"You're right. It was a mistake and I apologize to all of you. From now on, I'm not going to censure any of you, you will all have an equal say. We are a democracy now."
"At long last," says Dame Dervish with a genuine smile. "That's what I wanted all along. That's fantastic!"
For the first time in my life, I realize, I see them as One — inseparable pieces of the same whole. When one is out in the cold, they all shiver. When one is hurt, they all bleed. When one is happy and fulfilled, all benefit from her bliss.
When Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and Miss Highbrowed Cynic launched a coup d'etat that long-ago night, it was because I wanted to suppress my maternal side. I wasn't ready to meet Mama Rice Pudding. And the oath I took under the Brain Tree was because I was not at peace with my body. I wasn't open to Blue Belle Bovary. Mama Rice Pudding's absolute monarchy during the pregnancy was a result of my belief that my other inner voices were not compatible with motherhood. At every turn, I would put one finger-woman on a pedestal at the expense of all the others.
I am all of them — with their faults and virtues, pluses and minuses, all their stories make up the book of me.
Helene Cixous — scholar, essayist, literary critic, writer and one of the most original and critical voices of our times — says her text is written in white and black, in milk and night. Patriarchy, for her, does not exist outside the realm of aesthetics and poetics. She analyzes the Freudian approach that sees woman as "lack," replacing it with "woman as excess." She describes women's writing by using metaphors of childbirth, breast-feeding and allusions to the female body. "It is important to define a feminine practice of writing, and this is an importance that will remain, for this practice will never be theorized, enclosed, encoded — which doesn't mean that it doesn't exist."
For Cixous motherhood is a fulfilling experience, the most intense relationship that a human being has with another human being. Though she draws a line between the cultural and the biological, the latter is not insignificant for her. Female biology is an inspiration for her figurative way of writing. "I'm brimming over! My breasts are flowing. Milk. Ink. Nursing time. . " Cixous is a scholar who is both critical of and supportive toward women writers. She thinks instead of "undermining patriarchy from within," many female authors have chosen to write like men, repeating the same codes and stereotypes. She advocates a new writing based on the libidinal economy of the feminine, an kriture feminine, that is critical of logocentrism and phallocentrism and operates outside and under these terrains, like underground tunnels made by moles.
There is no social change without linguistic change. Women need to break their silence. They need to write. "We should write as we dream," she says.
Ursula K. Le Guin is one of my favorite women writers. When asked what she would be if she weren't a writer, she answered: dead. From the day she started writing at the age of five to the present she has never slowed down. Though always prolific and creative in several genres, she said writing was never easy. "The difficulty of trying to be responsible, hour after hour, day after day for maybe twenty years, for the well-being of children and the excellence of books, is immense: it involves an endless expense of energy and an impossible weighing of competing priorities." Despite the difficulties involved, she says the hand that rocks the cradle writes the book.
Placing the finger-women on my writing desk, I hug all six of them. Giggling, they hug me back.
Miss Highbrowed Cynic, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, Little Miss Practical, Mama Rice Pudding, Dame Dervish, Blue Belle Bovary and voices that I have not yet met stand next to one another. No one tries to rule the others, no one is a dictator. No one is wearing a crown or carrying badges. Not anymore.
This is not to say that they agree on every issue. But by listening, not just talking, they are learning the art of coexistence. They now know that to exist freely and equally, they need one another, and that where even one voice is enslaved none can be free. Together we are learning how to live, write and love to the fullest by simply being all of who we are. Sometimes we manage this beautifully and artlessly; sometimes we fail ridiculously. When we fail we remember the moments of harmony and grace, and try again.
That, pretty much, is the pattern of my progress in life: Take a step forward, move on, fall down, stand up, go back to walking, trip over and fall down on my face again, pull myself up, keep walking.
Epilogue
The next year I finished my new novel, The Forty Rules of Love, which became a record best seller in Turkey. I went back to giving interviews, writing columns and essays, attending literary festivals and commuting between cultures like I always did. I stopped teaching at the University of Arizona, as it proved impossible to travel with a baby for so many hours. Instead we made a new beginning in London, spending half the year there, half the year in Istanbul. I learned to fuse a nomadic existence with the requirements of a settled life.
Our daughter's name is Shehrazad Zelda — the former from the charming storyteller of the East, the latter from Zelda Fitzgerald. Eighteen months later we had a son, Emir Zahir — the former from the old traditions of the East, the latter from a story by Borges, "The Zahir," and a book by Paulo Coelho, The Zahir.
In everything I wrote and did, I was, and still am, greatly, gratefully, inspired by Zelda and Zahir, and by the beauties and intensities of motherhood.
The second pregnancy was an easy one, and neither after the delivery nor in the months following it did I run into Lord Poton — or any of his relatives. I hear he is getting old and stiff with arthritis. Perhaps he will soon stop bugging new mothers altogether, preferring to spend his time shining his lamp.