Here’s a question. Why do most of the chick-lit novels have their main characters working either as an author, a journalist, or as an editor in book publishing industry? Remember Candace Bushnell’s Carrie Bradshaw (a columnist), or Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones (an editor) or Sophie Kinsella’s Becky Bloomwood (a journalist), and of course, Lauren Weisberger’s Andrea Sachs who worked at Vogue as Miranda Priestly (the editor)’s assistant in The Devil Wears Prada?
How original. Not.
The title itself is already confusing, and somewhere in the middle of the book, the famous jewelry name is mentioned – when one of the characters received a gift which was supposed to be the same thing that Salma Hayek had worn for Oscar.
But that’s it. I thought the title is supposed to be a symbol of how desperate the characters of finding husbands, or have their men put rings on their fingers. But no. God forbid if the modern girls from New York ever settle down and dream of simple lifestyle with a husband and babies and a house with white picket fences. Those who prefer to dismiss the author as a backstabbing ditz without a shred of talent will be sorry to hear her third book isn’t entirely unamusing, with some saucy lines and one irresistible character. But anyone looking forward to a dishy beach read à la The Devil Wears Prada will be even sorrier to hear that the fluffy fun bits are lost in a blobby mess of a narrative.
I think I should stop reading chick-lit novels altogether. They become boring and predictable. All characters are beautiful, skinny, talented, successful, unlucky in love – but soon will find the Mr. Right, who is none other than a top notch lawyer, or a successful director with megabucks movies, or a royalty with a house bigger than a football stadium, all possess the best seducing techniques, six-packs abs, and of course, are superbly rich.