I just finished Emily Gould’s And the Heart Says Whatever. Based on the reviews I was bracing myself for a cringe-fest, but it was a really enjoyable read. In fact, I’ve got to say I’m growing weary of seeing stories like hers dismissed as trivial, whining narcissism. (Maybe it’s my own fault for reading too many comments on too many online articles.)  I’m particularly tired of the complaint that “nothing happens,” as if we’ve become so desensitized to the human condition that we need explosions or a childhood rape to really engage us in a story.

It reminds me of the memoir-writing workshop Gould describes in one of her essays. The instructor asks a class of female undergrads to “look within and ask yourself this question: ‘How am I a victim?’” Which pretty much sums up what’s expected of female memoirs. You have to earn the right to tell your story with something salacious or wrenching; some sort of Oprah-ready victimhood. Well, Gould is no victim.

True, not every navel gazer has something interesting to say. And maybe it feels unfair that those arbitrarily famous navels are the gazes we’re supposed to take seriously. I can understand how this book in particular could raise some ire, seeing as Gould owes her own fame to mocking celebrities on gossip site Gawker (and seriously pissing off Jimmy Kimmel in the process). But if you can get past all that (and, okay, maybe that’s a big if), this particular Heather wrote a pretty damn good book. 

I love its bitter haiku quality. The writing is gorgeous, but Gould knows when to back off and simply let the reader take it in. Working as an editor and a blogger appears to have served her writing style well. The narrative flows by with an easy “and so it goes” tone through all the sassy pop-culture candy and subtle dips into heartbreak, seamlessly hitting bottom with melancholy grace. There are places where it seems she might be treading too lightly to avoid hitting a sore spot. There are some parts that could have benefitted from more time and perspective. But overall, it was very nicely done.

And yes, it was a bit of a navel gaze. But so what? Introspection has a wonderful way of illuminating the feelings and relationships we all struggle with, ordinary or not. These things don’t feel so trivial when they’re happening to us, and it can be so heartening to read a talented writer’s perspective on it all.

Sure, not everyone is going to relate. There are readers who will impose a Minnie Mouse voice on any woman’s narrative – Oprah-anointed victim or otherwise. So, fine. They can read something else. But what about the more thoughtful readers, some of them arguably not much different from Gould herself, who are snarking about this book too? Why are they piling on? Do they really believe that stories like these are nothing but narcissism? Or is it the voice of a cranky parent, or an old Robert-Bly-devoted writing professor, or a choir of ex-boyfriends? When and how did women learn that our non-victim stories aren’t worth telling?

And now we’ve settled into day jobs, accepting the fact that we’re nobody and don’t deserve to be anybody. So when some tattooed smarty-pants like Gould comes along, puts her rather ordinary tales out there and succeeds . . . well, that stirs something up, doesn’t it? You could call it jealousy, I suppose, although the dismissive “just jealous” phrase is misleading. Jealously is too valid and potent to diminish with a “just.” I mean – of course people are jealous! No one wants to listen to them, but everyone wants to listen to the little girl who gets to break the rules because she’s cute ‘n’ famous.

Sure, that sucks. But why be her detractor? If you smirk your way through other women’s memoirs thinking “I could have written this,” well then write it, sister! Blogspot and Open Salon are just sitting there, totally free. Don’t labor under the illusion that it will make you famous, of course, because it certainly won’t. But people will read it. Some people will even get it. And fame isn’t the point, anyway. Just . . . you know . . . get your story out there. Sort it out, relive it, reevaluate it, learn new things about yourself in its telling. Maybe in the process, you’ll realize that what Gould’s doing isn’t quite as easy and artless as it looks. There’s a lot of skill involved here. But you’re never going to hone it if you don’t first shut up and write.

I can already hear the complaints. “No, no, don’t encourage even more narcissist twits to write! The world, I tell you, it will collapse under the weight of it all!”

Well . . . no it won’t. Navel gazing may be pervasive and not always artfully done. But it’s basically harmless. You could argue that it detracts from time that would otherwise be spent curing world hunger, but I doubt that. Plenty of people split their time between do-gooding and navel gazing. (And besides, is complaining about narcissism somehow more noble than narcissism itself?)

Write and let write.