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Megan Nolan is a writer of essays, criticism and fiction born in Ireland and based in London. She writes a fortnightly column for the New Statesman.
The only thing making me feel unsettled is my confusion about where to draw the line between girlhood and womanhood.
Even during a pandemic and nationwide protests against racial injustice, this 13-year-old story still dominates the media.
Haunting and gently chaotic, this International Booker Prize-shortlisted novel is a rare and strident debut.
Faced with a new crush, I’ve reverted to the actions of my adolescence – letter-writing and mixtapes.
“Hey, are you watching this Chicago Bulls doc? I’m a sports guy now!”
Now that my body is alone, it is dissected. It lives only in images, in pieces.
Life feels so savagely hollow to me right now that to look closely at an hour seems terrifying.
Two surveys of sex and seduction show that not much has changed.
Online, people began to make jokes about prison rape. It always shocks me, that ugliness.
Suddenly seeing an outdated version of ourselves makes remembrance uncanny, and often painful
