If JK Rowling walked into the room right now, I would hop right up, bend right over, and kiss her fancy snakeskin diamond-encrusted stilettos because
a) I am a huge fan of her writing
b) I am such a creeper, I know that she has a penchant for outlandish, yet gorgeous shoes.
Something about her, by the way, which is arguably feminine.
And yet …
When Jk Rowling first published Harry Potter, she was told by publishers that boys wouldn’t read this type of novel, with a male hero, if it was written by a woman (at least that’s how I’ve heard it – have you heard differently?).
Anyway, instead of being all, “suck it! This is awesome and you know it, and who cares if I have a uterus – jealous?!” she adopted a fake middle name from her grandmother Kathleen, and added it to her first name Joanne, and became JK.
I bring this up today because this week it was revealed that Jk Rowling published another book under a pseudonym. That means she could pick any name she wanted … AND SHE PICKED A DUDE’S NAME! Robert Galbraith.
I’m so disappointed.
She had an opportunity to undermine everything the book industry says about authors: men outsell women, men write more broadly, men are better … and tell them to wank off.
And mean it.
C’mon Joanne … Grow a pair.
And by that, I mean ovaries.