Neil Gaiman and the Issue with "Men Writing Women" Discourse

Can men write women well? And what does that say about them?

I didn’t know what to say when I heard about Neil Gaiman. Last summer, when I first heard the author my early-twenties self had once called “my favorite man” was being accused of assault, I believed it, though I didn’t want to. I was sorry to hear that even this paragon — feminist, defender of trans rights, humanitarian fundraiser, avuncular Tumblr figure — was ultimately an asshole, like many other male authors whose work I’d enjoyed.

But this past month we learned that Gaiman’s actions went far beyond typical male author assholery. I won’t speak more on the subject, other than advising you to check out the Vulture article on him if you haven’t, or Google the details if you’d prefer to avoid triggers. Most triggers will be covered therein; Gaiman enacted nearly every possible horror upon young women who, like me, thought he was one of the good ones. I was shocked, but I can’t say I felt bereft in the world, or took to my bed with grief; the part of me that trusted certain male artists implicitly has withered away over the years. We have all had too many disappointments.

However, there was one element of the discussion around Gaiman’s fall from grace that got me thinking: the women characters in his work. On discussion boards (mostly on Reddit), I saw people were rereading Gaiman’s work and reevaluating characters like Laura in American Gods and Calliope, Wanda, and Rose¹ in The Sandman. To some, the violence these characters suffered and the way their bodies were sexualized felt much more uncomfortable in light of Gaiman’s real character. Some even went so far as to say that we should have known: that Gaiman’s writing should have told us exactly who he was, and that they were either foolish not to have seen it, or that they had seen it all along.

It’s interesting to see this narrative being rewritten in real time, because Gaiman was often cited as a good writer of women in the past, or at least, a man who meant well even if he didn’t always get it right. Of course, not everyone shared that opinion. I’ve thought a lot recently of one of my college classmates, who, when we read Stardust for a fairy tales class, complained about too many mentions of women’s breasts. I said, sure, but he’s not like that in real life!

I feel bad now for handwaving her concerns, and there is plenty to be criticized in some of these characters (American Gods’s Laura is pretty much just a vindictive plot device; I loved the book, but I can admit that). But all this conversation on whether or not we should have known about Gaiman because of his works has led me to some larger questions. Is there some sort of line dividing Writing Women Well and Writing Women Badly, and does every male author sit firmly on one side or the other? And, further, can we accurately judge how a man treats women from the way he writes women characters? Should we even try?

The first question, to me, is the easiest to answer, because I rarely believe in hard lines of any kind. When I ask the question “Can men write women?", I am asking if they can write women as complex human beings, WITHOUT:

• Unnecessarily sexualizing them

• Condescending to them

• Idealizing them

• Demonizing them

When I consider the male authors whose work I personally like, they tend to be good at avoiding at least one of these criteria. But they are rarely able to avoid all of them. For example, Leo Tolstoy is often praised for his ability to write empathetic and complex women characters, and, having recently finished War and Peace, I agree that he did. However, he does still have this tendency to put them into Madonna-whore boxes², and it’s clear he believed in the gender roles of his time. The other side of this coin is George R. R. Martin, who is absolutely brilliant at female character complexity and doesn’t condescend. However, he also tends to sexualize his women in a way that is not necessarily upheld by the text, but can feel gratuitous.³

Then there’s Charles Dickens, who’s an unusual case because he is often said to be bad at writing women. Which he is, except for the ones that are truly some of the greatest literary women OF ALL TIME (Betsey Trotwood! Miss Havisham!). The rule here seems to be that if you’re a female love interest, you are a beautiful, doll-like⁴ servant to the male character, and that is all. Once you get old and escape that fate, you can be as arresting and mercurial and bursting with personality as you want. Just be prepared for no man to want you — so much so that it may even become an intrinsic facet of your personality.

