I read four trash novels this week and nothing else. It must be close to a holiday because I gorged myself on sweets. None of them was impressive, but none was horrendous either.
I always feel vaguely guilty for reading trashy romance novels because I think I should be reading "literature" and for every 300 pages of Regency bodices-ripped, I don't have an equal number of Booker Prize-winning pages.
This, more than anything else about me, stands as irrefutable proof that I am decidedly low-brow. And until I learn to embrace that, I will feel guilty.
If you're interested, my favorite was Grace Burrowes' Lady Eve's Indiscretion. (It may have had something to do with the cover art.)
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