You want me to look beautiful. Wear a pretty dress. Make my hair. Stand still, looking like a fragile doll. Opening my mouth only to sing praises of you.
I know what you expect of me. A naive do-gooder who writes sentimental love stories. A girl only concerned about fashion, petty lover's quarrels and frivolous little problems.
Nothing bold.Nothing stark.Nothing that will challenge you.
I refuse to bow down to it.
I will write. About Violence. About sex. About racism. I will write about the whole weight of the world and you won't even know it. I will write.With no shame, no explanation, no excuse for my writings.
You can love my work. You can hate it, criticize it. But you are not patronizing my work with your expectation and ideals. These aren't your opinions. These are mine. I am not professing to be good. But I am not accepting yours are any better just because you have a different view.
Note-This article was written after an intense Feminism class about limitations faced by many female writers.