it started with chic lit
The girls at the gym were talking about cosmopolitans – and how they drank them sometimes because of Sex & the City, even though they tasted terrible. I could call them sad but I wont because I’ve been there. Done that. Bought the tshirt. I admit it. I love chic lit. I don’t know why.
Like most, it started with Sex & The City. If you didn’t envy Carrie Bradshaw you weren’t a wanna-be-writer. Going to work (i.e. bedroom desk) in your tshirt and Uggs. Fabulous, if not painless, salon trips. Partying all night with Mr Big. Coming home to a closet full of Manolos. Living large, I tell you what. Fiction or no.
It was a Carrie moment (me, in front of the telly, doing my nails and reading Vogue) when I first thought “What the Hell. I’m doing this thing”. I spent two months reading Bushnell and a dozen others like her. Then I went to work. Forty thousand words in – i quit. Why? Because I didn’t care. I wasn’t interested in my own writing. Chic lit is like Vogue; it’s there and it’s easy (to read not to write). Great for flying. But do you really care enough about it to sit down and produce it? I don’t think you can, unless you’re Stephanie Klein, maybe, and I’m so not. My love life has never been that interesting. (Dig that hair though.) Also, I don’t do romance very well. It smells of cheese.
I want to write about the weird and the strange, posing as normal. I guess they’re everywhere, but I only know them well there. I know a few other things. I think I’ll mix ’em up and see what I get. In the meantime, I still haven’t read Bergdorf Blondes. Been fooling myself into thinking I was better than that. I’m not (ordering it now). I love chic lit. I just cant write it.