Read

In an effort to redeem myself for not adhering to my self-set ridged schedule of posting Monday-Thursday I am going to share a closely held secret of mine… I have a very strong penchant for historical fiction romance novels.

Some might call it an obsession, those more cruel a sickness. I would have to admit to both characterizations as being wholly accurate.

The most un-redeeming quality of this habit may be the way in which I read them. I normally only start a book on the weekends and after 8 PM, I then proceed to power through to the completion of the novel until sometimes 3 or 4 in the morning. Yes, it is just me and the heroin addicts up at 3 AM.

To be perfectly honest this is how I read most books. I think I hold the world record for getting through the Twilight Saga (yes, I read those books too).

I can acknowledge that not one of the books in this genre are masterpieces of literature. They are clearly written on a formula (if you were wondering the first sex scene happens around page 200 in nearly every book). The main characters always start out carrying animosity towards each other that quickly changes to mutual attraction. There is nearly always some sort of background drama that needs to unfolded and be subsequently resolved in a very tidy manor in order for them to realize their unbreakable, unmatched, unparalleled love for one another.

I wish I had some excuse. I even hold a minor in Women’s Studies. I took a class where an assignment was to read one of these novels and then analyze how horrible it was. By this point I was already hooked and just sat there feeling both guilty and like I wanted to claw the eyes out of those who dared to criticize the existence of a man with “unruly locks of thick black hair, a gaze distant and unreadable, mood as brooding and unpredictable as the misted mountain wilderness he called home”.

I do not dare psycho-analyze why this genre of book appeals to me so much. No, there is nothing missing at home. My husband actually buys them for me and brings them home like trophies exclaiming, “I read the back; I think you will really like this one!”.

There is one life lesson here. When I worked at a library in my teens I judged the women who came and checked them out by the truckload, making all the usual assumptions of old, single, unsatisfied cat ladies. Yet here I am today, a now out of the closet lover of the historical fiction romance novel, young, married, and with just one cat.

One positive development that has arisen from my reading habits is a broadening of my vocabulary, hence the use of the word ‘penchant’ earlier. However, when a co-worker caught me staring off into space, I probably should not have apologized for my ‘wool gathering’.