We have no contributing diarist this week, so we’ll have an open forum today. Our long-time friend and regular participant koosah supplied the idea for today’s topic: which author writes the least believable female characters?
Is it Ayn Rand, with her Dominique and Dagny? Is it the cardboard cutouts of Ian Fleming, who could scarcely be bothered to differentiate his female characters from each other? Their charms are summarized as follows: “She wore no makeup except lipstick.”
Reaching back into earlier centuries, would you say that Samuel Richardson with his insufferable character, Pamela, wins the crown for “least believable female character”?
I’m having a difficult time with this question because there are so many contenders. Pick the intricate orange lock below with a hairpin and follow me into the salon.
Really, I can’t decide among the randy heroines of Jane Feather’s novels—one such lady didn’t even wait 24 hours before falling into bed with her Roundhead captain, or whatever he was—or Wilbur Smith’s equally randy female characters, who, despite their strict 19th-century upbringing, apparently have never heard of unplanned pregnancy or maidenly restraint, or Judith Krantz’s heroines, whose engagement with the world begins and ends with the reflection in their own mirrors.They all make such irresistible targets, how can one possibly choose?
So let’s begin the discussion right after we chow down on this morning’s refreshments. Rendered screechless by what I saw when I stepped on the scales this morning, I’ve decided today is going to be a low-calorie day. We therefore have green tea with fresh orange or lemon slices and carrot bran muffins (sweetened only with a little brown sugar and grated orange peel, made with hardly any canola oil), spread with dark, sweet apple butter.
So tuck in and tell all! We’re waiting breathlessly!