In New York City, three best friends are powerful businesswomen—but no matter how great their successes, they have still have problems: Victory Ford is a fashion designer struggling to create a couture line in the face of negative reviews; Nico O'Neilly is the editor-in-chief of Bonfire magazine, but is tempted to begin an affair with a younger man; Wendy Healy is the president of Parador Pictures, but her husband, a stay at home dad, is becoming increasingly dissatisfied. Lipstick Jungle presents a concept interesting enough to spark a television series (ongoing, of the same name), but is a remarkably bad book: Bushnell's writing is inept, rife with adverbs, thesaurus overuse, and too many flashbacks; the feminist issues, which could be personally and intelligently investigated, lack all subtlety and constructivity. Alternately frustrating and laughable, Lipstick Jungle is one of the worst books that I have ever read, and I strongly recommend against it.

Where does one begin to talk about a book with no redeeming features? Generally, I try to present both the strengths and weaknesses of a text, and then make a final judgment and a recommendation. Lipstick Jungle, however, lacks any sort of strength. The novel's first and most obvious fault is its shoddy writing. Bushnell uses adverbs almost as often as she uses verbs, and the litany of "he said sulkily" and "she nodded hopefully" makes the writing repetitive and strips away all description and characterization. She exploits her thesaurus in the attempt to come up with non-repeating nouns—and as a result uses words like "pudenda" in sex scenes and "proboscises" when discussing French men's noses. The combination of overused adverbs and "unique" nouns means that the text is often hilarious to read aloud—not a desirable attribute for the sections that aren't intended to be humorous. Writing style aside, Bushnell constructs her plot in a series of extended flashbacks, most of which take place when her characters are waiting for tables or sitting in cars. The flashbacks remove both reader and character from the action of the plot, and so the characters appear to do nothing and the plot is distant and disinteresting.

In the long run, however, the shoddy writing is not the worst of this book: the worst is how Bushnell deals with—or fails to deal with—would-be-feminist issues. To be fair, she does not attempt to avoid the difficult realities that women may face in patriarchal business and society. In fact, she mentions them often. However, these issues are as subtle and graceful as a baseball bat to the head—and almost as useful. The comments are flippant and empty, pointing out obvious sexists beliefs and contradictions but never providing investigation into how and why they occur or what can be done about them. Even worse, the book is full of equally flippant reverse sexism and discrimination, belittling other cultures and insisting that men are simple-minded, predictable, incapable, and as easily categorized, controlled, and contained as sexist beliefs often insist women are and should be. This is not feminism, it is not empowering; it is not respectful, useful, or even entertaining. It merely perpetuates the use of generalizations and discrimination because it is perceived as humorous, or because it makes the discriminating group feel better about themselves in comparison to the group that they are discriminating against. The fact that the discrimination is reversed does not improve it or justify it one whit.

I did not read this book for pleasure or because I enjoyed it. I only finished reading Lipstick Jungle so that, having read the entire book, I could pass a judgment on the entire book. At points, this book is so bad that it is funny, a litany of flat writing and exaggerated emphasis peppered with horrible cellphone texting transcripts and unintentionally funny words. Otherwise, it is frustrating, both because the story is poorly constructed and presented and because the book—a book about powerful women succeeding in a man's world—embraces stereotypes and discrimination and says nothing at all that is genuinely useful or empowering. In short, I mean to say that this book is horrible, awful, and worth less than the paper it is printed on: it is a promising concept shown a huge disservice by the author's writing and her philosophy. I hope that readers don't turn to it for a good story, because there isn't one. I hope that women—and all audiences—don't turn to it for empowerment or understanding, because it offers none. I was disappointed and disgusted by this book, and a strongly, highly recommend against it.