My friend was lending me some books she thought I’d like to read, and she handed me one saying “This is good.” I studied it for a few moments, flipped it over, and handed it back to her: “I can’t read this.  It’s about incest.”

She stared at me.  “How did you know?”

I said, “Look at the telltale details.  The cover design is a mix of pretentious yellow and brown tones, kind of like a mutant hybrid of the ‘Oprah’s Book Club’ logo and the Vintage Contemporary series.  Then there’s the picture--a still, silent beach sunset.  But the copy on the back clinches it.  ‘The Walker family is steeped in secrets.’ I don’t need to read another word; it’s about incest.

“And I’m sick of books about incest.  I am not in favor of incest, to the point that I’m even willing to make a political stand and say ‘I don’t like incest.’ But does every novel about contemporary families, written in overwrought, Iowa Masters of Fine Arts program prose, have to discuss the subject to death?  Didn’t we finish atoning for the silence of the ‘50s sometime back during the Reagan administration?”

She put away the book, and then she put away another one:  “Well then, you’re not going to like this one either.”

Addendum:
If I weren’t so annoyed with this literary trend I could so jump on the bandwagon with my own confessional.  When I was seven years old, my friend Kevin and I snuck into the bathroom while his sister was taking a shower.  She was, oh, maybe thirteen, or so, and he lifted up the shower curtain and we hightailed it into the living room and giggled maniacally.

This incident may not sound traumatic or insightful enough to carry the weight of a novel, but it would work if I tweaked a few details.  For example, the sister would have to collapse into a pool of anguished sobs, rather than what actually happened.  Which was her wrapping a towel around herself, marching into the living room, and slapping Kevin on the back of the head: “You are such a little fartknocker.”