I try to set a good example for my kids by demonstrating to them my love of reading. We talk about books a lot, my nightstand is piled high with them, and I love to curl up on the couch and enjoy some, all-too-rare family reading time. But at the moment, I am feeling a little less conversational about my latest literary undertaking. As it happens, I’m reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and likely one of the last people in the western world to do so. It took a (few) viewing(s) of the movie trailer for me to set aside my biases and dive in.
I remember four score and some odd years ago scoffing under my breath when my grandmother would pull out one of her beloved Harlequin romance novels. I thought surely they couldn’t be well written, and were, in my (misguided? snobby?) estimation, the lowest form of writing. Not only that, it embarrassed naïve little me to think of what lay in store for my frail grandmother inside those forbidden pages. Cut to 2015, and here I am with my own version of the same. And the judgmental me of yesteryear reared her head again after dipping into the first twelve pages or so. Ah ha! I thought to myself. It is indeed poorly written! Quiet, solitary validation at last!
I almost didn’t read on. When I shared my early impressions of the novel with those other would be detractors, I was met with a sense of camaraderie. A ‘we’re too smart to enjoy such trifle’ kind of attitude. But, then I picked it up again. And again. And now I virtually can’t put it down. Is it a literary masterpiece? No. But is it good writing? I’d say if it captures your attention and imagination, and pulls you into the story with an unrelenting vice grip, then, yeah, it’s good. But for family reading time? I think I’ll be choosing another. xo
Photo (which may or may not make sense in the context of what you just read, but hey, a girl does the best she can) by Loyd Bateman