the female gaze

I've been reading about the concept of the male gaze, and finding the idea just as perverse and troubling as you might imagine.

What is the male gaze and why is it a problem? Being viewed, observed, regarded, by men, is somehow damaging to women. It's similar to the idea that a woman's virginity is her purity. If she has sex with a man, she becomes polluted. The concept of the male gaze extends this idea so that even being looked at by a man damages the woman and causes her to lose value.

I propose two truths regarding men's experience of the female gaze. 1. Men crave the female gaze;
2. Women injure men by denying them the gaze.

If you've ever been around men, you've seen men trying to earn the female gaze. How do they do it? They try to be good enough at something to earn her attention. This might include displays of humor or intelligence. Often, men display skills, especially skills that are dangerous (skateboard tricks), or skills that took a lot of practice to develop (musical expertise).

If you observe women in these situations, you'll note that many are pretty open in their disdain. They refuse to acknowledge jokes, and look off into the distance with studied ennui as the men perform dangerous stunts. According to the unwritten rules of engagement, men aren't allowed to show that this hurts. By treating men as invisible, women are able to maintain a position of power. Even a putdown from a woman is often received with gratitude. It's less painful than invisibility.

It's not necessary that the woman in question be "hot," in case that's what you're thinking. Men crave the female gaze so much that they will perform like trained monkeys for almost any woman, younger or older, skinny or chunky, pretty or plain.

So, if the female gaze is received as a valued gift, what insight does this give us about the male gaze? Is this is just the old sluts vs. players schtick, only on a less corporeal plane? Does the female gaze build up, whereas the male gaze destroys?

If you really believe all that, let's talk about how it would be if men suddenly deprived women of their gaze. How would be if men simply forced women to work for their gaze, the way women do with men?

Next time.

Last night I had a sexy dream about one of the characters from my novel. We weren't actually having intercourse, more making out and cuddling, very vivid and sensual. I woke up in total bliss, feeling like I'd been given a tremendous gift.

Is this a common experience? I've never heard of it from other writers. Maybe it happens to everyone but it's the sort of thing you're supposed to keep private.

I'm working on a novel, trying to write 1000 words and/or 2 hours per day, and I've noticed something surprising. On the days when I write, colors look brighter. On the nights after I write, the sky is a bright, jewel-toned blue, and street lights are surrounded by a misty halo.

I don't mean this figuratively. I mean that the world literally appears different, almost like an acid trip (but much less intense). I've never heard of this as a side-effect of writing.

When I was in my early twenties, I tried to write a novel. I had to stop because it gave me nightmares, horrible nightmares, about killing babies and rivers of blood and injured animals. I was terrified to go to bed. They stopped as soon as I stopped writing. I haven't had anything like that this time, thank goodness. I've had vivid dreams, but only nice ones, and the strange perception with the colors, which I absolutely love.

I listened to a podcast by John Crowley, my favorite author, today and it made me mad.

The book I love the most in the world is Crowley’s Engine Summer. It’s the story (spoiler alert) of a young man who makes a terrible sacrifice. He allows his consciousness to be trapped, forever, in a crystal ball. As Crowley explains, he is trapped like a fly in an ice cube. He is only briefly and occasionally allowed to inhabit a living person’s body in order to tell his story, but this enables an entire culture to learn a deep, meaningful method of communication. It’s a heartbreaking and lovely idea, revealed only at the end of a complex and inventive plot, when all the pieces of evidence fall together like bricks into an inevitable edifice.

So, I listened to this podcast, and Crowley was kind of dumping on Engine Summer. I had read previously that, of the books he has authored, his own favorite is Little, Big. Well, I love Little, Big, too. Not long ago, I had my daughter rolling with laughter when I did a dramatic reading of the passage where George Mouse stalks and kills the changeling. But Little, Big doesn’t pierce my heart the way Engine Summer does.

I found myself wanting to argue with Crowley. In fact, I was pretty ticked off at him. He talked about Engine Summer as if it were just a silly attempt to predict the future. No! It’s a book about the nature of humanity (both animal and angel, as Otto Rank wrote), about the connections and barriers between people, about love and sacrifice, mortality and immortality.

It was an absurd experience, feeling the urgent need to debate someone I so admire, for criticizing his own creation. Pretty silly, huh?