Unless one’s made of stone and iron, having writing a novel (Waisted) based on extreme body-shaming & how the eyes of others scorch women, must change one, yes? Pair that with compiling an anthology titled Women Under Scrutiny, and voila, the perfect storm for facing personal crucibles.

Examining ‘knowing one’s character’s crucible**’ is paramount, I tell students when teaching writing seminars; looking at my personal albatrosses is a delve I leave to my unexamined subconscious. (A dissociation at which I excel.)  Swimming on the surface personally, as my obsessions reign free in fiction, has been my specialty for quite some time.

Until Waisted.

Until faced with the bravery sixty-five women who contributed to Women Under Scrutiny.

Who wants to face the truth that lusting for cheese and chocolate, searching for the perfect curling mousse, and whether or not to wear pantyhose (will it make be look out-of-date? Do I  care? Do I care more about covering scaly legs than fashion? Am I evil for caring about either?) can rent as much space in one’s head as concern for world peace and ensuring the happiness of one’s family?

My personal struggles—ones related to the shell I show the world—seem wearyingly unimportant. Especially compared previous issues I’ve fictionalized. (Domestic homicide, traumatic brain injury, financial ruin . . .).

Who cares if I agonize over wearing a sleeveless blouse? Does my obsession with wearing make-up (or sunglasses) every time I exit my house represent a vacuous nature, growing up with a beauty-obsessed mother, or living while female? And did it matter as long as I kept the crazy under wraps?

Until I didn’t.

Writing a novel (perhaps a bit-too-honestly) about the inner thoughts of women under scrutiny (their own and others) makes it harder for me to separate church and state—fact and fiction. Suddenly I wonder why I’m so adamant about never going sleeveless outside (and barely inside)—I search the web for non-judgmental examinations of these topics that should barely matter, especially during our awful political times. I think of how I’ve fought the texture of my hair as though battling climate change. And of course, with frizzy, curly, thin, hair, every turn of the climate changes my style choices—and why do I care so much?

Which is really, I suppose, my ultimate question. Why do I care so much?

I know how my characters dealt with this. I know all the right answers—but I’m still unsure about me.

• Is this obsession with my visage going to be a life-long battle?
• Will I always wonder if Botox represents the scourge of our times or a mild panacea for mirror displeasure?
• Will the scale always make or break my day?
• And can I ever leave the house in a sleeveless dress?

Tomorrow night I’ll get together with contributors to Women Under Scrutiny (at Newtonville Books) where we’ll talk honestly and openly, I hope, about how personal can define the political. And maybe we’ll speak of sleeveless dresses and our hair. Or perhaps we’ll concentrate on how women are under siege these days.

Perhaps we’ll look at if these things are all connected. And how women can’t run in high heels.

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*I am, in fact, made up of equal parts obsession, worry & self-consciousness.

**Crucible:  1. vessel of a very refractory material (as porcelain) used for melting a substance that requires a high degree of heat 2: a severe test 3: a place or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development.