Archive for November, 2005

November 29, 2005

Look at These Faces.

How could the principal have thought that confiscating the newspapers was a good idea?

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November 18, 2005

Are Me and My Ex Boyfriend Going to be Together Forever Quiz

Someone got to my web site by googling that.

If you’re out there, sad googler, I’m going to have to say:

Um, no.

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November 14, 2005

It's Only Pink on the Outside*

(This essay appears in the February 2006 issue of VOYA.)

My new novel just hit the shelves. Wrapped in Bubble-Yum pink, bearing a title one reviewer calls “ultra-light,” Thou Shalt Not Dump the Skater Dude will vie for the attention of young readers across the country.

I’m thrilled by my book’s cover. Against that quite-pink backdrop is a stylized photo of a lithe-bodied skater dude in mid-flight. When I imagine potential readers perusing the shelves of their libraries, or scanning the packed rows of teen titles at the mall, I’m glad my book is dressed in hot pink with a hot guy on top. The designer, Nancy Brennan of Viking, did a fabulous job. Her work will catch eyes and entice would-be readers to take a look inside. The rest will be up to me. I’m pretty confident that the words I’ve committed to the page, the characters I’ve created and the situations I’ve put them in will keep readers reading.

But I must admit I’m not thrilled with the associations that come with a pink cover. I cringe a bit before showing my new book to my colleagues at the college where I teach, and have to stop myself from assuring them that “It’s only pink on the outside.” Nothing says “chick lit!” louder than a loud pink cover. And nothing says “Not serious!” louder than the term “chick lit.”

Books about teen girls have been graced with pink (and other bright, cheerfully-colored) covers for years now. But it’s only recently that I’ve begun to hear the term “chick lit,” so widely and unquestioningly tossed around in the YA world. Editors blithely use it to describe books they publish. Librarians cheerfully assemble chick lit reading lists. Some YA authors happily embrace the label for their books.

Well, not me.

Maybe I’m too much of an old-school feminist. Maybe I’m just too old. Maybe I was scarred for life when my graduate school professor approvingly echoed Nathaniel Hawthorne’s complaint about the “damned mob of scribbling women” depriving him of his due and threatening the very existence of American Literature. I can’t help it, my knee just jerks every time I hear those two little words.

Judging by what I see and hear around me, it may already be too late, but I’d like to suggest we pause and ponder a bit before we accept this ill-fitting hand-me-down label for our books—and our readers.

After all, in adult publishing, a lively debate has gone on about what “chick lit” means and whose work it should or shouldn’t apply to. Things got down and dirty this summer when debut novelist Curtis Sittenfeld (Prep) opened her New York Times review of Melissa Bank’s novel The Wonder Spot this way: “To suggest that another woman’s ostensibly literary novel is chick lit feels catty, not unlike calling another woman a slut—doesn’t the term basically bring down all of us?” After suggesting the term “brings down all” women writers, Sittenfeld went on to count the ways in which she found Bank’s novel “lightweight” (i.e. slutty chick lit.—Jennifer Weiner took down Sittenfeld’s take-down here.)

Bank, whose Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing is often cited as one of the books that started it all, said in a recent interview that she doesn’t “feel good” about the chick lit label because it implies a book is “more chick and less lit.” Like “African-American or gay literature . . . It puts [books] in a category that says, Oh, you’ll want to read this if you’re one of ‘them’—that it’s not really for everybody. It’s a code word for limited audience or limited appeal.”

Another round in the chick (lit) fight started when Random House announced plans for a new anthology titled, This is Not Chick Lit: A Collection of Original Stories by America’s Best Women Writers (Curtis Sittenfeld among them). In true fighting form, champions of chick lit have published their own anthology, Flirting with Pride and Prejudice: Fresh Perspectives on the Original Chick-Lit Masterpiece, claiming one of the WORLD’s best women writers for their team. (“Jane Austen, she’s our chick . . .” )

The day I started this essay, participants in a YA-oriented listserv were asked for titles by someone wanting to start a chick lit club at a high school. Suggestions ranged from Pride and Prejudice to the lightest of the light contemporary series books. But nobody in this exchange questioned the use of the term, no one asked whether was a good idea to label all books about women and girls with this catch-all phrase. If “chick lit” includes works by Jane Austen and Cecily Von Ziegesar (author of the Gossip Girl series), then what can that label possibly mean except “for girls”?

