(highlight + delete)

I just cut this out of a book review (to be clear: a book review I am trying to write!) because … because.  but, seriously:

I would prefer to spend the rest of my life without reading another male-written female narrator lovingly describe her own full-yet-pert breasts – their bounce and sway as she walks, the way her lovers have described and caressed them.  Ditto periods.   Newsflash, novel-dudes: having your womanly narrator bleed all over everything every few pages might seem like a handy way to convince your reader you’ve really thought about what living in a female body might be like, but consider that your protagonist, unless she’s 11, might be pretty used to being female and might even take it for granted, as your readers do, rather than notice it so much that she brings it to our attention all the time. I have never read a novel where a male narrator constantly describes the jounce and bustle of his delicate testes wriggling around in their sack and interrupts the action all the time with little updates on how his balls are affected by variations in temperature and mood.  The period-and-breasts thing is exactly the same.”

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    Stieg Larsen -> Lisbeth Murakami -> Aomame George RR Martin -> every woman ever, always
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