I have recently come to terms with my dark secret: I haven’t read a work of “literature” in nearly 8 years. Well, insomuch as the brainiacs would define “literature.” I used to be a book worm — I was a precocious, borderline pretentious child, who devoured classic literature and “smart” books, not only for the pleasure of their stories and cleverness, but for the bragging rights. I was so proud to move from Fear Street and Sweet Valley High to Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy — I still brag about loving Tess of the D’Urbervilles, when most of my peers found it either too dull, too depressing or (in their view) over-written. It’s silly, but this is what the eye-rollingly pretentious do, whether it’s about books, film, tv or our travel itinerary.
But then college killed my ability (and desire) to read, outside of class. I became one of those people, whom I had looked down upon earlier in life, who took no pleasure in reading unless they had to. Though I was only a journalism major (so nothing compared to the ominous English Literature major), between my liberal arts course requirements and my German minor, there were a lot of mind-numbingly brainy books to read. Often in German, to boot. So outside of class, over the summers and breaks, I read total pulp. James Patterson, John Grisham, Harry Potter, Jennifer Weiner (and a number of other un-memorable chick-lit authors, of which Weiner is the only one of note), the Thursday Next series, the Uglies series, some movie-tie in editions and then, honestly, I just reread all of the above, when I knew was to expect, and wanted a fantastical, stress-free read.
And I didn’t tell anyone. It was hard enough admitting to being a Harry Potter fan (and I daren’t not tell them how into it I was!), how could I tell them about the more obscure fantasy and YA books that were my bread and butter? I also became one of those people who would (for shame!) just watch the movie adaptation instead of reading the book. I know, I know — awful, right? I just didn’t have time, or money, or a library card (another serious crime against literature).
But it seems the tides are turning, in good part to (God help me), Twilight. Yes, Twilight. Today I read a great article by Lev Grossman, which in large part inspired this post, and he points to the Twilight series, as well. You should read the article, where Grossman focuses in large part on the Modernist writers (man, do I feel, again, under-read of late): Good Books Don’t Have to Be Hard, and how literature is once again turning to the plot-driven novel. That, as he says, good books don’t have to be hard — smart, pretentious and a pain to read.
But the jist is true — first millions (of adults, yes, ADULTS!) fell in love with the Harry Potter series, and it become almost cool to read a fantasy adventure series about a young wizard. And now Twilight has furthered this trend — it may not be well-written (it’s really not), but Twilight has a good, basic story (loathe as I am to admit it). Harry opened the door for contemporary adult fantasy literature (my “to read” list for the next year is epically long, thanks to Lev!), and now Twilight has made it ok to read Young Adult fiction on trains, planes and other highly public places, without shame. Okay, there is probably a little shame in reading Twilight, but you know what I mean 
And so somehow, between my hellish job, where coming home to television or a movie made for more hectic brain stimulation then I could handle at 12:30 a.m., my coming to terms with my nerdism and love of sci-fi/fantasy TV shows and movies and the shifting trend in the book industry as a whole, I’ve re-acquired my reading bug. I’m up to the last (currently published) book in The Dresden Files series, am reading The Magicians and am going to bite the bullet and buy a Kindle, so I can carry books with me everywhere I go. I want to read again, and my queue is long.
I may even finish reading Twilight (for shame!) 
