I’m a deadbeat reader. At least, to my own mind. Since I was young, I’ve constantly had a book in my hand. My dad does a wickedly accurate impression of a 13-year-old me, mechanically eating a bowl of cereal without looking away from my Babysitters Club books. But in recent years, as I’ve gotten busier…

Chick lit and I have a love-hate relationship. Not-Old-Enough-To-Drive Ashley adored Bridget Jones. College Ashley loved spunky Cannie Shapiro and cooed over Jemima J, that sassy Brit who dropped lots of weight to become beautiful and marry a real American hunk. I mean, his name was BRAD. Who could possibly be hunkier to an early-2000s…