Smart bitches read trashy books. That is all I have to say.
But actually...
I'm a smart person. Reading is my passion. And I love turning up some music and sitting for hours upon time pouring over the pages of a textbook-like novel (usually some sort of fantasy) for hours at a time, just devouring the contents like a starving man, even at the expense of pressing business (like sleeping ^_^). I enjoy discovering worlds that have been created for my exploration, pondering over the webs of intrigue, even getting lost in the turmoils of the protagonists. And given the unthinkable circumstance I must stop reading, I am antsy to get back to the plot as soon as possible. They are the fodder for the excessively energetic thoughts to burn through, if not just once, but twice or thrice after. I remember the plots and the locations of my favorite scenes. So why is it that the majority of books I read are trashy romance novels?
These books are fluff. There is no content, it's like eating a marshmallow. It's fluff. In fact, I destroy them in an hour, hour and a half at the most. Granted, I'm selective and I read only regency novels (the forays into other genres haven't gone well). But all the plots follow the same path with a few variations. Girl meets guy. Guy is unsuitable for girl either due to reputation or just a reluctance to marry. But of course there is a burning passion between the two (they all invariably get it on in the same way), of course a confusing and unexplained feeling, which most obviously leads to a night of soul moving coitus, more often than not forbidden due to the lack of marriage. And love? Well, the girl already loves the guy. Why else would she let him take her virgin body, and be left with only the memory of that night (unless she's incredibly fertile)? Then of course, after much deliberation, the guy finally understands that his life has been incomplete until the night he met her, that only her body can satisfy the burning need within him, and that must mean that he is in love with her. This plot is usually followed by an epilogue indicating their love filled married life: even a miraculous birth from a barren woman through the strength of their love.
And yet despite the fact that I read so many that I know this plot and I can anticipate what will happen next, I still read them. I've even gotten my roommate hooked on them. We share intel on the latest book we're reading, and to check on the other's progress through the book we ask, "have they engaged in coitus yet?"
It's like we can't help but read them, and it's not like we take any of them seriously. Usually we end up snickering at the scenes or even reading the more steamy ones out loud (and with voices) to dissolve in rancorous laughter. How did this addiction begin? Well for that we go back to middle school and those days when I first learned what it meant to be a real "woman".
I first noticed that my mother would bring back these small books back from our trips to the library. Upon questioning her as to their contents, she would brush away my queries with, "it's nothing, go do your homework," or something along those lines. So in my infinite curiosity, I would wait till she was asleep and creep over to the discarded book, taking care to note the position of the book, and stole the book away to the corner of my room with my little book light. And that my dear, is when I first really learned about intimacy and sex: not the medical blather schools are required to educate you with in sex-ed. It was about that passion and connection between girls and boys! And given the fact that I grew up in an Indian household, and I was the first generation American, it wasn't really a subject that was talked about, in any way. So after putting the book back in the exact same manner it was found, I had this burning desire to learn more about what was going on.
Soon you would find me stealing through my mother's library-book bag, reading in the dark of the night. Had I not finished it in the night, I managed to find ways to mark my progress through the book without folding corners or placing bookmarks. I even discovered several hiding places throughout the house in the case that I was about to be walked in on while reading. But of course, thinking I was an expert at evading my mother's eye, I would occasionally become careless, and would get caught. And after maybe a smack or disapproving glare, I would receive the same lecture yelled in my face that I'm too smart to be reading crap like that. And that my mind would turn to mush reading it. And the only thought in my mind was, then why do you read it? When I finally mustered up the courage to ask her that, she would reply, "I'm already grown up and set in my life, but you still have to get into college, don't you?" - an unsatisfying answer if any. So of course I didn't plan on stopping.
And then, I began volunteering at the library (making it easy for me to check out the books myself without alerting my mother) but then I also learned to drive. I no longer needed to worry about my mother finding out about my selections at the library. That's when I also realized that I could go to the book store. Did you know that book stores have a much more updated selection of books? Not just in terms of fantasy novels (which I still love to browse to this day), but also in the romance section of the store (which I still browse too...). But still there was that sense of secrecy necessary - what if anyone found out what I was looking at? Why are they all judging me? I know it's stupid...
