Featured: In Defence of Chick Lit

Chick Lit – Vivian Yang

I am a chick
You don’t call it lit
But I read it.
I am the protagonist
The girl who loses part of herself
In every chapter of life.
And struggling grappling, striving
To dodge life’s blows
And to avoid greedy arms of time .
Discomforted, disorientated, discontented
In a world so confused and confusing.
So warped.
But like the chick in the lit
I find myself whole again.
Maybe different.
But whole again.
Because I am the chick
Who reads lit.
Chick Lit.

When you’re a young, fresh faced naive little Year 10, reading ‘the classics’ was THE thing for an aspiring arts student to do.

It’s this time, between year 10 and year 12 when learning life’s lessons through the great literary experiences seems the coolest and most intellectually hardcore thing to do.

Shakespeare taught us all the heavy stuff – if you’re going to pretend to kill yourself, make sure you let your boyfriend know. Don’t borrow money, be jealous or ambitious. Anna Karenina taught us that you shouldn’t give up everything for a man, regardless of how heartstoppingly sex he is (sorry Vronsky!) and that if you want someone to propose to you, push your mushroom around on your plate, stare at them and then bam, you’re in. Jane Eyre reminded us that it’s important to make sure that your husband doesn’t have a wife (crazy or otherwise) locked up in his attic and stay away from fire. And Gatsby, oh Gatsby, taught us a lesson for almost every occasion.

Then, university rears its ugly head and you begin to realise (somewhere in the middle of a late night reading of Dubliners or To The Lighthouse for modern and contemporary literature) that you’re getting kinda sick of those pesky life lessons and thirst for something frivolous and decidely easier to read on a thirty-minute train trip.

This is where Chick Lit, despite all those criticisms, comes to the rescue.

Yang’s defence in the above poem (coincidentally spotted upon a recent train trip through Melbourne courtesy of Moving Galleries) The categorisation alone invites petty criticism, illicited often by those who simply don’t know what they’re missing. However, the more palatable, formulaic, utterly predictable and comforting novels with their near little narrative arcs and attractive male protagonists can, in fact, inspire us to keep on chuggin’ through those little ol’ novels.

Yay for books!

Stay tuned on Thursdays to delight yourself with a healthy update on some chick lit which doesn’t mock or demean whilst exploring some of the deeper issues concerned with the social practice itself.