The book snob in me gave up reading “real” books when I had a child. Most other moms thought I was nuts to even attempt to read any novel, but I knew I would go insane if I completely lost my one passion, my outlet, my primary form of entertainment.

I vividly remember the day several years ago when I raced home from the library, a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez in my book bag. I made it through about four pages (which took several hours) before I gave up. I had a toddler running circles around me, interrupting me every thirty seconds while he was awake, and once he was in bed I was pretty much brain dead. Yes, it seemed to be beautifully written, but if the paragraphs were more than a few sentences long (forget about pages long) it just wasn’t going to happen.

It seemed I was doomed to read only bathroom literature. Anything that couldn’t be broken into simple two minute sections wasn’t going to make my reading list for a while. I felt like a literary failure.

Luckily this was about the time Chick Lit was hitting the shelves with a vengeance. I could grab an easily digestible novel and actually follow the plot amidst the never ending distractions of my daily chaos. I still could revel in my escapism. And they were actually quite fun. I learned to ignore the pink covers and plunge into the stories held between.

I also learned that by being a book snob I had missed out on endless hours of pure laughter, suspense, and fulfilling entertainment. Even now that I have more spare moments and greater control of my sanity I refuse to return to my highbrow ways, deciding that reading for fun is the most constructive use of my time.

On that note, I was immensely irritated by my last two book selections.

I picked up Jane Green’s Promises to Keep expecting the usual light and breezy beach read about relationships and romance. It’s summer and I just wanted some entertainment while I sat by the pool. I was quite ticked off when instead I was sucked into a tearjerker.

That was not what I signed on for.

I read the last hundred pages in a huff, scanning through the chapters chanting, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” It did not quite work, but I only let a few stubborn tears sneak through instead of the Kleenex-box-full that threatened to spew if I had let myself stay sucked into the story.

Damn you, Jane Green. But I’ll still eagerly pick up your next book–just please don’t do that to me again.

Next I read Imperial Bedrooms by Bret Easton Ellis. I knew better. I had read his other books. I was traumatized by the raw and vivid images of Less Than Zero in the 80’s. I read it anyway.

His stream-of-conscious run-on prose made me feel as if I was in a drug-induced haze. Thankfully, it was an extremely short book so I could handle the onslaught…or so I thought.

His books did to me what Easy Rider did to my Dad decades ago: they made me afraid of people. I am not so naive as to think that there is good in the hearts of most people or even that we can shield ourselves from the rank depravity that some people call their existence. His books expose the demons that crawl through the souls of what should be ordinary people. Are his characters just utterly lacking in conscience or consequences? Or perhaps they are just people who have no souls inhabiting their cold-blooded bodies.

All I know is I needed several showers to wash the images from my mind. It didn’t work.

So now I’m taking a break from heartbreak and depravity. My next read shall be light, airy, and full of fluff.

I deserve it.