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Flirting with Romance
Getting over my romance novel prejudices, and embracing what those love stories could teach me about writing and radical self-acceptance.
When I was young — probably around 12 years old — my father caught me in the romance aisle at the bookstore. I had grabbed a novel full of warriors and wizards from the fantasy section and plopped down onto the gray carpet, happily turning pages, not realizing that I was facing an assortment of covers displaying buxom blondes leaning back into the arms of Fabio-esque heroes.
When I realized where I was, I cringed. My father laughed at me and, when we got home, teased me in front of my mom. I was scandalized.
Romance had no place on my bookshelves: those stories were beneath me.
And for a long time, I held onto that belief.
But then, chronic illness would teach me differently.
Guilty pleasures
Growing up, when I thought of romance novels, I conjured images of regency or harlequin book covers: saccharine, pastel haziness — overdone covers like the ones I found myself in front of when my father found me. Into my adulthood, I held onto the belief that romance novels are cheesy, salacious in the worst possible way, and poorly written.
