As I was perusing the Rockridge library in search of a romance novel for my month of trash, I felt unexpectedly out of place turning the revolving paperback romance shelves, like I had found one of the many hidden exits from well-adjusted, socially accepted sanity into the hazy fringe. This, I felt, was taboo. Which is exactly what this month was supposed to be about. But I had a mission, and that mission was to find Danielle Steel. I was a little disappointed to discover her shelved with the hardcover fiction: nice, conventional, pastel-colored novels wrapped in worn library plastic like every other normal book on the shelf. No torn clothing, no heaving chests, no pirate flags, no flesh tones. Was this really romance?
It quickly became apparent that, yes, this was really romance, which I have come to define thusly: novels about very boring people destined to engage in very boring courtship culminating in very boring expressions of mutual affection liberally sprinkled with awkward, hammy sex and physicality. Let me talk about the boring some more. In the first couple pages, we meet a perfect American family who love each other very much and live in a world where nothing could possibly go wrong. Hm, how can we turn this into drama? After Steel kills off one of the kids and the family implodes over the loss of that oh-so-precious "gift," we meet a completely different family who are so very bad, with a pig-headed lout of a father, an equally boorish brother, a mousy, submissive mother, and lo, a sparklingly brilliant young girl full of wit and intelligence and premature beauty who gets knocked up and cast out into the cruel world to birth her unwanted child alone.
With a setup like that, a computer could write the rest. A Tandy could write the rest. My high school graphing calculator could write the rest. Enter parameters: 1) family missing child, 2) girl with excess child, 3) repeated mention of men getting erections. *crunches numbers* DING! A novel.
I actually think I would have been more forgiving if I'd picked something way trashier. Veering into the non-genre aisles raised my expectations unrealistically, so I'm probably not giving a Steel a fair shake.
I will say this, though: despite being infinitely duller than Bella in Twilight (Bella actually has a personality during the brief interludes when she isn't contemplating Edward's pecs), Maribeth is actually many times more rational in the face of All-consuming Romantic Love. Bella literally loses physical control of herself when she's with Edward, whereas Maribeth not only masters her physical desire for Tommy, but she also remains steadfast in her original intent to give up the baby, despite Tommy's many pleas to the contrary. Like the rest of the book, it's a little too cute and cozy from the 21st century perspective to have the protagonist be a proto-feminist, but what the hell, she's still admirable, even if she was obviously designed to be that way.
Ultimately, I think this book is about comfort. There is horror at the center (few things are more horrific than losing a child), but I felt Steel didn't plumb the pain of it enough to make her layer upon layer of warm blankets and hot chocolate feel rewarding. Maybe if I read Danielle Steel and Cormac McCarthy simultaneously, they would balance each other out...