I have a confession to make.

I love country music. I have a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the artists and their hits that were all over the radio during the 1990s and 2000s. And while I’ll swear by Merle Haggard and Loretta Lynn and the greats, there’s a reason that a portrait of Dolly Parton is in my office.

I love the cheesy, over-the-top, pun-filled hits. I love Dolly — who you could argue is as artistic as anyone — but I also adore Garth Brooks, as wackadoodle as he can be in his personal life. I’m obsessed with Miranda Lambert and want her to be my friend. Hell, I have an entire playlist of songs about drinking just because I wanted to see how many songs I knew about drinking (hint: it’s a lot.)

I love country music and I’m not ashamed of it. (As well as 38 Special, REO Speedwagon, and the uncool version of Starship, but that’s another story.) And in the last couple of years, I’ve realized that my hobby, my love — my obsession — actually pays off in my writing.

Because country music, especially during the 1990s and 2000s?

Highly commercial. People LOVED that era of country music.

Lots of people who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to country music were Garth fans, Shania Twain fans (bless their hearts), and in the 2000s, Taylor Swift fans. People would say things like, “I hate country music, but I like that song,”…