I grew up reading a lot of genre fiction - mostly science fiction and mysteries. There was "literature" in there, of course, though I didn't always know it. Ivanhoe and Huckleberry Finn were works of literature that moved smartly along and kept me engrossed.

What I remember most though, was the scorn heaped upon genre, especially science fiction. There was little to no recognition of works like Dune or Stranger in a Strange Land, only a blanket derision that meant that every English class I took scrupulously avoided the genre. And all other genres for that matter.

Today when I read David Mitchell, am I reading literature? Folks would say yes. But Cloud Atlas? Bone Clocks? Aren't they science fiction?

Emily Henry's latest "romance" novel Great Big Beautiful Life is literature. Well, 90%. The author even hints at it in her trepidation about how her loyal readers will receive it.

All of this is a long-winded way of saying I love how you cut through the pretentious BS to summarize what matters - connection with the reader and a story that compels them to see how it turns out.