Sometime between my sophomore and junior year in high school, I received a book as a present. Since I never attempted to conceal my bookwormish (read: dorky) nature growing up, a book was not an unusual gift to accept. But something was different about this book: unlike my latest reads, Jodi Picoult novels that took on weighty topics like double teenage suicides and unwed Amish mothers, this book seemed … happy.

It had a cotton-candy pink cover, and the focus of its cover art was a large purse that extended from the top to the bottom of the book. Its title, Confessions of a Shopaholic, appeared in a loopy, girlish cursive-like font.

I was intrigued. The novel appeared to have all the ingredients to create a Carrie-Bodner-favorite. Fashion? Check. Bright colors? Check. Feminine perspective? Check.

The novel certainly lived up to its cotton-candy hue: it was tantalizing to look at, consumed rather quickly and just a bit too fluffy to fully satiate my craving. The plot was far from complex: Becky Bloomwood, shopaholic, runs into financial troubles when she makes a few too many purchases. Lucky for her, a rich suitor and some wealthy friends come to her assistance and bail her out.

Little did I know that this was my first foray into the genre of fiction with a title as cutesy as its novels’ covers: “chick lit.” A Wikipedia definition provides some clarification: “Chick lit features hip, stylish protagonists, usually in their twenties and thirties, in urban settings, and follows their love lives and struggles in business. The books usually feature an airy, irreverent tone and frank sexual themes.” The moniker, “chick lit,” is unsettling in itself, as it suggests that there is a style of fiction and writing that is representative of an entire gender.

It is a genre that has become increasingly popular over the past decade, yet has only a few critically-acclaimed gems to its name. For every Bridget Jones’ Diary there are 50 other cookie-cutter chick lit novels. These run-of-the-mill books attempt to make up for their one-dimensionality with playful titles, like Bergdorf Blondes and Good in Bed.

Authors trying to work under this label can also fall into complicated situations. Harvard undergrad and exposed plagiarist Kaavya Viswanathan, or, as IvyGate bloggers lovingly refer to her, “the critically acclaimed author of How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life,” has spent the last few months dealing with the aftermath of her plagiarism, which was first reported in her school’s paper.

To quickly rehash the controversy, here is a brief synopsis of the story of Kaavya: Student begins novel in high school. Student gets accepted (early action) to Harvard. Harvard undergrad shows work to publishing company. Undergrad gets two-book contract, lucrative advance and sells movie rights. Harvard student newspaper accuses undergrad of plagiarism. Many reporters investigate, and many “similarities” are noted. Undergrad apologizes with key words like “unintentional,” “unconscious” and “imitation.” Book’s publication halted by company.

Kaavya’s plagiarism cannot be attributed solely to her lack of morals, or her “confusion” and “stress” as a young student with a $500,000 advance and deadlines looming (although if that’s stressful, I certainly wouldn’t mind some of that stress). Perhaps some of Kaavya’s dilemma was a consequence of the lack of depth of the genre in which she chose to write.

After all, the differences between the majority of chick lit novels are few and far between. In terms of style alone, there is a specific tone that the writers adopt. The conversations and sentences themselves are often flighty, and rapid banter between characters rarely develops into anything deep or noteworthy. Dialogue found in published chick lit novels has such a consistent style that the mere replacement of character names could easily allow the same selection to fit seamlessly into another novel. Kaavya did just that, copying passages from published authors Megan McCafferty, Meg Cabot, Sophie Kinsella and many more. Opal Mehta features the published work of so many authors that we might want to change our tune and simply applaud Ms. Viswanathan for her innovation in applying the collage technique to writing.

It’s no wonder Kaavya defended herself with an excuse of unintentional imitation since so many of the chick lit novels already resembles each other. The saddest part about the entire Kaavya saga is that the blatant plagiarism in Opal Mehta went undetected for so long— a fault of the similitude within the genre. Perhaps if she had just tweaked a few more words, or if The Crimson reporters hadn’t been as thorough, Kaavya would have been on the track to chick lit fortune, plagiarism and all.

Chick lit novels, or the majority of what we’ve seen so far, have become the Harlequin romances of our generation. We’ve swapped muscled Fabios and the swooning women they rescue for wealthy businessmen who come to the aid of dependent women; and it’s hardly an ideal model of society to promote to the teens who buy such books in bulk. All the chick lit novels that I have read feature slight variations on the same plot: the fashion-forward damsel’s own wrongdoings land her in love and financial distress. The wishy-washy Becky Bloomwood of the Shopaholic series could easily be the protagonist of many of the other books after a name change and a bottle of hair dye. As a Publishers Weekly reviewer commented about one chick lit novel, “… the characters are about as complex as the labels they wear.” Ouch. And while many women are indeed concerned with fashion and love, such as yours truly, we also act on other, less superficial interests and values.

Just like the candy that the covers resemble, chick lit should be consumed sparingly. As I have learned from Kaavya’s debacle, to consciously imitate a phrase from Bring It On: the shallowness of the genre put the “ick” in “chick lit.”

Carrie Bodner is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be contacted at cjb56@cornell.edu. In My (Kate Spade) Shoes appears alternate Mondays.