Don’t Judge a Nook by its Cover

I hate it when people apologize for what they like to read.

“Oh, you won’t like [insert book title here].  It’s just trash.”

I get it.  I’m an English teacher.  And I love to read.

But that doesn’t make me a snob.

I really try not to judge people based on what they read.  Okay…sometimes.  I have to admit, I get a wee bit judgmental when I see someone touting something that is really stupid as a “work of literary merit” (sorry, I’ve been trained by the College Board…gack…makes it sound like I’m indoctrinated or toilet-trained).  But, most of the time, I have my own shameful secrets hidden in my “library” or on my Nook.

Don’t judge me.  I like Twilight.  Yes, I have the books…all of them…or almost all of them.  I don’t have the version from Edward’s perspective and I read the Bree Tanner piece online for free.  I can’t help it.  My husband is as romantic as a rotten snake corpse.  Trust me..that’s not romantic.  I know.  I tried to see how long it would take for a snake I had killed in my garden to decompose.  I never found out because an animal whisked it away.  Maybe it was an owl….like the owl from the Tootsie Pop commercial.

“A One.”

“A Two-hoo!”

I digress.  I’m tired.  I’m allowed to digress when I’m tired.  My beloved rotten snake corpse woke me up last night when he got in from work.  And I had weird dreams.

Back to my book collection and what I like to read.

Guilty pleasures are delicious and should never be judged. They should be enjoyed for every delectable morsel that is available…until I shove them in the back of my closet for fear that someone is going to smirk at me behind a closed hand.

So, yeah.  I like Jane Austen.  And I like Stephanie Meyer (Twilight only) because I get a quick fill-up on romance that is completely ridiculous but I feel all loved and special and then I move on to other works of literature.  I also like Cormac McCarthy…The Road, and not because I need to feel like a cannibal.  I don’t.  Trust me.  I don’t.  I really didn’t eat the dead snake in the garden; something else did.  I swear!

I love Khaled Hosseini and Tim O’Brien and Fanny Flagg and L. Frank Baum who wrote out my childhood in beautiful books about Oz.  I love Laurie Halse Anderson and Suzanne Collins and Margaret Atwood and Ishmael Beah and F. Scott Fitzgerald who wrote lovely novels about green lights and women whose voices were filled with money.

I have my guilty pleasures too.  I also have books I am proud of having read, things like The God of Small Things by Arundhati Royor White Tiger by some person whose name eludes me.  Regardless, while you bury your nose in your book, let me enjoy the pages of mine.  And I’ll share some of my favorite reads with you, even if I love those books because they help me shed my skin for a while and put on another layer of life to see how to exist as another person.   All right, I brought in the snake again.  Sue me. I still never found out how long it took to decay and I really wanted to see its skeleton.

Are you judging me now?

Now?

Now?

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