I think I’ve figured out my problem with writing this book: it’s chick lit. Until yesterday I was prepared to loudly and indignantly defend the genre, but that was before I picked up my copy of Confessions of a Shopaholic, which I bought at an airport back when I could read on airplanes (i.e. before Sam) and remember enjoying. Re-reading the first two chapters was positively painful. Every fucking bad writing trope I can think of was there. The main character looked at herself in a mirror (shop window) and described what she was wearing! My god! And the only other chick lit in the house is The Second Assistant and possibly The Devil Wears Prada and I just read a vastly superior version of both in under five minutes over at The Slack Daily (check out Will’s comment on that post, it is one of his better real-life stories).
But the real problem with writing chick lit isn’t the company — that could be a positive, as my book (if I ever finish it) would not be harmed by standing out. Plus I am sure there’s some good chick lit. No, the real problem is that it is not YA. I want to write young adult! Who knew?
I think it comes of realizing while chatting with my sister that our generation is writing the books we wanted to read as teenagers. AND THAT IS SO AWESOME. Whereas chick lit isn’t actually what I wanted to read in my early 20s, it just happens to be where this story fits.
Fingers crossed I come up with a story for teenagers next.
(Why yes, I am avoiding writing. Why do you ask?)
(P.S. I am totally overwhelmed by the kind offers following my joking request for critique partners. I will respond when I am slightly less embarrassed.)