Chick-lit and me (?)

Jennifer Weiner, Meg Cabot, Sophie Kinsella and all you other faboo chick-litters, I have a two part confession to make. First... I have to admit: no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to borrow one of your books from the library. *cringes, peeks through one eye* I'm not even purchasing the book, simply taking it home for 3 weeks for absolutely free, and even under those capricious conditions, I can't do it. I don't like romance novels. I can't deal with reading about well-constructed, 300 dollar stilettos (*gasp* I can't even walk in high heels). I don't want to hear about 20 dollar cocktails and million dollar dreams. I'm a poor broke gal. I'd read a chick-lit novel about a girl who scours the aisles of Payless and eats at Arby's and enjoys her dusty-but-sturdy 12-year-old-car. Extraordinary things can happen to ordinary people too, you know? So maybe that's why I can't get into the genre for reading pleasure. It's all pipe dreams to me. Mr. Perfect who is the opposite of What This Girl Wants but ends up being her savior. How bout mixing it up a bit? Just a little?

Ok. Here goes the second part of this confession: I want to write chick-lit. What's that you say? Hypocrite? Idoita? Hack? Well, there's no need to call me names. And besides, they say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. So, if you'll pardon the dust from that last cliche... I'm paying homage to the ladies of Chick-litdom. NaNoWriMo is coming up and I need a novel to cut my teeth on. Something to lose my concentration/mind/soul/words to for a month. I'm formulating an idea in my mind for an interesting bit of writing. *shrugs* we'll see.