My memoir is going to be total chick-lit.
You know. One of those books about women and their lady-friendships and their girly feelings and their search for silly woman things like self-love.
My memoir is going to be chick-lit, because the story of my life is the story of my female friendships.
The story of my life is the story of a girl growing up into a strong woman, supported and encouraged by other girls finding their own paths to strong womanhood. It is a tale of sleepovers, long letters, late-night phone calls, and tearful hugs. It is a story of love surpassing distance, and time, and monumental life changes.
It is a story that will get published (if it is published at all) as a fluffy, sentimental “beach read.” Its cover will be a gently-glowing, airbrushed, extreme closeup on an attractive woman. Maybe she will be silhouetted by a sunset, on a beach. Maybe it will be just her hands, forming a heart-shape. Maybe she will be leaning out the sunroof of a car, arms spread wide in freedom!
The title will end up as something like “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Vaginas” or maybe “Chocolate Frosting and ALSO FEELINGS, AMIRITE LADIES.”
The vast majority of men will never so much as pick up my memoir, because everything from the cover to the title to its position on the bookstore shelf will indicate that this is a book by ladies, for ladies. Because I am (obviously) a brilliant writer, my memoir will be featured in Oprah’s Book Club, and possibly be optioned for a movie. But it will never be reviewed by the New York Times, because books by ladies, for ladies, are not important enough to get reviewed in the New York Times.
And that, my friends, is a damn shame.