The protagonist of Play It As It Lays, by Joan Didion, is lying on the beach, surrounded by friends—though friends is perhaps too strong of a word—when her husband walks away. She sits up and looks around, and then this happens:

“It occurred to [her] that whatever arrangements were made, they worked less well for women.”

In contrast to the party atmosphere around her, she is merely, introvertedly, noticing the bodies nearby: the female versions of which seem to be aging, and the male versions of which seem to be locked in a timeless vitality. She thinks about her small daughter. She thinks about pregnancy. As an actor, her career is dependent on her looks. And, of course, the Hollywood circles of which she is a (reluctant) member are deeply attuned to physical appearance.

In another chapter, a male friend (or not-friend; is there a synonym for friend that doesn’t imply actual friendship?) invites her on a short trip, along with some other friends (not-friends?).

She says, “I don’t want to do that.”

He says, “Yes you do.”

The chapter ends there; the reader gets the impression that this type of interaction is not uncommon in her life.

I don’t want to oversimplify the complicated life that Didion depicts. Much of the protagonist’s woe seems due to personality flaws and past traumas that are non-gender-specific. And yet, something pertaining to gender is going on here, and this becomes clearer, the further into the book one progresses.

In your life’s experience, have arrangements worked less well for women?

Hair styling. Nail painting. Clothes and accessories shopping. Laser treatments. Balancing on heels. Cosmetic surgery. Shaving. Tanning. Dermal fillers. Walking up stairs in a long skirt without tripping. Dieting. Make-up application. Botox. Walking down stairs in a short skirt without flashing anyone. The list of things people do for beauty goes on and on.

In the book Perfect Me, Heather Widdows argues that both women and men worldwide are experiencing increasing societal pressure to do more than ever for the sake of exterior appearance. She notes that women are expected to do more, more costly, and more time-consuming beauty tasks than men. But she also points out that the problem does not end with inequality:

“The problems with the increasing demands of beauty are not just that they are demanded more of one gender than another but the nature of the demands.”

In other words, keeping the beauty standards of women the same while ramping up the beauty standards of men will not result in a better world. The beauty standards are already troublingly high, Widdows says. She calculates that if a person spends 20 minutes a day on beauty between the ages of 15 and 75, that adds up to almost a solid year of beauty-related tasks over a lifetime. Furthermore, she notes, studies have shown that the average woman in the U.S. and U.K. spends about double that daily amount of time.

And then there is the monetary cost of all this beautifying, as well as the opportunity cost of all the things people could spend their time and money on instead. So we’re all on an accelerating roller coaster, unable to jump off without real-world consequences, but also struggling to hang on.

In what ways do you bend over backwards for beauty? Is it worth the time, money, and opportunity cost?

When a female protagonist is subsumed by everyone she meets, even when she’s supposed to be the center of attention, is this a statement about women in society?

When she is possibly troubled, is this a statement about people with emotional scars in society?

When she is a novelist, is this a statement about writers in society?

In Kudos, the third novel in a trilogy by Rachel Cusk, we watch the protagonist listen politely, over and over, to others’ stories. Why does she contribute to conversations so sparingly? Why does she rest in a laissez-faire mode that’s equal parts courtesy and indifference? Is she hiding her emotions? Is she so numb that she can’t feel them? Is she naturally emotionless? Has she given up on asserting herself because she fears being underestimated due to her gender? Is she overwhelmed by past events, about which we know very little, and fearful that engaging with people will bring unpleasant facts or feelings to the surface? Does she view herself as a journalist of life, wishing only to observe people and write novels about them, while eschewing normal relationships?

What is the correlation here—between a woman and a robot, between an emotionally repressed person and a robot, or between a novelist and a robot?

Does a woman writer, in modern times, still need a room of her own, plus enough money to provide her with food, housing, and other necessities? It’s been almost 100 years since Virginia Woolf published her classic book about women and fiction, A Room of One’s Own. Having read it last week, I was astonished by how applicable her thoughts and ideas are today.

I can’t imagine having been able to finish the books I have written without (1) a home office with a closable door, plus (2) a job with a steady income. I am grateful, as a woman, to be living in a time when society is not condemning me for having such luxuries.

If you, like me—regardless of your gender or other attributes—are a writer who has the good fortune to possess a room of your own and whatever today’s equivalent of five hundred pounds is, what are you to do next? Here’s what Virginia has to say:

“I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people. . . . Think of things in themselves.”

That looks like wisdom if I have ever seen it. Is anything more important, when you are well provided for and within your own room, than the ability to be yourself?