Confessional journalism: is it neurotic?

My friend AV Flox steered me to a Guardian  UK  piece by Hadley Freeman on women and first person narrative as a form that brings out the worst in female writers.

Short version: Freeman goes on at length about the awfulness of self-loathing female journos and the navel-grazing pieces they are paid to write about their mistakes/obsession with “weight/breasts/ageing face/food or alcohol
problems/inability to have a happy relationship.”

AV read this and wrote a rebuttal that describes Freeman’s piece as a form of silencing other women. Flox says: “What I see here is not the call of feminism, what I see is women
trying to silence other women. I see women dismissing the realities of
other women using words and phrases like, “dangerous,” “self-hating,”
“self-obsessed,” “childlike narcissists,” “needy,” “fucked up by
aesthetic and social strictures,” “twisted view of what it means to be
a woman,” and “not normal.” And that is a lot more horrifying to me than anything I have read in a confessional piece.”

I’ve written my own pieces about the sensational and exploitative aspects of oversharing–see Avoiding the Emily Gould effect preso and essay from last Fall–so I won’t go on at length, but the short version would be that women need to give other women the room to express what they want. (Or, to put it another way, if we can tolerate and even respect Sarah Palin, we can accept women talking about their face-lift bruises.)