“It’s so fucking rare in my experience, to meet a man who doesn’t expect you to fit into one of those roles they create for you…” she sighed a little, knowing she could end up going on a rant at him about feminism and equality of representation. “You have to fit into either the mother, the virgin, the slut or the bitch as a category, it seems. And if they can’t figure out which you’re supposed to be, you have to fight for them to take you seriously.” She didn’t think he’d done that to her, though her memory of their initial conversations was hazy. It would shatter all her ideals to find out he was a misogynist.
Toxic masculinity. That was a whole other conversation entirely, and an appropriate to have with Ernest Hemingway, given his history. “It’s entirely boring as a reader to have a female role that’s one-dimensional, to have male ideals with their pathetic problems that would get solved if they had the balls to ask for help. Nothing can’t be solved without honest conversation and convictions. You’re not boring, this is the shit I love talking about. Honesty, integrity in writing. You get fucking nowhere without them, not fifty years ago and not now, or ever. Readers can see that superficial bullshit a mile off. The best work is honest to who you are, not what they want you to be.”
God, why did she have to be the kind of person to show every emotion on her face the second she felt it. Abi looked down for a moment just to get her head in the game, to not make an ass out of herself. “Live, huh? I think it’s still gonna be a little difficult from here, stuck on a station with an audience of maybe 80 people. Lowest book sales ever, right?” she said on a chuckle. “Might make a good book if I ever get out of here, though. Stuck on a space station with random people.”
Abi said thank you to him as he left, her stomach untensing as soon as she did. Get your shit together, Knightly.