by Megan Burbank
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Imagine you’re at a party, and you’re introduced to a wannabe male novelist.
Clutching a glass of whiskey, he will tell you of his plans to write the Great American Novel, and he will be serious. He will say that he always writes with bourbon, but he will not say that he lacks the discipline to meet deadlines. He will quietly fume if you have been published more than he has, because women are for adoring him, not having their own identities. He will tell you he considers himself a scholar of English literature, but not that he has never read Virginia Woolf.
He says Sylvia Plath is someone only angry women appreciate, which becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, as he does, in fact, make you angry.