John Searles discusses his novel "Single Girls" and the legendary editor of Cosmopolitan magazine
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Author John Searles is known for his suspenseful, bestselling thrillers, but he calls his latest book "Single Girls," a labor of love. The novel reimagines the early days in the 1960s of the legendary editor, Helen Gurley Brown, at Cosmopolitan magazine, when she transformed it into a daring publication that changed women's lives and upended societal norms.
Searles told Mary Calvi that he worked at Cosmopolitan for more than two decades, starting in the mid-1990s, and that "Single Girls" is his love letter to Brown, Cosmo, and women's magazines. You can listen to Mary's entire conversation with Searles on the Club Calvi Podcast.
Searles says Brown's life changed after the publication of her book "Sex and the Single Girl" in 1962.
"It sold something like two or three million copies in two or three weeks," Searles told Mary. "It was a national sensation. But it was a little scandalous because it told women you don't have to be, what Helen said, 'herded and hypnotized' by your parents into marrying the first guy who comes along. You can focus on career. You can enjoy your love life without shame. Half the country signed up for what she had to say but the other half was scandalized, including her mother, who hated the book."
After the publication of "Sex and the Single Girl," Brown was receiving hundreds of letters from women from around the country asking for advice.
"Brown and her husband David Brown thought, what if we create a magazine for single women because most magazines at the time were geared toward married women and women's magazines were mostly edited by men in the '60s," Searles said. "She pitched this magazine called Femme all over town. No one wanted it. Hearst Magazines said we are not going to give you Femme, but we will give you this dying magazine that's not doing very well. Let's see what you can do. It's called Cosmopolitan."
Mary said she didn't realize that Cosmopolitan magazine had been a very different publication before Helen Gurley Brown's tenure, and she had a stack of Cosmopolitan magazines growing up. She remembered the "How to Crochet Your Own Bikini" article, and trying to create the bikini. Mary said it was impossible, but she thought Cosmo readers were drawn to the magazine's headlines on topics that were considered off-limits at the time.
Searles said he used the headlines in this novel.
"I've been traveling the country on book tour, having wonderful events," Searles said. "After I talk inevitably someone raises their hand and says, 'So it's a biography.' I say, no, it's a novel. It's dramatic fiction but it's all really based on many true things in Helen's life."
Searles was an editor at Cosmo for 23 years and was hired by Gurley Brown in the 1990s.
"One thing I realized in writing the book and getting my hands on all of these issues from the 1960s, how many stories they did that were ahead of their time. They did stories on how to get a divorce. I know that sounds really basic, but you couldn't Google that as a woman in 1965. Stories on interracial marriage. Helen ran a full-color map of the female anatomy because she thought women need to understand their bodies better. They had a reoccurring column called 'What It's Like To Be.' They found different women from around the country, like what it's like to be a southern woman, what it's like to be a Catholic woman, a Black woman, a Jewish woman, a gay woman."
Searles told Mary that on the surface "Single Girls" is very fun, but underneath is what was going on for women and feminism in the 1960s.
You can read an excerpt from "Single Girls" and get the book below.
Club Calvi books are connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes.
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"Single Girls" by John Searles
From the publisher: In 1965, Helen Gurley Brown, a soft-spoken, self-professed "mouseburger," is fresh off the runaway success of her book Sex and the Single Girl, a revolutionary call to single women urging them not to rush into marriage on anyone's timeline but their own, and, even more radically, to enjoy their sex lives, gloriously free of shame. Upon the book's publication, half the country is outraged (her mother, for one, hates it), and the other half will follow her anywhere. Moved by the thousands of letters arriving at her doorstep from readers desperate for advice, she marches from one Manhattan magazine conglomerate to another, looking for a perch from which to dispense her unconventional wisdom. At her last stop, she finally gets her shot: just three issues to turn around the flailing magazine Cosmopolitan.
Helen quickly assembles a team of smart, savvy single girls up to the task. Soon, their lives become the stuff of magazine cover lines: the gorgeous Book Editor's doomed romance with a man she didn't know was married—and her bold idea for revenge. The (unofficial!) Sex Editor's trip to soak in the world's first champagne glass hot tub, which takes a very wrong turn. The Entertainment Editor's clash with Joan Crawford and interview with a Park Avenue call girl that leads to unexpected revelations.
Single Girls begins at the dawn of Helen's storied tenure and journeys back to her youth, envisioning the devastations and people who forged her into a controversial legend. It imagines the way one unsinkable group of women navigated gender roles and workplace power dynamics long before these issues entered the headlines.
John Searles lives in New York City.
"Single Girls" by John Searles (ThriftBooks) $23
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Excerpt: "Single Girls" by John Searles
Chapter 2
They had a big day ahead with a crucial meeting on the books, the outcome of which offered enormous potential for either crushing disappointment or ecstatic jubilation. She knew David would want her to rest, rather than focus on the dressing table across the room.
