If you believe Teddy Wayne, I am, as a writer, unspeakably privileged: I’m a woman.

In “The Agony of the Male Novelist,” (sadly, I’m not kidding) he says:

For the majority of male literary authors — excluding the upper echelon of Franzen, Jeffrey Eugenides, Don DeLillo and their ilk, plus a few younger writers like Chad Harbach who have scored much-ballyhooed advances — it’s actually harder than it is for women to carve out a financially stable writing career.

His argument (I use the word loosely) is so logically pitiful that I thought he might be attempting some kind of wit. I certainly don’t want to waste my time reiterating it here. You’re all familiar with it’s essence: But teh menz hav it reeely reeely hard!

However, one snippet of his whine pleases me:

The archetypal book-club novel is written by a woman, its characters are female-centric, and it contains a love story, sensitive coming-of-age tale, or mother-daughter narrative, perhaps set against a historical backdrop.

If you replace or with and, and throw in some sex, swords, and scheming, that’s a pretty good description of Hild. So, hey, now I know what to do with my snow day: come up with a list of earnest questions for the book club. Chortle.