A Gent's Outlook

A Literary Agent Divulges the TRUTH about Publishing

Monday, April 24, 2006

Saved from Being Hacked to Death—A Chick-lit Eulogy

God, I love it when I am right and chick-lit writers are wrong. This disastrous little trend is so dead. All the agents I know are flooded with this shit--even published writers are being dropped right and left, and, ironically, these lovelies are back out looking for that perfect mate, I mean agent. Suddenly, the boat is too full and someone is going overboard. The problem is that in this literary sea, none of these hacknits can swim, if you get my drift.

Oh, the drama!

What will these girlies do? Break into another genre? I wouldn’t take ‘em. Fuck ‘em. If they couldn’t write anything but chick-lit to begin with to “break in”, fuck ‘em. I hate writers who use a genre to learn their craft and then move on to something “better.” How arrogant is that? I bet fans love to hear it when these bustles carp on Oprah about how they started the genre but felt they just had to grow, “…Sigh, aren’t you happy for me that I have achieved my dream, you little people?” Well, aren’t you happy for them, dear readers? Aren’t you happy that someone gave you a product you like, but now she doesn’t want to make it anymore? The person who wrote the book you liked so much was only using you as statistic to get to the level in her job she felt she deserved to be at. Don’t you wish you could use people like that?

And they say agents suck ass. What bullshit.

Finally the smoke and mirrors game is over. Readers figured out that “chick-lit” was yet just another name for books by writers with little or no talent and no clue. What is a chick-lit novel anyway? Is it a romance? Sort of. What else is it? Umm, I don’t know. But it has a young chick as a protagonist. Okay, so if a novel has ghost for a protagonist, are we going to create a whole new fuckin’ genre for it? Nope, we tell it to get its supernatural ass back where it belongs. What if the book has a whale for a protagonist? Are we gonna create whale-lit? No, we are not, because whales don’t buy books. But dumb chicks do, although I guess if you considered fat chicks whales it might work.

Cluck, cluck.

I am so glad I never took that shit on, because I would now have a bucket full of nitwit girl writers who think that their words deserve the same attention as The da Vinci Code. How ridiculous. The da Vinci Code doesn’t deserve any attention, either. (What’s that sound I hear? A cat yakking up a hairball? “Hack! Hack!”)

The whole cheesy marketing scheme gone all bad has given wannabes with average writing skills and little else the opportunity to sit on top for a while. If they would have asked me, I would have let them sit on top and not even made them write anything, but no one cares about a gripey male chauvinist’s opinion. If they had asked, I would have said something like, “Girls, listen to me. This whole thing is going to blow over in a short time. Don’t bother with that inane shit. Let’s work on your literary stuff and go for the Pulitzer or something.”

Of course, I would have been talking to MY clients who have the talent to do other things besides write a story with a quirky, funny, lovable, vulnerable—yet sassy!—gal who has all the wrong values and tries to accumulate material and emotional wealth through self-deceit and questionable strategies. How hard is it to pretend that you are yourself acting out a fantasy and writing it down on paper? Hell, lots of people do that. The good stuff we call erotica, and, by God, it serves a purpose. Have you ever tried to whack off to chick-lit? The covers alone are enough to make my pecker shrivel and hide in my buddies. Of course, maybe reading about other gals gives the ladies some naughty thoughts, but I thought that would fall under clit lit, er, I mean, lesbian fiction. Unless it was marketed to guys (Hot lesbian angst right here! Girl-on-girl whining like you’ve never read!), but that takes us back to erotica again…

And so you can see how frivolous the whole chick-lit thing is. Let there be no mistake: these types of novels are plain ol’ mainstream, the kind that Hemingway used to write. Only his books were for the guys’ guy, not the girlies’ girl. And you couldn’t whack off to those either, unless you had a thing for fishing or soldiers.

I guess I should say, in conclusion, that…


…but this is supposed to be a eulogy and that would be inappropriate. Oh wait, this is Sammy we are talking about here.



  • At 8:19 AM, Blogger Bernita said…

    "Shrivel and hide in my buddies"
    Writers in need of new euphemisms should read Sammy.


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