There’s some question about the origin of the term “Chick Lit.” A bookseller I know claims she and her colleagues have been using it for years, since way back before Bridget Jones. The first time I ever heard the phrase was when it was used in the title of a 1995 anthology of experimental, “postfeminist” fiction published by a small literary press in Normal, Illinois. The anthology, according to editor Cris Mazza, featured stories about women who were “independent and confident,” women who could “love until they hurt someone, turn their own hurt into love, refuse to love, or even ignore the notion of love completely as they confront the other 90% of life.”

If this were 1995, I might not quibble about semantics. My own pink-wrapped, lightly-titled book is about a girl who, while as interested in love as the next girl, chooses to spend time thinking about “the other 90% of life.” Why, for example, she lives a life of material comfort while some kids her age live on the streets. Or how it is that teenagers label not only each other but themselves, and how those self-imposed labels can be as limiting as those foisted on them by their peers.

But it’s 2005, and “chick-lit” has, as Mazza recently lamented in an essay for Poets & Writers, been completely co-opted. (She calls it a “perversion.”) As writers of books about teenagers, we should know a thing or two about the damage a label can do, about how hard it can be to escape a label once it’s been slapped on you.

Why slap one on ourselves? How about we call our books . . . books?

* Full disclosure: I’ve recently purchased an ad on the website I discovered Rian Montgomery’s site, and her very able, thoughtful defense of “chick lit” only after finishing this little rant. Does this make me a hypocrite? Maybe. Maybe it makes me a realist. I welcome your thoughts.

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November 10, 2005

Chivalry Lives. On the Internet.

So I have this other blog. Only it’s fake.

It belongs to C.J. Logan, the supercool skater dude of my new novel, THOU SHALT NOT DUMP THE SKATER DUDE (and other commandments I have broken). C.J.’s blog figures prominently in the plot of Skater Dude, when C.J. uses it as a platform from which to trash Kelsey, my book’s main character. I built the blog from stuff I had put in the novel, about C.J. touring Japan and having lots of teen girl fans who vie for his attention. Most of the “comments” on are from C.J.’s fictitious fans.

But a funny thing started to happen last week. Some people found the blog and thought it was real, and they started to leave C.J. hatemail. It’s kind of sweet, actually, in a bad-word kind of way. One gallant young man even challenges C.J. to some kind of online fight. He left his email and everything. It kind of warms my heart to think there’s a guy out there in cyberspace willing to defend the honor of a girl he doesn’t know and will never see.

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November 7, 2005

Not-So-Terrible After All

I cringed when my husband and daughter came back from the video store with Pollyanna for Family Movie Night last weekend. I’ve never been possessed of that “determination to see the best in life” like the smiling blond orphan Hayley Mills plays. I sat down with them, prepared to sigh and roll my eyes through the whole thing. Well, yeah, you saw this one coming. Not only was Pollyanna not-so-terrible, I liked it. I’ve decided that Pollyanna got a bad wrap all these years. She’s not some stupid girl, blind the world’s injustices. Far from it. She’s just not consumed by her knowledge of injustice and suffering. Definitely better than some of the dreck Disney puts out these days.

But the real ah-hah Pollyanna moment for me came the next day, when I heard a medical researcher talk about how optimism and pessimism can affect health. It wasn’t so much what he had to say about the power of positive thinking, but the power of negative thinking. I’d never heard of the nocebo effect, which is the opposite of the placebo effect. In a nutshell: expecting bad things to happen may increase the likelihood of their happening. There have been documented cases of voodoo death, where the belief that one has been cursed is enough to kill a person.

So think before you dismiss someone as a Pollyanna next time. That Pollyanna will probably live longer than you.

But if you ever hear me grumbling–about anything–I strongly suggest you not suggest I look on the bright side, or for the silver lining or any of that crap.

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