Why reading junk is okay

I'm about half-way through my re-read of Angela Thirkell's 35 novels. A book or two ago (I'm currently reading Marling Hall, first published in 1942) I stopped by the public library to borrow some books on CD for our drive to Cincinnati last weekend. As I wandered the shelves, I found myself staring at The Book of the Dead, Patricia Cornwell's latest Kay Scarpetta book. Now, it really wasn't my fault; the book happened to be shelved right at eye level, so I couldn't help seeing it there -- also, Predator [A] (which means it's an adult book if you're following along in the category columns on the right), the book before The Book of the Dead [also A], has a neon-green dust jacket, which tends to catch the eye even if you don't find it staring at you, six inches in front of your nose.

I should explain. I'm a teensy bit of a true-crime fan. It's not necessarily a good thing, but given the number of Law & Order shows out there and the length of the original show's run, I'm not the only individual with this problem. (For the record I was watching when Mike Logan was on his first partner and Michael Moriarty was Ben Stone, the original D.A. who liked to confront every defendant with "Siiiiiir!" I'm very unclear about why I feel proud of this. I also liked Chicago Hope, but that's another blog entirely, I think.) At any rate, before my kids were born, I was a huge fan of Patricia Cornwell's work. I was also reading a great deal of Anne Perry at that point -- another [A] author -- and since I was usually reading their books concurrently, my husband and I enjoyed debating which plotline would end with a more fantastically improbable twist. Until Cornwell's Point of Origin, which we listened to in the car on the way to Cape Hatteras just before our daughter was born and found incredibly silly, Perry usually won. Point of Origin was significant on a number of levels, though, because once I had my daughter in my arms, I realized that I was far less interested in reading about crime. So Perry and Cornwell stayed at the library for the next few years.

It may be significant to note, here, that I have never actually purchased a crime novel. I don't need to own them. I don't want to be in that world full-time. I just like to visit and go home to my Trollopes and Thirkells and Pratchetts and Cynthia Voigts.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Sometimes, not always certainly, but sometimes, it can be very palate-cleansing to read some junk. Don't get me wrong, clearly some junk reading is better than others. I have, for example, never been able to get all the way through a Harlequin romance. I'm fond of romance. I like a good love story as much as the next person, but it does need to be a good love story. Same thing with a mystery or a crime novel -- make it reasonably good and I'll gobble it right up, but please don't ask me to read absolute trash.

So last weekend, heady with WWII English manners, I took a detour and read The Book of the Dead, which was confusing, so I had to go back and read Predator. I think I've gotten it out of my system now, but Patricia Cornwell still owes me an apology for Black Notice. That loup garou nonsense was just silly. Stephenie Meyer, that goes for you too! Stop with the werewolves already!!!

And the rest of you, if you are a 7th or 8th grader, let me know and I'll find you some fun reading that doesn't involve true crime. Don't worry about waiting a while, like their Law & Order TV counterparts, Patricia Cornwell and Anne Perry aren't going to disappear anytime soon.