Well. So here you are now, sitting at your writing table, alone, not allowing anybody to interfere. Are you free?
First, after this long quest, you are swimming in a terrible soup of values– for, to be safe, you had to refuse the so-called female values, which are not female but a social scheme, and had to identify with male values, which are not make but an appropriation by men– or an attribution to men– of all human values, mixed up with the anti-values of domination-violence-oppression and the like. In this mixture, where is your real identity?
Second, you are supposed to write in certain forms, preferably: I mean you feel that in certain forms you are not too much seen as a usurper. Novels. Minor poetry…
You are supposed, too, to write about certain things: house, children, love.
And of course, you don’t want to obey this social order. So you tend to react against it.
It is not easy to be genuine.
–Christine Rochefort, “Are Women Writers Still Monsters?,”quoted by Ann Rosalind Jones’s “Writing the Body: toward an understanding of l’écriture féminine”
Southern Bluestocking 