During my birthday dinner a work colleague asked me what it felt like to write so much. This question gave me pause. Most people question me about the physical challenges of becoming Feminist Figure Girl. In previous blogs I have addressed the embodied experience of working out, considering endorphins, muscle failure, and the sensation of health, but I have not analyzed the literary side of things. And I should. Feminist Figure Girl is, after all, a writer.

In an early entry I mentioned my sore back and the tendonitis in my wrists, conditions produced by the repetitive stress of using a keyboard and mouse (the latter is now in the garbage). These bodily traces of writing were not caused by blogging; they resulted from past academic projects. These days I don’t write more than I used to; I write differently. While I continue to produce scholarly texts–I sent a book manuscript to a publisher in May, an article to an editor in July, revised a book chapter yesterday, am currently working on another that is due by the end of September, and must complete a chapter for my writing group which meets in early October–I now also blog for pleasure, potentially addressing a broader audience. I love writing this blog, and I am getting positive feedback about it. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy writing for more formal venues as well, particularly when I interpret contemporary art. I have never understood professors who dread writing or find it difficult; for me it is the best part of this career and I feel uneasy if I don’t do it on a regular (ie daily) basis. To summarize: I won’t be jumping off a ferry because I can’t finish a manuscript like John Goodman in Treme. Actually, I think he simply stepped into the Mississippi River, otherwise there would have been a noticeable splash.  Continue reading →

I sense that you are excited by the title of today’s post. Perhaps you are thinking that it refers to that special encounter you once had on a crowded bus in Rome. Or maybe you are recalling, with a certain thrill, the time you tried on a bathing suit at Filene’s basement in Boston. It was a busy Saturday afternoon in the group changing room, wasn’t it? That’s just sad really. Still, as you know I am not one to judge. While you are welcome to your memories of public indecency, I am going to write about something else: accidental intimacy at the gym. Continue reading →