I had originally planned to write a searing response to Laura Penny’s bitchy anti-chick lit article in yesterday’s Globe and Mail.
Between wondering if there is any other genre out there book reviewers feel the need to smear and then spit on a few times before they even get around to the actual book reviews, and laughing at how Ms. Penny vacillates between intellectual snobbery (I just adore Gustave Flaubert! ) and green-eyed jealousy (where she gnashes her teeth over how much money Ann Brashares, author of the Traveling Pants series, has made) there’s a lot of gold there to mine.
But, honestly, it’s just too damn hot out to get into these tired old arguments again. I must instead conserve my energy to whip up a week-long dinner menu that doesn’t involve turning on the oven and then make the dreaded grocery store run.
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