We all have our coping mechanisms. For the past week, mine entailed total submersion in the scary scary world of published gay romance. I am just starting to emerge again, and for the first time in five years, I’m not going to review everything I read. I’m not sure I remember everything I read.
I remember this series. Just a few degrees off from cozy mysteries about a bookstore owner who sometimes solves crime, with occasional steamy gay interludes. I’ve been reading on autopilot, like a compulsive eater at a buffet, and I was several gulps into these books before a few clues started seeping into my consciousness and I realized – hey, these books are . . . they’re kind of good! This guy can actually write! And he has a real ear for the stress points in a relationship! And he’s funny!
These books are – they’re silly, and the mysteries are, y’know, whatever. But they have a subtle touch and real compassion for the shitty situation of being afraid and closeted, and they understand the way stress and internalized homophobia make people crazy, and they have a core of chosen family sweetness to them, and they are hot. And they made me happy for a little while.