Now of course, I've managed to realize that it doesn't actually matter what anyone else might think, but there still remains that sense that what I'm doing is silly - these things are for brainless people. I even know that a lot of the info on coitus in them is frankly not true. To my horror I even recognize authors and their writing styles. I've even managed to figure out my favorites. I'm not saying that they aren't enjoyable. Sometimes, there is a bit of a twist involved, and the plot's not just centered around having sex. But there still is this idea that I feel like an idiot who is wasting their time reading these books, like a dirty little secret or vice never to be spoken of to anyone. Actually, it's a lot like porn for women: they give it a plot - something to keep your interest, romanticize the details, and don't get too graphic (it's usually very innocent coitus).
And then, I discovered Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. Here was a site dedicated to the perusal of trashy romance novels. Intelligent women who rate the trash books, and rate them as legit critics. They realize the ridiculous nature of the books (I'd actually recommend you read the reviews on the books graded a D or F. It's so amusing the way the expose the impossibilities in some of these books), and they point it out, or commend the better books for the clever diction and actual sense of plot. It makes me realize that I'm not the only one (aside from my roommate) that ends up reading this fluff. Yes, clearly there is a market for these books; if they didn't sell, they wouldn't be out there. But the fact that there are people who realize that they are reading trash, but can't help reading it, makes me feel a bit relieved when I read them too. There are even books that I really enjoyed rated well on the site. I really recommend going to this site, even if you don't read them.
Though I know I will never get tired of laughing at these stories, or even enjoying the occasional contrived plot, I at least hope that I won't read quite the number I do at this time. There is nothing I can say to defend myself, but at least I can own it. I like to read fluff.
To all the romance novel enthusiasts out there (in or out of the closet):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFHYyu7nt_4
But actually...
I'm a smart person. Reading is my passion. And I love turning up some music and sitting for hours upon time pouring over the pages of a textbook-like novel (usually some sort of fantasy) for hours at a time, just devouring the contents like a starving man, even at the expense of pressing business (like sleeping ^_^). I enjoy discovering worlds that have been created for my exploration, pondering over the webs of intrigue, even getting lost in the turmoils of the protagonists. And given the unthinkable circumstance I must stop reading, I am antsy to get back to the plot as soon as possible. They are the fodder for the excessively energetic thoughts to burn through, if not just once, but twice or thrice after. I remember the plots and the locations of my favorite scenes. So why is it that the majority of books I read are trashy romance novels?
These books are fluff. There is no content, it's like eating a marshmallow. It's fluff. In fact, I destroy them in an hour, hour and a half at the most. Granted, I'm selective and I read only regency novels (the forays into other genres haven't gone well). But all the plots follow the same path with a few variations. Girl meets guy. Guy is unsuitable for girl either due to reputation or just a reluctance to marry. But of course there is a burning passion between the two (they all invariably get it on in the same way), of course a confusing and unexplained feeling, which most obviously leads to a night of soul moving coitus, more often than not forbidden due to the lack of marriage. And love? Well, the girl already loves the guy. Why else would she let him take her virgin body, and be left with only the memory of that night (unless she's incredibly fertile)? Then of course, after much deliberation, the guy finally understands that his life has been incomplete until the night he met her, that only her body can satisfy the burning need within him, and that must mean that he is in love with her. This plot is usually followed by an epilogue indicating their love filled married life: even a miraculous birth from a barren woman through the strength of their love.
And yet despite the fact that I read so many that I know this plot and I can anticipate what will happen next, I still read them. I've even gotten my roommate hooked on them. We share intel on the latest book we're reading, and to check on the other's progress through the book we ask, "have they engaged in coitus yet?"
