You want a somethingist critique of feminism and literary culture?

Being young and comely is a privilege. Every woman writer who trades on these assets in order to make their words known forgets this crucial fact until after publication (if they ever remember), and the system that brings them to prominence, of course, has no problem eliding it as well, what with preferences for that type being built in and all.

And yes, I am seething about this because I know that I would never get a glamour-shot layout for any memoiristic piece I wrote, unless it was explicitly about my physical being and nothing else, which, thanks, no. In more than one way it’s fine; I know my outsider status looks-wise has made me a better writer and a sharper critic, as well as someone who isn’t afraid to dig in with unpopular opinions; I’m also very glad that I didn’t even bother with the women’s-magazine industrial complex (this includes the self-consciously “alt” versions, too, although I wrote for Ms. once). But this year especially—for reasons both personal and “political” (not to mention job-related)—watching the calcification of what it means to “be a woman” or “be a man” has been very disheartening, and stories like the “Marie Calloway” tale only serve to bum me out further.

(Source: observer.com)