About a year ago I was shocked while discussing books to find out a friend of mine is an avid romance reader. Not because there is anything wrong with romance novels, I just would have confidently said she was more into sci-fi, fantasy, and well written teen novels; romance would not have even been on the radar. Three years prior to that I was far less shocked to find out another friend is super into romance novels. In both cases I asked my friend for a recommendation, a favorite romance novel to introduce me to the genre. The first friend recommended a series of four books, I read them all. I don’t really remember them—not because I didn’t enjoy reading them, they passed the time pleasantly enough—they were just all the same basic story told four times, and even had the same cast of characters with a rotating romantic couple focus through the books. What I do remember is thinking that it was really just rather thinly veiled erotica. And that clearly my linen closets are woefully small as the shenanigans in which character engage in the first book would be quite impossible where I keep my linens. My friend was a bit indignant that I called her favorite books thinly veiled erotica—which is a shame because there is nothing wrong with erotica—and didn’t see the humor in my linen closet commentary (I thought everything described would be rather uncomfortable in a linen closet, even a large one, and it seems rather unfair to the servants doing the laundry to mess up a whole closet full of clean linens), which ultimately resulted in us not talking about books much after that.
Fast forward a few years to my shocking discovery that my best friend reads romance novels. Paranormal romance novels. Okay, technically paranormal lesbian romance novels, but one can’t really expect lesbians to be all that interested in hetero sexy times, so the last bit was not at all shocking. After much pleading and begging and cajoling, and getting her wife to do all the same on my behalf, and changing her baby’s diaper, I finally got her to tell me her favorite book. Hell’s Belle by Marie Castle is not a bad book. I should start there. I have recommended it to many people, but it is also the reason my best friend won’t talk to me about books any more. Maybe I just don’t get romance novels, maybe I’m too jaded or cynical, but my only comment upon finishing was that anyone who’s nipples spend that much time erect probably has a medical condition. I stand by that comment, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it. Because, here’s my big confession, I like romance novels. I like them because they are funny, especially the ones that aren’t supposed to be funny. I like them because NO ONE’S nipples spend that much time erect in the real world, and linen closets are too small for real people to be *that* energetic in ripping off each other’s clothing, and anyone getting up to anything in the middle of a bumpy carriage ride with that many petticoats deserves an effing medal.
This term I am interning at In the Stacks, which is great. I’m loving learning about non-traditional uses for my library degree and In the Stacks is doing some cool things right now so it is an especially exciting time to be working with them. One of the things I’ve been doing is updating links for the weekly blog posts, including links to the podcast for Cardigan Rippers, a podcast about romance novels. The consequence of this is that I have been listening to a lot of podcasts about romance novels. It’s kind of like drive by romancing, there I am going about my day when I’m suddenly BAM!, romance novel talk. I’m not exactly blindsided by it, they do have a warning at the beginning of every podcast, but still, I’m very much in the process of coming to terms with my romance novel loving self so it’s still a bit of a surprise to find myself listening to other people talking about them while I clean my flat. In most cases I am satisfied with the conversation about the book, but I find the more ridiculous sounding the novel, and the more absurd the cover, the more I want to read it. This morning I was listening to a podcast about a Scottish romance where the heroine writes erotica and I really wanted to read it. I don’t care so much about “spice” or great writing, what I want from my romance novels is an earnest desire to be serious, a seriousness so sincere I can laugh at it. And petticoats. Maybe this is why people won’t talk to me about romance novels, maybe this is why I still have trouble admitting I read them, I don’t look at romance novels and see romance, I see something silly and ridiculous. And that’s okay, because I love romance novels in my own way. I giggle on the train (loudly, manically, in public) at the bits that I’m not supposed to laugh at. I’ve been know to laugh so hard I snort at “serious” romance novels, sometimes just remembering bits I’ve read makes me laugh so hard I’m nearly in tears. And I love that. Romance novels are pure escapism for me, they are ridiculous in the best way possible, and I just can’t get enough. So bring on the silly, and the serious, and the turn-of-the-century gentry in linen closets, bring on the tropes, the cliches, the manly-men and feisty heroines, I will read it all; just for god’s sake spare me your Fifty Shades of Abusive-Controlling-Misogynist and I will probably love it. But I still might not talk about just how much I loved it in public.
