Carolynn Carey, Guest Blogger :: What Is Women’s Fiction, Anyway?

What Is Women’s Fiction, Anyway?

by Carolynn Carey

Search for “Women’s Fiction” on Amazon and you can choose between Jodi Picoult and Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts and Barbara Delinsky, Christine Feehan and Debbie Macomber. Kristin Hannah shows up on the list, as does Sue Miller, John Updike, Toni Morrison, and Jane Austen.

So what is Women’s Fiction? According to Wikipedia, it is “an umbrella term for a wide-ranging collection of literary sub-genres that are marketed to female readers, including many mainstream novels, romantic fiction, ‘chick lit,’ and other sub genres.”

Another term for Women’s Fiction is “relationship books.” These relationships may be between sisters, assorted family members, or friends. Usually, but not always, the relationships are between women. My relationship book, Lily for a Day, is a story about a middle-aged mother and her two adult daughters who have grown apart. A series of life disruptions forces them to interact with each other again, and they not only forge new bonds but they also discover that the wounds from years gone by are no longer so hurtful.

Here’s an excerpt in which the protagonist, Marti, fails to recognize her son-in-law Jake, a movie producer who’s traveled from Hollywood to the daylily farm in Tennessee in search of Marti’s oldest daughter and his estranged wife, Glenna.

When I finally reached the front door, I peered through the peephole to see who it might be. The man standing on the front porch looked vaguely familiar.

He was a nice-looking fellow with a long, lean face and dark hazel eyes. His short-sleeved polo shirt struck me as a little lightweight for such a chilly morning but lots of people underestimate how cool our weather can be in early April.

I tried again to come up with a name to go with the face. Failing that, I decided he must be a former customer, one I hadn’t seen in a number of years. I unlocked the door and swung it open.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I help you?”

The man frowned. “You don’t know me?” he asked.

I examined him for a few seconds longer. Nope. Still no name occurred to me. I shook my head. “I’m very sorry. You do look a little bit familiar but…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m Jake. Jake Walker. Glenna’s husband.”

I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I had frequently daydreamed about this very event without ever really expecting it to take place. In my daydream, of course, I recognized Jake at first glance and my face would immediately transform itself into the coldest, most intimidating sneer anyone could ever imagine. And then I would speak in frigid tones, “Well, well, if it isn’t Jake the Snake. What rock have you be lurking under?”

And in my daydream Jake would flush scarlet with either anger or humiliation and then stomp off my porch or else he would bow his head and slink away, depending on my preferences at the time I was daydreaming.

I’m sorry to say that in reality, it was I and not Jake who flushed scarlet. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t recognized Glenna’s husband. In my own defense, I must say that while Jake was still a handsome man, he had changed rather dramatically since I’d seen him the last time. His hair was prematurely white and lines fanned out around his eyes and in the corners of his lips.

“Mrs. Darnell? Are you all right?” A frown of concern touched his beautifully tanned brow.

I realized I’d been staring at him but still I could think of nothing to say.

He glanced down at my cast. “What happened?”

I answered as shortly as I could. “I broke my ankle.”

He looked up. “I figured something like that. Look, Mrs. Darnell, I know you must hate my guts but I need to see Glenna. Is she here?”

I considered slamming the door in his face but that would have accomplished nothing. He wouldn’t leave just because I was rude to him. And for all I knew, Glenna would be thrilled to see him.

On the other hand, maybe he was just here to tell her he was glad she had realized their marriage was over and he wanted her to go through with the divorce. Whatever the reason, I decided I might as well let Glenna and her husband settle their own affairs.

I sighed. “Come in,” I said, not particularly graciously. Then I eased back and maneuvered my crutches to turn in the small entrance hall. I left him to close the front door behind him.

After leading the way to the living room, I paused and nodded toward one of the chairs. “Have a seat. Glenna’s in the shed. I’ll give her a call.”

Jake didn’t bother to sit down. “In the shed?” From his tone, I inferred he now envisioned poor Glenna living in a drafty lean-to.

“Yep,” I replied. “The shed.” I didn’t owe Jake the Snake any explanations. I carefully lowered myself onto the sofa, picked up the portable phone and dialed the business number.

But back to my question: What is women’s fiction, anyway? I agree that many different kinds of books can legitimately be called “women’s fiction.” What’s your opinion? Agree? Disagree?

Personally, as long as my favorite writers keep producing delicious and diverting stories, I don’t care what the sub-genre is called.

Tagged as: Carolyn Carey, Lily for a Day, Relationship Books, women's fiction