Romance Novels
The literary “junk food” provides quivering mounds of supple flesh substitution
By Nikki Lomax-Larson, The Diary of Nikki
I’ve been an avid reader since my youth. My favorite childhood memory? Me. Hunkered under the covers--contraband flashlight in hand--reading the latest Black Stallion book in the Walter Farley series-long, loooooong after my parents had declared it “bedtime.” I was such a voracious reader that I was wearing bifocals by the third grade.
By high school, I had moved on to the required readings of English classes, and fell in love with most of the books. I somehow developed a love of Billy Shakes, and a loathing for William Faulkner. In college, I began a torrid love affair with the university library. Free books! Hundreds of thousands of them! All mine for the taking. I found that I could spend days in the stacks without coming up for air or food. Even now, the musty smell of libraries and bookstores gives me goose bumps.
Now, nearing my mid-thirties, I’ve got a huge crush on Harry Potter. (Hey, he’s almost legal!) I’ve developed some sort of bizarre fantasy that puts me in the middle of a Weasley-twins sandwich. I still love the Narnia books, and I’m almost done re-reading The Hobbit. Currently, I’m reading five books simultaneously.
But the one genre I never, ever touched was romance. I couldn’t bring myself to sample the “junk food” of the literary world. That was, until my husband deployed last October. And now I am hooked. Oh the shame! I am so desperate for romance and happy endings that I fork over good money to read about fictional characters “getting off.”
How do I know I’m an addict? Well, yesterday I dropped $100 on Nora Roberts’ books and some other "chick lit" books I found on sale. The call of the "BUY 4, GET THE 5TH FREE" sign was too great a temptation to resist, and I was scooping paperbacks with cheesy illustrated covers into my basket like a crackhead going after dime bags.
Like a corner junkie picking cigarette butts off the concrete, I found myself crouched down in the aisle at Borders. I hoped that no one would see me as I randomly picked books off the shelves, quickly assessed their rush-giving potential and either tossed them in my basket or back on the shelf. I probably looked guilty as hell, and ashamed too. Every time someone walked by the romance section I’d either duck or pretend to be looking at the books on tape. I even bought “books to cover the fact that I’m buying naughty books” books.
I doubt I fooled anyone. I definitely wasn’t fooling myself. I remember swearing that I’d never become one of "those women." Egads, I’m now one of "those women" who own more trashy, paperback bodice-rippers than classics.
Anyone know how to break this habit before hubby comes back?