In praise of ‘chick lit’

I first read Confessions of a Shopaholic — or The Secret Dream World of a Shopaholic, as it was then known — in my early twenties, not long after finishing a degree in English Literature which had, in retrospect, kind of killed off my love of reading.

I’d just spent four years reading books because I had to, rather than because I wanted to, and analysing them rather than simply enjoying them. Even during the holidays we’d be sent home with reading lists so long they left no time to read just for fun; in fact, I still have flashbacks to the summer I spent essentially bribing myself to read James Joyce’s Ulysses by promising myself a treat at the end of every chapter, only for the lecturer who spoke on it to admit he hadn’t read it either. Yes.

(To be fair, if you’re doing an English Lit degree, I highly recommend reading at least some of Ulysses, because so few people have managed to get through it you can use it to prove basically any point you like. I’m pretty sure I only passed my final exams because of the number of times I was able to say, “and this is shown to great effect in Ulysses,” without fear of contradiction. Top tip for you, there. Follow me for more educational and literary advice…)

Anyway, at some point after finishing my degree, I picked up Shopaholic, and while it would be an exaggeration to say it changed my life, I’m going to say it anyway, because … well, it kind of did?

Not only was that book a complete breath of fresh air after the required reading of Edinburgh University’s literature department, it was also one of the first times I’d come across a fictional heroine I could actually relate to. 1 (Well, with the possible exception of Jinny from Finmory and George from the Famous Five, and both of those characters were far, far ‘pluckier’ than my young self could ever dream of being, so maybe not…) Hard though it was to admit it, I knew I would never be a Lizzie Bennet or a Jo March. I could most definitely be a Becky Bloomwood or a Bridget Jones, though; a fact that was confirmed when I passed Shopaholic on to my mum after reading it, and she returned it with the words, “That was basically a book about you, wasn’t it?”

Like Becky, I was a poorly-paid journalist with a penchant for Gucci handbags, and a lot of credit card debt. Like Bridget, whose diary I read (and then re-read) shortly after, I was constantly falling for men who weren’t good for me, and was convinced the only reason it wasn’t working out was because I was so disgustingly ‘fat’ that no one could possibly ever love me.

(And, look, I know there’s been a lot written about ‘fatphobia’ in Bridget Jones, and Gen Z love to dunk on it for that reason, but all I’ll say is that (in the book, at least – I have only very hazy memories of the movie) I felt the point Helen Fielding was trying to make with all of the weight-talk was that Bridget wasn’t actually ‘fat’ but nevertheless thought she was … because that was exactly how society and the media at the time made women feel. It was certainly how it made me feel, and while I suspect that’s probably a very 90s mindset, which you’ll probably only really understand if you lived through the era of the ‘sidebar of shame’, in which magazines would post photos of celebrities with red circles pointing out their non-existent cellulite, the fact was that I did live through that era and, in Bridget Jones and Becky Bloomwood I found exactly the kind of flawed heroines who seemed to be having the same kind of experience of it I was.)

I’ve written before about how I read (and write) romance because my traumatised little brain is soothed by the guarantee of a happy ever after, but I started reading romantic comedy in particular because I guess I loved the idea that these happy endings could be achieved, not just by the flawless, perfect people who are deemed to be most deserving of them, but also by women who live beyond their means and can be relied upon to make an absolute tit of themselves at the office Christmas party.

I was just such a woman; one of the ones who was more likely to fall over than to fall in love. One of the ones no one ever wrote books about… which is why books like Shopaholic meant so much to me when I first came across them: and why, when I heard that Sophie Kinsella had passed away this week, I felt so incredibly sad about it, even though I didn’t know her.

I did know Becky Bloomwood, though, and all of the other heroines of Sophie’s hilariously warm and witty books; and when I finally came to write books of my own, I knew those were the kind of women I wanted to write about too — despite the knowledge that some people (maybe even quite a lot of people…) would turn their noses up at them … because, let’s face it, romantic comedy is still a genre that’s somewhat looked down upon — considered a far lesser form of literature than almost anything else you could mention.

I knew this, of course, because people had already sneered at me for reading ‘chick lit’; to the extent that, any time someone asked me what I was reading, I’d have to fight the urge to bring up my degree and point out I had read the classics too, but now I just wanted something fun. Like, I read Ulysses, Sandra, would you just let me live?

A lot of people, though, think ‘chick lit’ is superficial and silly; literary ‘fluff’ with silly cartoon people on brightly-coloured covers. But these books are so much more than that. For me, they were first of all an escape route: a welcome break from the ‘real world’, and a return to the days when reading was a pleasure rather than a chore. Now, of course, they’re my livelihood — and I owe that, at least in part, to authors like Sophie Kinsella, who paved the way, and gave people like me something to aspire to.

I think that’s why this week’s sad news made me feel a lot like we romcom writers have lost our leader. Sophie Kinsella was one of the very best of us; and if you were to ask me which I prefer, Ulysses or Confessions of a Shopaholic, I’d simply show you this very low-res photo of me from Halloween 2009, in which I’ve thoughtfully covered up Terry (Who went as Bruno and would probably not thank me for sending that particular photo to all of my subscribers) with my ‘inspiration’ photo:

No one had a clue who I was supposed to be, and I was asked more than once why I hadn’t bothered dressing up, and had just come as myself, but I like to think I nailed it. And I hope Becky Bloomwood’s wonderful creator would have agreed…