Day Ten
I’ve been told before by editors to pare back on violence. This always feels like a gendered suggestion to me – the parameters of what’s allowed and what isn’t from a female-identifying writer. I can’t imagine anyone telling, say, Roberto Bolaño or Cormac McCarthy to ease off on the blood and gore. Women should write in pastel shades about love, domesticity. Leave the hardcore realism to the fellas. Well, f**k that. The fury is there; I had better write it than perform it. I’m mulling this over when I descend into the kitchen.
The newspaper is set out between them, sections being passed back and forth, first my dad and then my mum.
“Can I have the world news section?” I ask.
“No.”
“Local?”
“Your father’s not done with them.”
“A man’s need to know is somehow more urgent, appa
