I’m not a fan of Fifty Shades of Grey, and even though I now officially love the damned thing, I am still not a fan.
I did start to read the excerpt on Amazon, because of course I have to know what’s got everyone talking. Anyone who hasn’t read it at least knows about it, and some folks actually like it. I didn’t make it through the excerpt before reaching for the spork, so count me in the “knows about” group.
It’s not a secret that I write or what I write at work, thanks to a coworker who shouted her critique of a sex scene across the building. Several folks have been very supportive, buying one or two books, or even my entire list. Signing a hard copy of The Rare Event at my desk was an experience I’d never expected to have, but it’s repeated a couple of times over. Showing the cover to the security camera did cross my mind. (What? It’s pretty!)
We have a dedicated contingent of Kindle users, another group who love their Nooks, some folks who swear by paper (and they aren’t always the older people, either). And somehow I am always included in book-related discussions. Which is why I hear about Fifty Shades and its spawn two and three times a day.
Several of our readers bought one or more of the books. Some understood what they were getting. Others did not. This makes the discussions rather lively. I try to keep my personal opinion out of play, because a few folks just loved it. These are people I like, and I’d rather nod sagely and use Arthur C. Clarke’s euphemism for “You are so wrong but I haven’t the time or the inclination to convince you, and I doubt it’s possible.”
“You may be right,” I tell them, and they remain happy and productive instead of going sullen and slow. And they may be right. I may be way off in my opinion and equally hard to educate. I am content to let differences remain.
So why would I suddenly love these books? One of our colleagues came in one morning to regale us with news she’d spent her entire weekend reading, and had gobbled down all three volumes of the Fifty Shades trilogy. She hadn’t just enjoyed reading them, she’d positively wallowed in them.
You may be right, I mentally rehearsed, because I’d rather not pop any bubbles. “Killjoy” isn’t exactly my job title, it only seems that way sometimes. And then she said something that made me realize she was absolutely right.
“I haven’t read a book since high school,” she said. Her son is a sophomore. “I should read more: I’d forgotten about enjoying it.”
And then she turned to me. “I should read your books next.”