Romance novels, really?

Dear darlings,

My extended absence has been due to an inexcusable and heinous amount of coursework delegated to me by my university. (But I am on break now, and with any luck you should be hearing from me more frequently.)

So, this evening’s theme is the delightfully humble and equally ostentatious romance novel. The cheap-paperback, mass-manufactured, newspaper-grey paper type romance novel. The Mills & Boon that aren’t necessarily organised by alphabetical author names but are categorised by questionable genres. There are the obvious genre choices like, desire, sweet, sexy (all appropriately coloured and coded). Then there are the less obvious genre choices like medical (steamy sprees between various medical staff), intrigue, romantic suspense, cherish, blaze. 

I prefer the historical types with a lengthy and well-tailored family tree where caddish dons and wilful ladies flee the family home to elope, marry and fling themselves into arms of another. Thick, papery, solid little books with fantastical titles and a blurb so exaggerated it nearly always makes me laugh. Heavily embellished prose, aged, dated words to represent certain human anatomy and constant references to hair colour, eye colour and flushing complexions.

Of course, romance novels are an acquired taste. I like them in the same way that many people watch TV for poor-quality soap operas. Endless re-runs, a constant cycle of relationships punctuated with a peculiar teary-eyed stare allow for its audiences to laugh, scoff and sigh without needing to involve themselves in the plot. I like them in the same way that most people have an obscure video game from their early adolescence with retro graphics and special effects and a plot line so sparse it takes the player 45 minutes to finish the game.

That being said, I have certain principles I like to abide by (because there are some terribly written romance novels out there – but I suppose the same could be said for every genre.) I have a few key prolific authors I like to read, I avoid erotica and I never purchase them myself. Although, occasionally, my fines from the library might be equivalent to their recommended retail prices. 

I wouldn’t have read romance novels at all were it not for Captain Jack’s Woman by Stephanie Laurens. It goes something like this: Enter red-haired, tempestuous maiden Kit Cranmer, disguised as a male leader of a British smuggling ring, sword-fighting with a chiseled pirate, Captain Jack, bathed in moonlight and instantly drawn to the mysterious Kit – who is currently shrouded in darkness and apparently a chap. (And I’m all for fluid sexuality, but reading about a masculine man in a power struggle with his own heterosexuality was absolutely delightful to me.) I won’t spoil the ending – but there were pirates, bandits, breeches and swash-buckling savvy lasses, I was sold.

So, take the flowery verse of a romance novel with a grain of salt – but that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it. Take advantage of its lesser appreciated features – the fact that it has an entire sub genres at its disposal. Westerns, fantasy sagas, modern detective stories, its not without its wide range of choices. Don’t be put off by eroticised covers or the faded heart-shaped stickers applied to the spine by your local library.

A book has many purposes – to open a reader’s mind, to help someone fall asleep, to help pass the time, to soothe, to inspire. Different people read for different reasons, but don’t discount the humble wee romance novel – it might be just what you need.

Talk soon, I promise,

Lydia.