This time, I wrote about fat heroines in contemporary fiction at Powell’s. A taste:
[I]t’s absolutely true that, for many people, the perception of what 200 or 300 pounds “looks like” (to the extent that there’s uniformity among people who happen to share a weight) bears only the most tenuous relationship to reality. (For the record, here’s 200-pound me and 300-pound Marianne.) And for many readers, a female character any fatter than Bridget Jones will come off as highly unsympathetic. (Unless, of course, the narrative builds toward her miraculous weight loss — i.e., redemption.) Truly fat women in books and movies are most often villains, mammies, overbearing mothers-in-law, or unlikable tertiary characters (think the irritable secretary with a box of donuts in her desk drawer). The chick lit boom brought us a handful of chubby to moderately fat heroines — the aforementioned Jones, Jemima J., Cannie Shapiro, Heather Wells — but you almost never see a non-thin female character in a mainstream novel whose weight is not a major issue for her. Jemima and Cannie struggle with their weight and eventually lose a lot of it. Bridget yo-yos within about a 10-pound, not-really-fat range, and only considers liking her slightly plumper self when a man comes along and says he does. Two of Meg Cabot’s three novels featuring “average-sized amateur investigator” Heather insist that she is “not fat” right in the title. You hear? Not fat! Don’t even think such an awful thing! Also, why the hell are a bunch of mysteries titled with references to the protagonist’s weight in the first place? (The third is Big Boned.) I know bodies are often central to detective novels, but come on! (See what I did there? I’ll be here all week, folks! No, really, I will.)
And if you missed Marianne’s post about whether the author really is dead when she’s blogging, check that out, too.