There's something that has been bugging me for about a week and a half, and I just can't let it go. I was at writers group early last week, and an older woman I'd not met before came over to the table where my friend and I were sitting. She asked what good books we had read lately and what we'd recommend. I said, well, I read romance actually, and I paused to see her reaction. She got a disgusted look on her face and said never mind, before she walked away. It really got under my skin. I've been defensive about my favorite genre for years, and I'm tired of apologizing for reading what I like.
I approach my defense from two different angles. First, the books I read are not garbage. I read things that are well-researched and well-written. If the characters are shallow caricatures or over the top stereotypes, I'll abandon a book without a second thought. If the plot line is too stupid to believe, I will walk away. To be honest, if even the grammar is weak, I lose interest. I have a list of automatic-buy authors, and very few of them let me down. There are very intelligent (mostly) women (plus a few men writing under women's names) writing excellent books with engaging characters and engrossing stories. Last fall I built that giant bookshelf that I showed off (http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2015/12/born-in-barn.html) just so that I could unbox my extensive collection of keepers that I pull out to re-read every so often. The books I've read that are good are exceptionally so, and I won't let anyone convince me otherwise.
But even so, who cares? What does it matter whether the books I'm reading are well-crafted or pure drivel? The point is that I'm reading. I'm using my brain. I'm feeding my imagination, and I can feed it fluff if I want. No one has to like the same stuff I do. And if I don't like my friends' reading material, great. Doesn't matter one bit. Read whatever you want. Just read. If you're lucky, you'll enjoy doing it.
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