Cheek Lit

chick lit--a literary form intended for women and young girl readers; novels and short stories intended to appeal to feminine tastes and issues; a separate genre from romance, with the ultimate goal specifically not focusing on marriage.

Relatively speaking, chick lit is a new kid on the block, an equivalent for feminine readers of the adventure stories aimed at male readers. As adventure stories run the gamut in voice from a drill-sergeant gruffness to a knowledgeable attention to the details of engines, motors, calibers of bullets, and the specific terrains of bull rings, chick lit reflects a full-bore enjoyment of professionalism, fashions, dating, sexuality, and relationships in general. The chick lit voice strives for and often achieves a tone of humor, with all the edge and potential for pain and sad understanding that implies. In other cases, the chick lit protagonist tends to be self-effacing, but by no means embracing victimhood.

It is not so much a case of men being barred from writing chick lit as it is a case of the potential for a male writer of chick lit sounding a few degrees too ironic, which becomes sarcasm, which is no fun for anyone to read. Nor is it a case of chick lit being the emergence of revenge fantasy writ large for women writers; chick lit is an emerged attitude about the conditions and problems of life that follow women about as though they were stalkers.

The works of Candace Bushnell are apt targets for studiers of chick lit, and although it is nonfiction, the works of Maureen Dowd are excellent study guides for what not to do when writing chick lit.

On balance, chick lit may be thought of as serious literature for readers and writers, which means its endings are of a piece with Thelma and Louise and, to mix the gender metaphor, of Huck Finn taking off for the territory ahead, fleeing from civilization. Some endings of chick lit novels are happy in the plausible sense. Others are reminiscent of Yossarian in Catch-22, taking off in a small boat for Sweden, hoping to flee the consummate madness that is war.

As with all emerging genera, chick lit is pushing envelopes of convention. To write it, the writer must remain abreast of the tide.

Go Figure

The Montecito Journal is a weekly newspaper, printed with three-and-four color illustrations and advertisements as well as black-and-white text and occasional photo. With a tightly certified distribution/circulation figure, it has a circulation of 20,000 plus. It is in some ways like Kleenex in that it is mostly used (read) only once before being thrown away, although there are cases of an issue here and there being read by between one and three individuals.

Montecito, which is unincorporated territory within Santa Barbara County, bordering on Santa Barbara to the west, Summerland to the southwest, and Carpinteria more or less due south is an extraordinary tax base, filled with mansions, estates, luxury condos, and the occasional landmark cottage, estate, or office building that is a legacy from some significant architect. Accordingly, there is a demographic of considerable old money, which is to say inherited wealth, which tends to reflect fiscal and political conservatism. As well, there are full- and part-time residents who have spun away from Los Angeles, reflecting a more liberal or progressive political configuration. No on in either basic group relies on The Montecito Journal for its entire intake of local or statewide news, many still opting for the bottom feeding daily, The News-Press, known variously to locals as The News-Surpress or The Snooze-Press. You might expect a rather property rights. zoning ordinance, real estate prices approach to the such-as-they-are local stories, an you'd not be far from the defining sentiments as well as politics.

You could say with some accuracy that The Journal is unlike any other community newspaper; in any given issue you will find articles on wealth management, the tyranny of local zoning regulations, the haughtiness of Hillary Clinton, the dangers to property values of allowing low-cost housing within Montecito, the dangers inherent in widening Highway 101, the agendas of book reading clubs, and an acrimonious debate on whether Montecito's own Westmont College, a four-year evangelical Christian establishment with an enrollment capped at 1200 students should be allowed to update its facilities. These are sandwiched between three humor columns and advertisements for estates for sale at prices over ten million dollars.

Since February of 2005, I have been reviewing books for this newspaper, alternating newly published books with Golden Oldies or Classics or Forgotten Works of Merit from the Past, a comfortable and comforting routine in which I am able to vary the new and, accordingly, the more or less completely unpredictable with the well-worn relics from other times, including a genre I refer to as Guilt Literature, books I feel pangs of guilt for never having read, or books I feel some pangs for continuing to like after having reached supposed plateaus of taste and discernment.

There are any number of new books I enjoy because of their energy and vibrant voice, projecting beyond mere story, imparting a sense of realism and plausibility that does not seem possible here in Montecito, books such as Richard Price's estimable Lush Life or Richard Powers' The Gold Bug Variations or, for that matter, is The Echo Maker. There is also Louise Erdrich's splendid The Plague of Doves to enthuse about and enjoy as some might enjoy a well-crafted champagne or pinot noir.

The real pleasure comes in reconsidering works already published, things I may even have looked at as a boy with a sense of smugness and daring at this unauthorized peek into the world of adults. There is a lovely challenge to writing about a book which has been out in the world long enough for bookish people to have some idea of it, some notion of the issues and risks that inhere within its pages. To be able to write of such a book without offering the bane of readers of book reviews, the spoiler, is every bit as much the intellectual and emotional challenge as The New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle.

It has come to me that although I have lived here for over thirty years, I am by no means of this place any more than I am of the Santa Monica of my birth; all places change as do the individuals who work or live in them. Unlike many individuals who came here by accident--the late lamented publisher Noel Young, for instance, arrived here because his car broke down here and he needed to find work in order to effect repairs--I came here by design. Liking it here and largely feeling comfortable with life here does not necessarily mean being of here or of what here connotes. Living here, I have come to terms with the nature and range of attitude. The Montecito Journal is in many ways not the local medium I'd have thought to be such a regular contributor to, in part because of its politics, but on the other hand, the freedom I am accorded is thrilling. So long as I get my 12-1500 words in sometime before midnight on Sundays, my contact is the financial one of a check arriving the following Friday and of an occasional call-out in Von's Market or the Summerland Post Office, or the Y parking lot.

If The Journal is not the local medium I'd have thought to be a contributor to, where then? The answer is part of the calculus in the occasional call-outs. Never would have thought you'd work for them. Who'd a thought you'd display your work there. They must censor you a lot, huh? Nothing is what it seems, which is one of my favored refuges of thought. Montecito is not what it seems, nor the Journal, nor the world, nor the universe, least of all am I what I seem, set adrift as Ahab after the whale, looking for a book, the book that will change my life, impart an immediately effective vision or philosophy, transform my writing goals from inchoate premise to a shelf of work that doubles or trebles the shelf of my work.

I am thinking down the line toward September or October of a book of reviews of the Guilt Literature, the older works that have already entered the world and had some effect on it, works that the act of writing about in review form flies in the face of conventional wisdom. Who would wish to read a book that contains reviews of Golden Oldies, even though said reviews considerately contain no spoilers? And how would I introduce such a book to a reader?

Maybe with an essay such as this.