I think of myself at 19, my bones so thick with grief that they feel too heavy to move.

I was at dinner with a group of women recently, all either authors or columnists, and we began to discuss the pressure that writers, female writers in particular, feel under to tell their story.

Men are allowed to talk about their art as a separate entity from themselves, as something that can and should be critiqued on its merits rather, than the authorial intention behind it.

But all too often women are conflated with the characters in their work, as if they are incapable of creating fictional worlds.