What does a bookshop do which nobody else can? And what has it got to do with why my bad memory can make even the hardiest, most optimistic author’s heart sink, and whether or not my family ever read this blog?
If Colm Toibín’s Brooklyn had been written by a woman, would it have been a smash hit? Would anyone have cared one whit for a story about a young woman and her domestic struggles, if that young woman had been created and written by another woman? No. They wouldn’t.