Among the wigs and hairpieces perched on foam heads were ornate perfume bottles and large, impressive-looking jewelry—most of it fake, since wearing the real thing made her anxious. (The barrette with the daisy did finally slip from her hair as a girl, never to be found.) Near the edge of the table sat a tub of Crisco, a secret weapon in her skincare arsenal. Also, there was a silver-plated typewriter and wicker basket, overflowing with envelopes addressed to:
Mrs. Helen Gurley Brown
c/o Bernard Geis Associates
128 East 56th Street
New York, NY 10022
She couldn't resist slipping out of bed and sitting before the table's trio of mirrors. Tugging off the cotton gloves she wore to sleep, Helen plucked a hand towel off a stack, neatly folded by the maid, and wiped Crisco from her fingers and around her eyes.
The notion of plastic surgery had long terrified her, but she'd finally braved a little nip-tuck months before. No more unsightly bags beneath, no more heavy folds above.
Neither of my daughters is what you'd call pretty.
Sighing, she pulled an envelope from the basket at random.
February 11, 1965
Dear Helen,
I read every page of your book, Sex and the Single Girl. Twice. Wow. I feel like you're the best friend I never had. For too long, I've carried a burden of shame about certain things I want in life, so thank you for lifting it. And I'm hoping you might apply your uniquely candid advice to my situation. You see, I've taken a new lover. He's handsome. Rich.
Sophisticated. A real catch. Except for one thing: Whenever we share intimacy (she says in a whisper!), at the moment of his climax, he shouts the strangest thing. He yells—
"I gotta use the can," David said from bed.
Helen looked to see him raise his arms in a "V for Victory" stretch. "Morning, Lamb Chop. Now you know I'm fascinated by your body and a good number of its functions. But there's never any need to announce that boresome bit. You can just . . ." She flicked her freshly moisturized hand. ". . . you know . . ." Flick, flick. ". . . go."
David got out of bed. Somehow, the man managed to appear dapper even in a pair of striped pajamas. This was a moment of each day she loved: his sleepy eyes, their teasing, his sweet morning kisses. As their cats, Fluff and Puff, appeared at his feet, purring, he came closer and planted one on her cheek. "Mmm . . . Nothing like the taste of lard to start the day."
"It's not lard, David."
"Then what is it?"
Helen picked up the Crisco, squinted at the ingredients. "Technically... vegetable shortening. And your wife wasn't blessed with baby-soft skin even when she was a baby. So, I've no choice but to take extreme measures to look my best."
"No need for extremes, my love. You're always beautiful to me."
"I'll hold you to that when we're doddering about in our nineties. In the meantime, should you tire of me, my Crisco ritual will make it easy to fry me up with some chicken thighs."
David looked about to make a comeback when he noticed the letter in her hand. "Really, Helen? First thing? We talked about this."
"We did. But I can't help myself from wanting to help them."
"Which is why I keep saying, once you get your own magazine, you won't have to respond to those missives one at a time, day and night. Better for you, better for them, if they pay for your wisdom on the newsstand."
"Don't you mean if I get my own magazine? They keep saying no."
"It'll happen, Helen. One thing I've learned in the movie business: You gotta meet a lot of smuckerdoo-blinkers before you get your picture made."
David started down the hall to the bathroom, scratching his butt, which, even at his age of forty-nine, she considered pretty damn pinchable.
"And is the gentleman we're meeting this morning what you call a smuckerdoo-blinker?"
"Yoooou'll seeee! Today's the day! I feel it in my bones! Be confident, my precious!"
Helen turned to the mirror, searching for confidence, but finding only the old haunts of faint acne scars. Remembering the letter in her hand, she read:
. . . at the moment of his climax, he shouts the strangest thing. He yells: "I did it, Mommy!" I think that's a little bit odd, don't you, Helen?
She grabbed pink stationery with her name and a doodle of her image at the top, rolling it into the typewriter and madly clacking:
March 8, 1965
Dearest Pussycat,
Your gushing words have me positively goosebumpy. One of the best things a girl can have in life is a trusted girlfriend . . . and I feel I'm exactly that to you and everyone who reads and writes me. But enough pippy-poo frippery! More pressing: your quirksome query about this supposed catch. I say, throw him back! Any man who shouts about Mommy in the bedroom [... ] is not a little bit odd but a BIG BIT ODD! You can and will do better! Meanwhile, enjoy every delicious second of your single life! Remember: Single girls are wondrous and magical. They hold the entire world in their precious hands. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.
Yours in friendship,
Helen Gurley Brown
She sealed the letter in an envelope and affixed a stamp. Something about the act—the advising, the typing, the sending off in the mail—conjured the confidence seldom found in the mirror.
Helen stood, kitties trailing her down the hall lined with dozens more large wicker baskets. Each one overflowed with letters from women, mostly single, though a good many married—from Abbot, Maine, to Cottage Grove, Oregon, and farther flung—all seeking her advice.
Hundreds arrived each day.
She made it her mission to answer every single one.
From SINGLE GIRLS by John Searles. Copyright © 2026 by John Searles. Reprinted by permission of Mariner Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.