I read this piece on the length of women’s fiction writing, and found it interesting. Elif Batuman’s The Idiot is a definitely an exception to Patterson’s thesis, but considering it’s the only recently published example I could think of off hand, it may be the exception that proves the rule.
(The Idiot is amazing, by the way. I’m not sure I would have gotten it when I was Selin’s age, but now that I’m old and have known a few Ivans, it speaks directly to my heart. It’s also very fun to pair it with Nell Zink’s The Wallcreeper. Both novels are darkly comic coming of age stories, but they go in utterly opposite directions. Both are brilliant.)