This morning, while attempting to do anything but finals-appropriate activities, I rebegan a book by Robin McKinley. I used to believe that if I wrote anything for young adults, it would be exactly like something she wrote. I also thought that I was exactly like her heroines: I couldn't sew, I couldn't dance, my embroidery was abysmal, and I lacked seemingly all necessary feminine wiles. Somehow all her heroines got men in the end--most turned out beautiful as well.
I never doubted that I would turn out as well, that my fairy tale would come, but today I realized with surprise as I read that I had much less in common with her heroines than I had supposed. If a magical closet handed me a dress covered in jewels, I would at least try it on for size. Clumsy or not, swirling and twirling--and performing above all, appeals to me. I have sewed some awful things in my day, but I can sew (almost) in a straight line. In short, I enjoy crafts which many heroines seem to shun. I say this not to tout my own abilities but because it was a surprising realization that I no longer share my heroines' interests.
Perhaps, I muse, intellectual women writers who create female characters have a sense of apprehension about endorsing typically feminine activities, since who wants to be Better Homes and Garderns circa 1958? Now, I think, if I write something for young adults, I might try to have a heroine who is not a tomboy--since I think one can be an imperfect, dynamic, and interesting character (if I may flatter myself), and still enjoy embrodering pincushions on occasion.
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