Writing a Woman—A Guy's Perspective

DAY 110 - 26/20/4 -

My fingers flashed as I typed through my novel's fourth chapter. I hit the keys in rapid succession. But then, I froze. My thumbs twiddled, like a nervous school kid's. I couldn't type any further, because a peculiar thought entered my mind. "Should I even be writing about her bosom?"

It's not as if I've never written a female character. I've written several for my theatrical plays. They were designed through stage direction, costuming and dialogue—all of which are external features. Because of this, I never worried too much about getting my characters exactly right. I knew they would ultimately be portrayed by an actress. She would bring her own mannerisms and physicality to the role. But this would not be the case with my novel. A performer wasn't going to pop out of the page. It was up to me to create a whole person, with habits, shape, and thoughts.

How am I supposed to know what a woman is thinking?

Of all the puzzles my library had, I spent the most
time solving this one of women's literature.
Maybe I figured, "If I can solve this,
I'll be able to solve my character."

Don't get me wrong. I've spent plenty of time with female friends. We mostly talk about our favorite books, movies, and memories. It's fun, but none of it helped me learn how a woman chooses her clothes, why she would want to wear makeup, and what the appeal of a dress is (especially when they don't have pockets). Also, I'm not interested in feminine anatomy. In high school, I told people, "I've read every book of the Bible twice...except for the Song of Solomon." Plain and simple, there are things about women that I never cared to know.

But if I only wrote what I felt was true rather than what is true, I'd be doing a disservice to my readers, both male and female. I wanted to design a woman's inner mind, so girls could empathize with her, and guys could get some much-requested insight. The only way to do this was for me to delve into the feminine.

Few things are more symbolically feminine than pink
flowers after a sweet summer shower.

I started with my typical approach; reading classic literature and listening to a lot of pop songs. This time, I was drawn to Louisa May Alcott's Little Women and Hikaru Utada's "Heart Station." I also spoke with my friends who lived through similar circumstances to my character. They graciously let me pick their brains; however, there was one topic that none of them knew: the art of dressmaking. It was imperative that I learn, since my character is a seamstress. It's how she expresses herself. I had to know.

I clicked through multiple flowery websites. I spent my free time watching videos on sewing tips and tricks that only "experts" knew. My search history was full of sites that I had previously only heard of in whispers: Etsy. Pinterest. Sephora. I downloaded a plethora of dress photos—diagrams of hemline lengths, bodice cuts, and different types of blouse sleeves. I kept up this research, as I continued writing. Then one day, I was walking around the mall, and I stopped. I furiously pointed at a window display and excitedly said, "That's it! That's the dress I was looking for...for her."

This was the window display. I saved the
image with a terminology reminder.

My YouTube feed slowly changed. It started when I watched a short video of Allie Beth Stuckey getting her "colors done." It was in my feed, because I watch Stuckey's Christian political commentaries. I clicked the short thinking it would be a makeup tutorial. Turns out, it was about "color seasons." I didn't know what that was, but I was intrigued. So, I watched it, and then I watched it again—and then I took an online quiz, so I too could discover my color season...for research.

According to Laurieloo I am a winter
and my palette is cool or what
is sometimes called true.

Taking that quiz must've been the cherry on top of my mountain of strawberry pancakes. It was all over for me, because shortly thereafter, my digital footprint morphed—from skate shoes to high tops. YouTube recommended titles such as, "Top 10 Tropes We're all tired of seeing in Romantasy." The ads I saw were targeted toward "start-up businesswomen" and "girls who make their own style." The kicker was the tagline: "Just like you." Things were dire. I asked meta-AI to create an image of myself, just to see what it thought I looked like. The image was blonde. (That's all I'm willing to say.) If that wasn't enough, then the magazines started arriving: Elle. Elle Decor. Wine Spectator. There were others.

According to marketing professionals, these are the
products that a "girl like me" finds interesting.

It was at that moment that I stopped being concerned about writing my character. I knew, without a doubt (or at least according to the internet) that I successfully learned how to think like a woman. I knew what it meant to "embrace soft neutrals" to create a "winter vibe." I figured out how to "get glam" and "accessorize" without "putting a dent in my pocketbook." I understood what it was to "fall to pieces" and have people say of you, "She deserves the world." Why should I worry about having to write my character showering or buying jewelry? I was beyond those quibbles! I had become a man who understood women—in as much as an unmarried man needs to know.

And ever since then, the spring blooms
look a little lovelier.

When my first batch of readers finished my manuscript, I saw the results of my labor. In their feedback, my female readers said they liked "the dressmaking talk," and "the mental battle that shaped her self-discovery." One reader said my female character was her favorite "mainly because I’m a girl," and she recognized a similar "girlhood." Yes! In addition to this, my female readers also enjoyed the book's more masculine moments. One woman said, "This story is appropriate for a wide range of ages and both genders." That comment was the seal of my success. Job well done.

Now then, can someone tell me how to convince google that I'm not a middle-aged brunette who lives in New England and looks great in flats and chenille?