In 2014, a man in Bell, Florida, shot and killed his six grandchildren when they came home from school. Then he murdered his daughter, and as police drove up, he turned the gun on himself.
I’m a reporter with The Associated Press, and I covered that story. As night fell, I chatted with a gentleman near his dented truck in the parking lot of a too-bright convenience store about how the family had a legacy of poverty, drugs and abuse.
Later that evening, I went to my nearby hotel room and a cockroach was belly up on the stained rug, inches from the bed.
(And you thought this article was going to be all bout romance novels, the sunshine and rainbows and unicorns of the literary world.)
I didn’t cry once during that assignment.
What I did do, however, was vow to write a story that ended happily. One where the final scene wasn’t in a prison, a cemetery or the morgue.
I decided to write a romance novel.
“Hunh?” my best friend asked. “Why not a crime noir?”
“Too depressing. I already write about that stuff,” I said.
“Do you read romance?” another friend asked.
Yes, I do, I admitted. I have since high school.
I know what you’re thinking. They’re bodice-rippers published by Harlequin. They all feature Fabio on the cover. They’re anti-feminist literary trash.
So first let’s dispel some myths. Fabio was on many covers — in the 1980s and early ’90s.
Bodice-rippers is a term for the cheesy covers of historical romances featuring muscular, shirtless men and women with heaving bosoms, usually wearing flowy dresses and desperate looks on their faces. Those kinds of novels faded along with Fabio.
And Harlequin doesn’t publish all the romances. With the rise of self-publishing, your co-worker, your kid’s teacher or your grandmother might be telling stories under a pen name and making money, too.
While romance novels of the past have veered into dubious — and non-consensual — territory, many of the books in today’s genre celebrate consent, respect and sexual fantasy without shame. Readers demand those things, and authors discuss them frequently.
More importantly, romance novels are about a woman’s journey as she navigates a patriarchal world.
They aren’t always about hetero, cisgender women, either. The genre is probably more inclusive than you think. There are romances about queer and transgender couples, disabled protagonists and people of color. Not enough yet, but we’re trying.
Romances are comforting. They depict an ideal world, one in which the heroine gets exactly what she wants — often a career, personal fulfillment and, of course, love.
“Those kind of books set unrealistic expectations for real-life relationships,” people (usually dudes) have said to me.
In this climate, sadly, I know the answer.
But what about the sexytimes? Romance novels are mommy porn! 50 SHADES!
Yes, sometimes romance novels involve sex. We’re all adults, many of us have sex, and lots of us love to read about it. But sex isn’t a given in a romance; in some books, the couple falls in love without even a kiss. Contrary to what you might think after seeing the 50 Shades movies, not all romance novels involve kinky sex, nor do all readers crave that in their storylines.
From sweet to spicy to feminist and fiery, whatever your desire, a romance novel likely exists to explore that fantasy. Yes, you know how the book will end — it’s not a romance if it doesn’t end happily — but the brilliance is in the journey.
And these days, with this journey we’re on, we all need a story that ends happily.
This article appears in Dec 14-21, 2017.