Oprah's book club? Snooze club is more like it

And she gets paid for this!

It's not that I don't love my current job, I do -- but think how nice it would be if all those hours I "waste" sitting by the pool with the latest Nora Roberts actually paid off? Considering that I am a voracious reader, I could soon be reading Nora by the pool in Cannes or Rio or Tuscany ...

I can't remember not knowing how to read. Like Scout, in "To Kill a Mockingbird," I remember sitting in my dad's lap and picking out words I recognized in the newspaper as he read it, long before I entered school. I got in trouble in first grade because I kept sneaking down to the sixth-grade end to steal reading books. Who wants "See Spot Run" when you can have "The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe?"

My husband laughs at me because I usually have two or three books going at one time. There's the one in the car, for lunch breaks and really long red lights. There's the one by the bathtub for the long soaks, and there are usually two on my night stand. One is always one of an old favorites series I'm re-reading, such as a Harry Potter or Dragonriders of Pern, and the other one is guaranteed to help me get to sleep without any medication other than "Oprah's Book Club" stamped on the front cover. Try as I might, I have never been able to like a single book she's recommended except "The Lovely Bones."

I'm terrified that one day, if I ever get published, she'll choose my book ...

I am not a book snob. In fact, I'm a card-carrying, gum-chewin' plebeian book anti-snob. I had so much classic literature shoved down my throat in college -- English major -- that I'd rather read "See Spot Run" than "Moby Dick." I read the same way I go to see movies -- I want escapism, fantasy and happy endings. I don't want to have to chew my way through deep meaning, intellectual and pseudo-intellectual symbolism, only to have no real ending and no questions answered. Talk about a real waste of time ...

Give me science fiction, fantasy, romance, mystery, even the occasional thriller (Dick Francis rocks!) and throw a few horses into the plot line (Dick Francis really rocks!) and I'm happy.

Of course, what the sackcloth and ashes "Pure Litrachooer" critics don't realize is that there's some amazing talent in the (sniff-sniff) genres. I just finished Nevada Barr's "Winter Study" last week and was once again blown away by this woman's talent.

I discovered Nevada Barr by accident. At the time, I was living in Andalusia, Ala., and to give you an idea of what entertainment opportunities are available in Andalusia, the highlight of the year is the World Championship Domino Tournament. The closest thing to a bookstore was the magazine rack at Walmart. They must have had a miss-shipped box or something, because one day, nestled between the Janet Dailys and Mack Sennetts, there was this book called "Deep South."

"Why not?" I thought. "I'm living in the Deep South, I may as well learn something about it."

It's a mystery and a thriller and the main character is a National Parks ranger named Anna Pigeon. It was a good story, lots of twists and developments, and enough action that it was never found on the Sleeping Pill corner of my night stand.

It was also one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. Barr's writing has a rhythm and life of its own, with vivid imagery and impact. When she describes a scene, you don't see it through Anna's eyes, you are there with Anna and you can smell the swamp water, hear the gators booming in the distance and you shiver when you hear the footsteps in the dark behind you ...

And yet there are those book snobs who would do the sniff-sniff thing if you even suggested anything as droll as reading a mystery novel. Their loss. I consider Barr one of the finest writers of our time, genre or no genre.

Of course, the book snob thing goes both ways. I remember digging my heels in and refusing to read "Pride and Prejudice" for years because it was a "Classic" (ick) about a bunch of silly English girls (Ew) who only wanted to get married (Riiiight.) I had no doubt it was going to be stuffy and boring. I also refused to read The Three Musketeers because I'd seen the movie, and how much swash can one person possibly buckle in a 400+ page book? It, too, was bound to be stuffy and boring. OK, maybe not boring -- but awfully French.

Not one of my literature teachers bothered to mention that both of these books are outrageously funny. It wasn't until college, when my professor had a bloodhound's nose for Cliff Notes posers, did I get around to reading both of these books -- and I've read them again, a least once a year, ever since.

Now if I could just get paid for it ...

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. This column is published each Wednesday.