Good and bad, have nothing to do with ones gender. It all comes down to their ability to spin a yarn, and it be done to their best as they can. If it is good then I agree that I will even forget the authors name, as I am in-rapt in the story. If it is bad, then it will be discarded into the proverbial bin, and a lesson learned in how not to follow in that particular persons footsteps. For all you know, I am merely the thought of something else, and by extension am projected as a man. Just don't imagine me as non-existant or I may dissapear from this reality.
Yes! I don't rememer it being a specific scene for me, but yes that was one where I could tell. ETA: I hadn't read the thread far enough. Yep, it was probably the lack of understanding of the psychology and the ick factor. I'll be using a pen name as well, as a means of separating my fiction and non-fiction work and their very different audiences.
Yah, for sure. My first pen name was female. I dropped it and probably won't publish under it again. My next pen name is going to be gender-neutral, leaning male.
Mine's gender neutral I suppose, it's just initials, but if they go to author page or anything I don't hide that I'm female. *I edited this 6 times because my smart phone only made it to 2nd grade apparently.
I know one author (not Josh Lanyon) who uses a male pen name, but her bio openly identifies her as a woman. There's that route too. Her books are really gritty, kinda dark, hardcore BDSM thriller stuff.
If I compare novels within one genre (excluding romance, I don't read it), first and foremost I'm thinking it's maaaaybe possible male authors write more violence and describe it a little more accurately. It could be that they have an interest to guns or martial arts while female authors seem to like to have their heroines do that stuff but don't really themselves like to spend time in the range or gym, and this shows in their writing sometimes. Not always, of course. Like Tanya Huff, for example, is a vet, so she can describe military stuff well, and I'm myself into both martial arts and guns, and definitely still identify as female. But it's hard to generalize 'cause even now, for every trend I think I've observed, I can find several exceptions that break the rule. I think I've been most impressed by Jay McInerney's The Story of My Life. It's about a young woman who's a little aloof, hedonistic, sleeps around, has life goals but fails to commit, has anorexia and daddy issues, loves horses, sucks up to stupid girls, sucks up to idiot guys etc. I read it when I was 16 or , and it resonated with me. Cringey, I know, but I felt a kinship to Alison Poole, despite or because of her many flaws. I'm still amazed a man wrote her. It's one of those books I'd recommend to male writers as a learning experience of sorts, though I'm 100% sure there are women who've read it and disagree with me.
As I have a writing partner, and that she's Serbian (from a rustic village, and raised very traditionally) and has quite a conservative attitude towards sex and whatnot; we do have very different views as to how we should portray such matters in our story. Instead of glossing over our inherent differences, we embrace them. It makes for a more dynamic creative process. The passage below is a good example of how the masculine and feminine can meld into one. We each temper the other's point of view. I think anything that forces you to explore outside of your comfort zone makes for better storytelling. Anyways, I'm a fan of juxtaposing elements of a story for effect, so it fits with my style. Jean-Paul looked at her with equal measures of admiration and pity. “As I was walking to the theatre, I hoped that it will be the two of us again against the world. But, I’m afraid that our common foes aren’t in agreement anymore.” “They most likely aren’t,” Valerie said, a little stung. “I don't suppose there’s any magic left in this moth-eaten world. For a time I thought there was. D'you know, while I tarried with the good ladies on their mountaintop, I took an instant liking to one of their flock. A quiet, little plump woman from Damascus; Sister Yasmina has a fondness for reciting irritatingly sublime proverbs, but you’d like her. I had returned from a humiliating misadventure in Rome and was horribly depressed. I failed miserably and let everyone down — that night, after we’d all retired to our rooms, it was Sister Yasmina who came to console me with kind words, and a bottle of spiced rum. With sunshine in our bellies we talked into the small hours, went on about trivial things... giggled like schoolgirls we did! When at last she got up to leave, so I could sulk in peace, she said to me, ‘The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on’. It’s true isn’t it? We carry on.” Jean-Paul put his hand over her’s. “I’m not the only one who’s changed. What have they done to my petite libertine?” He said something more, but his words were lost in the swell of music rising up from the orchestra. At center stage it was Claire, captivating as always; the scene was of an opulently appointed boudoir, bathed in an eerie glow of amber light. She held tight to a bedpost, struggling in vain to spurn the advances of the lecherous nobleman who knelt at her feet — his hands pawing at her. A parody of rape accompanied by madly sawing violins. Valerie drew close to him and pressed her lips against his ear, “I’m thirsty,” and took the wine bottle from the table and placed it in his lap. Jean-Paul uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. They raised a solute, “Vive la révolution!” Each threw back the wine in one swallow. Valerie reached over and took the bottle, but as she went to pour them another round, the object that hung from her neck caught the light — and then caught his eye. He grabbed hold of it and pulled her roughly toward him, so the two were very nearly nose to nose. “What have we here? Am I to be poisoned tonight?!” Jean-Paul spat. “Is that what you’ve planned for our reunion?” Valerie jerked back, “Jean-Paul, I’ve drank the same wine as you. Now, let go of me.” “Yes, but not from the same glass. What is that around your neck?” “It contains snuff. Nothing more.”
