I recently turned 36, and don't get me wrong - I adore my thirties, but tipping the scales closer to forty, I looked over my soft curves with an extra portion of arse, and thought - It's now or never. My twenties were a ball of confusion, random sex, and insecurities, so I wouldn't want them back for love or money, but, I was a great deal slimmer.
Almost a century later, the idea that entertainment specifically marketed at women has less inherent worth than that of men is unfortunately standing strong. It starts with the terminology. The very phrase 'chick-lit' instantly sends our minds to a place of fluffy story-lines devoid of real substance.
We all know about the insanity that Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath lived with, and we perhaps are guilty of believing their work is made more beautiful because of our knowledge of their suffering. However I tend to wonder if we overlook the integrity of such works in light of their illness, and how condescending this really is.