On Women and Creativity

Abstract

On Women and Creativity by Elizabeth Domeñe For the past three or four years, I've thought that maybe I was a writer. That is, I felt a need to express myself in writing and I liked the feeling it gave me. Then I felt aneedto touch others with my writing and sometimes I did. I liked that. Soatlast,Ibegansaying,"Iamawriter," tentatively, it's true, but saying it. It was almost as if I expected some person to come up to me and demand to know upon what basis I dared to make that claim. And now that I have made that pronouncement , I no longer write. I have all kinds of excuses. I'm too old. No one would be interested in what I have to say. I have to study Sociology. I don't have a typewriter. Idohaveatypewriter, butI'm not a good typist. I want to be perfect, therefore I am dissatisfied with imperfect efforts. Or my favorite one of all, I don't know how to put my thoughts into words. And what about being depressed? Last year, I was depressed because termites were eating my house. I've heard of writers with all kinds ofproblems, alcoholism, drugs, sex, but nothing so commonplace as termites. I thought about writing a story aboutthelittle wingedcreatures swarming over my head that day, but it didn't seem fitting somehow. Or even writing a story about the man standing in my front yard, telling me how lucky I was to have him spray my house for $584. But that was really depressing. I saw some writers on campus a few years ago. One was a poet who read us his favorite poem about running over a dead cat on the highway and how it squished. Allthewhile,hewasdrinkingfromagreen bottle of wine which he didn't offer to anyone else. I wasn't impressed but felt I shouldbe becauseeveryone else seemed excited and moved. Another time I went to see a black playwright from New York 57 who came on stage drunk and stoned and read for two hours in Spanish, telling me and two hundred more people that if we had soul, we would understand what she was saying. She was colorful and wore a featherin herhair, but as she staggered off the stage, after giving us a lecture on the rights of black women, I felt strangely disappointed. I liked Ann Beatty a little better. She is a writer who is so sought after by The New Yorker that she is duty bound (and I'm sure they pay her money, too) to give them first chance at her stories. When I saw her, she seemed to fit my idea ofwhat a writer should be like. She's slim and small with apointynose in an elf-likeface, long, straight brown hair and a soft voice. She looks real down-to-earth with her shabby jeans and plaid shirts, but still, I can't imagine her with termites or writing about them for that matter. But' after I saw her, I had a dream aboutbeingpublishedin TheNew Yorker. That's another thmg-The New Yorker. For years, before I ever thought about being a writer or becoming rich or famous or any of that stuff, I had some friends who gave me cast-off clothes and77ie New Yorker magazines. At that time, I was stuck at home with two babies who were gettinginto everything, and the only thing I was interested in reading was The NationalEnquirer ormovie magazines. I wanted fantasy or something light anyway . Ihatedthe stacksofTheNewYorker they brought me, but I didn'tknow how to say no. I didn't even realize it had short stories in it; I thought it was just an advertisement for rich people on ways to spend their money in New York. And here I am, 20 years later, trying to read the short stories in The New Yorker and giving up. I hear there are always good stories in the ones I didn'tread. But if I'm awriter, I shouldaspire to TheNew Yorker so I'll dream about getting published in a magazine that I find too boring to read. Since I'm...