The recent death of one of the giants in the history of crime writing, Mickey Spillane, made me stop to think for a while about what motivates writers to write at all, and what motivates them to write what they write.

Whether one likes the books Spillane wrote — and I can understand why his clear, macho, unadorned prose may not appeal to all readers — it was honest work. Mickey wrote for money. He called his readers his “customers” and tried his best to give them their money’s worth. The fact that he sold 100 million books while being relentlessly eviscerated by critics suggests he succeeded in doing what he set out to do.

Other mystery writers have had different goals. Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald aspired to be taken as a serious “literary” writers; reading their prose, still original and memorable after all these years, illustrates the realization of those aspirations. Charles Dickens, most of whose books involve murder, kidnapping, blackmail, robbery, and other crimes, wanted to change society; his novels were more instrumental in shining light on the wretched state of the poor in Victorian England than all the pamphleteers, speech-makers, and journalists of the era combined.

Irritated with anti-Asian racism, Earl Derr Biggers created Charlie Chan, a wise and likable Chinese-Hawaiian policeman. John le Carré has in recent work attempted to show that Western democracies were as morally depraved as Eastern Communist regimes. Carl Hiaasen, for all the humor in his novels, has been on a mission to identify the catastrophic damage being done to Florida’s environment. Even though he has not succeeded in stanching the tidal wave of abuse visited on what must once have been a beautiful place, he has taken a moral position and done the best he could to make readers aware of the irrevocable destruction of his home. Unfortunately, he just doesn’t have enough fingers to stick in all the holes in the dike.

Which brings me to one of my (too) many pet peeves: mystery fiction chick lit. Okay, I realize these books are not written for me. Whether the devil wears Prada or Valentino is as important to me as whatever it is Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt named their child. The poor kid will have to live with it, not I.

Some years ago, there was a small movement to call private eye stories Dick-lit. It didn’t stick. But chick lit has, and what I don’t like is that it’s cynical. I don’t like cynicism, never have, partly because, like its cousin, pessimism, it’s too easy.There’s always reason to doubt, there’s always reason to fear the worst, but to what end? Negativism of all kinds is plentiful and, frankly, it’s getting really irritating. To paraphrase Newt Gingrich, if Thomas Edison invented electric light today, the New York Times would report the news as “candle-making industry threatened.”

A lot of people got really angry with me when I wrote a harsh criticism of the books nominated for Agatha awards at the Malice Domestic convention, which is devoted to “traditional” (i.e. cozy) mysteries. I was so upset I had offended anyone that, gee, I couldn’t sleep for I don’t know how long.

When it came time to review the six nominees for the 2006 awards banquet, I kept looking at them but just didn’t have the stomach for it. In, how can I say it, “conversations” with two of the women I wrote about last time, their position is that their books should be taken seriously. Here’s cynicism.

One of the best-selling writers in the chick-lit category is Jennifer Weiner, a staggeringly successful author who has sold more than 6 million copies and been published in 33 countries. Her most recent book, “Goodnight Nobody,” is a mystery. Here’s what she has to say:

The chick lit label is sexist, dismissive and comes with the built-in implication that what you’ve written is a piece of beach-trash fluff with as much heft and heart as a mouthful of pink cotton candy. On the other hand, I know that the term gives publishers and, more importantly, booksellers and readers, a quick and easy shorthand about books that feature smart, funny, struggling young female protagonists. And if slapping a pink cover, naked legs and cheesecake on the cover guarantees that my books will get noticed, that’s about all I can ask for.

Cynical? Nah.

In an interview with “The Third Degree,” the monthly newsletter of the Mystery Writers of America, a senior editor at HarperCollins was asked what type of mystery fiction was being sought at that prestigious old house.

“In the mystery world,” she said, “we have long tried to appeal to romance readers, and we found that crossing chick lit with mystery was the perfect way to do that. For paperback we seek mostly cozies of about 75,000 words, or chick litty type mysteries. I also have mysteries with cats, cooks, gardeners, and wedding planners.”

So, just to be sure I’ve got this straight: Cozy writers want to be taken seriously, and calling certain books chick lit is sexist and dismissive, but it’s okay if it sells well and its great inspiration is romance fiction.

I think I missed the part where anyone said she wanted to create original and believable characters, give them words to say in a manner that a reader will encounter for the first time, provide a rich emotional framework in which they can deal with their passions and seek redemption, all in a carefully plotted story that will clutch a reader by the lapels and not let go until the denouement.

Seeing what apparently motivates so many writers of cozy mysteries, I guess I’ll skip the Malice Domestic nominees this year. Maybe I’m becoming cynical.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at ottopenzler@mysteriousbookshop.com.