Another pretty face of a generation

Just as Gould is infuriated by all those "Scary Sadshaws," wandering around in search of baubles and boys, I find it maddening to think of grandparents around the country picking up their Times magazine, getting a load of Gould, and thinking, "So that's what that single professional city life is about! Boyfriends and blogging about them!" Maddening to think of doddering new media critics having their worst suspicions about the self-obsessed downfall of journalism confirmed by Gould's me-tastic assertion that while writing for Gawker, she found that "injecting a personal aside into a post that wasn't otherwise about me ... kept things interesting for me." Maddening to have to wonder -- Carrie Bradshaw-style -- if Gould's story would have run had she not been beautiful, and maddening to then hate oneself for having had to wonder that at all.

But perhaps most maddening is the way the buildup of critical attention to a piece like Gould's -- or to a cultural phenomenon like "SATC" -- only affirms that certain kinds of women, and only those kinds of women, are worth elevating to begin with, in part because of the delight people take in tearing them down.

Look no further than the Times' own Q&A session, in which Gould answered questions from readers. It was unclear whether these questions were selected by the paper, or cherry-picked by Gould in some kind of martyred, self-immolating frenzy; either way, the writer, who might otherwise have been celebrating her success, got bloodied. "Has this been a wakeup call for you that nobody cares about any of this? I certainly don't. I couldn't even bear to finish reading your blog (yes, it is a blog, not an article)" went one "question." Another reader "asked": "Like you, Joni Mitchell was extremely self-referential. Many people liked this at first, but they eventually grew tired of it. When she finally stopped writing about herself and turned her attention elsewhere, most people had already lost interest and moved on. Do you worry that the same thing will happen to you?"

No matter how angry you felt about Gould's piece, it was almost impossible to read the comments and not feel terrible: for her, about her, and about yourself for having even peeked. The process is exhausting, and not good for anyone, especially women who get stuck with some lame avatar they feel does not represent them, but whom they do not particularly feel like burning at the stake just for having been clever, lucky or talented enough to wind up drawing a spotlight.

We have to remember: There is nothing wrong with women writing about themselves, their youth, their indiscretions, their habits and values and personal development. Men have been writing about this stuff for thousands of years; they call it the canon.

And like their male contemporaries, a lot of this writing disappoints. When it does, there is nothing wrong with criticizing it. The thing that is wrong -- really wrong -- is when we forget that these kinds of stories are not the only ones that women have to tell.

So rather than being troubled by the fact that Gould -- or Bushnell, or Bradshaw, or whoever -- has the spotlight, why not question why so few other versions of femininity are allowed to share it?