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.