A couple of interesting and fun things:
First, in a memememe moment (I’m sorry, I am human, some times I have these ), everyone should know Barbara Vey, who writes the Beyond Her Book blog for PublishersWeekly. She’s a fun lady, classy, and has exquisite reading taste and is always recommending great reads. Now, today, for instance, she’s got Edith Layton’s, His Dark and Dangerous Ways, Patrice Michelle’s Scions: Insurrections, and one Sex, Straight Up, by this unknown, Kathleen O’Reilly (cheeky wench). Anyway, you guys should visit and post and NO, this doesn’t mean I expect you to be all fan-girl foo-foo, just tell what you’re reading. When Barbara gets good traffic, it means romance gets good traffic, and that’s good for romance readers everywhere. Doing my part for the community. Word.
And also, because I wanted to write about this the other day, but I’m keyboard-deep in book-writing, DearAuthor had a post on why people think women read romance. The conventional wisdom at one time was that women inserted themselves into a romance as a place-holder for the heroine. After reading Janet’s essay, in which she says (so eruditely),
I know there’s a lot of eye rolling when this subject comes up. I bristled when I heard those comments in that documentary trailer, wondering when the hell we were going to dispel this notion that women read Romance because that’s how we want life to be. To which I say: blech. You couldn’t pay me enough to put up with some of the crap – and some of the heroes — that happen in Romance.
Hehehe… Tell us how you really feel Janet. But seriously, I agree with Janet. I don’t want to live my life in a medieval castle, nor do I want to share my bed with a vampire. That is not ME in those books, not as a writer, nor as a reader. I love James Patterson’s Alex Cross books, but I don’t want to be Alex Cross, nor his serial killers, and especially not those victims.
Awhile back (March 2008 to be precise), I wrote a blog entry for Magical Musings on reading romance and the promise of hope. THIS is why I read and write romances. Yes, I love the characters and I love watching the story unfold, and there’s suspense, are these two EVER going to get together, and yes, when the steam is good, it’s fun, but those are NOT the reasons I read romance. I want to read a book and when it ends, I want to sigh. I want to smile. I want to find a source of strength within myself.
Believe it or not, romance reaffirms within me the belief that I can do this; I can tackle whatever obstacles are thrown in my way (usually involving laundry) and overcome. A lot of people devour Oprah picks for the exact same reason. For me, it’s romance. When I finish a great romance, or honestly, any great book, I feel revitalized, like I can take on the world.
So, that’s me. I suspect there are readers who are inserters, just like I suspect there are people who think that steak smothered in strawberry jelly is a good idea, but I suspect there are a lot of people out there who read romance for revitalization. It’s that warm bath, that long vacation on the beach, the sleeping until noon on Sunday. I think it’s Dr. John Gray, who might have found the answer. Romance novels, or any great books, are a woman’s well.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.