Converted by tales of yearning

Once upon a time, I was a snob about what I read. No mass-market fiction, unless coerced by someone important to me, or unless I was sitting on the beach with a little chick-lit.

In my free time, I read literature. Period. (And the newspaper, of course.)

Friends had recommended romance novels, and I would smile, make a supposedly interested comment and change the conversation. (I even edited -- and enjoyed reading -- a thrice-weekly column about romance novels. But I wouldn't crack a book.)

That was once upon a time. I realized, a few months back, that what I thought was a shogun-era Japanese adventure series called "Tales of the Otori" was really a shogun-era Japanese bodice-ripper full of phrases like "he yearned for her warmth" and "he felt his sex tingle."

There were sex scenes. Love triangles. Romantic hurdles of epic proportions, leading to tearing of hair and renting of garments.

And I really mean epic. There are three books in the original series, plus a prequel. I reserved them all, with relish, at the library. I read them in a span of two weeks -- even though, after book two, I could no longer justify it by calling the author a modern-day J.R.R. Tolkien. (She is not.)

When I realized what I was doing, at first I felt a little dirty. And then I started to wonder about what was so appealing about the stories. And I think it's this: A really good romance novelist, like any good writer, can tell a simple story of boy meets girl, or vice versa, and they fall in love -- and take you into their world so completely that you get lost. You become enthralled.

I did. And for a few hours, I wasn't worried about the economy or my job or cleaning the house.

I just enjoyed following the path Takeo and Kaede traveled toward their destiny. (And I suppose I learned a bit about Japanese culture and history.)

Am I ready to start reading Janet Evanovich and Nora Roberts and J.D. Robb? Hmmm. Maybe someone can convince me I should.