The NY book-biz buzz this spring has apparently been about the much-hyped rise and spectacular thud of something called “Lad Lit.” It’s apparently supposed to be publishers’ dreams for a male-oriented counterpart to the “Chick Lit” novels of the Bridget Jones flavor. The much-advertised premier titles of the would-be fad have apparently flopped in the stores.

I’ve only seen one of the buzzed-about titles, Scott Mebus’s Booty Nomad, and can easily see why it’s not a bestseller. Mebus’s antihero isn’t a character, he’s a demographic marketing fantasy. The protagonist is essentially Maxim magazine’s target reader; which is to say a dumbed-down boorish stereotype of bad behavior. It’s hard to imagine female readers (the overwhelming majority of fiction buyers) could fantasize about a guy like this, even to dream about civilizing him. (As for male readers, the book biz still expects them to only care about violence/action stories.)

It is possible to write compelling tales of adult male characters imbued with intelligence, human emotions, and romantic confusions. Writers have done this for centuries. You don’t need a goofy promotional handle for it either.