For all you five people who read my blog, I need to rant, badly, so please bear with me.
Someone I went to college with read some posts at my blog and wrote back to me saying that I should write fiction. Honestly, for a minute, I was taken aback (I thought she was praising me and that did take me by surprise) and started fantasizing about being called the Pakistani version of Dave Barry (I know, I know, I am much better looking than good ol’ Dave – a lot less wrinkles fewer grey hair) but then came the dampener. She said that what I write is chick-lit and then went on to define chick-lit and what is considered chick-lit in da
Ek tau I generally hate patronizing people, but more so when they are your age but think they know better because they happen to live in
Funny thing is, what I write cannot be classified under chick-lit. For one, my wit is too dry for chick-lit, secondly, I am way too irreverent to ever write about panting chests and heaving bosoms and last but not the least is that chick-lit is always about a man, where the chick protagonist fantasize about one perfect specimen of manhood and would do anything to get him. Being the narcissist that I am, I usually write about myself. It is always about what I do, what I think and most importantly; what and who I hate. I love myself and chances are that I will stay in love with myself for a very long time. Such self love would make the requisite pinning (a must for chick-lit) almost impossible to flourish and I will continue to rant as gloriously as I do now.
I rant, therefore I am.