A deVVast8tingly 8eautiful and nursely anonymous sender asks: "Do you haVVe any particularly guilty pleasures you'd 8e interested in diVVulging to the pu8lic?" I VWWill saVVe you the mercy of reVVealing VWWho you are. VVVery VWWell. Romantic noVVels. Not respectable courtship dramas, mind you. I mean the dreadful sort. ExcessiVVe yearning. Impossibly attractiVVe aristocrats. Torrid riVValries stretched across seVVeral hundred pages because neither participant possesses the sense to state VWWhat they VWWant plainly. Secret rendezVVous. Duels. Betrayals. Letters discoVVered at precisely the VWWorst possible moment. Utter rubbish. I haVVe shelVVes of it. I complain about the prose. I criticize eVVery tactical error made by the supposed riVVals. I become genuinely irritated VWWhen an author confuses simple incompatibility for compelling tension. And then I purchase the sequel. The less realistic, the better. That is all you are getting from me. One humiliation per inquiry, scholar.
