Robin Monique, Blogger & Freelance Writer

I cannot remember the last time I actually purchased a book. As a former book addict, I am unnerved by the fact that in the last three months, I have only read one book from cover to cover.

While sitting in my bedroom, thirsty for something to read, I perused my book collection. I was saddened when I realized that every book that I actually liked, I'd read at least three times. So I began having a conversation on Twitter asking why no authors were writing books about women like me. Smart, sexy, sassy 20somethings who are just trying to learn the ropes of adult life sans baby mama drama and/or drug dealing boyfriends. I got some great suggestions on classics by Nella Larsen and Zora Neale Hurston from folks like Danyell Smith (EIC of Vibe) and Alfred Edmonds, Jr, (EIC of Black Enterprise) [Sidenote: I'm still amazed, humbled, and reduced to fandom every time one of them replies to my Twits!]. And while I know these are great authors, I had something a little more modern in mind.

As a young'n, I devoured the works of authors who captured black women of their time. An advanced reader, I read Waiting to Exhale for the first time when I was ten. And I'm willing to admit that my early concept of womanhood was shaped by the characters depicted in novels by Terry McMillan, Connie Briscoe, Lolita Files, Yolanda Joe, and Pearl Cleage. And yes, while their characters did make mistakes, they were still sharp, intelligent sistas who on occasion made some dumb decisions, but always bounced back more fabulous than ever.

Now that I'm 25, I'm wondering where is the "Waiting to Exhale" of my generation? Of course, I still appreciate the works of my Older Aunties in Chick Lit, but they're telling their own stories, ripe with mid-life crisis issues that while interesting, are completely unrelatable to my everyday life. And the books currently being written about black women of my generation do not speak to me at all. I'm a gainfully-degreed entreprenuer in the making, so pardon me if I don't feel compelled to pick up "Hood Chicks Part Four," "Ride or Die Bitch 6," or "3 Baby Daddies." Nor am I interested in their Christian Lit counterparts "Save Me Jesus." "He Who Findeth a Wife," or  "Divas of the Pulpit." To be honest, with the cheap cover art, the only way I can tell these two genres apart on shelves is the amount of clothing worn by the chicks on the covers. OH, and I forgot their cousin, Black Erotic Fiction. Now I'll admit that Zane and Mary B. Morrison help me out when I'm trying be one with myself  ;) BUT I take those books for exactly what they are: porn. It serves an important function, but art it is not.

Lately, I relate more to the characters in Lauren Weisberger books (author of "The Devil Wears Prada") than I do to any of the sistas on the fiction shelves these days. Is it that no one is trying to tell these stories or are publishers just not interested in printing them?

In my Twitter rant about Black Chick Lit, one of my mentors, the great PR maven Robin Caldwell said that these stories weren't being told because sharp, intelligent, classy Black women were "out of style. But we're coming back, so get to writing!"

It looks like I'll have to be the change I want to see in the fiction world and do just that.