jodyrathgeb

    I'm no chick, and this ain't lit.
    For one thing, neither I nor my characters are young things looking for Mr. Right, either consciously or unconsciously. In Fish-Eye Lens, my women have been around the block. They're widowed or have marriages in various states and stages: The couples are comfortable friends, or struggling to move in different directions, or living in different spheres.
    And "lit," of course, is a misnomer for the genre from the start. "There's nothing literary about this," I warn my sophisticated friends (yes, I have a few). "It's a beach read."
    There you have it: beach read. I'm not afraid or ashamed to say it. Nor am I afraid of Fish-Eye Lens being called chick lit, even though it's only barely true.
    In my early days of pitching this book, I would describe it as "chick lit for the over-50 set." Then one agent told me that the publishing world saw "chick lit" as a very narrow genre, with 25-year-old protagonists, a city setting (preferably New York), shopping, martinis and fashions (preferably shoes). Oops. I've got 40- and 50-year-olds, an island, rum and no mention whatsoever about what anyone's wearing. These women are usually barefoot. I switched to "beach read."
    It turns out, though, that Fish-Eye Lens might indeed be chick lit in the newest sense. Pauline Millard has written an article in the Huffington Post titled "Chick Lit Grows Up," in which she claims, "a different breed of chick lit has appeared with smarter writing and characters." She points to recent sellers The Recessionistas, The Social Climbers Handbook and Bond Girl, all of which feature New York's financial world rather than magazine offices or the typing pool, and notes that the new protagonists are well-educated and sharp instead of clueless ingenues.
    Well, that's an inch closer to Fish-Eye Lens, but still miles away from East Taino Island and my boozy dilettantes. Still, if someone wants to call it chick lit, that's OK by me.
    As for me, I'll stick to "beach read."

    When it comes to making a fashion statement, I'm more like an interrogatory sentence fragment: Say what? My at-home attire is usually a swimsuit and shorts or a little beach dress (sweaters added for Richmond winters). It's lazy dressing, but I prefer to call my style "islandy."
    It wasn't always like this. In fact, there was a time when "preppy" was my sartorial goal. Those were my country club days.
    You see, my father was a golfer and a businessman in the "Mad Men" mold, so naturally he joined the local country club, and for a few years we kids got to enjoy its pool and other facilities. Dad loved the place, but the rest of us never quite fit in. My brother played tennis with the college-bound daughters of doctors and lawyers, but the girls he actually dated would become nurses and secretaries. My sister joined the synchronized swimming team, but she was too much of an individualist for the standard tank suit. Hers was black and a one-piece, as required, but it was a one-shoulder job with a teardrop cutout. As for me, I was too chubby and geeky for that pool set. I did water handstands and somersaults by myself while "Marco ... Polo" rang out around me.
    So when Mom let the membership expire after Dad died, it wasn't a big deal. For a while I continued to want the Villager skirts with matching sweaters, but the times they were a-changin' and many of my clean-cut classmates were headed toward beads and fringe. We were all getting beyond the country club.
    Or so I thought, until I wrote a book. Turns out that today's "country club" is traditional book publishing. The logic is the same: You have to join the club to be acknowledged as a Someone, but you can't join unless you're Someone. You need an agent to gain connections, but you can't get an agent unless you have connections. Oh, and self-publishing? It's just not done, my dear. You'll never get respect if you golf at the public course.
    But the times they are still a-changin'. E-books and print-on-demand have the big New York houses worrying, and agents are either learning new tricks or missing out on the treats. And I, like lots of other writers, don't care about memberships; we just want to play a round of golf or take a swim.
    Sure, it would be nice to see Fish-Eye Lens handsomely bound by a big-name press ... but it's not that kind of book and my dreams aren't that ambitious. I don't expect it to make tons of money or be endorsed by Oprah, and it's far from being Serious Literature. I just want it to be read by the sort of people who will find it fun. Tiny Brandylane Publishers is fine for me.
    So forget the black tank suit and the country club pool. I'm taking a dip in a bright blue-green-yellow number that makes me look like an Easter egg ... or the kind of island girl I write about.