I love books.
Could this be more obvious? But, sometimes I'm embarrassed of the book I'm reading. You know what it reminds me of? When my boyfriend and I started dating.
On Facebook I refused to say I was "in a relationship" with him until he changed his profile picture. In my defense, he looked like a 15 year old boy. A crazy fifteen year old boy...that may have been on illicit drugs...and had bad hair. Anyway, back to my point. Sometimes even though you really love something, you just might not be ready to share it with the rest of the world.
I remember the first time I experienced this with a book. It was the middle of summer, before 7th grade. I had run out of books to read. Oh god! The agony. Luckily, my father had a secret cache that I knew nothing of. A cache of wondrous, deliciously musty, old booky smelling Western books! Oh, dear Louis L'Amour, I am forever indebted to you, though I will never admit it irl (as the kids say). From these lovely little books I learned what a left jab was, how women should be supple and sassy, and what made a good horse.
Of course, once the school year started back up again, I was still addicted to my Westerns. So I sat on the bus reading my book, trying desperately to keep it low and the cover covered. Eventually the anxiety of trying to keep my love affair with Louis hidden drove us apart.
Nowadays I am cheerfully defiant, showing the cover of any book I'm reading to anyone who asks. But, for some reason, my latest novel has me cringing when someone asks what I'm reading. Perhaps because the idea of it is unbearably cheesy, much too pop culture, just plain silly...
I'm reading Jane Slayre. Yes, that's right. It's Jane Eyre, but with vampires, werewolves and zombies. And now I say what I should have said all those years ago when my nervousness of what other people think made me deny Louis: I LOVE IT!