Junot Diaz comes to mind most of all, because his situation is much like Gaiman’s (except the severity: much less). His writing contains misogyny, gobs of it, but whether it is misogynist itself is a different question (which some would still answer yes to). In all of his books, Diaz utilizes a narrator, Yunior, that is pretty clearly an exaggerated stand-in for himself. The character is self-aware enough to know that his behavior is destructive, misogynistic, and culturally reinforced, but is he strong enough to do anything about it? He views the women around him as people, certainly, and the machismo he lives out so thoroughly is not working for him, per se, but this knowledge doesn’t seem to carry over into change.

The second question, whether the way men write women necessarily carries over into their personal lives, is trickier. I think to some extent, this is often true. Tolstoy was at best benevolently sexist to his wife, and at worst downright disrespectful, and Dickens was similar (honestly, probably worse). And, of course, there are the Junot Diaz allegations. (Diaz published a confessional essay in The New Yorker describing his assault experience as a child and the effects it had on his relationships; it was self-aware and often moving, but its timing of release shortly before multiple allegations of harassment came out against him was a little too convenient.⁵)

But where it gets murky is with men-writing-women authors who in real life are pretty okay. John Green, for example, definitely seems to like women in real life, and seems to be very happily married. I believe he’s doing his best to write his female characters well, but opinions certainly differ as to how well he does it. Complaints of manic-pixie-dream-girl-ism are often lodged, and are often true. Then there’s Kurt Vonnegut; I worked at the Kurt Vonnegut Museum in Indianapolis (yes, coolest job ever), and I am the first to tell you he is known for his progressive and anti-war politics, for a tendency towards crankiness and altruism⁶ , and for not doing a stellar job of writing women. He was not quite a model husband to his first wife, Jane, though he was an excellent friend to her after their divorce.

The absolute best male writer of women, according to me, is Terry Pratchett, may he rest in peace, or perhaps chaos, whichever he prefers. I am loath to criticize Sir Terry in any way, and I do concur that among male writers, his women characters are some of the finest: rarely sexualized, all multifaceted, and generally speaking people first and women second. Even he, however, is not perfect! I always felt the female love interest in Dodger was mostly there to be a sexy enigma.

It feels good to believe that we can avoid predators in the literary world by sniffing them out through their work. But this quest is fruitless, because abusers are famously good at obscuring their manipulation, and abusive writers are even better, because their entire lives revolve around words. We won’t find solace by discovering the perfect male author, the shining gem who sees all women as they are. That person doesn’t exist, because people are flawed, and are products of their environments. It’s depressing to acknowledge that the authors we love can be jerks, but it’s even more terrifying to realize that even good men are capable of misogynistic writing, that they may not even realize they’re doing it. The patriarchy has a hand in everything. And those hands are sticky.

So I guess the answer to both of my questions is yes, and also no.

Might write about something more lighthearted next week: like adult animated TV. Or Sex and the City.

1. There are many women characters in the Sandman series, but these are the few I saw discussed most. Calliope’s story in particular has been scrutinized due to its eerie similarity to Gaiman’s true self: she is a muse held captive in a room by a male author who abuses her for the sake of his art, only to promote himself as a feminist and win adoration for it. Sound familiar?

2. At least in War and Peace; I don’t remember Anna Karenina well enough to judge (I read it years ago, on my phone, in an English translation that I am told is bad). I will say, though, that Tolstoy handles Natasha’s almost-elopement with a lot more sensitivity than some women authors do. Lydia Bennet is pitiable, but we are all but told she had it coming.

3. Yes. I know. That was the time period he was inspired by. But does there have to be quite so much gendered violence?

4. Lucie Manette, perhaps the most egregious example of this type of Dickens character, is literally called a “golden-haired doll” throughout the novel. Female readers do not tend to take kindly to this description.

5. Another thing I learned from the Vulture article was Gaiman’s family’s history with the Church of Scientology, and the abuse they subjected him to. Though not a justification for his behavior, it is horrifying.

6. As a professor who spoke at a museum event said, “Students always want to think of him as this chain-smoking prophet of doom. And I don’t. He loves people too much.”