Nom de Plume

One hot day last week, Steve and I were lolling on the shores of Lake Washington and I was reading a regency romance. He looked sideways at me and asked, “Aren’t you embarrassed to be reading those in public?”

“Not really,” I said absentmindedly, thoroughly engrossed in the description of the heroine’s pelisse. Steve just arched a brow and went back to blowing up his inner tube.

It occurs to me that I lied.

After all, I rarely–if ever–post reviews of the romance novels I read. And to be frank, I read a lot of them. I’m not alone. More than 51% of the books published in the United States are women’s fiction. They fly off the shelves at grocery stores. Publishers have a hard time keeping up with the demand.

So I tell myself that they’re research for my own regency romance. I tell myself that I still read more literary fiction than the average person who pooh-poohs romance. (Which is true, even if it may not be evident on this blog.) I tell myself that they’re really no different than chick movies. (Which is also true.) I go so far as to justify my reading habits with the excuse that we don’t have a TV.

But the fact is that I enjoy reading a good regency romance. And it’s also a fact that I’m a little ashamed of it. (Strangely enough, I’m not as embarrassed about reading modern chick lit, though there’s really no difference other than chick lit comes in paperback and romance in mass-market paperback.)

Why the shame? I suppose it’s that romance doesn’t seem “serious.” But there’s a lot of supposedly good stuff out there that isn’t serious at all. Or is it because of the perception that it’s not well-written? That can’t be true either, because there’s a lot of well-written romance out there. Fundamentally, I think most peoples’ objection springs from its formula-driven plots (well, that and the lurid covers), as though succumbing to its pages makes the reader herself a cliche. We readers are a self-conscious lot, thoroughly aware that we read is what makes us who we are.

But perhaps, too, the formula is its appeal. You know it’s going to end happily. You feel safe and cossetted in the formula; there’s nothing jarring between the bright covers. A romance calls out to you and says, “There’s nothing unsettling here. Just relax and read … ”

And I confess: Reviewing a romance can be boring because of the formula. Heroine meets Hero, but their love is doomed to fail because (reason). Love overcomes all after (impediment 1) (impediment 2) (impediment 3). They live happily ever after. For me, a good romance is well-written, well-plotted, and at least vaguely credible. I could say that, but three lines seems an insult.

(Similarly, it’s also true that I haven’t posted reviews of all the literary fiction I’ve read either; the better a book is, the harder a review is to write.)

So, will I start reviewing the romance I read? I don’t know. We’ll see.