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Several months ago, I swore I was done reading feminist retellings of Greek myths. Not because I was disappointed by what I read – the opposite, in fact. The last few years have seen writers breathe new life into the women of Greek mythology and allow their narratives to take centre stage, something long denied to them in the original stories.

She stands behind her kitchen countertop, smiling and yet still focused on the task at hand. These cookies, after all, aren’t going to bake themselves. Her hair is slicked back into a chic bob that curls at the end, while her dress - silk chiffon, perhaps? - is held carefully out of the way. Nothing, not even a furrowed brow or a pursed lip, mars her makeup.

Studying literature for five years is not for the faint-hearted. When I first started my degree, I was led to believe that, if the brutally long reading lists didn’t finish me off, then the 10,000 words I wrote per exam definitely would. At seventeen, I was warned about both things, but – Brontë-obsessed bookworm that I was – I refused to listen. Literature was my passion, and I wouldn’t be stopped from pursuing it.