Calling Invisible Women
It’s a paperback price deal, or was. The blurb looked interesting enough — the named invisible women are my people. The ones I notice, and not many others do.
“It’s just the plight of women after a certain age. No one can see you.”
I do, but I’m — apparently — a rarity.
However, that brief synopsis about the women who, after a certain age and after children, these are the people who appear to be invisible?
Might just be a novel, but I want to make sure that I have, at least fictional, clues about how to converse with such people — my people.
“Texting was the heartbreak of all English majors.”
Really, my people.
“It was always about your anticipation of other people’s expectations.”
Snuck that in, and in its proper context, even more meaningful. More universal but in the set-up, appeals as localized phenomena. However, it seems to always be true.
Strange novel, with the idea that a number of “housewife types” start disappearing and the concept that — as their images fade — the dinner is served, clothes are washes, and dishes get done, all of the happens, just the female lead disappears.
I tend not to feel invisible — pretty much ever — but I can understand, empathically, what that must be like. I’m guilty as the next of looking through some people. It’s different when I’m seated at my table, wherever that is, yet, that’s always been such a fun vantage point for the observation of human behavior against a back-tick of stars.
Maybe a third of the way in, or perhaps a little further, I got to that point where I was reading it voraciously, wondering what was going to happen next. With little, if any real “action,” the narrative pulled me along. A little too polite in places, a small comedy of manners, at a glance.
Chick-lit? Maybe for satire-savvy older set that doesn’t respond to the title, chick-lit, which might be pejorative but isn’t intended that way.