Romance is pretty. And smart. (So there.)
Some things are fixtures in romance, like hitched breaths and hearts that flutter and flip; things that are hot and molten and licked by flames, but also pulse and throb and shudder. Honestly, if two (or three or more, I don’t judge) unwitting souls, destined for happily ever after, don’t feel that electric current of chemistry the first time they touch, I. WILL. NOT. BELIEVE. IT.
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Seriously. I need to read about goosebumps and sweaty palms; stuttering, babbling, you-make-me-so-hot-I’m-stupid attraction. Even sweet romance and enemies-to-lovers stories have this, okay? Because FIXTURES. I want witty banter and shameless flirtation, spark-flying tit-for-tats and tension (sexual or otherwise) you can cut with a proverbial knife. Or else, it’s just…boring.
There is no room in the “literary escape” box in my brain for boring.
Romance, in all its subgenres, can be split into two categories for me: smart and trashy. (Occasionally my mind is blown by stories that are both smart and trashy…but only occasionally.) Someone I follow on twitter recently tweeted that she preferred to read romance on her e-reader, because she didn’t want to be judged by the covers.
I understand this notion. Personally, I feel this way whether I’m reading smart or trashy; whether there’s a hot, oiled up torso on the cover, two hot, oiled up torsos (or three or more, I told you, don’t judge), lovebirds kissing, a pair of snazzy red heels…or the heroine of a sweeping historical, decked out in her sweeping historical finery. Because it doesn’t matter what kind of romance it is: romance is considered beneath the novel, something shameful and inferior. Not smart.
Well, that’s bullshit.
First, “novel” is almost impossible to nail down. It’s 2017, four thousand, one hundred and seventeen years after the first known written story ever, The Epic of Gilgamesh. I have a point. Many points, the strongest one being: There is nothing new under the sun. What is novel is obscure. It’s based on trends, and the social climate, and culture, and gender, and race…and Oprah. It is utterly, supremely subjective.
Screw “novel,” romance is revolutionary.
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Even the trashiest of trashy romance has unconventional beauty. Convention says (straight, cis) men can enjoy sex in overt, even offensive ways. Boys will be boys. Men are visual, mmkay? So visual, in fact, that if a teenager’s bra strap is visible, she is in violation of archaic dress codes. Boys can’t control themselves; therefore, girls must control ourselves and boys. Revolution says women enjoy sex, too. Revolution says, Playboy and Maxim and Esquire are cute and all, but we like foreplay. We like plot, whether shallow or deep, and we like hitched breath and butterflies, sometimes accompanied by handcuffs and vibrating panties.
Listen, I’ve never been interested in ruggedly handsome cowboys, and I’m over billionaire bad boys and the broodingly immortal, but I won’t knock women who love those beaten-to-death heroes. They’re entitled to their Stetsoned studs and Armani-clad Adonises, just as I’m entitled to get hot in the pants for antiheroes, and heroes who wield their tongues (ha!) like switchblades whether they’re being hilarious or deathly serious.
Whatever gets you off, girl, get you off, girl. Or guy. [Insert she, her, hers, he, him, his, they, them, theirs, ze, hir, etc.] See? Recognizing more than two gender identities shows that I am informed, empathetic, and smart.
Which brings me to my next point: smart romance informs.
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Romance authors come from all walks of life, with infinitely many professional and personal experiences which help to richly inform their stories. These differences provide varying perspectives on a wealth of topics too numerous to name, but all essential to understanding the human condition.
In the past few weeks alone, I’ve read romantic fiction tackling body image, mental illness, infidelity, poverty, casual racism/ xenophobia and stereotypes. The authors of those books did not brow beat me. They skillfully weaved these topics into their stories in such a seamless way, I had to go back and re-read in order to “Yassss” and snap my fingers at the social commentary well after I’d finished reading.
The more diverse books there are, with inclusive authors, characters, and plots, the deeper the pool of knowledge. If you read enough, sooner or later (and without even realizing it) you’ll learn about, empathize with, and relate to people who aren’t exactly like you.
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What better way is there to do this, than to experience all kinds of people falling in love? Love is universal. It’s arguably the most essential component of human existence. A good author will help you see it. A great author will make you feel it. And if you feel, you empathize. If you empathize, that means you can find a way to connect with someone you used to see as “other.” You’ll see “other” as “same.” You’ll see “other” as you.
All the while, page-turner after page-turner, you are having fun. You are immersed. Ask any teacher of language; immersion is the best way to learn.
Plus, there’s sex.
~L
