Love it or hate it, chick-lit will always have power. Think of it as the literary marmite, although a little more pink. Whether the pages are dusted in powderpuff-like sparkle, or filled with ice-cream-eating confessions, like every woman chick-lit comes in all shapes and sizes.
Whether you’re apple-shaped or pear-shaped, into stiletto heels or sheep herding, the heroines of chick-lit manage to tap into the very core of what makes a woman tick. And that’s part of its appeal; the normal woman can identify with these protagonists, with all their flaws and revelations, addictions and screw-ups.
Because these women aren’t floundering. Not by any sense of the word. Yes, there are a few blips along the journey – but this just makes the story more real. The reader even experiences a certain gratitude to the author as the poor heroine encounters a hair-disaster that could even rival our own.
For all 360 pages, we are the heroine, we experience every little beat of her heart. It’s escapism in its purest form – but even better, because we’re secretly glad that Hugh Grant hasn’t discovered our own Bridget Jones knickers.
And of course, chick-lit gives us hope. Hope that in the mine-field of all the good, the bad and the downright ugly boyfriends, somewhere out there, just like the protagonist, finding ‘the one’ is still possible. And just like that, our faith in the happy-ever-after is restored.
It’s the book of the modern woman. Reading Jane Austen on a sweaty, overly pungent tube during the summer months might seem a little too much, but chick-lit is the perfect remedy to perk up your daily commute. For those brief moments of the day we’re transported to a brighter, lighter universe, where despite all the pitfalls of everyday life…love always triumphs.
As guilt-free as a kale and cucumber smoothie, and as pleasurable as the thickest, gooiest slice of chocolate cake…why wouldn’t we always love chick-lit?