This week I wrote a guest post for Fresh Fiction and we take first loves – The very first romance novels that drew us all into the fabulous world of Romance. Here’s the link: https://freshfiction.com/page.php?id=10736
And here’s the full post:
First Love
All right, let’s talk first loves. No, I don’t mean that sexy bad boy from school. I’m talking about the paper kind. Those first, unforgettable books that were your introduction—your gateway drug, if you will—into the wonderful world of Romance.
Was it that illicit stash of Harlequins you discovered at your grandma’s house? The dog-eared bodice-ripper you reluctantly started because it was the only book in the vacation rental that wasn’t by Stephen King? Whatever it was, it changed your life for the better.
I was, I admit, a latecomer to romance. I’d studied ‘Serious, Proper Literature’ at University—which generally meant books written by men. I’d read everything from Chaucer to James Joyce, Shakespeare to Kafka. And I’d noticed how few of the women in those ‘classics’ ever achieved success or received any pleasure. If they did, they were usually punished, or ended up dead.
I clung, ever hopeful, to the sparsest of romantic threads, but ended up shouting at my paperbacks instead; “Forget the train station, Anna Karenina! Run off with Vronsky and bloody well live happily ever after.” “Step away from the poison, Madame Bovary, he’s not worth it!”
Don’t even get me started on Tess of the D’Urbervilles. If these books were supposed to speak to the human condition, to teach and inspire, where was the romance? The love? Weren’t they as much a part of being human as suffering and loss?
Even the Romantic Poets like Shelley and Keats had far too much languishing and not enough action for my taste. Where was the kissing? The flirting? The sex? I wanted books where the women got what they deserved and didn’t die of consumption, guilt, or simply boredom.
Wuthering Heights had the requisite passion and intensity, but no happy ending. Pride and Prejudice had excellent banter, but not enough kissing. I wanted Jean M Auel’s Earth’s Children series to be less about Ayla discovering fire and more of her getting it on with whatever-his-name-was in a cave. I wanted the cool adventures of The Three Musketeers and The Count Of Monte Cristo, but with women in them, doing stuff. Being more than just pretty, sidelined extras. Being clever. And badass, and triumphant. I wanted more sweeping, romantic swoony-ness, like that kiss in the Italian meadow in E.M. Forster’s A Room With a View. More snark-filled, flirting-as-fighting between Beatrice and Benedict in Much Ado About Nothing.
Georgette Heyer left me wanting; I adored the wit, but the sexiest thing in those was the hero clutching his snuff box to show how overwrought he was. TV and film teased me with far-too-brief glimpses of Han and Leia snarking, or Indiana Jones and Marian Ravenwood being flirty.
And then, one day, quite by accident, I discovered Historical Romance. At a train station, ahead of an hour-long commute, I grabbed a random book in the store. It didn’t look like a romance; I thought it was historical fiction. It was Ransom by Julie Garwood. After two pages, I was hooked, and my world had shifted forever. Here was a book that combined all the ‘best bits’ I’d been searching for! There was a whole genre of the stuff I want to read!
After that earth-shattering revelation, I was unstoppable. I devoured Laura Kinsale, Judith McNaught, Johanna Lindsey, Catherine Coulter, Kathleen Woodiwiss. I binged on sexy, scandalous contemporaries like Jilly Cooper and Jackie Collins. And I came to another shocking conclusion. Romance wasn’t “trash,” as I’d been told. Romance wasn’t shameful. It was well-written, active rebellion. Even better, it was pleasurable rebellion. Here was a genre where love and interpersonal relationships were central to the story and triumphed. Women ended up victorious. Not dead. Not shamed. Not a cautionary tale.
I genuinely believe that books, and especially romance books, are as vital to the world as medicine. While doctors patch up the body and help it heal, books are needed to patch up the soul. They inspire the reader to hang on, to make a change, to hope for better things. They bring delight and joy. Romance novels are a promise. A guarantee of a thrilling journey that will end with the characters (and hopefully the reader, too) in a better place. And in these unprecedented, uncertain times, that’s something we can all appreciate.
I love introducing newbies to Romance; I want their first time to be as enjoyable as mine. There’s a romance for every mood, for every trope. Want to laugh? Read Janet Evanovich or Susan Elizabeth Phillips. Want dark, sexy vampires? Read J.R Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood. Want funny, enemies-to-lovers in a historical setting? Try Loretta Chase’s Lord Of Scoundrels or Connie Brockway’s As You Desire. Want gorgeous, angsty prose and unusual heroines? Go for Laura Kinsale. Snarky enemies-to-lovers, but in a modern office block? Read Sally Thorne’s The Hating Game. I could go on and on. My bookshelf is groaning.
Do you remember the first book that made you fall in love with the genre? Is there a book you always recommend to those new to Romance? Let me know what it is. My bookshelf might be groaning, but there’s always room for one more. . .
Happy reading!
Love, Kate.
