I read and listen to a lot of books every year, the subject matter nothing less than a United Nations level of diverse. I have an addiction to Irwin Shaw and Frank Sinatra biographies. I read books on climate change. I’ve read all of Sue Grafton’s alphabet (except for the newly released X), the complete series Bones is based on, and anything and everything written by Gabby Bernstein and Liz Gilbert (I would read their post-it notes for fun). I don’t have many “guilty pleasures” when it comes to reading; I believe reading, in general, is nothing but an amazing pleasure. I don’t do comic books or graphic novels and will never understand anime (but have nothing against them). But every once in awhile, in the midst of a biography spree or after 10 chapters of Song of Ice and Fire, I have to stop and take a break.
Thus enters the classic American romance novel. I have a friend who has read these books since we were in high school, only then she carried them around in a brown paper sack. About as racy as I personally ever got was reading my stepmom’s Danielle Steel novels. Having said that, I feel like the days of hiding a love of adult lit is now over. Thank you, Mr. Grey. And really, why would you even care what someone reads? If it brings them a moment of peace and it’s not Let’s Bomb Shit or How to be an Axe Murderer, get off their junk about it.
A few years ago, I had the privilege of meeting two authors from this world via mutual girlfriends. At first we were just Twitterfriends, but I’ve since met both in person and can honestly say they’re two of the most fabulous women I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. As a “writer” I envy anyone who can create fiction as much and as often as they do. Cat Johnson and Lorelei James are both New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors and are very well known and respected in adult contemporary literature, most especially in western romance. Ladies love those cowboys. So I’ve been told.