Are Chick Lit Chicks Appreciating the Power of Lit?

When Helen Fielding wrote Bridget Jones's Diary in 1996, she connected with readers through her tale of a contemporary girl living (and dating) in a contemporary world. The success of the novel began an insurgence of countless raconteurs ready to empower women with fiction "for women, by women, about women" (Shipley). Their novels may be considered the "McDonald's" of the literary world by editors, with an "assembly-line" structure that demands "mostly the same" book from them, which is then forcibly uniformed in pastel covers regardless of content (Thomas), but most authors of chick lit simply want to see their fictional chicks and their contemporary baggage (Vutton, stomach, emotional, or otherwise) get their due on the page. Despite its ambitious efforts in the struggle for Girl-Power, the genre has been criticized by feminists for contributing to the civil derogation of women, stereotyping them as cosmopolitan-adoring, relationship-hungry shopaholics. Helen Fielding disagreed and remarked the genre's success "had more to do with zeitgeist than imitation" (Fielding qtd. Cooke). Scholars may ask themselves how a genre which so vocally promotes the empowerment of women, denouncing every critic as tools for misogynistic oppression, could come to be decried by the feminist community? Feminist writers lambaste chick lit's sororital connection with the postfeminism movement, as this association conflicts with chick lit's feministic defense as the "preserve of women" (Gorman)—in particular, as they often remind critics, women who are contemporary and guided only by the cultural zeitgeist. In an attempt to make sense of this ideological dichotomy, there remains an unexplored alternative to this inconsistency which promises to be a critical niche in the solution: Chick lit authors have been denounced by the feminist community as contributing to the erosion of the female ethos, but it is within reason to suspect that these littérateurs have simply overlooked the grammatical intention of the prefix "post" in "postfeminism" and perhaps seriously underestimated the rhetorical influence of words which is exemplified by their diehard defense of the "chick" label.

As many feminist scholars dissect the significance of the genre, namely for its negative impact, the sharpest claws in the fight for chick lit's legitimacy is that of the authors themselves, who are the genre's most vocal proponents. With articles such as the three by chick lit authors Diane Shipley, Sparkle Hayter, and Jessica Grose, each titled "In Defense of Chick Lit" it becomes evident the community feels attacked, accusing both feminists and the "legitimate" literary world. These three authors are not alone in their sentiments, with authors Michele Gorman and Maxine Morrey sharing strikingly similar opinions in their articles "Light Doesn't Have to Mean Stupid" and "Defending Chick Lit". This oratorical recapitulation is a byproduct of the fanatic dedication that chick lit has garnered in both writers and readers. Author Cathy Yardley described her genre as "more like a mind-set than a [genre] at this point" (Yardley qtd. Ward) and the observation is supported by the fervor of its defenders. Although many have argued that chick lit is backlash to feminism (Faludi; Whelehan; Williamson), most of its protectors have no interest in this aspect of the debate; According to them, their only aim is to develop fiction about "modern women's lives" (Shipley), and that opposition is nothing more than "gender-bashing venom" (Gorman). It is commonly argued that there is nothing wrong with writing books which are not particularly insightful or deep, but are just there to make the reader feel good; Many authors also claim that stories about the adventures of relatable women in the contemporary world, by women and for women, cannot be inherently sexist. They proclaim that detractors insult female intellect and attempt to stifle female literary legitimacy by critiquing their genre, as critics are suggesting that women are not smart enough to read or write books and thus immediately disregard chick lit as a valid genre with valid authors. (Colgan qtd. Thomas). Shipley, Colgan, Gorman, and others have expressed the frustration at the being intellectually belittled for their genre and Diane Shipley eloquently refutes the offense by explaining she did not read War and Peace because it was too complex for her (although critics would accuse her of such) but simply because it was too long (Shipley).

Like War and Peace, postfeminism is a particularly complex topic, and although chick lit authors are capable of understanding its intricacies, they may have neglected to examine its etymological roots and/or its relation to feminism. To begin, we look to the most overt display of postfeminism's values which is its usage of the prefix "post" which denotes that there "is something over which it is worth struggling" (Hebdige qtd. Gill). This is confirmed by the dictionary, which states, "post-: a prefix, meaning 'behind,' 'after,' 'later,' 'subsequent to,' [and] 'posterior to'" (Dictionary). Diligent inspection of this material presents a more defined view of postfeminism: after, later, subsequent to feminism, and as it is unlikely that a duplicate movement of supporting women's equality would emerge, it is more likely that postfeminism functions with a different intention, although undefined as it may be. What makes something postfeminist has never been clearly defined, and one internet commentator on a pro-chick lit article monikered "Catesby" admitted they weren't entirely sure what postfeminism was and insightfully noted that it sounded like a "celebration of the kind of assumptions that feminism set out to challenge" ("Catesby" qtd. Shipley). Sociologist Rosalind Gill did a more formal study on postfeminism and found Catesby's explanation surprisingly accurate: Postfeminism, Gill explains, is best seen as more of a sensibility than a movement and it seeks to reject the "Big Sister" pressures of feminism (Sonnet). For example, where as feminism denounced women's magazines as early as 1960 as putting too much emphasis on physical vanity, one of postfeminism's most striking aspects is the "obsessive preoccupation" (194) with physical attractiveness, as well as an emphasis of "self-surveillance and disciple" (155) to maintain that attractiveness—along with these sensibilities comes an re-embracement of women's magazines, which have a history in those particular teachings. Feminists decried the magazines as teaching women to trivialize themselves as physical beings, while postfeminists believe it is just "harmless fun" (160). This is but one example, although poignant, of the type of contradictions seen between these two campaigns, as well as postfeminism's stress on the need for monogamous relationships (Gill), the acceptability of casual female sexualization (McNair), and value of consumerism (Butler), namely designer fashions. Postfeminists believe that these are non-damaging as they presume that an ambiguous kind of "liberal feminist perspective is treated as commonsense" (161), thus making sexism something of a lark to the modern woman. With constant wage gaps ("Simple") and staggering rates of female-targeted violence ("Violence"), including sexual and domestic, evidence of their theory of "commonsense feminism" appears lacking, yet postfeminism insists that the need for feminism is over: This mentality begs the question what is left for women's rights when feminism is gone? Betty Friedan once called this unnamed hollowness "the problem that has no name" (15). While some may feel this is sufficient equality for females, chick lit authors have aggressively defended their feministic intentions as being beyond that of postfeminism. As both "Catesby" and Gill expressed, each for different audiences, the dictations of postfeminism are confusing and tricky to establish which may explain why the professed ideology of chick lit authors conflicts with feminism. Their doctrine contain feministic qualities, with a focus on female strength (not only, as they feel, within the context of their novels but in the community itself), yet their feministic message is diminished by bold relationship shared with postfeminism (Gill; Sonnet), with one author even proclaiming herself, "The Postfeminist Queen" (Butler). With each of these factors in mind, it is possible that awareness, of either postfeminism's intentions or linguistic importance, has not been articulated in the chick lit community.

