Chick Lit, Schmick Lit

Does anyone remember how I wrote once about how picky I am about what kind of books I read? And Pete said in her comment that she wished books came with ratings, like movies . . . oh, how I wish that were true. There is nothing I hate more than having to quit reading a book before I find out what happens, but if there is even mildly graphic sex, a lot of foul language, or a horribly depressing storyline without any redeeming value at all, I usually have to struggle ferociously with the decision. On one hand, I know I don't want that kind of garbage cluttering up my mind and affecting my mood, but on the other hand, I know I will wonder forever how the storyline gets resolved.

The best solution for me, of course, is to never start reading books like that in the first place. Can't miss what I don't know anything about, right?

So in honor of that wisdom, I've decided to throw in the towel completely when it comes to the "chick lit" genre. No more chick lit for me. Unless someone who has read the book can promise over her dead body that the characters are not going to continually swear, spend half their free time drunk or hung over, or treat me to descriptions of their rapacious sexual appetites.

GAG!

Seriously, maybe I live in a sheltered world, but I don't know a single woman like the women in these novels!!! Nobody I know swears worse than a sailor and spends her time obsessing over whether she is sexually satisfied, whether she is married or not. (I must admit that I do have a couple of girlfriends who feel that they can't have a really good night out without getting plastered, but fortunately, they don't make me watch or listen to this in action.)

Maybe that means I am not a true chick?

Oh, that's right! Possibly I am aiming to be a lady instead of a chick. Ah well. This kind of got hammered home hard to me with the latest (and probably last) chick lit book I read. It was Me and Mr. Darcy, by Alexandra Potter. First of all, though I've always liked the character Mr. Darcy (from Pride and Prejudice), I've never lost myself in daydreams or fantasies about him. And I really can't see anything particularly appealing about Colin Firth in the BBC miniseries. Sure, he does a decent job in the part. But swooning over the lake scene? Huh? (Besides, Matthew Macfadyen was a much cuter Darcy.) But the main character in this book, through some weird magic or something, gets to date the real Mr. Darcy, fulfilling all her Colin Firth fantasies. And in the end she finds she doesn't like him at all, not least because he actually has morals and standards of decency are important to him. Granted, the girl doesn't put it that way. She just decides she wants a real man, one who is willing to have casual sex with her, for example. (Which she then proceeds to do with a man she only met less than two weeks before.) Can I just say that I was totally baffled by her "real" romance? I would have much preferred the fictional character, even if he was proud and rude and had no sense of humor. At least he would have treated me with respect.

End rant. In defense of my sanity, I am going to immerse myself in my own stories again. At least I can be absolutely certain they won't offend me. But since I still like to read insatiably, if you happen to come across something interesting that would be rated PG if it was a movie, could you let me know? There's got to be more of it out there, without having to constantly resort to the juvenile stacks in the library!