“Write what you want to write,” that was the simple but powerful advice from the French author Annie Ernaux, the Nobel Laureate in Literature in 2022.
I thought of her words this week when considering the life and work of Sophie Kinsella; the beloved author most famous for her Confessions of a Shopaholic series, who has died, aged 55, from an aggressive form of brain cancer. Often hailed as the queen of “chick lit”, she understandably disliked the label. If you’d sold more than 50 million books in more than 60 countries, you might also baulk at a descriptor that sounds like a weird porn genre.
As her friend and fellow bestselling author Jenny Colgan said to me on the Radio 4 Today programme this week, when remembering her pal: “If you used the phrase “chick lit” while working in an office, you’d get hauled up in front of HR.” You could believe it, in this day and age.
Instead, Sophie apparently preferred calling her work “wit lit” or “romantic comedies”. Just as the likes of Richard Curtis gets to (a similarly successful British creative export).
Her early death and the public outpouring of grief and love prompted me to think about her legacy and how we nearly didn’t have the joy of her voice. It reminds me just how pernicious the downgrading of women’s creative work really is – and the very real harm of seemingly innocent and tabloid-esque labels such as “chick lit”.
Consider this: even Sophie Kinsella didn’t dare write what she wanted to write when she started out penning books. She opted for writing about what she thought she should write about (stories of the middle classes getting on the property ladder, bed-hopping and the like) versus what really bore more relation to her own experience and desires: the story of a financial journalist who wanted to go shopping.
It was only when she turned 30 that she decided to do what Ernaux advised and “write honestly”. That’s when her success began and her career as a writer turbocharged. But Sophie still did it under a different name (her real name is Madeleine Wickham) out of fear that the book would be a flop.
Of course, it is fine and perfectly natural for women and men to be scared of failure and to seek any protection they can. But the bigger question remains: by calling stories of love, laughter and life “chick lit”, who loses? Women. That’s who.
Readers will miss out, particularly readers of works by women (so that is everyone, but definitely more women than men) because those books won’t get written out of fear of ridicule. And female writers will miss out too, because their internalised misogyny – fed by such patronising labels – will stop them from producing work that matches their experience, as they’ll believe it isn’t important or vital. Consider how new and refreshing those honest books by mothers about the pain and joy of motherhood are, versus baby guides.
Ernaux speaks beautifully of touring her own life for experiences, such as growing up as a working-class woman, to inspire her writing.
Why shouldn’t all women feel entitled to do the same – even if they aren’t writers? Why shouldn’t we each be free to feel like our experiences are important enough to influence and shape the world around us?
I am mildly obsessed with who gets to decide what’s important and which stories should top the “news agenda”. I have spent my career trying to challenge this status quo. Women have only had the chance to be such tastemakers and gatekeepers in the last 30 years or so. Take that in. All of the structures, genres and labels we live boxed within have been decided largely by men for men – and they are still, to this day.
Because even when women do get the chance to shift the needle, we don’t seize the chance to redefine the “norm”. Being the first and making changes is hard and tiring. And why should it all be down to us, anyway?
I have long argued that the stories of our lives are just as important as, say, the latest OBR report into the state of the public’s finances. A case in point is the woeful state of maternity care in Britain – now being addressed in yet another government-led review. But you will rarely see these maternity reports top the news. Why? Because it’s “wimmin’s stuff”, that’s why.
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After hosting Radio 4 Woman’s Hour and creating a women’s section from scratch at a newspaper, I can tell you first-hand how real the battle is to take women’s experiences seriously. Hence, why I believe we still need women-only spaces – even if we wish we didn’t.
I will never forget a meeting I had with a top male executive at a leading publishing house, when it became clear that there was significant interest in my book proposal about periods and the shame that has always surrounded them. It was darkly comic. He refused to use the word “period” during the meeting (referring to it as “ladies’ business”, I kid you not) and then offered me a book deal – on the proviso I would write my “proper” book on politics and news, second.
I looked blankly at him. There was no second book in the offing, at that time. This was the serious book. And the funny one, too. Because women can be both funny and serious, you see – all at the same time!
Needless to say, he did not get my book… but he did prove my point.
Women should do what Sophie Kinsella did, in the end, to great acclaim. Write honestly and in doing so, create a new and fresh agenda for all of us.
Watching: Paddington – The Musical
I am not a big follower of musicals. But boy oh boy, was this different – it captivated me from the moment it began in Mr Gruber’s enchanting shop. This new show is sheer joy (with some good, wry humour for the parents, too). The look on our seven-year-old’s face as the stunning scenery kept unfolding like a magical box and fun things fell from the sky was something to behold. Paddington was masterful, the baddy incredible and the jokes genuinely funny. Bravo to all involved – especially Tom Fletcher for some genuinely catchy and clever tunes.
Reading: Second Spring – Kate Codrington
The reframing of perimenopause and menopause in this comforting book is a great and soothing accompaniment to the rollercoaster I still find myself surprised to be on. I never bought a ticket for this mad ride, yet here I am. I am still fine-tuning my HRT – as I wrote about last month – but it won’t solve everything. This book is a welcome friend on the road.
Listening: Parenting Hell with Josh Widdicombe and Rob Beckett
As ever, I am only five years late to this particular pod party – but isn’t that the joy? Join anytime? I always remember seeing Rob Beckett at a festival when he was starting out – he made me laugh so hard with his memory of eating potpourri at his girlfriend’s house (thinking they were crisps) and at just how hot the inside of a toasted pitta bread is. He still has me laughing and so does Josh. Joe Lycett’s episode was particularly moving and joyful.
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