I just read and enjoyed (to varying degrees) 6 different romance novels within the last 2 weeks. I plan on reading more and I’m even certain I’ll like some of them.
So, I don’t have a problem with the books per-say (give or take a few aggressive, manly-men being seen as a romantic ideal), but I do have a problem with the genre as a whole.
Thing is, in large part romance novels treat the protagonist as if life happens to her.
As if, by pure coincidence, she moves next door to her college crush or inherits the house of her perfect match. As if, being “forced” to fake date is just happenstance, a symbiotic gesture that surely will not result in real love.
And I get that these are tropes. I get that it isn’t real life. But it’s also not entirely fantasy either given how our experience with books shapes—to a certain degree—how we interact with the world as a whole. Because books help us play out scenarios in our minds, help us live out different lives, help us learn about ourselves.
But what is there to learn when you’re too caught up waiting for life to happen to you? When you think someone else’s love will save you?
Should you be so lucky to re-encounter the one that got away or get thrown into an adventure with the brooding stranger who can’t stop staring, you might find a match. It might even last more than a month. But only if it’s what you already think you deserve.
Otherwise, you’ll spin your wheels, recreate what love felt like to you in childhood, and wonder what the hell you’re doing wrong that you still feel like shit all the time.
Romance novels ignore the fact that your external circumstances are shaped by how you view the world, by the pain and emotions you filter your experiences through, and by how open you are to receiving (be it love, gifts, money, or whatever else). Not the other way around.
Romance novels don’t teach you how to get comfortable with yourself, they tell you to wait until someone balances out your crazy. And while being loved for who you are can seem like unconditional love for a little while, it’s totally unsustainable if you expect someone else to “make” you feel better all the time. Because anyone you fall for brings their shit with them—and you can’t keep yours hidden forever either.
Romance novels show you a world that doesn’t exist. Perhaps reading idyllic conclusions makes the world easier to swallow. But they just as easily make reality feel depressing, leaving you chasing the high of “just one more” until you’ve spent more of your life living inside your imagination than inside your body.
Does that mean I’ll stop reading and enjoying them? Nope. Not even a little.
But I won’t let myself forget that real life is made of the stuff that comes after the happily ever after. That the only person who can save me is myself. That reality as it is—though chaotic and sometimes painful—is beautiful and fascinating and worth living.