I am a Chicklit. I confess that I am wholeheartedly addicted to the genre and I don’t understand those who write it off as being fluffy and not of any importance or relevance. I call these people Book Snobs because they seem to think they know absolutely everything about Literature, and there is no room in their limited view of Literature for the female who chooses to write about life as she sees it, a.k.a Chick Lit. I have had several run-ins with people such as these and the encounters have always left me somewhat flummoxed. My first run-in with an anti-Chicklit happened when I was reading ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ for the first time. I was thoroughly enjoying myself on the subway when the man next to me turned and said, "There’s no way a book like that can be that funny." Funny? FUNNY? Try hysterical. Try laughing so hard that I got hiccups. But aside from that try seeing life through Bridget’s eyes. I brushed the encounter off because I didn’t know the man and I didn’t give a toss what he thought of me or my choice in reading material, but the one encounter that did really bother me came from someone I cared very deeply about and who, fortunately, is no longer a part of my life, but who was instrumental in my evolving into a card carrying Chicklit.

You all know him or of him, he’s the King of Testicle Re-Arranging, the car loving (and I do mean car loving) baby-talking lover known to all and sundry as The Village Idiot. My involvement with him was total, everything he said I took to heart. I was so naïve that I let myself believe that he meant well when he told me to lose weight, dye my hair, stop reading the Tarot, convert, stop hanging out with my gay friends, stop writing. I convinced myself that he was trying to help me by instructing me on the Right Way To Do Things, and the only way was his way. I remember so vividly the exact moment when my eyes were opened to his true nature, and I hope never to forget it. My so-called boyfriend had come over unexpectedly and found me lying on the couch reading Jane Austen’s "Pride and Prejudice", and proceeded to rip the book out of my hands claiming that reading "crap like this is just going to make you dumber than you already are." I can look back on that moment and say that without a doubt my body was completely taken over by the literary spirit of Miss Eliza Bennet, and I told him in no uncertain terms where he could stick his Right Way To Do Things. She became my literary heroine in that exact moment and remains so to this day.

I honestly don’t understand those people who claim that Chick Lit has no relevance. In many of the books that I have read the plight of the protagonist is not only real and heartfelt, but it could happen to anyone. In Marian Keyes’ ‘Rachel’s Holiday’ we see the main character go through an amazing metamorphosis from an insecure, selfish woman addicted to drugs and alcohol to a clear thinking, strong and competent human being getting her life back together. Does that sound in any way fluffy to you? In Anna Maxted’s ‘Getting Over It’ we meet Helen Bradshaw just as she’s about to lose her father to a massive heart attack, and we watch her as she goes through the grief process while dealing with a mother who is incapable of caring for herself. How is that not relevant? These books deal not just with the love lives of the characters but with other issues that affect all of us in one way or another like rape, addictions, incest, despair, loneliness, pride, joy, courage. These books may not be Pulitzer Prize winners but they do deserve to be taken seriously. So for those people out there who have given others the Chick Lit Look of Disdain please remember: Don’t judge what you don’t know. And for those of you card carrying Chicklits like myself, remember this: Carry your card and your book with pride.

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