Cat Fight?

Jennifer Weiner, author of the "chick lit" gems Good In Bed and In Her Shoes, on her blog thoughtfully critiques the New York Times review of Melissa Bank's latest novel The Wonder Spot. Curtis Sittenfeld, author of Prep, wrote the review, and Weiner says it tells us as much about the reviewer herself as it does about Bank's novel. Likewise, Weiner's critique of Sittenfeld's review says a lot about Weiner and her feelings about the degradation of books that are described as "chick lit." As she so accurately points out:

And while we’re performing the online equivalent of pulling each other’s hair and writing mean things about each other’s work on the virtual bathroom walls, men are still getting the majority of reviews in major papers and men are still penning the majority of the pieces in The New Yorker and influential magazines.

I totally agree.

I'm also a huge fan of Bank. I enjoyed The Wonder Spot, as well as her first book, The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing. I once lent my copy of The Girl's Guide to a friend who read it and then told me she thought it was "degrading." It ruined the friendship. Clearly she was mistaken. At any rate, there is some truth in parts of Sittenfeld's review, but she entirely underestimates Bank and her writing abilities. Whether Bank writes "chick lit" or not is beside the point. She is a writer who, with just a few words, is able to express the intricacies of a relationship, the grey area of complicated situations. I'll leave you with a little sample from The Girls Guide:

I once read that no matter how long an alcoholic was sober, as soon as he went back to drinking he would be exactly where he was when he'd left off. That's how it was with Archie and me.

I filled his closet with my clothes. My shampoos and conditioners lined the ledge of his tub. He stocked his refrigerator with diet root beer and carrots.

We ate dinner together every night, out or in.

Before bed, from the upstairs bathroom he'd announce, "I'm taking my Antabuse!"

I didn't know what to say. I tried to think what the right answer might be. Then, I'd call out, "Thanks," as though I'd sneezed and he'd blessed me.

I knew he wanted to have sex if he put on aftershave before bed. I called it his forescent. The sex itself was manual labor. I was there for what happened afterward - the tenderness that didn't come any other way.

Sometimes, we slept face to face, with our arms around each other; one night I woke up and his mouth was so close to mine I was breathing his breath...

(Many thanks, Sarah, for sending me the link to Weiner's blog.)