A chick, in my book, is a baby chicken covered in downy, yellow feathers up until the age of 6-weeks. I’ve always bristled when the term is applied to young women, and I have always subconsciously disassociated myself from Chick lit, believing the genre to be driven by scantily clad, sex-driven female main characters. I couldn’t have been more wrong and, although I’m not a fan of categories, it’s time to reassess the genre I think I’ve been writing in.
So realistically, what chance do I have of getting my bittersweet story of life and love into print? To give it a chance to sate the voracious appetites of erudite readers who are ready to take a break from dystopian dramas and escape to real life in a far from perfect world.