WHY I DON’T READ BOOKS WRITTEN BY WOMEN
I like mysteries. I usually don’t guess the villain ahead of time, no matter how many clues are strewn in my path. It’s always a minor character who shows up early on and doesn’t appear again until the final bloodbath, and then I slap my forehead and say, “Of course! How could I have been so stupid! He showed up for a page and a half back at the beginning! Of course he’s the bad guy!”
Anyway, I’ve found that women mystery writers usually have to put in a dumb romance to clutter up the storyline. And it’s always the same romance: fantastically beautiful and stunningly shapely woman meets world-class handsome and amazingly well-built man. They have a reason not to like each other from the start and yet are strangely drawn to each other. After a hundred pages of fighting off their feelings, they draw close. But then one of them does something which the other misinterprets and the feud is on again. Then there’s another hundred pages of hurt feelings, arguments and misunderstandings. You know darn well it’s going to have a happy ending (for them), but in the meantime it takes attention away from finding out who this particular serial killer is.
Men authors tend to stick to the blood and gore at hand and make women minor distractions. I like that in an author.