I suppose I am going to break down and tell you a story today that needs telling. It pains me to do so, because it requires that I confess to judging my fellow man and woman quite inappropriately.

But there is a history here.

Remember, I was the oldest daughter of seven kids born to very religious parents. No shorts or pants were worn by the females in our family. No playing cards were ever allowed in the house. Attending a dance was unheard of, and even seeing a movie was out of the question when I was growing up.

There was church and church and church, and for the most part, the fun and fellowship at church was enough.

Until my sister — you guessed it, Lynda — discovered True Confessions. Actually, I have never doubted until this very moment the story she told about how the magazines found their way into our bedroom, but here I am, 40 years later, wondering.

It takes me a while sometimes, but usually I get there.

At any rate, we had this top shelf in our closet. It was a hidden shelf with a sliding door type opening that Lynda said she “discovered” one day. And on that shelf were the True Confession magazines. Whoever lived there before us must have left them, she said.

And so we began to read.

At night with flashlights, we read. When we were brave, one would stand watch at the door while the other read. We were rebellious delinquents. To this day, I feel guilty when I see a magazine of that variety.

And so that may be why I had never read a romance novel until last week. I had assumed that all drug store romance novels were trash. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's the covers they put on some of them. I know only that it was a stupid assumption.

When I was at the book sellers convention I attended earlier this month, making my rounds looking for new books and authors that I thought would make an interesting interview, I spotted this ever so diminutive, almost fragile looking lady in the back corner of the huge showroom. She was seated among a distributor's very large exhibit, signing books. No one was standing near waiting for the book she was signing.

I thought to myself that she must be a first time author who was soon to be crushed that the crowds were not finding their way to her far less than perfect location in that corner.

I walked over and squatted down before her to inquire about her writing. Immediately I was drawn to this person. I stayed in that crouched position long enough for every leg muscle to threaten me with a cramp before I finally stood again. We didn't really talk about her book, just her. I didn't want to move on, but I had work to do.

As I started to leave, a young woman at the exhibit handed me an invitation to “tea” that afternoon. “Come have tea with Fern Michaels from 3 to 4:30 p.m.” is what it said.

“My, they are going all out for this first time author,” I thought, as I tucked the invitation in my bag.

As the day wore on, the thought of getting off my feet and having a nice cup of tea became more and more inviting. So did the prospect of knowing a little more about this new writer I had discovered.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was waiting. At 4 p.m. (I did not consider myself late since I think it is proper to come and go from such a tea) I walked into a room unlike anything I could have imagined. To the right of the table laden with tea and champagne and all kinds of goodies was another table filled with books. And they were romances.

I swallowed hard. I remember the guilt. I imagined the flashlight under the covers. This was Lynda's domain, not mine. Or so I thought.

In a matter of minutes I was again deeply engrossed in conversation with this delightful woman who had drawn me to her that morning. She signed three of her novels and made them a gift to me. She was at the convention to promote her 67th book.

Had I misjudged this elegant little keg of literary dynamite, or what? How was I to know how many times her books had been on the New York Times bestseller list? I read nonfiction, inspirational books, an occasional historical novel, newspapers, lots of magazines and my bible.

What was I to do?

I had to read one. After all, they were a gift. Besides, no one had to know I was stooping to such levels.

What a foolish, arrogant and judgmental person I must be. I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoyed “Sara's Song,” the first of the three little books. I have not had to time to read the others yet, but I will, and I will look for more work by Fern Michaels and others of her genre.

I preach all the time that we should never judge a book by its cover, and yet I do it. Often. And I'll bet you do, too.

We shouldn't.

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