“It had a breathtaking view of the flowering fauna.”

--Sherrilyn Kenyon, Night Play

I’ve been giggling about that one all week.  Somebody’s editor was so slacking.

On the other hand, the same author gave me this one, which pleased me on a couple of different levels:

   “You know, you should have stayed in your bolt-hole one more day.  Tonight’s Buffy night, and it’s a whole new episode, too.”

   The Dark-Hunter paused to sigh irritably.  “Have you any idea how angry it makes me that I have to come out here in the freezing cold to slay you when I could be at home all toasty warm, watching Sarah Michelle Gellar kick ass in a halter top?”

   --Sherrilyn Kenyon, Kiss of the Night

Okay.

So.

It’s true.

I read romance novels.  I’ve read a lot of them over the years.  Including the paranormal ones in which immortal hunks--with all the perks of the undead (sex appeal, centuries-old investment portfolios, excellent teeth) and nearly none of the obstacles (pesky homicidal impulses and iron-flavored morning breath)--wear leather pants all the time and have asses repeatedly described like steak (e.g. “Grade A prime”).

I’m not going to try to defend them from an artistic standpoint.  Many, if not most, are not well written.  Many of them, in fact, are written so ineptly that I can’t read them even for a total escapist jones.

I did actually even stop reading them altogether for a few years after I read the worst criticism I’ve ever heard about romance novels—that they’re emotional pornography for women—in The Fortunate Fall by Raphael Carter (an excellent strange book, by the way, with a discussion of the problems of the middle east that still reverberates for me, years later).  I think that’s pretty much a direct hit, as condemnations go, and it really disturbed me.

On the other hand... I don’t think they’re any worse than the fairy tales that Hollywood spins that end up blockbusters.  Artistically, A-list films are slightly more sophisticated mostly just because so many more people are involved.  But the end artistic accomplishment doesn’t seem to me to be any loftier.  (Lord knows, some of those film scripts aren’t written any better!)  And I don’t just mean chick films that are blatant female relationship fantasies.  I include things like action films, which are basically the same thing for the kick-ass contingent, whether male or female.  And, hello... horror flicks?

Entertainment for the masses.

But who’s knocking it, really?

In the end, those Romans were right; we all need our bread and circus.  And, apparently, for a lot of women, what makes us happy is… a happy ending.  With kisses.  And maybe some children.  And, well, Grade A prime ass.  (But I dare the first male—of whatever orientation—to disagree with that one.)

What’s so horrible about that, I ask ya?

And here’s the deal.

They’re fun.  Some of them are even written skillfully by authors who understand both the strengths and limitations of their genre.  The best ones are written about funny, clever, wounded, misguided, searching, unique, believable characters you wish you knew finding their way through problems you can relate to, whether they involve supernatural shenanigans or not.

They can make you laugh.  They can make you cry.  They are, in fact, better than Cats.

There was a lot of ugliness and pain in my early life.  Then there was more while I confronted my demons and cleaned up the mess they made on my living room carpet.

I don’t need anyone to explain to me that life can be strange and brutal.  I don’t need someone to give me a vicarious ride on the psychological junkie train of life.  Been there, done that.  And the last thing I wanted to pick up and read during those times when I have been knee-deep in the shit of my life was a tour de force fictionalization of the existential meaninglessness of life.  In fact, when I’m just simply tired and worn down by the daily grind, I really don’t want to sit down and watch Saving Private Ryan, either, no matter how brilliantly done it may be.

I admit that I probably have a much lower threshold for emotionally disturbing input than your Average American Joe or Jane.  I was born sensitive and have the scars to prove how much farther downhill things went from there.

Ergo, when I want to run away to someplace better and I can’t afford Bora Bora (which is always), I go for the Coldstone Creameries of the artistic world. 

So sue me.

And, in respectful rebuttal to Ms. Carter, I recently read this in a smart, funny (If you don’t believe me, try the quote “Hey, I haven’t obfuscated in weeks.  Makes you go blind.” on for size) contemporary romance novel:

“You try spending six months sitting at somebody’s bedside waiting for them to die and then tell me that the happy-ending love story isn’t one of God’s good gifts.”

   --Susan Elizabeth Phillips, Ain’t She Sweet?

And with annual romance fiction sales in the billions, I seem to be in good company.

So that’s partly why I’m going to write one, now.