(eventually) Embracing the sisterhood – Bookanista

I SENT MY FIRST MANUSCRIPT OUT in December 2003, when I was 14. It was a 100,000-word fantasy novel about dragons, and I explained to the lady behind the Post Office counter how I was going to be a published author. She was like, “Ooh, I’ll watch this space.”

No agent, at all, wanted to touch that manuscript. After about six months sending it to various agencies, I decided to write another novel which an agent would pick up. And when no one wanted that novel, I tried writing another, and then another. My main characters were always boys because boys were very thrilling and dynamic and multi-dimensional. Girl characters were just rubbish. In real life, as well, I felt all the girls I knew were either pathetic, like Bella Swan, or mean girls like Regina George. There was no in-between, no depth, no nuance, no girl who could possess dreams and ambitions like me. And the women I knew in my life were even worse: dull, slow, middle-aged mothers in big jeans who spent all day doing the washing up. I’d never be like that. I was neither Bella Swan nor Regina George. I was special, unique, not like the other girls, and I disdained their company. All my role models were men, all the books I loved had male protagonists and the only sports I felt were worth watching were male sports. This was my entire outlook until I was 29 and was definitely reflected in all the novels I was churning out, hoping to finally, one day, be published.

When I was 29, however, I gave birth to my son, Isa. Two of my brothers also had children around this time, so we all became first-time parents in the same 12-month period. Obviously, parenthood changes everyone, man or woman. I and my two brothers all underwent the same sleepless nights, dwindling social life and indescribable terror at the level of responsibility suddenly needed to be a parent. We all shared that and countless other first-time parent experiences; it felt natural to go through that together, as we’d had the same childhood, same upbringing, same education, same outlook that defined us.

But, I discovered, I also changed in ways that didn’t impact them at all. I don’t mean the obvious ways like being pregnant, giving birth and breastfeeding (I was ready for all that), but the hundreds of other tiny changes that happen to a woman when she becomes a mother. The quality of my hair completely changed, as did my complexion. My spatial reasoning went out of the window and I suddenly became terrified of overtaking on the M11 because it felt like the central reservation was too big. I had always been proud of my fantastic memory but, after giving birth, I couldn’t retain half as much information as I used to. At the age of twenty-two, I had passed the numerical reasoning tests to work at the Foreign Office but, after becoming a mother, I needed to use a calculator to double check 6×7. As someone who had always been very independent, I was suddenly very dependent on those around me – I couldn’t even drive to Tesco until the doctor said I was ready. My whole identity changed overnight and I felt I’d become a completely different person. My brothers hadn’t had such massive identity shifts. Though sleep-deprived and stressed, they were still who they always had been. It felt completely unfair.

I realised, in that instant, my own ignorance, my own lack of perception and internalised misogyny. It was a glass-shattering moment. I was not, as I had always thought, separate from women. I was one of them.”

Seven months after giving birth, my friend invited me to run the midnight half-marathon in Reykjavík. I did not want to do it. However, I forced myself to go. I wanted to prove my independence, to prove I was still who I always used to be. It was in a public toilet in Reykjavík, as I was expressing milk into a bottle and then pouring it down the sink, that I had a sudden realisation about women: every middle-aged mother in big jeans that I’d dismissed throughout my life had been through this, or something like it. It wasn’t unique to me. I realised, in that instant, my own ignorance, my own lack of perception and internalised misogyny. It was a glass-shattering moment, there over the sink, watching the milk swirl down the plughole. All women had an unwavering ability to adapt and survive, to be resilient. We were thrilling and dynamic and so, so multi-dimensional. I was not, as I had always thought, separate from women. I was one of them.

After Reykjavík, I started reading books and articles centred on women and I began to understand female stereotypes and how damaging these had been to my own perceptions. I thought about all the girls I had dismissed, blithely reducing them to these stereotypes, Bella Swan, Regina George, without knowing anything about them.

All my life, despite being one, I had failed to appreciate women, failed to admire them and failed to value them as role models. With this shift in outlook, my wellbeing massively improved: I have more female friends now, I have female role models, I watch female sports and I try to pass this perspective on to girls in my classroom. I feel I am part of something strong and meaningful, united, and it is a much better feeling than being a special flower, Not Like The Other Girls, all on my own.

With this new outlook, I decided to finally write a novel where the protagonists were women. Fully-fledged, actual, real-life women, nuanced and multi-dimensional. A throwaway line from my best friend during an argument with her husband (where she threatened to kill him and bury him in the woods with me as her accomplice) gave the whole story the spark it needed. And I was adamant that the main theme of the novel should be about female unity because this was message that had been so inspirational to me once I finally realised it.

Anyway, when I sent this novel out, I got an agent straight away. It’s been 22 years since I went into the Post Office with that first manuscript. I doubt that lady behind the counter is still watching this space (two decades is a long time) but I made it here eventually.

—

Marie O’Hare works as a primary school teacher, having previously worked at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on EU Policy and then taught at a high school in rural Thailand. She holds a Masters in Novel Writing from Middlesex University and regularly competes around the UK as a cross-country runner. She lives in Essex with her partner and son. I Know Where You Buried Your Husband, her debut (published) novel, is out now from Bantam and Transworld Digital in hardback, eBook and audio.
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