There have been so many articles and blog posts in every newspaper in the world about women’s writing that I can’t even bother to list them. David Gilmour poo-poos the ladies’ books. What are ladies writing about anyway? Oh the domestic, the feelings, the uteruses (uteri?). So many doilies cluttering up the place. How is a manly man supposed to read about that stuff?
Stop. Right. There.
I just read a book written by a man (The Book of Strange New Things) in which there are not one but two thorough descriptions of semen. What it looks like, how it smells, how much there is (a lot).
If I can read that without my eyeballs bleeding, I think the manly men can handle the domestic interludes in women’s fiction.