Okay, I can’t lie to you anymore. I can’t live this double life! I know you think I’m fabulously academic in my book choices. Right? You do think that, don’t you? I mean, I’m in a book club, and that makes me special. (Well, not anymore. But I was at one point, and that counts for something.) I was part of that elite society, connoisseurs of fine books. We wouldn’t touch a book if it was on Oprah’s book list. And we certainly don’t read chic lit- *shiver.

But with great power, comes great responsibility. (Spiderman? Who’s that? I don’t sully myself with popculture, so I do not know of this Spiderman you speak of.)

Anyway. I have obligations that come with my position as Le Book Snob. I have literary principles to uphold, and I certainly can’t be seen reading this:

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So I’ve been sneaking it.

And it’s sooo good. Each chapter ends with a gun pointed at somebody, or a bomb counting down the seconds to explode, or a subterranean chamber about to flood. I can’t put it down! I’m so ashamed.

Which is why, Teri, I am hesitant to sign up at Goodreads. Because then you’ll all know the truth. I am not quite as blue blood as I’ve led you all to believe. I am not sipping Earl Grey and nibbling scones as I read Jane Austin. I’m over here, gulping down Starbucks, polishing off Halloween candy, reading James Rollins like there’s no tomorrow.

I hope we can still be friends.

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