Lena Dunham’s Not That Kind of Girl: Not That Great

When I heard that Lena Dunham, creator and star of HBO’s Girls, and before that, Sundance Film Festival darling in Tiny Furniture, wrote a book — “A young woman telling you what she’s ‘learned’” — I knew I had to read it, to see who existed beyond the caricatures and controversy.

I discovered a woman as flawed as she is talented, simultaneously delicate enough to crumble at the touch, and resilient enough to never lose the scattered pieces. With relentlessly funny prose, she tells us her story; glimmers of genuine genius shine through jokes meant to both illuminate and alleviate her pain, embarrassment, and frustration.

The book is divided into five sections; Love and Sex, Body, Friendship, Work, and Big Picture. Regardless of the fact that Lena is a major network producer and actor, regardless of her weird, hippie-art-aristocratic-New-York upbringing, regardless of privilege, she strips bare for us, and reveals someone textured and complex.

Although the writing is humorous, Dunham speaks about her experiences chasing the wrong men, about being treated like an object, about not knowing how to cope, topics all women can relate to. She demonstrates through first-hand experience that self-respect does not look the same for everyone, and that one doesn’t always know whether it is being employed. There is a huge gray area, until the individual recognizes that this gray area does not have to exist.

According to Dunham, feminism can mean whatever you decide it means. Dunham’s own confrontation of rape, sexual abuse, and the accompanying emotional damage will feel familiar to wide audiences of women. Dunham’s decision to address the widespread issue of sexual abuse is partnered with the conclusion that we all deserve more than what we accept.

The chapter entitled “I Didn’t Fuck Them, But They Yelled at Me” was by far the most admirable in its tenacity and dignity. There is a plethora of essays that detail far more intimate, gritty scenarios of her life, but this one felt the most genuine in that Dunham felt she had something to prove and worked tirelessly to do so. Dunham describes the disgusting Hollywood culture where women are “treated like the paper thingies that protect glasses in hotel bathrooms — necessary but infinitely disposable.” Dunham recalls resisting the multitude of jaded old “Sunshine Stealers,” or men akin to succubae or dementors, who exploit the youth and enthusiasm of newcomers in the entertainment industry.

I particularly liked reading about her college experiences, because she didn’t pretend it was the best time of her life. She talked about college as existentially trying and full of new, sometimes awful experiences. She gave her college experience a recognizable face, more realistic than the “best time of your life” line that we’re constantly being sold. Her attitude was a comfort to my anxious mind; this woman is undoubtedly successful, but grades and exams were the least of her priorities.

It’s exactly what someone stuck in the Berkeley Bubble needs to hear: that our grades do not define who we are, and we are more than resumes and titles. We students have our own textures and colors, with memories smudged by the fog of the Bay. The urgency we feel is normal and useful, and we are going to be just fine.

We need to hear that even wildly successful people like Dunham, who has been writing since she had the capacity, have experienced bouts of listlessness and no direction about all aspects of their lives. As Dunham says, “Even when I am confronted with evidence of my own productivity, I think that the people accusing me of being productive don’t know how hard it is for me to just bend my elbows sometimes.”

However, one must take her writing with a grain of salt: Not That Kind of Girl is self-absorbed, and neglects to confront evident privilege. Her anecdotes depict elite Manhattan groups of equally privileged white kids with an excess of money and no real hardships.

Many readers complain about Lena Dunham’s lack of self-awareness (at one point she thinks she has AIDS and ponders her future as the Face of AIDS) and are horrified by the narcissism and navel-gazing that goes on for 265 pages. The fact that this book is written at the tender age of 28 is a bit absurd to me. Dunham essentially claims to have gathered enough life experience and success, enough heartbreak and headache, to reach the kind of peace that middle-aged divorcees find while taking solo trips to Rome.

Instead, I would have loved to hear about how Lena Dunham made her vision a tangible reality by creating Girls, what the show and her work life entail. However, I think the point of the book was to offer something more akin to Chicken Soup for the Soul than How to Make It Big. On the whole, a reader can connect to Dunham’s experiences of self-loathing, youthful confusion, and eventual self-acceptance, but if you’re looking for something more worldly and aware of society at large, look elsewhere.