On Being a Chick Who Writes Lit

Seeing my first book in person for the first time was a magical experience. Opening the box of galleys, smelling that wonderful new book smell—from my own book—and feeling the crisp pages made it all suddenly real. All those hours spent alone at my desk, trying words out on the page, had actually turned into something tangible that other people could hold and use.

But there was something unexpected on the cover. I noticed a little word printed on the back: Romance. And that little word was a big surprise to me.

It may sound silly to say that I didn’t know what genre my book was, but The Plus One was my first novel, not just that I published, but that I had ever attempted to write, so I was a definite neophyte to the workings of the literary world.

The book is also something of a genre bender. It tells the story of Kelly, a perpetually single robotics engineer who builds the perfect boyfriend to use as a wedding date—and then starts to fall for him.

Ethan, the convincingly humanoid robot, far outstrips the technology we have available today, so technically the book is sci-fi, but it doesn’t really read like your traditional Orson Scott Card or Frank Herbert fare. There are romantic stories, friendship stories, family stories, and work stories interwoven through the plot. The tone has a lot of humor in it, but it’s not as broadly comedic as one of the book’s inspirations, the 80s movie Weird Science. The story didn’t check all the boxes for any one label.

When I first began defining the book’s genre, in the agent querying process, I landed somewhere in the vague women’s fiction/contemporary fiction space, and my agent and editor and I were in that same space throughout the development process, so it came as news to me when I learned after the fact that the publisher had settled on contemporary romance as the best way to market the book.

If I’m being totally honest, it was not altogether welcome news. My kneejerk reaction was “No way am I a romance writer.” For starters, in real life, I feel like I’m about as romantic as a bologna sandwich. And as a reader, I’ve never been attracted to books categorized as romance. They have a reputation for being low quality, and in some cases, rightfully so. I’ve seen personally how the genre is looked down on. When I tell people I have a book out, many of them are impressed. When I say that the book is contemporary romance, there’s a sort of snide “Oh!” and a laugh, like “Okay, so it’s one of THOSE books. Not a real book.” I’ve found myself eager to explain that “It’s a romance, but not that kind. It’s not graphic. It’s not trite (I hope). There’s satire! There are robots!”

But why should I shy away from romance, and women’s fiction in general? So many of my favorite books and movies have strong romantic storylines at their core. Essentially, I love stories about people: who they are, and how they relate to each other. And love is the deepest way we can relate. So why is it that romance is viewed as universally lowbrow, when it’s really a huge and variable category—actually, the top-selling category in publishing? Why is “women’s fiction” cordoned off as a separate genre, when women buy more books than men, make up the vast majority of the publishing industry, and are leaders of reading culture in independent bookstores, libraries, book clubs, book blogs, and Bookstagram? Why is “chick lit” a dirty word?

Women’s fiction, by which I mean books officially categorized as Women’s Fiction and other female-skewing novels, including romance, has a tendency to focus on the intimate, the personal, and the everyday. Traditionally male-skewing genres, like action and spy thrillers, may showcase stories that are “bigger,” more removed from the life of the ordinary reader. And since women’s fiction looks at the small stuff, it’s often seen as less important. But the small stuff is the stuff of real life: that wedding you got invited to, that friend you embraced when seeing her for the first time in five years, that promotion you’re working until after dark to reach. The small stuff is all around us, and it makes us who we are.

One of my favorite books, Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, is a prime example of this. The fabric of the novel is the everyday actions taken by grounded, relatable girls and women, but as we get to know and love these characters, in Alcott’s capable literary hands, we experience the torrential cumulative power of these little moments. The book’s enduring popularity and relevance testify to how these stories of the “small stuff” tap into what makes us human, across time and cultures.

Romantic comedy—chick lit, contemporary romance—gets doubly stigmatized because not only does it focus on romantic storylines, it does so in a comedic way. And some of these stories are indeed lighter, but not always: a lighter tone doesn’t always mean lighter subject matter. In fact, for me, I find the emotional or dramatic moments in a story often have the most impact when they’re played against lighter moments. It’s a hard balance to strike, but when an author or screenwriter hits it just right, that mix can be incredibly powerful.

I’ve learned to take it in stride when other people expect less of my first book because it’s marked as contemporary romance—because I expect more from myself. And I’m working to open my mind to other books I would formerly have dismissed, knowing that creative works so often defy easy categorization. As readers, it starts with us: we have the power to erode the stigma around female-oriented fiction.

Meet Kelly. Twenty-nine, go-getter, a brilliant robotics engineer, and perpetually single. So when her younger sister’s wedding looms and her attempts to find a date become increasingly cringeworthy, Kelly does the only logical thing: she builds her own boyfriend.

Ethan is perfect: gorgeous, attentive, and smart–all topped off by a mechanical heart endlessly devoted to her. Not to mention he’s good with her mother. When she’s with him, Kelly discovers a more confident, spontaneous version of herself–the person she’d always dreamed she could be. But as the struggle to keep Ethan’s identity secret threatens to detonate her career, Kelly knows she has to kiss her perfect man good-bye.

There’s just one problem: she’s falling for him.