I read a lot. That is not terribly secret.
But for every book I admit to reading, I probably read another two or three that I generally don’t admit to reading.
They are books that I’m not supposed to like reading, if I’m a real reader. Or if I read them once upon a time, I’m not supposed to still like them, to still read them.
So here and now I happily admit to reading and rereading any and all of the following: Regency-era bodice rippers, teen romance, Jane Austen and Little Women.
They make me laugh and cry and recognize myself or my girlish dreams. I don’t read trash that makes me cringe or is just an excuse for bad sex writing. I have standards. They just include cotton candy.
So sue me.