It's like we can't help but read them, and it's not like we take any of them seriously. Usually we end up snickering at the scenes or even reading the more steamy ones out loud (and with voices) to dissolve in rancorous laughter. How did this addiction begin? Well for that we go back to middle school and those days when I first learned what it meant to be a real "woman".
I first noticed that my mother would bring back these small books back from our trips to the library. Upon questioning her as to their contents, she would brush away my queries with, "it's nothing, go do your homework," or something along those lines. So in my infinite curiosity, I would wait till she was asleep and creep over to the discarded book, taking care to note the position of the book, and stole the book away to the corner of my room with my little book light. And that my dear, is when I first really learned about intimacy and sex: not the medical blather schools are required to educate you with in sex-ed. It was about that passion and connection between girls and boys! And given the fact that I grew up in an Indian household, and I was the first generation American, it wasn't really a subject that was talked about, in any way. So after putting the book back in the exact same manner it was found, I had this burning desire to learn more about what was going on.
Soon you would find me stealing through my mother's library-book bag, reading in the dark of the night. Had I not finished it in the night, I managed to find ways to mark my progress through the book without folding corners or placing bookmarks. I even discovered several hiding places throughout the house in the case that I was about to be walked in on while reading. But of course, thinking I was an expert at evading my mother's eye, I would occasionally become careless, and would get caught. And after maybe a smack or disapproving glare, I would receive the same lecture yelled in my face that I'm too smart to be reading crap like that. And that my mind would turn to mush reading it. And the only thought in my mind was, then why do you read it? When I finally mustered up the courage to ask her that, she would reply, "I'm already grown up and set in my life, but you still have to get into college, don't you?" - an unsatisfying answer if any. So of course I didn't plan on stopping.
And then, I began volunteering at the library (making it easy for me to check out the books myself without alerting my mother) but then I also learned to drive. I no longer needed to worry about my mother finding out about my selections at the library. That's when I also realized that I could go to the book store. Did you know that book stores have a much more updated selection of books? Not just in terms of fantasy novels (which I still love to browse to this day), but also in the romance section of the store (which I still browse too...). But still there was that sense of secrecy necessary - what if anyone found out what I was looking at? Why are they all judging me? I know it's stupid...
Now of course, I've managed to realize that it doesn't actually matter what anyone else might think, but there still remains that sense that what I'm doing is silly - these things are for brainless people. I even know that a lot of the info on coitus in them is frankly not true. To my horror I even recognize authors and their writing styles. I've even managed to figure out my favorites. I'm not saying that they aren't enjoyable. Sometimes, there is a bit of a twist involved, and the plot's not just centered around having sex. But there still is this idea that I feel like an idiot who is wasting their time reading these books, like a dirty little secret or vice never to be spoken of to anyone. Actually, it's a lot like porn for women: they give it a plot - something to keep your interest, romanticize the details, and don't get too graphic (it's usually very innocent coitus).
And then, I discovered Smart Bitches, Trashy Books. Here was a site dedicated to the perusal of trashy romance novels. Intelligent women who rate the trash books, and rate them as legit critics. They realize the ridiculous nature of the books (I'd actually recommend you read the reviews on the books graded a D or F. It's so amusing the way the expose the impossibilities in some of these books), and they point it out, or commend the better books for the clever diction and actual sense of plot. It makes me realize that I'm not the only one (aside from my roommate) that ends up reading this fluff. Yes, clearly there is a market for these books; if they didn't sell, they wouldn't be out there. But the fact that there are people who realize that they are reading trash, but can't help reading it, makes me feel a bit relieved when I read them too. There are even books that I really enjoyed rated well on the site. I really recommend going to this site, even if you don't read them.
Though I know I will never get tired of laughing at these stories, or even enjoying the occasional contrived plot, I at least hope that I won't read quite the number I do at this time. There is nothing I can say to defend myself, but at least I can own it. I like to read fluff.
To all the romance novel enthusiasts out there (in or out of the closet):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kFHYyu7nt_4
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