Last week on The Debutante Ball we talked about books we love. That inspired our writing. That we wished we’d written. That taught us something. I chose to talk about a few books I so love to hate — meaning, my guilty pleasure reads.
I received comments (from the two men who left comments–interesting, right?) that pleasure is pleasure, no guilt about it. Maybe I have too much of the leftover Catholic in my bloodstream because that little twinge of guilt persists–nothing dire, in fact it adds something to the pleasure!
Here’s the post:
Guilty Pleasures: Books I So Love to Hate
This week I thought about novels that inspired the writer within (Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier), novels whose prose wowed me (Crescent by Diana Abu Jaber), novels that I’d call nearly perfect in every way (Atonement by Ian McEwan), and novels that I love just because I love them (Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen). And even novels that I hate (The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen this means you).
But what about novels I love to hate? These are the books I read in secret and that I have never admitted (until now) that I actually … sheepishly … loved reading. Forget my literary aspirations and finely tuned critical faculties, I tore through these books despite myself. I give you: PLEASE READ ON