What reading skeletons do you have in your closet? Books you’d be ashamed to let people know you love? Addiction to the worst kind of (fill in cheesy genre here)? Your old collection of Bobbsey Twin Mysteries lovingly stored behind your “grown-up” books? You get the picture … come on, confess!
I’m usually quite upfront about any supposedly “shameful” guilty pleasures–or, at least, I try to be.
The Gossip Girl books are downright addicting and promote a terrible way of looking at the world–unexamined privilege usually always skeeves me out, but apparently not there. But, in high school, I considered them crack. They’re just such a foreign concept to me that I find them, and other series like them, hilarious. My other guilty pleasure, I suppose, are Jodi Picoult novels. Not because she’s not a good writer, but her books are all very similar–on one level, I know this, but on another, I like their compulsive readability (I can usually tear through a Picoult in a day) and breaking news topics. Perhaps this stems from the fact that I only watch television procedurals if the case of the week interests me, and Picoult novels are definitely procedurals.