I am irritated

...but you can not write an entire book about your irritation. You’d probably be depressed after 10 pages (which I am) I have been irritated ever since I started the book and yet, never could let go. I threw away pages and pages and pages, again and again and again, but I still have the idea and about 500 pages of material. Growing.

The first idea I had was: I want to write about women.
It irritated me how many women my age or even 10 years younger were stuck in unhappy situations. 

So I knew, this novel might become sort of a feminist book. I was irritated right away, and embarrassed, just thinking about the reactions to it by, say: men.
By the way: its Gloria Steinems 81st birthday today!

Most women (maybe even all women) I knew had children and were in relationships and they did 85% of the housework, on top of that fulfilling the perfectionist requirements for motherhood in Germanys 21st century, on top of it all looking pretty fabulous, being extremely intelligent and if all this weren’t enough, they mostly made their own money too, or made enough money for the entire family. So the question somewhat by itself occurred: is there something wrong with that picture? Should I find other women to know? Women who were ugly, made no money and never did the dishes? 

The next question was like: what would happen, if women used their energy for stuff they really loved instead of laundry dishes vacuuming cooking (o.k. some like that) remembering all the extended family members birthdays and those of their children's friends and purchasing all the gifts necessary for the occasions?
What could they do, besides obliging to career standards of a male dominated professional universe? I am still just asking, out of irritation.

Okay, the idea for the novel was, and I am still organizing my thoughts, after 5 years of work on the novel (o.k. of mostly procrastinating work on the novel) which by the way shall be called “Swans love differently” because I read somewhere that swans mate for life, which I think, people don’t, they only stay together, for various reasons, not the least of which might be fear. Or they don’t stay together for various reasons: not the least of which might also be fear. In very very rare cases there might actually be true love, that lasts a life long. I am not sure. I am mostly irritated.

Why do women of the 21st century Germany have so little self esteem? 
Because they were brought up by women with very little self esteem. Low self esteem runs in the genes and it might just be a very very long process to get rid of it. (Lets not forget that in most countries worldwide women still count less than a mule)
Irritation does not help, patience might.
So I decided I am not going to answer my question: s.a.

But I will tell stories of 3 women: daughter, mother, grandmother, stories of 3 different eras in which women could harbour dreams in Germany, but the degree to which any kind of realization was possible differs highly, tends to zero in many cases. (my mother, just saying, born in 1942, was not allowed to learn the humble profession of a tailor, because she was supposed to get married anyways).

The grandmother sews a quilt, over years, she sews one square after the other and she hides little notes in every one. The granddaughter, who inherits the quilt after the grandmothers death, finds them after being in an abusive relationship for 2 years. Notes like: Love is an overrated emotion.

Those notes help to untangle her. In the end I want her to be free, and her grandmothers notes were the path on which she, mentally, climbed into freedom. In the end, she will also be reunited with her mom, a poet (whose poems will also be part of my novel, even though, several people already told me, that you can not put poems in novels, but why? I ask and am irritated once more), who left her, when she was 12, in order to be free and write.
Does anything make sense? Will I ever put all the pieces together and show my quilt, I mean novel, to the world?

I am irritated. But I am also patient. Happy Birthday Gloria Steinem!