When I was 22, I asked a fellow male author if they wanted to trade manuscripts. He told me he’d send me his, but he didn’t want mine because “pretty girls were meant for pictures” instead. That was my only value to him. His art. My body.

When I was 23, a panel of male authors saw me taking my seat beside them at a con and said, “oh, you’re in the wrong room. The dumb YA panel is next door.”

When I was 25, a male fan said they were so glad I used a gender-neutral pseudonym, because he never would have picked up my book if they’d known I was a woman.

When I was 27, I hit the NYT list and instead of connratulating me, a male author told me he had to go to therapy because my success just really threw him.

When I was 28, that same author told me, in front of my entire publishing team, that I shouldn’t be on panel with him because I wasn’t entertaining enough, since I couldn’t “take a joke.”

When I was 30, I took a photo with a piece of fan art, and a group of male authors started trashing me in slack chats for being a narcissist because I was obviously proud of my work.

When I was 31, a male author said I was only popular because my publisher “chose” me instead of them, negating the years I’d spent proving myself with cold hard sales.

Forgot, when I was 26 or so, I criticised the relentless sexual assault and portrayal of female characters in a book (without tagging author) and he tracked me down, and set his followers after me, encouraging them as they called me b*tch and c*nt.

Why didn't I speak up along the way? Because first I was scared, then I was warned, then I told myself it was par for the course, then I was exhausted, now I'm just fucking done.

Now it's 9:45 in the morning and I'm considering climbing back into bed and just not doing today.