If, ten years ago you’d told me I would end up being a “chick lit” author, I’d have laughed at you. It wasn’t at all what I imagined for myself, but I couldn’t be happier.
There was a time when I might have been disparaging about books with cute pink covers with swirly writing and women’s shoes, but I spent some time working for a book club that specialised in women’s fiction and as a result got to read a lot of the stuff. Like any genre, chick lit varies enormously. I’ve reads books that will remain nameless that I’ve wanted to hurl across the room because they contain such cliché, unbelievable ditzy and pathetic characters who get themselves into ridiculous situations and speak unrealistic dialogue, only to be rescued by the manly grumpy bloke they met on page ten who has secretly loved them all along. You know what I mean, you’ve read those books too, so I hope you’ll excuse the rant.