As I was looking at the myriad labels we've come up with for books (really? "yummy mummy lit"?), I came across a recent article on Salon.com (you can find the article, "Women's Fiction: All misery and martinis?" here.) The basic message of the article is that women's fiction has been unfairly pegged into two categories: misery lit and chick lit. Yes, there are those that are in the more frivolous vein (chick lit) and those in the more angst-ridden (misery lit, the idea that it focuses on women dealing with grief, abuse, aldultery, and lost or horribly troubled children), and even, I would argue some that are misery chick lit (Anna Maxted's Getting Over It comes to mind). But, as the article points out, there are countless examples of "women's fiction" that can't be nicely fit into either of these two categories. How do you classify women authors such as Marilynn Robinson, Geraldine Brooks, Barbara Kingsolver, or Louise Erdrich?
The article was definitely thought-provoking, particularly because, as it pointed out, women read far more fiction than men, and yet it's women's fiction that has been set apart as different. Maybe we should focus on the labels "good" or, well...less good.
By the way, for those who aren't ashamed of the label, check out This is Chick Lit, a collection of short stories by authors who are happy to be pegged in that genre. I wouldn't claim that the stories in it are all that great, but the essays about what it means to be a part of chick lit, and to write with women in mind, are.












