“Lad lit” reportedly hit the skids last year before it ever really got going. Journalists on both sides of the pond cited lack of interest in Kyle Smith’s Love Monkey as evidence for the death of the genre.
(See, for example, Jonathan Haewood’s remark that “Kyle Smith’s Love Monkey and Scott Mebus’s Booty Nomad , both published earlier this year, have failed to make any impact” and Laura Miller’s “Oh Lad, Poor Lad.”)
While I’d rather try to read War and Peace in its original Russian (and unlike some friends, I don’t know a word of Russian) than slog through Love Monkey, I wonder how many novels by thirties-ish men have been rejected as unfashionable “lad lit” since the decree came down from the critics.
For an interesting meditation on the folly of lumping books into prepackaged categories, take a look at Steve Almond’s “How I Became a Dick Lit Author Without Even Trying.”