/lit/ - Literature

Why do women write like this? I really wanted to give this one a go, as I rarely read books by women, but it's just so fucking horribly painful.
Here's an excerpt from page 137 where I gave up reading any further.
>She sighed, and a second sigh gave it a funny echo.
>Confused, she shook her face. It must have been a trick of the straps, or the way the device fit around her forehead. It could've been her hair, brushing against the exterior. It might've been her boots, scraping unexpectedly against a jagget paving stone. The sound could've come from anywhere. It was so quiet, anyway. Hardly a sound at all, really.
>Her feet wouldn't move. Neither would her arms, or her hands, locked around the rifle. Even her neck would barely turn, lest she recreate the noise, or fail to. The only thing worse than hearing it again would be hearing it again and knowing it hadn't come from her own careful movements.
>So slowly that even her long coat didn't tap itself against her legs, Briar retreated, feeling with her heels, praying that there was nothing behind her. Her heel found a curb, and stopped there.
>She stepped up onto it.
>The sound came again. There was a whistle to it, and a moan. It was almost a hiss, and it could've been a strangled gasp. Above all, it was quiet, and it seemed to have no source.
>It whispered.
>Briar tried to place the sound, and she decided, now that she'd heard it again and could be certain she hadn't it imagined it, that it came from somewhere to her left, down toward the wall. It was coming from the street stalls where nothing had been bought or sold in almost sixteen years.
>The whisper rose to a hum, and then stopped.
>Briar stopped too--or she would have, if she hadn't already. etc...

Why do they write like this? I love Le Guin. I even enjoyed Franskenstein. But I haven't read a book written less than 40 years ago by a woman that I could get through. What gives?
Suggestions for competent, modern female writers are appreciated.