Some of the most measured responses to the question came from men. One said women's fiction is "anything that women write, and that appeals to women." While one woman said she considers Virginia Woolf "women's fiction," many seemed to think the term implied a therapeutic or unrealistic bent. Women's fiction is "anything that touches your soul and makes you feel better about life," said a female interviewee. A man said women's fiction is "anything they want to read" (also Barbara Vey's definition), but then added that it's what they read "for escapism."

On the other side, another man defined the genre as fiction "dealing with women and the sorts of things they're facing in all aspects of their social and cultural lives [...] things that take women's lives seriously and aren't afraid to show them to other people, sometimes warts and all."

Is it true that women want to escape into books more than men do? Aren't traditionally masculine genres, like the spy novel, escapist too? For that matter, plenty of women enjoy Michael Crichton and Ian Fleming — does that make them women's fiction too?

The distinction seems a little artificial, but the fact remains that many women, even serious readers, continue to make it. While I'm always angry when a man refuses to read Alice Munro or Charlotte Brontë on the grounds that they're too feminine, I also have to confess to avoiding a few authors (Philip Roth is an example) because they think of them as being "for men." Usually I've gotten the idea that these writers are misogynist, but sometimes I've accepted this idea without actually reading their work. And when I think about it, I'm not convinced that a misogynist book — while obviously deserving of criticism — isn't worthwhile reading in other ways. In my reading life, the distinction between women's and men's fiction may simply be limiting. What about in yours? Are there ways this distinction can be liberating?

What Is Women's Fiction? [Publisher's Weekly]

This is, not surprisingly, becoming an issue with authors who regard their work as more than beach reads. But Shipley sites several authors who try to buck this trivializing trend and lose; having found a winning formula, the publishing industry, which everyone knows to be in shaky shape in the best of economic climates, is taking no chances.

Shipley concludes that, bored by the number of identical-looking choices, we're going to experience a backlash. Doubtful; homogeneity has never hurt genre fiction like Romance and SciFi, and people looking for fun escapism are unlikely to be repelled by an increasing number of options. They are, however, likely to be disappointed when they get to the beach and find that instead of some heartwarming bit of froth they've ended up with Serious Fiction full of incest and substance abuse.

Yes, I can see why a serious writer would be irritated by what is most definitely misrepresentation (and Shipley's at pains to point out that this kind of branding now extends even to the work of male writers whose stories involve female protagonists.) But in a sense, they should regard this commercial branding as a vote of confidence: to my layman's eye, it means a publisher thinks it might actually sell. It seems to me (and this owes way more to my time in bookstores and on Amazon than my foray into the publishing world) that there's a fairly clear divide between "serious" fiction, and that which actually sells, and unless you're Cormac McCarthy or Annie Proulx, never the twain shall meet. A few Iowa grads on the roster with serious covers might spell prestige, but that's not where anyone's bread is buttered. There seems to be a feeling in our society now that if something's fun — be it movie or novel — it isn't Serious. Serious things are punishment, full of lives of quiet desperation and family tragedies — albeit repressed, undramatic ones. If you're having too much fun, you're not being intellectual. Yes, I'm oversimplifying and there are certainly exceptions that prove rules, almost exclusively by men, who probably have an easier time being taken seriously as bon-vivant wits without sacrificing literary cred. But nowadays there are far fewer Laurie Colwins or Barbara Pyms — great writers who happen to use levity as a medium — and if there are, it's hard to know because they're hidden under pink covers with lounging, thoughtful women on them. Oh, well; if good books are medicine, and you can't blame people for preferring it Pepto-Bismol colored.
The Great Chick Lit Cover Up [The Guardian]
Related:

Brand-Obsessed Chick Lit Makes Us Lose Our Breakfast (At Tiffany's)
Blogging Towards Bethlehem