I could claim, loudly and insistently, that I’m not a book snob, that I’ve never been tempted to turn my nose up at a romance novel or a “chick lit” title. I could maintain that I read nothing but those illusively defined classics all day and night, but that too would be a lie. It seems I’m a walking contradiction—a book snob in populist clothing. I am at once inflamed and turned off by book snobbery, yet I can’t seem to avoid it completely. As I seem to be in the business of confession when it comes to this column, I thought it might be time to stare down my biggest and most intangible shame. I am a book snob.

Lest I make myself sound incredibly unsavory, I would like to post a disclaimer. My book snobbery is never aimed at others—the quiet woman in the seat next to me on a plane, the teenager cozied up with the latest craze, the man talking loudly on his cell phone as he peruses the murder mysteries in the book store. My book snobbery is completely internalized and grounded entirely in my own personal preferences. My snobbery takes aim at the books themselves, the writing, and my own quibbles with labels and marketing, not at people. I expect this wide-ranging and thought-provoking topic might become some sort of mini-series within the larger context of “The Finicky Reader.” I promise to clearly label these rants—these conversations with myself—“Book Snobbery” to forewarn you of what’s looming on the horizon.

Let it begin.

When I hear the descriptor, “women’s fiction,” I tend to throw up in my mouth a little. An advertising cash cow, the booming market for this type of novel seems to ooze out at me from bookstore shelves. While I’ve read a good deal of it—Elizabeth Berg and Jeanne Ray come to mind—it simply turns me off if it’s too typical or adheres too closely to genre conventions. I know that of which I speak as I try not to pass judgment on an author, genre, or marketing strategy before I sample it for myself.

On the whole, it seems as if the respective authors of women’s fiction, whoever they might be, are often willing to talk about domestic life as if it is the only life a woman has. Or perhaps that’s just the way these novels are labeled and marketed, making them easily identifiable to a hungry reading public. At its core, perhaps my quibble has more to do with being left out than anything else. I do not see myself in most women’s fiction. Why can’t women’s fiction encompass single women? Lesbian women? Lady acrobats? Women who don’t bake or garden? Certainly there’s beauty in domesticity, marriage, and familial concerns—all of which seem to form the crux of this particular label.

Women’s fiction sometimes makes me wish I were a man. I’ve never heard any of the men I know walk up to a compadre and say, “Man, this is a great book. It’s men’s fiction.” Why? Because men’s fiction—fiction largely about men and their pastimes—is simply considered fiction. I doubt a reader has ever said, “Wow, that Philip Roth. He writes great men’s fiction.”

My antidote to women’s fiction is a work that bends all the rules. While I’m sure you’re sick of hearing me rave about Siri Hustvedt, her novella, The Blindfold, is the best example of genre and gender bending that springs immediately to mind. The protagonist is an emotionally and physically tortured graduate student, Iris Vegan. Single, smart, interested in a relationship and searching for meaning in the wake of some distressing life events, she dresses in a man’s suit, shaves her head, and wanders the streets wallowing in her own mental anguish. It sounds a little Britney Spears, I realize, but Hustvedt did it first. Iris Vegan takes a break from her life as a woman. It’s an emotional, powerful novel rich in symbols, imagery, and ultimately dredging up more questions than it answers. In my opinion, The Blindfold is what women’s fiction should be—largely indefinable, resisting easy labels, and full of experimentation. It’s innovative, it’s bold, and it’s an adventure for the characters and readers alike.

Personally, I’d rather bake pecan pie muffins and hang out in my cozy house than wander the streets in menswear, but I still wonder why the breadth of the female experience has been compartmentalized into “women’s fiction” and a few choice experiences that support accompanying assumptions.

In lieu of providing some semblance of an answer to these open-ended thoughts, I invite you to share you own ideas about “women’s fiction” and genre conventions at large. How fair are they? How accurate? Are they something to rebel against or simply a convenient way to describe a subgenre of fiction? I don’t have all of the answers. In fact, I have none. If you do, toss an e-mail my way. Maybe you can help.


Andi is a recovering university academic employed by the North Carolina community college system as an English instructor. While she decided to forego a Ph.D. and career as a professor, she fills in all the free time her current position affords her with editing literary publications, reviewing, freelancing, and blogging. Her work can be found in the journal, Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States (MELUS), and Altar Magazine as well as online in various venues such as PopMatters.com. She is a member of the National Book Critics Circle (NBCC), and writes fiction. Her turn-ons include new books and gelato, while her turn-offs are reality television and washing dishes. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it