Why Jane Can't Write

Have you ever noticed how many more women than men suffer from writer's block, or at least kvetch about it more. If you ask me, it's all about pantyhose

Anyone who has writtten anything at all knows all about procrastination and the wily ways writers employ to get down to the task. I, for example, begin to clean my closets (I'd even clean your closets} when I have a deadline to meet. I've been known to arrange all the food on the shelves by size and then by a more primitive arrangement - like paper, tin and glass - when an assignment is due. I simply am compelled to do everything on my list before I start writing.

The point is that always at the end of my list of what must be done before I can begin is "sort pantyhose." Now, as any woman can tell you, this is not an easy job. It's really not a job at all, It's a happening that goes on and on.

And as technology improves, it gets worse. It used to be that you could sort by basic color -tan, beige off-black or nurses white. Now, you're dealing with Tawny Taupe, Moonlight Mist and Midnight Black. To further confound things, manufacturers have come up with a myriad of styles: Reinforced Toe and Heel, Sandalfoot, Control Top and every permutation thereof. And to make matters worse, you must first decide whether you want knee length, thigh or full-length Then there's texture: Just try sorting stockings by Opaque, Herringbone, Can Can Polka Dots and Simmering Silver and see how far you get.

In addition to the pantyhose affliction, women writers seem to be deprived of those Svengali-like taskmasters, secretly in love with them, the way concert painists do - at least in the movies. We just don't have any James Masons rapping us over the knuckles shouting "type, type." We only have ourselves and our feeble token awards like Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia when we finish ten pages.

It's true, Lillian Hellman had her Daschiell Hammet, waiting with endless bottles of booze and little sandwiches, as she pounded out her masterpieces by the roar of the Pacific at their seaside retreat. But we only know this through Jason Robard's brooding interpretation. And, if you ask me, old Daschiell was so far into the sauce himself, at that point, he couldn't tell a Little Fox from a gopher.

But getting back to the gender thing, sure, men have socks too, but they don't seem to be programmed to sort them compulsively. And, as far as cleaning the garage goes, when it's done it's done. Furthermore, it's hard to picture John Updike ,Walt Whitman and Fyador Dostoevksi sorting cravats.

Surely, you don't think Emily Dickenson would have amounted to much if she had to worry about pantyhose, do you?