Today I actually started Chapter One.

I am basically trying to write what may be classified as a “Chick Lit” novel. Now before you go start directing your puke at the first pink-covered book you see, let me explain. Chick lit is no longer just about shallow shopaholics who care about nothing but their next sample sale. It is simply another name for contemporary literature that appeals mainly to women. The category has branched out into every aspect of women’s lives today, from divorce and death to twin sets and twizzlers. There is now Mom Lit, Hen Lit, Tart Noir, Bride Lit, and who can forget the several popular categories of Paranormal Lit hitting the mainstream. Apparently, even zombies and vampires have relationship issues. In most cases, the protagonists have developed into an empathetic everywoman, with quite a sense of humor, flaws we can all appreciate, and challenges we face everyday. They just may dress better than we could ever dream to. The characters generally don’t take themselves too seriously, and usually the readers don’t either. Yes, it is often light reading, but it’s not all fluff.

I cringed at the first pink cover I saw and thought I would have to have a few beach drinks in me as I lounged poolside before I could dumb myself down enough to deal with that kind of frivolity. I never read romances. I never touched teen lit, unless you include a few Sweet Valley High books when I was 8, (but then again I was 8, I have a valid excuse). In my teens I was running through the lists of classics interspersed with some Steven King gore, historical dramas, and espionage thrillers. Romance, I thought, was for old housewives to read during their soap opera commercial breaks.

But then I became a SAHM. And I had a crazed little imp running around my house, and it seemed that every two seconds I was needed to wipe hands, and clean up accidents, and blow noses, and kiss boo-boos, and force-feed food, and…there was no time left for me. And not much time left for me to read, which was the sure enough way to quickly erode my last straggling bits of sanity. This just happened to coincide with the explosion of Chick Lit onto the bookstore shelves. After having to put down too many “works of serious literature” to count, I finally picked up a pink book and gave it a try out of sheer desperation. And I just happened to love it.

Sometimes you just need a book that you can read for five minutes at time. Actually, if you have kids, sometimes a paragraph is a major accomplishment. The books made me laugh. Occasionally they gave me a much needed excuse to cry (it’s the book Honey, not that I am covered in baby puke, haven’t left the house in two days, and haven’t showered in a week, really…). They made me feel like I was having a temporary escape from my child-focused existence with a good friend who was available whenever I had a second or two. And sometimes a girl just needs that little moment of escapism to make it through the day until the kiddos are in bed and the glass of wine beckons.

And yes, I read MUCH more than just Chick Lit. The genre probably only embodies ten percent of my usual reading repertoire. But it is something I know. It is how I live, I think, I love, and at the moment, what I write. Wish me luck.