I love books, as any fule kno.

I am not a snob about my reading matter; I prefer that books say something at least, but if caught short without a decent book I can and have read anything from the back of a box of cornflakes to the Financial Times or one of the more garish "women's magazines" (Pick Me Up, Chat, Take a Break, etc.)

(That said, I was once reading Pick Me Up in the doctor's surgery while waiting for my appointment, and was so disgusted by one article that I made a kind of involuntary "ugh" noise and facial spasm. The guy sitting across from me leaned over and asked me if I was alright, as he thought I was having some kind of fit!)

But no matter how short of reading material I am, there is one genre that I will never touch, and that is the abomination that is "chick lit". Let us examine the reasons why.

1. The appellation of "lit" should supposedly stand for "literature". Nothing could be further from the truth. Literature is widely defined as imaginative or creative writings generally regarded as having artistic value. There is little of any value in these books, let alone artistry.
2. Almost every book in this genre uses curly, girly, script-type fonts, usually Curlz MT or Girls Are Weird. Just so, you know, the reader doesn't make the mistake of thinking that this book is in any way serious. No! Its author tossed off the work while enjoying a few cups of frothy coffee.
3. The titles are always appalling puns on well-known phrases or titles. From Here to Maternity. Looking for Mr Write. Bad Heir Day. Azur Like It. I mean, "Azur Like It"?! That sound you hear is probably Shakespeare not just turning in his grave, but spinning like a top.
4. Every book in this class that I've made the mistake of reading contains clunky dialogue, laughably predicatable plotlines, and clumsy errors of grammar. "Her eyes literally flew out of their sockets"; "'Who's there?' she gasped." (Come to think of it, they have a great deal in common with the type of writing in Pick Me Up et al's Readers' True Stories.)

I suppose you could consider that these books are the natural modern successor to Mills & Boon, Harlequin romance, Jilly Cooper, etc. The difference, though, is that nobody used to pretend that Mills & Boon was in any way adding to the literature of a generation, and the paperbacks were always confined to the Romance section in libraries and bookshops alike. "Chick Lit", however, is spread across the shelves like some sort of creeping plague.

Why is it so difficult for serious women writers to be recognised, published and stocked? Why is it that my local library has dozens, probably hundreds of these shoddy books on display, yet I could only find two Margaret Atwoods, three Fay Weldons, two Alice Walkers, no Shena McKays, no Alice Thomas Ellis, no Jayne Anne Phillips, and just one - one! - Joyce Carol Oates?

Finding something decent to read is becoming more of a task every month.

Perhaps I'm unfairly singling out the frothy female crapmeisters, because there are certainly utterly crappy and inconsequential books by men a-plenty. (James Masterton, Dan Brown, John Grisham and - going back a few years - Sidney Sheldon spring to mind.) But then, if I wanted, I could have chosen between six of Thomas Hardy's books, two Hanif Kurieshis, three Irvine Welshes, seven or eight Ian McEwans, three Kazuo Ishiguros, and so on, and so on.

Hanif Kurieshi has written five books, of which two were available. That's 40%. Joyce Carol Oates has written thirty-five published books, of which one was available. A less-than-encouraging figure of 3%.

I don't even know whether to blame this situation on the library councils, book sellers, publishing companies, or on the reading public for being so endlessly and disappointingly undiscriminating.

I do know that there are good female writers who are as pissed off as I am to find their work patronisingly labelled as "chick lit" and publicised as such with the crappy fonts. Cecilia Aherne and Kathy Lette spring instantly to mind, there, although Lette must take her share of the blame for the fad of punning titles; her Altar Egos, Mad Cows and Foetal Attraction clearly paved the way for a host of pale imitators.

The real shame of it is that my disdain for the label means I automatically skim over any book featuring curly fonts, punning titles or pink swirly illustrations on the cover - which could mean that I'm missing out on some great new authors just because their publishers have tried to shoehorn them into a box. But life is short, my reading list is long, and I simply don't have time to waste on the off-chance of discovering a gem amongst the mountains of dross.