When I was reading Bound By Your Touch on the train, I was amazed by the reaction the cover got. Although there’s not really any clinching, it might as well be a clinch cover, since the central focus is that of a shirtless (and headless, what’s up with THAT?) hero. Guys would look over and quickly look away, with speculative and condescending smiles. As if they somehow knew I was reading a piece of trash and getting twitterpated over the dirty parts.
And I suppose that’s the argument a lot of women make for buying something like the Kindle, putting all their romance novels on some electronic device so no one can judge their book by its cover.
But I was completely comfortable knowing that the bulk of Duran’s work contains no dirty parts to actually get twitterpated over. That the shirtless dude on the cover had no bearing on the content and quality on the pages within. And I met every gaze that slid my way before going right back to my reading.
I’m an old-fashioned girl. I like to feel a book in my hands. I like to turn the pages. And I can’t imagine getting the same amount of enjoyment from scrolling through text on an LCD screen. And, heck, I’d rather have a cover with the Headless Hunkman and his amorous lady than the generic, boring, “I’m ashamed to admit I read romance” covers. (I mentioned the phenomenon when I was discussing reading Susan Elizabeth Phillips’ Hotshot. A rowboat? Really?)
So let ’em judge by the outside. I don’t care.
I’ll keep judging by what’s on the inside.