Allow me, again, to indulge my weakness for Vladimir Nabokov. In this passage, he perfectly describes that type of girl. You know the one:
Books mean nothing to a woman of her kind; her own life seems to her to contain the thrills of a hundred novels. Had she been condemned to spend a whole day shut up in a library, she would have been found dead about noon. I am quite sure that Sebastian [a novelist] never alluded to his work in her presence: it would have been like discussing sundials with a bat. So let us leave that bat to quiver and wheel in the deepening dusk: the clumsy mimic of a swallow.
How much do I love that last sentence! But now, back to the books.