[Note: I'm still trawling through Life magazines, so if you want to see more of that, never fear, it is on its way!]
V.C. Andrews – a name you can still see today on covers of new novels, even though she’s been dead since the 1980s. She’s worth more since her decease then while she lived, which is why the estate continually puts out new stories and series.
It’s the first trashy fiction I ever read, so it holds a special, albeit slightly skewed, place in my heart.
My parents used to own a greeting card store, and like anywhere else, we had our regulars. Terri was one of them. She used to buy her Benson and Hedges cigarettes from us, and over time, she lent my mom and grandma books, namely Andrews and Danielle Steel (who I never read). I remember my mom reading Flowers during lulls in customers, and I was intrigued by the die-cut cover with the scared face of the girl in the garret window.
No one ever told me I couldn’t read these books, so I started in, and eventually read the whole Dollenganger series (which, by the way, is the only one penned entirely by Andrews before her demise). The last few required a library trip, leading a prune-faced librarian to stare at me over her spectacles and say, in an intonation to rival William Shatner, “This . . . is not . . . a . . . children’s book.” My mom defended me, which is surprising, because I remember these books being so SMUTTY.
This was the long way ’round to say, curiosity has gotten the better of me, and I have to know, are they still as bad as I remember?