I’m a Little Bit of Everything All Rolled Into One
Perfect Is an Utter Bore
Never been particularly interested in perfect people, especially women. Mostly because I’ve met one. At least, not one I liked. I mean, isn’t perfection an utter waste of time? Not to mention terribly boring.
You know the type… she drinks two litres of water before breakfast, remembers everyone’s birthday and has never eaten grated cheese directly from the packet.
Chipped nail polish never bothered me. I prefer women who are clever but occasionally make terrible decisions…. who are kind but not endlessly accommodating… who can hold a grudge but will still turn up at the hospital.
I like women who don’t fit neatly into the usual categories. Good wife. Bad mother. Loyal friend. Difficult woman. As though any of us can be explained by two words and a sensible pair of shoes.
Women are expected to be complicated in only the most convenient ways... vulnerable, but not needy… successful, but not intimidating… attractive, but unaware of it…honest, but never at a dinner party…yawn…
Men, on the other hand, are allowed to be complicated… a difficult man is fascinating… a difficult woman is usually told she should try yoga.
The women I’ve loved most in my life have all been gloriously imperfect… they’re funny, generous, occasionally irrational and capable of remembering something you said in 1997 with forensic accuracy.
So inevitably, when I finally wrote a novel, I filled it with complicated women. Felicity, Annika, Margot and Olivia are all loving, flawed and occasionally badly behaved, each in completely different ways.
Obviously women don’t need to be admirable all the time… but they do need to be interesting… let them be loving and jealous, generous and petty, confident and insecure… and preferably all before lunch.
Perfect may look lovely on Instagram. But complicated is where all the interesting stories begin.