For further evidence that the chick lit authors may not appreciate true impact of rhetorical metaphor, their insistence on the designation "chick" as both a defining term for the genre but also a term of empowerment for women presents as the strongest example. Before exploring meaning of the female-driven metaphor of "chick", and how it is used in modern vernacular, it is essential to address the leverage that metaphorical rhetoric has on societal influence. Linguist George Lakoff explores metaphorical linguistic expressions and their relationship with metaphorical concepts, essentially explaining that the language we use shapes the way we see the world, and the way we see the world dictates the actions we take (7). The first recorded use of the term being used to define a woman is traced to Sinclair Lewis's 1927 novel Elmer Gantry, in which the nearly-villainous protagonist fumes about having to marry a "brainless little fluffy chick" (vii. 134), referring to a his young, particularly dimwitted but attractive, new fiancé. Chicks, of course, are associated with cuteness, which is attractive, but also with weakness, neediness, and helplessness. The metaphorical association does not stop there as chicks are children of chickens, which are notoriously known for their stupidity (Barras). The connotation of a what a "chick" is remains evident today, as when applied to a woman the term evokes the sweet-but-ditzy young girl, and the chick lit genre itself being the most obvious example with each fictional heroine fitting the archetypal bill. Understanding how metaphor shapes interpretation, the discrepancy between the label of "chick"—which not only brands the literary genre but also its theatrical sibling, the "chick flick"—and the message of female empowerment becomes more noticeable. Examination continues to further support a minimizing theme within the titles, as both "chick lit" and "chick flick" have a repetitious resemblance to rhyming, although not rhymes themselves, which immediately makes them sound vaguely whimsical. Using assonance ("chick flick" also uses consonance) is commonly used in verse poetry which, coupled with the innocence-inducing connotations attached to "chick", is likely to make English-speakers (the genres' main market) think of the simple sing-song rhythms of nursery rhymes. Going back to touch on the societal influence of rhetoric, while Lakoff discussed the broader implications of metaphorical rhetoric, journalist James Geary contributes with observation on the importance of names directly, explaining that names "prime society to respond in specific ways" (120). Looking at more ostentatious examples, there is a historical precedent for groups facing oppression to reject labels with derogatory roots, regardless of their contemporary usage, acceptability, or respectability—this is also the reason "chick" was rejected by the feminist community originally. Once we accept these concepts as pertinent, the origins of the word "chick" and its lingering effects can be illuminated, which fortifies the possibility of linguistic misconceptions among chick lit authors.

Helen Fielding may have started the chick lit craze with Bridget Jones's adventures in a modern world, but few can argue that the genre has since taken on a life of its own. Whether that is a result of consumerist marketing (Smith) or just a byproduct of the new feminine zeitgeist remains under intense discussion; ultimately, chick lit supporters continue to insist that their goals rest only in using their tools (in this case, relatable fiction) to unite women, thus empowering them. While heralding a feministic cause, the chick lit community rebut this valiant effort by willingly becoming known as a "sign or symptom of postfeminism" (Butler)—which, as its name suggests, believes feminism is culturally nonessential. Marriage of these opposing factions seems fundamentally impossible, which leaves chick lit authors with an ideological duality. Further support of this contrasting mentality resides in the community's fervent defense of the playfully demeaning vernacular "chick" as something of a feministic beacon for women looking to belong, despite its lasting stigma and the critical need for social groups seeking reform to shed those biases. There is no obvious motive for the chick lit community, which was created for and is made up by mostly women, to champion the destruction of the cause they hope to progress, so it seems viable that miscommunication could be a reason for this disjunction of ideas. To reject this notion would leave only the unorthodox solution that postfeminism is their true intention, which would see the new "empowered" woman be represented by forever-dieting vessels of designer brands, dating magazines, and chocolate-cured meltdowns. By women, for women, and about women, it seems chick lit's intention is to bring about a new dawning for women's fiction, but—like the dainty covers forcibly applied to countless chick lit novels—the meaning of their words is betrayed by their postfeminist bindings. Between lightly altering pre-written novels about a revolving door of insecure (but dimly delightful) chicks, chick lit authors may have been too busy with bon mots to contemplate the rhetorical significance of their terminology, nor its effect on the feminine struggle for social equality. N'est-ce pas?