A recent blog entry by Squeetus drew my attention to an article in the Guardian about books we feel guilty reading. How sad that we're ashamed to be caught with a Stephen King or Harry Potter under our arm, so I'm joining Squeetus's campaign here, flinging off my shackles and admitting I read for pleasure. Let's just enjoy how different we all are in what we want to read and celebrate that. Phew, I'm feeling quite blood-thirsty here for some reason - could it be the number of people who have come up to me over the last few years and said that Something Beginning With wasn't the normal sort of book they'd choose, and they were surprised that it wasn't actually so bad. (And I'm supposed to take that as a compliment!) I might just have to storm up to my local bookshop and buy the latest Jilly Cooper, and this time not lie that it's for research. OK, OK, I will admit I've done that in the past, and I do love her so I shouldn't. Thanks Squeetus.
(Interesting though how the Guardian highlights how many books we hoard to read later - I always remember someone telling me that when you buy a book, you're also partly buying the thought of the time to read it).
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