If there was ever a trend I felt ambivalent about, it's this one. Chick lit gets married, knocked up and turns into Bugaboo-pushing Mom lit. I can see it now, pink book jackets with stilettos and strollers, Prada and pacifiers.
Yeah, I'm the basically the target (if a little younger and poorer than the late-30s lawyer-turned-SAHM with a preschool admissions complex), but I find something so icky about a bunch of publishers chasing a trend and a bunch of author-mommies cranking out cliched manuscripts while their beloved babies nap.
But here's where my ambivalence crops up again. Women have written about motherhood for generations. I loved Toni Morrison's Beloved and I click over to Dooce.com daily. Motherhood is a shared experience and rich territory for writing. What I don't like is the entitled, spoiled-brat tone Mom lit owes to its chick lit predecessor.
