There are too many women crying in fiction. You can’t move in film and TV for women in floods of tears. Who is writing the crying woman? And how can we make it stop?
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.