I am a broad and voracious reader. I used to be a book snob – confining my reading to primarily literary fiction by critical darlings who get nominated for things like Pulitzers and Bookers and, even, Nobels. Oh, yea, bring me your Salingers, your Morrisons, your Mantels.
My love was found in the time of cholera. My life, of Pi. I possessed The Bluest Eye, wore The Color Purple with Pride and Prejudice, consumed Grapes of Wrath, bore my Children at Midnight, and enjoyed the remains. Of the day. I was the English Patient, with the White Tiger, at Wolf Hall.
And then I got tired and rediscovered genre fiction.
And damn, I forgot how much fun it was to read genre. Urban fantasy by Patricia Briggs and James Butcher. Fantasy by Sanderson. Romance by Sarah McLean and Lisa Kleypas and Julia Quinn.
A reading snob no more. I still read serious literary fiction, but you’ll also find me with nose stuck in a piece of genre fiction, smiling to myself because it is just so much fun.