Chick lit—hot pink covers featuring martini glasses and Manolos, stylish city girl heroines navigating the urban jungle in search of love and career—seems to have gone the way of Friends and the dotcom bubble. "A visit to any chain bookstore will testify that its heyday has definitely passed," says Salon, quoting an editor who says, "We've pretty much stopped publishing chick lit."
"[T]he bloom is off the "chick lit" rose," agrees The Economist.
Well I have news. Yes, chick lit is dead (or dying, at least). But in its place, we now have a new genre. Call it "farm lit."
In farm lit books, our heroines ditch the big cities beloved in chick lit—New York, Chicago, LA—in favor of slower, more rural existences, scrappily learning to raise goats on idyllic Vermont farms or healing their broken hearts by opening cupcake bakeries in their sweet Southern hometowns. Instead of sipping $16 appletinis with the girls, they're mucking out barns and learning to knit. Instead of pining after Mr. Big, they're falling for the hunky farmer next door.
In Georgia's Kitchen, Georgia Gray 's job "at one of Manhattan's best restaurants" and her relationship with her handsome lawyer fiancé go sideways, causing her to run off to the earthy pleasures of rural Tuscany. In The House on Oyster Creek, Charlotte Tradescome trades Manhattan and her workaholic husband for tending bivalves with a local oysterman on Cape Cod, where she falls "in love with the locals' down-to-earth way of life." In Magnolia Wednesdays, Vivien Gray's career in New York investigative journalism gets her shot (literally), and she repairs to Georgia, where she discovers that "maybe life inside a picket fence isn't so bad after all." In The Lost Husband, young widow Libby Moran takes off for a rural Texas goat farm and a dalliance with a "gruff" farm manager.