Friday Nights by Joanna Trollope

Oh my gawdidy-gawd-gawd. It’s always interesting to see how women write about other women. You’d think, to be completely honest, that they’d have it down pat. That to write about a woman is to write from the soul or something else hallucinatory along those lines. Sometimes you do find phrases that just hit home – really come and elbow you in boob with their honesty. When a female writer describes the frustration when you can’t find your fat pants or when your lover silently insists that yes, massaging your breasts furiously feels good – nothing compares to the rush of appreciation felt towards that author.

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