We all have them. Guilty Pleasures. The TV shows you don’t like to admit you watch, but you secretly make sure you’re home in time for every episode (Desperate Housewives, I’m looking at you … Don’t judge me!). We own CDs we pretend were ‘accidental’ purchases or gifts (I may have a Spice Girls CD rolling around somewhere. And Backstreet Boys. You’re judging me, aren’t you … ) but then there are guilty pleasures we read.
You know what I’m talking about.
My guilty pleasure was once fantasy in general. Trashy fantasy that wasn’t especially well written, but was a complete escape. It still is, but …
… you’re not allowed to keep those judgements up … I’ve moved on to vampires.
Not sparkly vampires who need to grow a set (of fangs – what did you think I meant?) but clever vampires. Seriously. Cos that’s how I can justify my sudden vampire love. Intelligently written vampires.
Sunshine by Robin McKinley.
Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler.
Am I going too far with the puns?
Reimagined vampires intrigue me. I somewhat enjoyed Scott Westerfeld’s Peeps (though The Last Days felt a little like emo wannabe vamps were invading my guilty pleasure) and I scoffed when I read City of Bones by Cassandra Clare. But … um … well, the scoffing isn’t always real is it.
Why do we feel so inclined to cover up our guilty pleasures? Is it wrong to enjoy something that you judge yourself for liking?
I’m going to consider this further. While sinking my teeth into the premiere of Teen Wolf. I hope I love it as much as I love True Blood.
Oh, quit with the judging. You love it too.