My friend, Cheryl, often refers to books that are read for pure escapism as “fluff.” Not as a derogatory term, as if saying, “I read literature, not that fluff.” But more along the lines of, “Everyone needs a little fluff now and then.”
Sometimes I tend to need more fluff than at other times. Currently, I have been devouring the Sookie Stackhouse novels at a rate of one a day. That doesn’t mean that I can’t be as big a snob as anyone else about literature; I read literature, but I also read fluff. And I love it.
I define fluff as a plot-driven book that I can lose myself in without having to do too much analyzing; a book that I can devour rather than work through. But my fluff doesn’t need to be your fluff. It’s always a bit disheartening when patrons feel like they need to apologize for their reading preferences. Don’t be embarrassed to ask for Fifty Shades of Grey. I read it, too. In fact, I read all three of them.
We make no judgments of your reading tastes; heck, we bought ‘em. And besides, we need fluff, too.