This random conversation came to me after I read an article about the late Anita Brookner, where it said that once, some big shot guy author called her up and told her that writing cannot be the goal of a woman's life or something.
' "So what do you do, Rafael?" she asked, sipping her coffee daintily while occasionally taking a small bite of her croissant.
"I am a wordsmith, Sonia. I deal in words, and get paid for it too. Very handsomely, I might add."
"I see," Sonia commented, appraising him with her large doe colored eyes. She was a pretty woman, with high cheekbones, full lips, and a tall, slender physique. She was dressed in a colorful ankle-length dress and leather shoes. She wore no make-up, and the only accessories were a watch on her hand, and a red rose in her hair, which she wore in a bun.
Ah, the New Age Liberated Woman, thought Rafael. They dress and act like they don't care about what society thinks, and scream about feminism and their rights. But ultimately, all they want to do is find a good husband, make babies and tend house, he reflected.
"What I mean is I'm a writer."
"So what do you do, Sonia?"
"I am a writer and editor."
"I asked what you do for a living."
"I told you, I'm a writer and editor. I am associate editor of the Political Herald by day. By night I write novels."
"But...writing is a highly intellectual job. Must be taxing for you mentally, since you're a woman."
Sonia smiled, her manner sardonic.
"Not at all, Rafael."
"Is any of your work published?"
"Ever heard of Sarah Piccone?"
"Oh, Sarah. I love her novels. Everybody does. What about her?"
"You're talking to her."
Rafael banged his cup on the table so hard that bits of the espresso splattered on his shirt.
"What? You're...you wrote those? As much as I love her books, I thought Sarah must be a lonely, frustrated old hag, unable to find a husband because of her above-par intelligence! And how can writing be a woman's sole aim of life? Wouldn't you rather be a nurse, or a florist, or a teacher?"
This time, Sonia couldn't contain herself, and burst out laughing.
"Oh, men like you, with your stupid little prejudices. You think you have a towering intellect, but all you have is a piddly little brain filled with primeval gender concepts."
Rafael stood up, threw some money on the table, and ran away.
Sonia ordered spaghetti, then took out a book and began reading.'