chick lit (part one)

[originally posted on myspace on Monday, February 4, 2008]

I don't remember if I've gone into this before or not (so I'll be brief on this point): chick lit today sucks.

I know this because of the books I had to endure during the short lived work book club. The storyline was almost always the same: cute yet quirky (but not too quirky) heroine is all happy with her cool job (usually as a magazine editor), with her cool friends (always one slutty one and one quirky/weird one), with her label obsession (brand name drop here) that involves shoes, purses, and/or Starbucks. The only thing missing is a man. Romantic snafus ensue and lo and behold, at the end of the novel, she's got herself a man. I blame Sex in the City.

The women at work that love these books (ranging in ages from 25-55, all married, most with kids –young to adult) also started raving about the show Cashmere Mafia (I'd make a joke about this being the poor woman's Sex in the City, but since SITC is now syndicated so you don't need cable to see it…). I tried to watch it (as I tried to also watch Grey's Anatomy…oh, but save that for another entry). It was awful. Again: high powered jobs (can a woman not have a job as a lawyer/doctor/magazine editor anymore?), SITC stereotypes, the worst dialogue/lines ever, same plot lines (ooh, one might be lesbian…how racy…in 1994, thanks).

So, why do the women at work love these shows and books? They certainly aren't a mirror to their own lives. Why do they want to watch/read about label-centric women rushing around trying to get a man?

That's when I came to realize – it's their escapism (their porn, if you will).They are working boring office jobs and drinking boring generic coffee in the kitchen. No personal assistants to make Starbucks runs here. They spend their money on kids/medical visits/mortage payments/boring stuff. No burnable income to spend with hot but not gay husbands on trips, Prada bags, shoes costing a few hundred dollars a piece, no weekly visits to the hair salon to stay current and blown out. So, why not escape and pretend?

And that's well and good, at times (seriously, one of my favorite guilty pleasures is a bad Jackie Collins novel). But it's quickly killing off any good, legit chick oriented literature because when only the crap sells, the crap will only get published.

I miss Judy Blume books.

I have more to this rant, but I'll continue in a second entry (as it kind of changes subjects).