I posted this on Pajiba in response to my opinion being discounted because I read romance novels. Recently, I read a thesis on romance and its reputation which I will review, but for now I stand by this diatribe despite it’s need for augmentation. (Note the laughably low total book count when I wrote it.)

I do, I do read them, and I AM DEEPLY SHAMED, and I CAN’T STOP, and I have looked deep into the romance novel abyss and do you know what I see looking back at me? A tall, beautiful, dark-haired man with unusual eyes, and the body of a Greek God, who is deliciously sarcastic and sometimes autocratic (which I secretly love best of all), and he does things with fierce/rough/ferocious tenderness, and his name is usually Sebastian, and I can’t stop reading about him and all the Simons and Benedicts, and Dukes and Viscounts, who give those poor ignored women sideways glances that make their hearts beat wildly in a way they hope no one will notice as their knees turn to jelly, because then, oh then all of those Sebastians raise their Sardonic Eyebrows of Seduction, smile wryly, and kiss those women senseless, and I am lost because they are so charming and maybe kind of cynical, but they still can’t help themselves because they are besotted, and they keep all those “Annabelles” so safe, and they take care of them and the Sebastians help them find their own strength, and love them, oh, so very much, and I can’t even show enough weakness to buy a pink toothbrush because it’s somehow a sign of feminine frailty which I revile, or take off my armour long enough to let myself be cared for, because I am made of steel and not in a bad way, but I’m always strong, so strong, and the idea of being able to lean on someone and let that feeling steal over me is so appealing, even though I’d probably hate it, so, yes, I’ve been reading romance novels and telling myself that I only choose the good ones (which may actually be fair because I’ve stuck to just 3 authors after careful research), and giving nor asking for any quarter in my self-examination of this ignominious pursuit, and I tell myself it’s a phase and it will pass , but I just get more and more of them and, by the end of this coming weekend, I can guarantee I will have read a total of forty in the last two months, but at least I have the decency to hate myself for it.

Tagged: historical romance