As an English major, I’ve read my fair share of books, poetry, short stories, from Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald to Homer and Plato. The list doesn’t stop there. I’ve filled my selection with both classical authors like Lord Byron, Emily Dickinson, and Henry David Thoreau and more modern authors like Sally Rooney, Taylor Jenkins Reid, and Karen Russell. Yet, it wasn’t until my senior year that I was introduced to the world of romance novels. It reminded me that, despite having read hundreds of books, there was still so much more I’d yet to discover.
In my last semester, I unexpectedly enrolled into a reading romance course. It introduced me to writers such as Abby Jimenez, Emily Henry, and more. The romance genre wasn’t completely foreign to me, as I’d grown up watching romance films with my single mother, who had a proclivity for romances. Pride and Prejudice, The Notebook, every rom-com starring Matthew McConaughey, and, of course, Grease. Still, I’ve never read Pride and Prejudice, or any other romance novel geared toward women.
At least, not until I enrolled in that course. Pride and Prejudice appeared on the syllabus, and I finally saw the characters from Jane Austen’s perspective and not the 2005 film starring Keira Knightley.
To be honest, I didn’t care for it at first. However, my perspective shifted during class discussions. I saw the characters in ways I hadn’t before. I began to sympathize with them after being quite harsh in my early assessment. Something changed. Plainly, my thoughts and ideas changed, maybe even evolved. They were not just fictional creations, but reflections of real human connections. Then came Henry, Jimenez, Uzma Jalaluddin, and Helen Hoang.
It was clear that I unknowingly held a perception that I couldn’t possibly enjoy romance novels geared towards women. Once that belief fell away, it was like a fog had lifted, revealing a road that had been there all along. It was a road that would take me to new places.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t allow my biases to dictate future reading lists. Yet, as the year went by, I read zero romances. Instead, I returned to literary fiction, Southern Gothic, memoirs, and, embarrassingly, what I can only describe as, “men’s literature.” I allowed myself to fall in love with a new genre of literature, only to push it away.
Until recently.
I started reading Flannery O’Connor’s The Violent Bear It Away, a southern gothic novel that is as far from romance as one can get. A coworker took notice of my love for literature, and, weeks later, I eventually discovered her love for romance/smut novels.
Then came the list. A neatly, handwritten list of romance and non-romance reading recommendations from my coworker. For the past month, I have slowly been working through that list. I’ve finished the first on the list and am nearly done with the second. I once again have underestimated what makes for a good novel. As one of my creative writing teachers taught me, a story needs to have a gas station on every page, something that makes you want to keep turning.
The first book, Five Brothers by Penelope Douglas, is a story about a young woman, Krisjen and the lives of the Jaeger brothers. Themes of forbidden love, family secrets, class tensions are weaved throughout the work. The plot has more “gas stations” than I could have imagined. I can only describe it as a wild roller coaster that left me shaking my head from start to finish. I read it in five days because every time I picked it up, I had to know what happened next. As a novel, it accomplished its mission. It pulled me into a world that I didn’t understand, but desperately wanted to.
Thus, it solidified my reentry into reading romances. I no longer wanted to allow myself to fall back into gender norms, and immerse myself in a genre with no bias. I abandoned this idea that because these books are often marketed toward women, I shouldn’t enjoy them.
As I continue reading, I hope to share my discoveries. Perhaps to serve as a reminder that books are for everyone, regardless of gender or genre.
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