Even as recently as five years ago, when I in fact just started posting, not so inadvertently discovering affinities with spree killers, the thought that Jayne Anne was not my intellectual superior would have been unthinkable, and that, primarily, because this bastard was a personal deity, and while this may be categorically unfair to southern women writers who only mildly differentiate themselves from urban northeasters, Miss Phillips has systematically left me unimpressed, and I've contemplated removing her from my small mounties of rage on twitter, where she has neither responded, nor blocked me, my ambivalence neither here nor there toward our respective twilights, unlike Poets and Writers, which blocked me for writing stigmatize in capitals after they invited suburban mermaids to chorus with them at a poetry reading. I may have reacted and tweeted inappropriately about how conformist the organization has become since its early days, but they are the ones being intransigent now, not I.
I have not been rude to Miss Phillips, and retain yet a slight trance of deference in my responses to her normative academic liberalism, but what I read in her, even as a disabled woman who personalizes on the basis of an effervescent clinging, is a white Southern woman who's used up, running the standard leftist treadmill we all know. This is a great deal to masticate in what amounts to a simple binary choice in the complexity of computer binary code, or is it something else, like a disabled woman betrayed by cosmetics?
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