I tend to shy away from male authors because of their flawed portrayal of women. It isn’t their fault, really. They just don’t get it. In suspense or mystery books females often are either terrorized, jumpy weaklings in need of rescue by the man who is attracted to their full breasts, perfect body and long red, black or blond hair. There is little room for brunette and none for grey – although a quick look around any public place will tell you otherwise. The other option is the bad-ass, tomboy with the insatiable sexual appetite who works as a team to catch the baddie with the strong, lantern-jawed hero who is attracted to their full breasts, perfect body and long red, black or blond hair which was worn up in the beginning of the book only to cascade down later as sparks fly.

Female authors can also pose a danger if they are overly romantic or lean toward bodice ripping. Not to mention the unplanned pregnancy from the nights of unprotected passion between people who just met 6 days ago and everyone is thrilled shitless about the pending bundle of joy. In the past decade or so there has been more and more women who write books that have that ring of authenticity. The lead characters who have more complicated relationships with their friends and family and may have multiples crushes. They might have a muffin top to hide and they might accidentally shoot their upright vacuum cleaner when they wake up in the middle of the night to see a shadowy figure lurking in the hall. (actually that was me – thankfully I didn’t shoot, waited for it to make the first move – this is a good reason to get Lasik, come to think of it.) They also might look over at the end of the book and think that the paunchy, balding, middle-aged guy that helps them out no matter what is kind of cute.