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When Mary Bly told the world that she wrote romance, one thought stuck with us: shame. We cannot think of any other genre of fiction that comes with built-in shame for its readers. The covers, of course, don’t help, but they could be plain brown wrappers, and the comments would still come. Jill Monroe posted this week about how one woman asked Jill, to her face, if her book was crap (it isn’t — we would not allow Jill to write crap; that is our sole territory, and we protect it fiercely). For some reason romance novels aren’t considered “real” books. Readers often feel compelled to defend their choices by pointing out that the mix a whole lot of heavy reading in with the fluff (we are guilty of this). The subject matter is source of shame: that’s the Victorian era, still biting us. Hard.

Intellectuals call women’s fiction “guilty” pleasures — as if enjoying what you’re reading is a crime. Over at Beatrice, author Meg Wolitzer falls into this trap. Even as she admits to liking some (but not all — all would be a stretch for even the most devoted of fanatical fans) chicklit, she notes her guilt. Justifies her pleasure. How long before she and others can just come out and admit they read a wide variety of fiction — and it’s something they enjoy. Without qualifiers.

Because the world of blogs is often like a party with lots of little conversations, this thought of Wolitzer’s struck a nerve with Jennifer Weiner:

The Pink Ladies are completely apolitical. Yet beneath their manicured, high-gloss surfaces is a depiction of a certain kind of urban female life at this point in time. If these books were placed in a time capsule and opened up at a much later date, people would get to see what these post-post-post-feminist women were like.

Weiner takes a view of women’s fiction that is more in line with ours: there’s a whole lot more going on than hot pink covers and discovering that men are, indeed, a different species (now if only science would catch on):

I think that these novels all have politics as their underpinning: the politics of the boardroom, the politics of the bedroom, the dance that goes on in the workplace between women and men and or young women and older women; the conversation that goes on at home between husbands and wives about money and work when babies come along.

Now, astute readers will notice we’ve been a little inconsistent in our use of of the chick and lit compound in this post. No, we weren’t testing to see who is still awake — though maybe we should. Hey!! You!!! Wake UP!

Thank you. Men’s Health has discovered the key to understanding women. Okay, they’re not the first, and they won’t be the last. Certain revelations are as cyclical as summer. We find it rather cute that each time the truth is learned, it is greeted with the same level of enthusiasm that Columbus’s crew exhibited (hallelujah, fresh water and less scurvy). Yes, a man discovers that romances lay out all the things that women want (and do). That this is a guy who will start getting lucky on a more consistent basis is beside the point.

What intrigued us was an interesting morphing of terminology. He may not even realize he did it. At one point, he’s looking at “chicklit”, mere paragraphs later he’s confused the whole spectrum of women’s fiction into a single catch-all phrase “chick lit”:

In fact, there was no end to my ignorance of this important new genre. So that night I rushed out to a local bookstore, loaded up on contemporary romance novels, and conducted a quick crash course. It was quite an eye-opener. 1-900-Lover showcased an out-of-work high-school teacher who starts her own phone-sex service and meets the man of her dreams in the process. Hot August Nights dealt with a high-school principal who hires a baseball coach to nuzzle her mound and tease her pitching rubber with his tongue, though he inexplicably refuses to remove her panties, making her wild with desire to feel him against her naked skin. As is only to be expected. And White Bikini Panties explored a mousy young woman’s abrupt decision to throw out her conventional panties and start wearing spicy thongs.

Honestly, I think a lot of male readers would have been just fine with the white bikini panties. But that was not the point. The point was, in Rolf and the Rueful Rhododendron, you never got within a stone’s throw of white bikini panties. Much less crotch-nuzzling Don Zimmers.

We totally agree that the image of Don Zimmer is unpleasant. But if we have to have it in our mind, so do you. Zim aside, the article gets extra credit for treating its subject matter with respect and humor. Though clearly someone has no idea of what real-life CPAs do all day.

• Jill Monroe (or catch Jill’s postings here — just click on “Jill’s First Blog”)
• In Praise of Pink Ladies
• Snarkspot
• Read Her Like a Book – Modern romance novels reveal the disturbing truth about what turns women on. Heaving bosoms not included

M.J. Rose picks up this theme, and her comments inspire us to a radical proclamation. As of now, we are declaring faux intellectual guilt about reading to be passé. It is done. Either you like what you read or not. There is no guilt. Rose suggests that sometimes you want pizza, sometimes you want clams. Neither is better, neither is worse. Get over your guilt. Read.

• Balls