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My ideal romance novel should have landed in my local thrift shop after having been whisked away from a box in some elderly woman’s attic. It's petite enough to fit my purse. The pages, made from cheap paper, have yellowed to a crackling consistency over the decades, which means I must turn the pages leisurely so as not to rip them. A spine so cracked it resembles a barcode. This is a good sign. It marks the book as an utilitarian, disposable object sparking no reverence, inspiring nothing but entertainment that's filling but not very nutritious. Maybe there's a crumb of chocolate smudging an equally decadent word like “molten” or “luscious.” There's a call to action in the last few pages. Either a form to fill out to order more of the author’s books, or a form to enter a sweepstakes with a prize, like sunglasses.
read the rest of the essay here!
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read the rest of the essay here! 🕊️
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