2005-01-13

Pity Lit Party

Years ago, when I was an undergrad, a friend of mine who worked with me at our college's Writing Center (we were basically paid to sit, drink coffee, play with Tiger Edmonds's dogs, and tutor the occasional freshman) had this plan: after graduation, she'd spend the summer reading romance novels.

"Huh. That's an.....interesting plan. Why would you be wanting to do this, exactly.....?"

"Because I want to get a feel for them, how they're structured. I figure I can probably crack the code after two or three, and then I can start writing one."

"Really."

"I am not convinced that there's NO money to be made in churning out a couple of romance novels. I mean, they're EVERYWHERE. People like Jackie Collins make TONS of money writing this stuff."

"Uh huh."

"My intentions are GOOD, Lees! See -- I could write a couple, and then I'd be all set for graduate school."

"Yeah, but, you'd have to write a ROMANCE NOVEL."

Fast forward some 14 years later. I'm at work, sitting in the break room, and reading the Living/Arts section of the Globe. The big "literary" sensation these days, and the subject of actual book parties where women gather to imbibe pink drinks and discuss how much this work means to them, is called He's Just Not That Into You, which details, with SHATTERING HONESTY, all the little "clues" by which a youngish, single, professional woman might ascertain that her suitor thinks of her as being very rather less than "The One." You know - if he doesn't CALL you, or if he vomits in your bed, he's Just Not That Into You.�

This is the natural culmination of several years of "pity lit," or "chick lit," or whatever you want to call it. You KNOW what I'm talking about -- walk into a major bookstore and you're confronted with a WALL of it:

Now, far be it from me to begrudge anyone their guilty pleasure reads, especially since I've made no secret of the fact that I religiously read "Valley of the Dolls" EVERY spring. For some reason, though, this trend in fiction fills me with a palpable -- and possibly irrational -- RAGE that I can't quite put my finger on. Something cute, kinda charming and of dubious literary merit ("Bridget Jones' Diary") has been taken and commodified the holy hell out of, and it's just this....this...5'x10' WALL UNIT of PINK AND GREEN SUCK. When will it END, chickens? WHEN?!

On the other hand, there's this little, evil voice in my head that thinks....you know....maybe you should READ a couple, crack the code. You might make enough to pay off your student loans, Lees.

Shudder.

lisamcc at 8:26 p.m.

3 comments so far
aislin-dream
2005-01-14 13:05:33
Gotta tell ya, I unapologetically love the chick lit genre. I consider myself fairly intelligent, but there is something about it that just appeals to me. It must be that I was well into my thirties before meeting "Mr. Right," so I can relate to a lot of what these characters go through.
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Lisa
2005-01-14 13:14:57
I guess it just rubs me the wrong way. Must be all those pink and green graphics. They're the literary equivalent of the preppie kids who used to make fun of me in junior high. And, again, this is all coming from someone who reads AND enjoys Jackie Susann "novels," and as such must be taken with a huge bag of rock salt.
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Honey
2005-02-05 21:22:15
My problem with those things is the chick is always rich and gorgeous, but convinced she's "fat" and cannot be a real person without a guy around. Makes me want to spit.
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