A Bluestocking Knits

Booking Through Thursday‘s questions for today call for a little confession —

1. What books have you read that you hate to admit reading? (You can either limit this to recent reads or go way back in time. Your choice.)  I can think of two, one that I’m amused to confess that I read, and one that I now wish I hadn’t read. 
2. Why? One was a certain novel — can’t remember the author or title at the moment — that was a time-travel story in which the heroine goes back to Elizabethan England, combining two favorite elements of mine.  It was good-humored but pretty sleazy.  I kept worrying about the poor heroine’s back, the rug burns she must have been getting from all of the sex on the floor.  I don’t think that was the point of the story.  I also read some years ago a (probably self-published) nonfiction book about the Lindbergh baby, whose author was determined to prove that Col. Lindbergh himself was responsible for the baby’s death.  The hypothesis made sense, but the author was so vindictive (and such a poor writer) that even years later it is unpleasant to think about.