Monday, August 24, 2009


Monday, August 24, 2009
I often base my reading selections on what will make me appear smarter.

I read more than my fair share of smutty paperback romance novels, mysteries and thrillers. I've probably read almost everything written by Sidney Sheldon and Danielle Steele- and let's not start on the Young Adult Vampire Smut. But I always have something on my coffee table or in my purse that appears considerably more intellectual.

I do it because I want to stretch my mind and expand my literary horizons. But I also do it because I want people to buy into the idea that I'm an intelligent woman. Smart people read smart books, yes?

I thoroughly enjoy reading. Reading might be my favourite hobby, except for some reason, I don't consider it to be a hobby. I consider it to be a requirement of life. It's something I do for pleasure, for education, even sometimes for work. Sometimes it's not easy, and I find myself slogging through endless boring chapters.

Right now I'm reading The Grapes of Wrath. I am reading it because I feel that carrying it around in my bag, leaving it on the nightstand and toting it from train to coffee shop and back gives me an air of intelligence. This isn't a self-help book or a fashion magazine. This is some serious, 400-page shit.

I was prepared for months of hauling this tome around, commenting casually on what I'm reading in conversations at work, sprinkling my day-to-day with some trade-paperback cred.

I am possibly more suprised than anyone that I am LOVING this book.