My very first published book, I must confess, had a green stiletto on a pink cover. My second had a lipstick and a heart. The third had a girl in a bikini. I was, to my consternation and confusion, turning into that terrifyingly “puerile” creature – a “chick lit” author.
This rather tarnished position of the chick lit author really hit home when, at an august gathering, I was asked what I write, in much the same tone as one might ask a sufferer whether they were the carriers of a life-threatening infectious disease. A helpful soul in the immediate vicinity contributed, rather loudly at that, “chick lit.”
There was a perceptible freeze in the atmosphere. Folks edged away from me like they might from someone who had just removed the machete she carried around in her oversized handbag for moments like these. A brown tan hobo, if you must know, with wonderful grainy leather. The hand bag. We chick lit authors remember these details.
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