Leah McLaren Strikes Back!

The Globe columnist-turned-novelist defamed the so-called blogosphere on the weekend in her Saturday allotment. She intimated that bloggers are bitter, bad writers without editors to clean them up or publishers to keep them locked up. Funny, because I often wonder about her editors…Actually, she has a point. For the most part, blogging is done to hear the sound of one’s own keyboard clicking away, seemingly indicating productivity. (I realise the terrible irony of what I have just written, but let’s just skip that step for the moment.)

I wonder if she was pissed because she found so many people don’t really like her, or at least her writing (and probably aren’t smart enough to distinguish between the two). Hey, I can sympathize with these people—the first blog I did was an effort to chronicle just how bad McLaren’s Saturday columns were. Yes, very immature, I know. To be fair to the bloggers/ haters, though, writing does often betray a good chuck of the writer’s actual personality. The problem with Leah McLaren is not that she is annoying—or, I guess to be more accurate, and somewhat charitable, the writing persona she has created for a very specific demographic (single, hipster, Toronto girls who take themselves way too seriously) is annoying—the problem is that she didn’t write very well either.

But these things take time. Her article on Special K Pilates balls was actually kind of funny—mostly because it was true, but also because it seemed like McLaren finally got that it was funny. She lost a bit of her obliviousness, or perhaps gained a little bit of tongue-in-cheek (maybe she finally got some).

A couple weekends ago, I was very surprised to read her column and find it tightly written, funny, and almost self-aware. I only noticed after I had read it that it was an excerpt from her novel. That explained the solid editing, but it also provided a reason for her recent transformation: in writing this novel about a woman in her 30s searching for man to have a baby with, she must have realised the folly of her situation, and a little bit the impetus behind why these women act this way.

Why are so many young, professional women obsessed with their image and social status (not to say that there aren’t as many men who are, but for the moment, let’s focus on the ladies)? It is a deep, instinctual drive to find a mate. That, friends, is the driving force behind why we do anything, really. So it is important for Leah McLaren (and her audience) to have the right pumps, and a mini-cooper, and a farm because all of these things put them in the category of “successful woman” that has been created, rightly or wrongly, by our society (blame it on the media, whatever, it is all built by humans and we all have the same drives). And what else does a “successful woman” have? Babies of course. So all these things make them attractive to guys. Guys, of course, well, we play our own games, but to the same effect. Bigger, stronger, flashier. Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen. Whatever works.

Leah McLaren, I believe, in writing her novel, as achieved self-awareness. I can’t say whether or not that will help her writing. There seems to be a bit of an edge to it that was lacking before the novel. Maybe it is the confidence of having the novel come out that has got her going. I can’t get inside her head. It’s just what I see from over here.

In any case, the reason, now, that Leah McLaren has chosen to rise above the bloggers may be that she has that self-awareness they don’t have. I’m trying to make this blog as self-aware as possible. It’s a hard thing to do because there are always forces driving us the power of which we don’t understand. But knowing that is at least a step in the right direction.

Still, there is an irony to her aloofness—and I’m not the one she cares about, I’m certain of that. Only recently was she engaged in a massive bitch-fest with another writer, Ryan Bigge. The deal is that a few years ago, McLaren panned Bigge’s book. This month, Bigge panned her book. Boohoo: if you can’t take the heat, get out of the way of all the authors talking. Maybe her recent column is another slag at Bigge, or a shot at all the bloggers who agree with him. Maybe she isn’t so self-aware after all, just cranking up the bitch-mill. At least now she’s somewhat entertaining to read, kind of like watching a hockey fight—you enjoy it with guilty pleasure—whereas before it was like passing a jack-knifed tractor-trailer on the 401—you're disgusted, but you can't look away.