I've been reading since I was five years old. And not just the backs of cereal boxes or the label tags in clothing, but whole books. Non-fiction for edification, but novels for the sheer fun of a good story, which I like told through the eyes of big juicy characters grappling with brain busting themes.
But because those kinds of novels are few and far between, I'm also totally down with pop fiction. So long as it's not a Harlequin Romance (yuck) or something Chick Lit (Plum Sykes, I'll see you in heaven, ya biatch, and then we'll see who gets in the last badly written word on shoes). But Carl Hiaasen or James Lee Burke? Those guys are some of the best writers putting words on paper today. You can disagree with me if you want, but you know, deep down, that I'm right.
Still, I have been missing our current "literary" scene's lack of Big Novels lately. You know, something along the lines of Lonesome Dove or Gone with the Wind. And don't stick Don DeLillo in my face, either. Sorry, I don't care if you need a forklift to carry around one of his books, Delillo (I'll toss Jonathan Franzen while I'm at it, too) is a small writer.
Although, I think there's a glimmer of hope. I picked this up last week.
I can see why it won the Pulitzer Prize. If you haven't read it, do. It's epic.