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For a long time–probably since, lo these many years ago, I graduated with a BA in English Literature–I’ve gravitated toward literary fiction. I’ve savored books for their rich characterizations, their glorious wedding of setting and theme, their epiphanies. And I’ve steadfastly avoided genre or commercial fiction. You might (in fact, I think my mom does) call me a literature snob.

I read tons of genre and commercial fiction as a teenager–I’d wait for the bookmobile to come and check out 14 books each time, one for each day until it arrived in my neighborhood again. The librarian onboard normally imposed a five-book limit, but made an exception for me without ever saying anything about it. He never asked me why I took so many or whether I read them. I’m sure my whole self, from clothes to demeanor, screamed “book nerd,” so perhaps he knew without asking.

He did recommend books, sometimes even keeping a few behind the desk to show me when I came in. He never brought me kid or YA books, though I was probably in middle school when that brightly painted library on wheels started coming to my neighborhood.

Having kids of my own in middle school now has given me the excuse to read some of the things they’re reading. Some of it is literary, and I love that. But they read just about everything, so commercial and genre fiction frequently comes into the house. And I’ve started picking some of it up.

As I’ve mentioned here before, I have read the Twilight series, and enjoyed it far more than I ever thought I would. The writing is uneven–lovely in some spots, desperately in need of editing in others. But what I find so impressive is Meyer’s ability to make a reader’s heart pound.

Passion. It’s been the missing ingredient in so much of my reading over the last few years. And I’m greedy for it suddenly. I want my heart to pound. I want to read until 4 a.m. because I can’t stop. I want, in short, to have a book grab me, body and soul.

There are literary books that do this for me: every time I start reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Klay or The Poisonwood Bible, I can’t bear to put them down. Same with Margaret Atwood’s Alias, Grace and The Blind Assassin. But many literary novels are intellectual endeavors, and while I appreciate them, they don’t grab my heart along with my mind.

That’s not necessarily bad, but it’s also not necessarily true that a literary book must be slow. So I’m on the hunt now–for books that make my heart race without making my intellectual side cringe. But for the moment, if I have to choose, I’ll take passion.