'Til Death Do Us (A)Part: Love (and Sex) In the Zombie Apocalypse

By now you’ve probably heard about David Gilmour’s comments about women writers; if not, I encourage you to read the full interview and see how much of a douche this guy really is. Not just because of what he says – “I’m not interested in teaching books by women…I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you want women writers go down the hall” – but the way he treats the female reporter who is interviewing him is quite telling. He argues with her about her job, repeatedly interrupts her, interrupts the interview to stop and talk to someone else and generally treats her like shit. He’s since apologized for his comments (it’s worth noting that in that interview he admits he’s doing so after speaking with his publisher and learning there’s now concern about his book sales), but in the course of that apology accuses the woman – who is a writer and magazine editor – of wanting to “make a little name for herself” by publishing his comments. But, you know, “there isn’t a sexist bone in my body”.

Sexism: discrimination based on gender, especially discrimination against women.

Huh. Based on the way Mr. Gilmour talks about and to women, I would say he’s pretty damn sexist. The disconnect going on in this man’s head is fascinating.

But let’s leave that aside for now, and go back to where he says “I don’t love women writer’s enough to teach them”. In his “apology” interview he tried to justify that by saying it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy writing done by women, oh no! There are some great women writers! And when pressed, he admits to loving…two.

Two.

COME ON. Here’s the thing about writers: we love to read. Love it. There isn’t a writer out there who isn’t one broken bookshelf away from a death-by-hoarding accident; from the way Gilmour talks about his book collection, he’s just like that. We can’t get enough of books, of reading new things and revisiting old favorites. We’d live and eat and sleep and fuck on our books if that wasn’t, like, weird. There’s absolutely no way you can read as vociferously as we do and only come up with two names.

Unless, of course, you just don’t read books written by women. In which case, my question would be: how is that even possible?

This is a man who teaches literature. He didn’t read and enjoy Flannery O’Connor? Daphne de Maurier? Maya Freaking Angelou? REALLY?

I’m no literary scholar. I write zombie romance, for god’s sake. And yet, when I sat down with a pen and paper I came up with 44 names. I don’t buy books based on the gender of the author; it’s not like I stacked my deck unfairly. So how is it that I came up with nearly 50 names in 10 minutes, when this dick could only come up with two? I don’t get it. I really don’t.

That’s probably my vagina’s fault.

BOOK RECOMMENDATION

Go read something written by a lady. Jean Plaidy’s Tudor Saga is awesome; so is Robin McKinley’s The Hero and The Crown. Toni Morrison’s Jazz is amazing. (“That I have loved only you, surrendered my whole self reckless to you and nobody else. That I want you to love me back and show it to me. That I love the way you hold me, how close you let me be to you. I like your fingers on and on, lifting, turning. I have watched your face for a long time now, and missed your eyes when you went away from me. Talking to you and hearing you answer – that’s the kick.” That’s ART. I mean holy shit.) I’m a huge, huge fan of Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon – it would be at the top of my “Books to Bring to a Deserted Island” list. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, Meredith Tax’s Rivington Street – all fantastic.

And they all managed to be great writers without the benefit of a penis. Imagine that.