I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a sophisticated reader. I read volume, not necessarily quality. I don’t want tons of symbolism, endless description, or intrusive themes, UNLESS, there is a story.

A few months ago, I finally read Sue Monk Kidd’s The Mermaid Chair, and The Secret Life of Bees. These books had beautiful descriptions. I could practically feel the water she described, or see the rippling heatwaves of the southern summer. But as far as characters I cared about, or being interested in what happened to them — mmm, not so much.

This is why, I imagine, that novels by more popular (read: mediocre by literary snobs) authors, are bestsellers. John Grisham or Dan Brown pulled you in with the story. Readers, in light of a good story, are willing to forget an awkward sentence here, and a bad turn of phrase there. You may not remember what Mitch McDeere or Robert Langdon said, but you sure remember what happened to them along the way.

For me books are escapism. I want to be taken on a frolicking good ride. If it’s a pretty, well written ride, then so much the better - but that’s not the price of admission to my bookshelf.

I was an English major. The day after graduation, I was ready to leave the tools of literary criticism behind in college - where they belong. Each time I go to the library or bookstore, I’m asking the authors to do one thing only, ‘Tell me a good story.’