It’s been just over three months since I finished writing my chick-lit book and shopped it around to dozens of agents. So far, the response has been… worse than I had anticipated. I know that people say you have to go through (sometimes) hundreds of rejections before finally getting that golden ticket. However, this dismal response to my first novel has me wondering—

“Is there still a place for chick-lit and fluffy women’s fiction on the book market?”

When I started writing my book, it seemed like the most daunting task in the world. But the more I wrote the clearer I could see my end goal: my novel in print. Even on days when I didn’t feel like writing anything at all, I would open my computer and have that tab staring at me, taunting me, tempting me, to write. Whether I spilled thousands of words onto the page or barely jotted down a single sentence, I was further along than I was before. And that made me feel good. Really good.

Although, now that it’s over, I’ve often found myself questioning if I spent a year of my life writing 81,275 words of complete garbage?

Surely not. Right? But how can I be sure? In three months I’ve received twenty-two rejections and a whole lot of silence. Days, weeks, and now months have gone by and I’m no closer to finding out if what I wrote truly sucks or not. I hope not and I don’t think it does but you never know. In all fairness, agencies and publishing houses do warn you that it could take an insanely long time to hear back from anyone. If you ever hear back from them at all.

When rejections come in, they’re very tactful. It’s just “not the right fit” or the “material isn’t what they’re looking for right now.” My favourite rejection so far came from an agent who told me that I have “a real talent for writing characters that jump off the page” but that my main character was too sassy and I should consider toning her down—maybe I will, maybe I won’t.

I’m aware that I wrote a sassy, saucy, scandalous novel about style, sex, and the occasional sugar daddy but still, isn’t it the right material for anyone? Anyone?

It seems like books have to hit a certain level of activism, feminism—any of the “isms” really—or a strong political angle to be successful nowadays. Well, either that or write about a brutally intriguing murder. (Which, by the way, I love reading about and do want to write about one day. True crime aficionado over here.) I understand that the world is in a place where people want their voices heard—and they should be heard. But what about when you want a break from all of that?

What about when you want to put those powerful feelings on hold and just get lost in a frivolous, fabulous, binge-worthy read?

My book is intended to be read while wrapped up in your silk nightgown underneath a feather duvet. Or perhaps on a plane as you get lost in the juicy story even before wheels up. (Post pandemic, of course.) Or as you snuggle your puppy on the couch on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. You might even take my book on vacation and read it on the beach with your toes in the sand, the sun bronzing your skin, and an extra-spicy margarita in your perfectly polished grip. Now that sounds like one hell of a good time to me.

Some of my all-time favourite books are written by Sophie Kinsella, Plum Sykes, and Lauren Weisberger.

Most of the stories are what I would consider to be fluffy women’s fiction or chick-lit. You know the deal—someone fierce meets someone even fiercer and they get wrapped up in some sort of ferocious drama and there is always a mega-bitch with amazing clothes thrown in for good measure and a seductive plot line that makes your toes curl and your heartbeat quicken.

They’re the kind of books you want to read from cover to cover in one sitting with a fresh pot of dark-roast coffee and then gossip about all of the dreamy and outrageous moments with your friends afterwards. Like, OMG can you believe Andy told Miranda to F*CK OFF in Paris???

For me, there will always be a place for chick-lit and fluffy women’s fiction—in my home, in my heart, and of course, in the open document on my computer that is begging me to write more.

Does everyone have to love my books? Of course not. Will everyone want to read them? No. But I’m not going to let that stop me. Out of the millions of women out there, some of them have to think like me and want to read things like me. My odds aren’t looking too bad.

I’m confident that one day I’ll see my book in print. Perhaps not tomorrow or even this year. If I can make it through these initial rejections, I can make it through more. Regardless of what the rejections pouring into my inbox say, I’m barreling full speed ahead. I’ve started writing two more chick-lit novels—one set in Manhattan in 2004 and one takes place in the present, on a year abroad in Sydney, Australia.

Whatever the current climate of the world, I honestly believe there is still a place for chick-lit and women’s fiction. If I have to self publish to get my novel out there, well, then perhaps that’s what I need to do. One way or another, my book is getting onto the market.

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