Is anyone else a sucker for Nicholas Sparks? Or Danielle Steele? Or Stephanie Myers? If you are, you’re probably not writing about it in a blog, maybe too ashamed to admit it? Well, I should be. I find myself steering toward the aisle of no-thought-dom instead of careening towards the shelves of more profound titles and authors. And instead of hiding my guilt in the beach bag, I'll share it with you.
What is it about these romance-filled books that allure me? I have no idea. I could go easy on myself and say that it’s summer, and I deserve a little light reading. I could warrant my actions by thinking it’s just a little entertainment; I’m not at work after all. But I just can’t.
I can’t get over the fact that I’m reading a book meant for a young-adult audience, sporting vampires, werewolves, and hyper-sexual teens. Or a book meant for menopausal women, whirlwind romances and perfect second marriages all covering up mistakes that were made twenty years ago. Nicholas Sparks is always a good pick too because I always know I’ll end up crying in the end because it’s so sweet how they finally found somebody to love right before they die prematurely (sorry to spoil that one for you).
For now I will assuage my guilty by watching Jeopardy! and doing crossword puzzles.
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