There are many things about a woman’s glossy that can be demoralising. Flicking past endless photos of glistening Amazonian super women, disgustingly glamorous celebrities and clothes you can’t afford can be crushing, but these hallmarks are key to the appeal of these magazines. Magazines are essentially lifestyle porn, a fantasy that millions of women (including myself) buy into for a bit of fluffy escapism. Yet as much as I love to gaze at photoshopped perfection, there is one section of virtually every glossy that I am unable to read without wincing: the books section.
The coverage of books in magazines such as Cosmopolitan and Glamour is understandably cursory and tokenistic (no one buys a magazine with Cheryl on the front for the literature). The fact that there’s a book section at all should probably be celebrated. What I find so frustrating, however, is the way in which your typical half page of brief reviews can be so insulting. Such reviews are exclusively dedicated to anaemic, patronising Chick-Lit. Of course, a little escapism is no bad thing. After a day of dry text books, a trivial read can be good fun. I suspect that even the most hardboiled academics sometimes find that when lounging on a beach somewhere in the Mediterranean, a light read is relaxing. What irritates me is the way these cheap, Jane Austen knockoffs are the only novels ever to grace the pages of said magazines. The insinuation is that the only reading material our fluffy pink brains can cope with is a formulaic, romantic comedy nicely glitzed up with shiny shoes and a Mr Darcy type to distract us from the long scary words.
The problem with the assumption that a light read must equal reductive Chick-Lit is that a book doesn’t have to be patronising to be fun. There are loads of interesting and entertaining books that don’t subscribe to Chick-Lit rules. David Nicholls’ One Day is a brilliant romantic comedy that doesn’t condescend, telling the story of a romance by focusing on the same day every year. Maggie O’Farrell writes sensitive romantic novels, such as After You Were Gone, that don’t fall back on insipid platitudes. These novels are witty, gripping and romantic without being twee or insulting. Most importantly, they portray believable female characters, a change from the shallow Carrie Bradshaws caricatures that seem to have become the norm.
Women’s glossys are typically written by. and aimed at, educated, professional young women. The people that work on them are likely to have degrees and to be widely read. So why reduce all literature aimed at women to books with titles such as A Spring Fling and Shoe Addicts Anonymous? It’s insulting, it’s patronising and it feeds women an endless stream of syrupy sentimentalism that does us no favours. Books such as these perpetrate the same myths about romance and relationships as lazy Jennifer Aniston vehicles do in the cinema. Chick-Lit initially suggested a chance for the intelligent working women to get a mainstream literary voice but instead has failed to portray women as anything more than obsessive shoe fanatics. Hundreds of years after Jane Austen first wrote about relationships, fiction aimed at women still hasn’t moved past the idea that the only way to a happy ending is marriage.
And what’s so great about staid Mr Darcy anyway? Give me someone with a decent sense of humour and Efe’s on speed dial any day.