine Emily in the bathroom with a spraygun set to Disney Princess. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
Anyone else having a hard time taking seriously the declarations of a woman who appears to have forgotten to put on pants? #bachelorette
@jenniferweiner
Weatherman in a banana hammock: cloudy with a chance of shame. #bachelorette
The Bachelor Only Gets Better with Cocktails
@jenniferweiner
So the shocking outtake is that Em spilled wine and cursed. Scandal! Or as it’s known in my house, Tuesday. #bachelorette
@jenniferweiner
Anyone else wonder how he can keep all their names straight? I get my kids mixed up after half a beer. #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
Drink every time someone says “journey,” “chemistry” or “fairy tale.” Or Jake shows his abs! #bachelor
@jenniferweiner
Ben and Lindzi slide deep into a gorge. Yeah, that means sex. I’m drinking. #bachelor
Spelling and Grammar, Bachelor-Style
Hungry Heart Page 31