Can we just forget about the boobs for one moment?

I can always tell when an author has no idea how to write a female character. The story will always have an expository paragraph that goes something like this:

Then he saw her walk in the bar door. Her blonde hair cascaded over her bare shoulders, bouncing slightly with every step. Her hips swayed back and forth under a vinyl miniskirt. He wondered what type of underwear she wore–if she wore underwear at all. Her fleshy orbs threatened to escape the too-small halter top. He estimated them at a D-cup, and one seemed slightly off-level with the other, but he wouldn’t be sure until he broke out the Craftsman laser level–and maybe the table saw if he was feeling frisky.

What’s wrong with that block of reprehensible exposition? First off, Craftsman doesn’t even manufacture a laser level. Secondly, nothing in that paragraph is worth reading. The author could have simply said, “He was a normal heterosexual male in a bar,” and we could extrapolate every cliche possibility from there (if you extrapolated a priest/rabbi joke there, give yourself a hand).

Does this woman have a personality? Is she flirting with the patrons, or is she strictly there to drink? Does she slip off her wedding ring as she sits down in a group of guys? Does she have a penis? These are the questions you must ask.

In short, quit writing cardboard characters, even if they are busty blondes.

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