You’re on every book cover. You’re the same woman, with different hair. But I cannot relate to you, and neither can anyone else. You are annoying me. A lot. And so I write this open letter to you, 20-year-old faceless girl who does not represent either me or the characters who speak beneath your covers.
We all know what it’s like to have difficult flatmates. Insomniacs. Musicians. Drug Addicts. Botanists. When things get really sour, a fictional flatmate would be ideal. But what if you were to live with a modern grip-lit heroine from the likes of Girl On The Train, Gone Girl, or Before I Go To Sleep?