Confessions of a Chick Lit Devotee: How 90s Fiction Changed My Life (and My Bookshelves)

In the mid-1990s, something seismic happened in the world of books—and in the life of a chaotic, twenty-something me. I discovered chick lit. And by “discovered,” I mean I stumbled upon a copy of Bridget Jones’ Diary, fell instantly and irrevocably in love, and then proceeded to devour everything in the pink-spined section of the bookshop with the kind of commitment I wish I’d had for career progression.

This was different. These weren’t your glossy, perfect heroines with matching underwear and a clear five-year plan. These were women like me. Women who weren’t all that pulled together. Who drank too much Chardonnay and smoked Silk Cuts with abandon. Who made terrible, terrible romantic choices. Who sometimes didn’t brush their hair. And crucially—crucially—who were the centre of their own messy, hilarious, heartwarming stories.

At the time, I didn’t realise it was a literary movement. It was just great to relate to characters. And be entertained. Here, finally, were the books that understood the specific, glittery chaos of being a woman in your twenties.

First true love

Bridget Jones, of course, was my first and truest love. That gorgeous phrase, “I like you very much. Just as you are.” Not because of the romantic implications (although… swoon), but because that line captured something quietly radical. That it was okay to be a bit of a disaster. That you could be deeply imperfect and still worthy of love—romantic or otherwise.

From there, it was a glorious, fizzy spiral into the worlds of Marian Keyes (I’ve jumped on every one of her novels like it was the last bottle of wine at the party), Fiona Walker (the scale! the chaos! the sheer fun!), Lisa Jewell (early Lisa Jewell with the best kind of London chaos), and Adele Parks (sharp, funny, always a bit uncomfortably real). These women were the queens of 90s chick lit, writing about women who were trying—really trying—to get their acts together.

And it wasn’t just about finding a man. That was the bait, maybe, but the hook was always something deeper. Reinvention. Resilience. Female friendship. Healing. Learning to take up space. Learning that you could start over—even if you were hungover and your bank balance was a tragic punchline.

Flawed and fabulous

It’s fashionable to eye-roll at chick lit. To dismiss it as fluffy or superficial. But to me, it was revolutionary. It made room for flawed, funny, fabulous women to be front and centre—and reminded me that being a bit of a disaster wasn’t the end of the story. It was just the beginning.

So here’s to the pink covers. The botched first dates. The mortifying career mishaps. The shared bottles of wine and moments of pure, unexpected triumph. And to the brilliant, hilarious women who wrote it all down and made the rest of us feel a little less alone.

Long live chick lit. And long live the 90s.

I’ve just written a book called Forever, Maybe and plan to publish it in August. It’s chick lit—though if you’re picturing high heels and cocktails, there’s a bit of that, but also midlife issues, long-term love and a lot of questionable decisions. Think Marian Keyes with a Glasgow postcode and slightly more existential dread.

You can read an extract of it here.

Click here to read an extract of Forever, Maybe

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Pre-order now (please, please, pretty please), and help a writer sleep slightly better at night

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